Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

Yes. That was true. As understaffed as the Art Crimes Team was, and as important as their work was, they were widely viewed as desk jockeys who could be shuffled from department to department as needed. Cogs in the wheel.

“How long before the case wraps up?” Manning asked briskly into Jason’s silence.

“There’s no way of knowing, sir. It could be weeks. The unsub is out there. He could strike again. It’s not like we’re closing in on him.”

“Good,” Manning said. “The longer you work with Kennedy, the more potential, erm, documentation. Documentation is everything. Remember that. You’re smart, you’re ambitious, West. You’re going places. And I’m going to owe you a favor after this. Now I’m afraid I’m running late for a, erm, meeting. I thank you for this, erm, update.”

And with that, Manning rang off.

Good? Manning considered a serial killer running loose good news because it afforded more opportunity to build a case against one of the Bureau’s most effective agents?

Jason tossed the rest of his sandwich in the trash and walked back to the police station.

When he reached the office he was sharing with Kennedy, Kennedy glanced at him and frowned. “Everything okay?”

Three days ago this much indication of interest or even awareness would never have happened.

“Yeah.” Jason sat down. “I want to look at the original crime scene photos.”

Kennedy’s brows rose. “Do you?”

What was that careful tone supposed to mean?

Well, okay, maybe Jason knew what it meant. It meant Kennedy was vaguely aware of Jason’s sensibilities. And so what?

Jason said, “The mermaids. I want to see what I can find on them. There’s got to be an angle there.”

“I agree. We were never able to find it.”

“This is what I do. This is my turf.”

Kennedy went swiftly through the crime scene photos and handed over a stack. Jason accepted them without comment. He got it—and appreciated that Kennedy was sparing him from seeing what had been done to Honey. It didn’t matter how hardened you were, how jaded you grew, it was always different—always going to be terrible—seeing someone you knew as the victim of violence.

He found a magnifying glass in desk drawer and began to go over the photos of Rebecca’s crime scene with careful, painstaking attention, focusing on every detail of the mermaid charm.

Round, three-dimensional, highly polished…no more than two inches tall. He reached for one of the older photos.

He felt a jolt as he studied the small, pale, circular carving. He knew this one. Recognized it as the charm that had hung from Honey’s key ring. Remembered it so vividly, he could almost feel the delicate cut of the tiny fish scales beneath his fingertips.

He closed his eyes. Opened them. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by memory or emotion. He reached for the next photo. This mermaid was a fraction smaller and carved from a darker material. The shape was more oval than round. The style was the same, but the face and the scales on the tail were slightly different from Honey’s mermaid and slightly different from Rebecca’s.

Not mass produced then. Hand carved.

He laid all six photos in a row before him. Yes, they were different, but not that different. And as far as the naked eye could tell, these were by the same artist.

The hair on the back of his neck rose.

Was it possible this artist was still out there?

“Find something?” Kennedy asked.

Jason looked up blankly. “What?”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m almost positive it’s the same artist.”

Kennedy seemed to be waiting for more. “Okay,” he said when Jason didn’t continue.

“They’re all different, but the workmanship is so unique, so distinct. I’d swear it’s the same artist.”

“So the question is how did the unsub get hold of another mermaid charm?”

“Yes. Or…yes.” Was that the question? Probably. It was certainly a good one. How the hell had Rebecca’s murderer obtained one of these mermaids ten years after the last killing? Jason said, “I think if we knew who this artist was…”

“You think the artist himself is involved?”

It was sort of unnerving the way Kennedy instantly jumped to where Jason’s thoughts were headed even as Jason was deciding on a direction. “I don’t know. Why shouldn’t he be out there?”

“You tell me.”

Jason gazed at Kennedy. “You—the taskforce—never connected him—or her—to the crimes. Maybe this person was unaware her work was linked to a series of homicides. She might live out of state. She might live in another country.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“Or she might not.”

Kennedy was still watching, still waiting. For what? Some brilliant deduction? Some sign Jason was going to be of actual use in this investigation?

“Not all the original victims were found with mermaid charms,” Kennedy said. “Only five of the girls had them. We couldn’t be sure if the other charms were lost or if no charms were left at the scene. The first victim’s b—”

“Honey,” Jason said.

Kennedy gave him a quick look. “Yes. Honey Corrigan was not found with a mermaid. Correction. Her mermaid was hanging on the keychain in her car. In fact, that particular connection wasn’t made until some months after the Bureau joined the taskforce.”

“She’d bought that charm a few weeks before she…”

“Right. The others were purchased by Pink. He bought the last four mermaids in Simpson’s shop. You see the problem. There’s a six-year gap. Honey didn’t buy her charm from Simpson because Simpson didn’t own the gift shop at that time.”

“Who did own the shop?”

“Bethany Douglas. She moved to Oregon after she sold the shop to Simpson.”

“Douglas? Is she related to Patricia Douglas? Rebecca’s best friend? The girl she quarreled with Friday night?”

Kennedy looked startled. “I don’t know. I didn’t make that connection.” The look of surprised approval in his gaze made Jason feel warm.

And then like an idiot for being flattered.

“Was the Douglas woman questioned?” he asked.

“Yep. She was elderly and in poor health. She believed the charms were made by a local artist. She believed the artist was a woman, but she wasn’t sure and couldn’t remember the name or any details. She said Simpson had all that information. Simpson insisted there was no information to be had.”

“That should have sent up some flags.”

“It did.” Kennedy’s expression was wry. “Until we talked to a bunch of people who corroborated the gift shop’s ledgers and records were in complete chaos by the time Simpson stepped in.”

“Hm.” Jason stacked the photos and began sorting through them. “So Honey has a mermaid on her keychain, but then no mermaid turns up again until Jody. Then no mermaid until victim number six, Susan Parvel. And the remaining victim had a mermaid.”

“Correct.”

“And now Rebecca.”

“Again correct.”

“Got it.” Jason picked up the magnifying glass and resumed his examination of each and every mermaid.

Very interesting. Not at all typical New England nautical folk art. These almost reminded him of netsuke . Japanese miniatures sculpted out of ivory, shells, hardwoods, gemstones, or ceramics.

The subject matter was not typical of traditional netsuke though. At least he didn’t think mermaids figured largely in Japanese mythology.

Either way, he kept coming back to his conviction this was distinct craftsmanship. This was the work of an artist.

He was jolted out of his thoughts as Kennedy pushed back his chair and rose, saying, “I’m going to check out the original crime scenes.”