Karen Rose: I Can See You

Of course the irony of his choices wasn’t lost. His six had never walked a street or shot up, but they were hookers and addicts just the same. They simply plied their trade and fed their addictions in less traditional venues. They were women, after all .

He’d had to change his MO in other ways. No bringing them here where he had disposal down to a science. Instead he’d posed them in their homes, leaving clues of his choosing. He didn’t touch them, couldn’t risk putting his hands around their necks. He’d correctly anticipated the loss of the tactile would detract from the experience.

And he’d had to hold back. He couldn’t release himself on them. Any killer that left DNA behind was a fool. The strain of killing without the physical release had been a bit more difficult than he’d expected, but this hooker had taken off the edge.

It would be worth it. Headlines would scream SERIAL KILLER UNCHALLENGED and COPS CLUELESS. So true . A serial killer, the people would quail, in their own midst. Oh my . If they only knew he’d killed in their midst for years. Oh my .

How many victims would it take before they wised up? Martha was the third of his six. But they hadn’t found Martha yet and he was growing impatient. Fortunately he was disciplined enough to stick with his plan, falling back on the tried and true for relief.

He dragged the hooker’s body to the pit and rolled her in. He threw her clothes in after, except for her shoes. Those he would keep, as he’d done dozens of times before.

He donned the coveralls he’d taken from the man he’d hired to dig the pit, twenty years before. Who, bullet in his head, had become its first inhabitant. He shoveled lime from the steel drum into the pit, covering the body.

Quicklime hastened decomposition of flesh without the fuss and muss and foul odor, but one had to be careful. It was powerful stuff, highly reactive with moisture. He kept his basement dry with dehumidifiers, with a side benefit the preservation of his shoes.

The pumps he’d taken from the feet of his first victim nearly thirty years ago were in as good condition as the shoes he’d taken from victims over the last three weeks.

He finished the hooker’s burial by adding dirt to cover the lime, pulled the handle on the slab to cover the pit. Just as he’d done dozens of times before.

But although this killing had fulfilled its purpose, it was a shadow next to the triumph he’d feel when the police realized they had a bona fide serial killer on their hands.

Sunday, February 21, 7:55 p.m.

Sorry again. I gotta get a new phone,” Jack said, crossing Martha’s bedroom.

Noah had been waiting, stewing for half an hour. Jack had said he’d change clothes, but his eyes held a satisfaction any man would recognize. He’d had sex with Katie. While a victim hung from her damn ceiling. That was it. I’m going to have to report him .

“Whatever, Jack,” he said coldly, but if Jack detected his fury, it didn’t show.

“So, introduce me to the lady with the Bette Davis eyes and get this party swinging.”

The ME techs were impatiently waiting to cut the body down, but Noah had wanted Jack to see the scene. I shouldn’t have bothered. I might have a new partner soon .

“Martha Brisbane,” Noah said tightly. “Forty-two, single. Found by her neighbor.”

“It’s cold in here. Did the neighbor open the window or did Ms. Brisbane?”

“The neighbor said the window was open.”

“Well, it could be worse. It could be August. Shit. Are her eyes glued open?”

“Yes,” Noah bit out. “They are.” Just like the other one.

“That’s one you don’t see every day.” Then Jack shrugged. “At least this should be quick. I might even get back to Katie in time for dessert. If you know what I mean.”

Noah bit his tongue, saved from a response by ME tech Isaac Londo. “So now that Detective GQ’s finally here, can we finally cut her down?”

“No,” Noah said sharply.

“I got twenty on tonight’s game,” Londo grumbled. “I want to get out of here.”

CSU’s Micki Ridgewell looked up from putting her camera away. “What’s the big deal, Web? The vic strung herself from the ceiling, kicked the stool away, and died.”

Jack frowned, as if finally realizing something was up. “What’s wrong here?”

You want a damn list? “This scene,” Noah said. “I’ve seen this scene before.”

“Well, of course you have,” Micki said reasonably. “After fifteen years, you’ve seen almost every crime scene before. So have I.”

“No. I’ve seen this scene before, down to the placement of the victim’s shoes.”

“I haven’t,” Jack said, dead serious now. “When did you see it and why didn’t I?”

“Friday morning, a week ago. You were home… sick.”

Jack tensed at Noah’s hesitation, flags of angry color staining his cheeks. “I was.”

Noah let it slide. This was not the place for confrontation. “It was Gus Dixon’s scene. I’d borrowed his mini recorder because mine broke and I needed to interview a witness.” For a case he’d closed without Jack, because Jack had been sick . “On my way back from the interview, Dix called. He needed his recorder at a scene, so I took it to him.”

“And it was this scene?” Jack asked, eyes narrowing. “A hanging?”

“Exactly. The stool was overturned, same distance and angle from the body. The vic wore this dress and the same style shoes. One shoe lying on its side, the other standing straight up. The type of hook, the noose, the open window, everything is the same.”

Micki frowned. “Déjà vu all over again.”

“But this victim was hung,” Londo said. “Petechiae in the eyes, the ligatures on her throat… All the injuries are consistent with a short-drop hanging.”

“Dix’s was the same,” Noah said. “But her eyes are glued open just like Dix’s victim.”

Jack winced. “I was just kidding about the Bette Davis eyes.” Studying the scene again, Jack pointed to the stool. “You done with it, Mick?” He picked it up and, placing it directly under the body, stepped back, and Noah’s suspicion was confirmed.

The stool sat two full inches lower than the tips of Martha Brisbane’s toes.

“Holy fuck,” Londo muttered. “Was that the same on the other hanger, too?”

“I don’t know. When I got there some other ME techs had already cut her down.”

“This vic couldn’t have stuck her neck in the noose and still been able to kick the stool away,” Micki said quietly. “Somebody helped her.”

Noah looked up into Martha’s wide eyes. “Somebody killed her.”

“And went to a lot of trouble to make it look like a suicide,” Jack said. “Any note?”

“We haven’t found one,” Noah said.

Micki took more close-ups of the red stilettos. “No scuffs.” She held a shoe next to the victim’s foot. “And too small. Why go to all this trouble and leave the wrong shoes?”

“I wonder how many others he’s staged,” Jack said.

“And how many we missed.” Noah nodded at Londo. “You can take her down now.”

“Let’s check this apartment,” Jack said, “then go talk to the neighbor who found her.”

“Sarah Dwyer. Martha promised to water Dwyer’s plants while she was away.”

“How long ago was that?” Jack asked.

“Two weeks,” Noah said. “Officer Pratt said Dwyer got back today, pissed because her plants were dead. She came to yell at Martha, but nobody answered the door so she climbed the fire escape to bang on the bedroom window, and saw her hanging.”