Gone, But Not Forgotten Page 5

  “I’m a homicide detective. My name is Nancy Gordon. You cross-examined me in the Daley case.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t handle many criminal cases anymore.”

  “How are you feeling?” Nancy asked, sitting across from Lake.

  “I’m numb.”

  “I know what you’re going through …” Nancy started, but Lake’s head jerked up.

  “How could you? They’re dead. My family is dead.”

  Lake covered his eyes with his hands and wept. His shoulders trembled.

  “I do know how you feel,” Nancy said softly. “A year ago my fiancé was murdered. The only good thing that came out of it was that I learned how victims really feel, and sometimes I can even help them get through the worst of it.”

  Lake looked up. He wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just so hard. They meant everything to me. And Melody … How could someone do that to a little girl? She couldn’t hurt anybody. She was just a little girl.”

  “Mr. Lake, four women have disappeared in Hunter’s Point in the past few months. A black rose and a note, identical to the ones you found, were left at each home. I know how much you’re grieving, but we have to act fast. This is the first time we have actually found a victim. That could mean you surprised the killer before he had time to take your wife away. Anything you can tell us would be deeply appreciated and may help us catch this man before he kills again.”

  “I don’t know anything. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. I was working late on a case. I called to let Sandy know. I didn’t see anything unusual when I drove up. Then I … I’m really not too clear on what I did after I … I know I sat down on the bottom step.”

  Lake paused. He breathed deeply, trying to keep from crying again. His lip trembled. He took a sip of his scotch.

  “This is very hard for me, Detective. I want to help, but … Really, this is very hard.”

  Nancy stood up and placed a hand on Lake’s shoulder. He began to weep again.

  “I’m going to leave my card. I want you to call me if I can do anything for you. Anything. If you remember something, no matter how insignificant you may believe it to be, call me. Please.”

  “I will. I’ll be better in the morning and I’ll … It’s just …”

  “It’s all right. Oh, one other thing. The media will be after you. They won’t respect your privacy. Please don’t talk to them. There are many aspects of this case we are not going to release to the public. We keep back facts to help us eliminate phony confessions and to identify the real killer. It’s very important that you keep what you know to yourself.”

  “I won’t talk to the press. I don’t want to see anyone.”

  “Okay,” Nancy said kindly. “And you’re going to be all right. Not one hundred percent, and not for a long time, but you’ll deal with your grief. It won’t be easy. I’m still not healed, but I’m better, and you’ll be better too. Remember what I said about calling. Not the police business. You know, if you just want to talk.”

  Lake nodded. When Nancy left the den, he was sprawled in the chair, his head back and his eyes closed.

  Two

  Hunter’s Point was a commuter suburb with a population of 110,000, a small downtown riddled with trendy boutiques and upscale restaurants, a branch of the State University, and a lot of shopping centers. There were no slums in Hunter’s Point, but there were clusters of Cape Cods and garden apartments on the fringe of the downtown area that housed students and families unable to afford the high-priced developments like The Meadows, where the commuting lawyers, doctors and businessmen lived.

  Police headquarters was a dull, square building on the outskirts of town. It sat in the middle of a flat, black-topped parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence. The lot was filled with police cars, unmarked vehicles and tow trucks.

  The rose killer task force was housed in an old storage area in the back of the building. There were no windows, and the fluorescent lights were annoyingly bright. A watercooler was squeezed between two chest-high filing cabinets. A low wood table stood on rickety legs against a cream-colored wall. On the table sat a coffee maker, four coffee mugs, a sugar bowl and a brown plastic cup filled with several packets of artificial creamer. Four gunmetal-gray, government-issue desks were grouped in the center of the room. Bulletin boards with pictures of the victims and information about the crimes covered two walls.

  Nancy Gordon hunched over her reports on the Lake murders. The flickering fluorescents were starting to give her a headache. She closed her eyes, leaned back and pinched her lids. When she opened her eyes, she was staring at the photographs of Samantha Reardon and Patricia Cross that Turner had tacked to the wall. The photos had been supplied by their husbands. Samantha on the deck of a sailboat. A tall woman, the wind blowing her flowing brown hair behind her, a smile of genuine happiness brightening her face. Pat in shorts and a halter top on a beach in Oahu, very slender, too thin, actually. Her friends said she was overly conscious of her figure. Except for Reardon, who had been a nurse, none of the women had ever held a meaningful job, and Reardon stopped working soon after her marriage. They were happy housewives living in luxury, spending their time at golf and bridge. Their idea of contributing to the community was raising money for charity at country club functions. Where were these women now? Were they dead? Had they died quickly, or slowly, in agony? How had they held up? How much of their dignity were they able to retain?

  The phone rang. “Gordon,” she answered.

  “There’s a Mr. Lake at the front desk,” the receptionist said. Nancy straightened up. Less than seventy-two hours had passed since her visit to the crime scene.

  “I’ll be right out,” Gordon said, dropping her pen on a stack of police reports.

  Inside the front door of the police station was a small lobby furnished with cheap chairs upholstered in imitation leather and outfitted with chrome armrests. The lobby was separated from the rest of the building by a counter with a sliding glass window and a door with an electronic lock. Lake was seated in one of the chairs. He was dressed in a dark suit and solid maroon tie. His hair was carefully combed. The only evidence of his personal tragedy were red-rimmed eyes that suggested a lack of sleep and a lot of mourning. Nancy hit the button next to the receptionist’s desk and opened the door.

  “I wasn’t certain you’d be here,” Lake said. “I hope you don’t mind my showing up without calling.”

  “No. Come on in. I’ll find us a place to talk.”

  Lake followed Nancy down a hall that reminded him of a school corridor. They walked on worn green linoleum that buckled in places, past unpainted brown wood doors. Chipped flakes of green paint fell from spots on the walls. Nancy opened the door to one of the interrogation rooms and stood aside for Lake. The room was covered with white, soundproof tiles.

  “Have a seat,” Nancy said, motioning toward one of the plastic chairs that stood on either side of a long wooden table. “I’ll grab us some coffee. How do you take yours?”

  “Black,” Lake answered.

  When Nancy returned with two Styrofoam cups, Lake was sitting at the table with his hands in his lap.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “I’m very tired, and depressed. I tried going to work today, but I couldn’t concentrate. I keep thinking about Melody.”

  Lake stopped. He took a deep breath. “Look, I’ll get to the point. I can’t work, and I have a feeling I’m not going to be able to work for quite a while. I sat down with the papers on a real estate closing this morning and it seemed so … It just didn’t mean anything to me.

  “I have two associates who can keep my practice going until I’m able to cope, if that ever happens. But now all I want to do is find out who killed Sandy and Melody. It’s all I can think about.”

  “Mr. Lake, it’s all I can think about too. And I’m not alone. I’m going to tell you some things. This is highly confidential. I’ll need your promise to keep it confidential.”r />
  Lake nodded.

  “There were four disappearances before your wife and daughter were killed. None of those women has been found. It took us a while to catch on, because there were no bodies. At first, we treated them like missing persons. But a note with ‘Gone, But Not Forgotten’ and a black rose was left at each crime scene, so after the second one we knew what we were dealing with. The chief has put together a task force to work on the cases …”

  “I’m sure you’re working very hard,” Lake interrupted. “I didn’t mean to be critical. What I want to do is help. I want to volunteer to be part of the task force.”

  “That’s out of the question, Mr. Lake. You aren’t a police officer. It also wouldn’t be advisable. You’re too emotionally involved to be objective.”

  “Lawyers are trained to be objective. And I can add something to the investigation—the unique insight into the criminal mind that I developed as a defense attorney. Defense attorneys learn things about the way criminals think that the police never know, because we have the criminal’s confidence. My clients know they can tell me anything, no matter how horrible, and I will respect their privacy. You see criminals when their false face is on. I see them the way they really are.”

  “Mr. Lake, police officers get a real good look at the criminal mind—too good. We see these guys on the street, in their homes. You see them cleaned up, in your office, a long way from their victims and after they’ve had time to rationalize what they’ve done and cook up a sob story or a defense. But none of that matters, because you simply cannot work on this case. As much as I appreciate the offer, my superiors wouldn’t allow it.”

  “I know it sounds strange, but I really do think I could contribute. I’m very smart.”

  Nancy shook her head. “There’s another good reason you shouldn’t get involved in this investigation—it would mean reliving the death of your wife and daughter every day, instead of getting on with your life. We have their autopsy photos lying around, their pictures posted on the wall. Do you want that?”

  “I have their pictures all over my house and office, Detective Gordon. And there isn’t a minute I don’t think about them.”

  Nancy sighed. “I know,” she said, “but you have to stop thinking about them that way or it will kill you.”

  Lake paused. “Tell me about your fiancé,” he said quietly. “How … how did you stop thinking about him?”

  “I never did. I think about Ed all the time. Especially at night, when I’m alone. I don’t want to forget him and you won’t want to forget Sandy and Melody.

  “Ed was a cop. A drunk shot him. He was trying to calm down a domestic dispute. It was two weeks before our wedding date. At first I felt just like you do. I couldn’t work. I could barely make it out of bed. I … I was racked with guilt, which is ridiculous. I kept on thinking there was something I could have done, insisted he stay home that day, I don’t know. I wasn’t really making much sense.

  “But it got better, Mr. Lake. Not all better, not even mostly better. You just get to a point where you face the fact that a lot of the pain comes from feeling sorry for yourself, for what you’ve lost. Then you realize that you have to start living for yourself. You have to go on and keep the memories of the good times. If you don’t, then whoever killed your little girl and your wife will have won. They will have killed you too.”

  Nancy reached across the table and put her hand on Peter Lake’s arm.

  “We’ll get him, Mr. Lake. You have so much to deal with, you don’t want to get involved with this too. Let us handle it. We’ll get him, I promise.”

  Lake stood up. “Thank you, Detective Gordon.”

  “Nancy. Call me Nancy. And give me a call anytime you want to talk.”

  Three

  A week later, Hunter’s Point Chief of Police John O’Malley entered the task force office. He was usually in shirtsleeves with his tie askew and his top button open. This morning, O’Malley wore the navy blue suit he saved for Rotary Club speeches and meetings with the city council.

  The chief had the broad shoulders and thick chest of a middleweight boxer. His nose had been broken by a fleeing burglar when he worked in New York’s South Bronx. His receding red hair revealed an old scar, a memento of one of many gang fights he had been in as a youth in Brooklyn. O’Malley would have stayed in New York City if a heart attack hadn’t forced him to pursue police work in a less stressful environment.

  Walking behind O’Malley was a huge man dressed in a tan summer-weight suit. Nancy guessed that the suit was custom-tailored, because it fit perfectly, even though the man was oddly oversized, like a serious bodybuilder.

  “This is Dr. Mark Klien,” O’Malley said. “He’s a psychiatrist who practices in Manhattan, and an expert on serial killers. Dr. Klien was consulted in the Son of Sam case, the Atlanta child murders, Bundy. He’s worked with VICAP. I met him a few years ago when I was with the NYPD and working a serial case. He was very helpful. Dr. Klien’s seen a full set of reports on these disappearances and the deaths of Melody and Sandra Lake.

  “Dr. Klien,” O’Malley said, pointing to each member of the task force in turn, “this is Nancy Gordon, Frank Grimsbo, Wayne Turner and Glen Michaels. They’ve been on this case since it started.”

  Dr. Klien was so massive, he filled the entrance to the office. When he stepped into the room to shake hands, someone else followed him in. O’Malley looked uncomfortable.

  “Before Dr. Klien gets started, I want to explain why Mr. Lake is here. Yesterday the mayor and I met. He explained that Mr. Lake was volunteering to assist the task force in finding the killer of his wife and daughter.”

  Nancy Gordon and Frank Grimsbo exchanged worried glances. Wayne Turner’s mouth opened and he stared at O’Malley. O’Malley flushed angrily, stared back and continued.

  “The mayor feels that Mr. Lake brings a unique insight into the criminal mind, developed as a defense attorney, that will give us a fresh perspective on the case.”

  “I hope I’ll be of use,” Peter Lake said, smiling apologetically. “I know I’m not a trained policeman, so I’ll try to keep out of the way.”

  “Dr. Klien has a busy schedule,” O’Malley said, ignoring Lake. “He has to take a two-fifty shuttle back to the city, so I’m going to let him take over.”

  Lake took a seat behind everyone in the back of the room. Frank Grimsbo shook his head slowly. Wayne Turner folded his arms across his chest and stared accusingly at O’Malley. Nancy frowned. Only Glen Michaels, the chubby, balding criminologist O’Malley had assigned to do the forensic work for the task force, seemed uninterested in Lake. He was riveted on Mark Klien, who went to the front of the room and stood before a wall covered with victim information.

  “I hope what I have to say is of some use to you,” Klien said, talking without notes. “One disadvantage a small department like Hunter’s Point has in these cases is its inexperience with crimes of this type. Although even larger departments are usually at a loss, since serial killers, for all the suffering they cause and all the publicity they receive, are, fortunately, rare birds. Now that the FBI has established the Violent Crime Apprehension Program in Quantico, small departments, like yours, can forward a description of your case to VICAP and learn if any similar murders have taken place in other parts of the country. VICAP uses a computer program to list violent crimes and their descriptions throughout the country and can hook you up with other police agencies where similar crimes may have occurred, so you can coordinate your investigation.

  “What I want to do today is give you a profile of the serial killer in order to dispel any stereotypes you may have and list some common factors you can look for. The FBI has identified two separate categories: the disorganized asocial and the organized nonsocial. Let’s discuss the latter type first. The organized nonsocial is a sexual psychopath and, like any psychopath, he is unable to empathize, to feel pity or caring for others. His victims are simply objects he uses as he wishes to serve his own perverted needs.
Venting his anger is one of these needs, whether through mutilation or debasing the victim. The Boston Strangler, for example, placed his victims in a position so that the first sight anyone had of them as they entered the room was to see them with their legs spread apart. Another killer mailed the foot of his victim to her parents in order to expand the pain and misery he had already caused.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Klien,” Wayne Turner said. “Is it possible that our killer is leaving the notes to torment the husbands?”

  “That’s a good possibility. The cruelty in torturing a victim’s loved ones, and thereby creating more victims, would be very attractive to a sexual psychopath, since he is unaffected by any moral code and has no sense of remorse. He is capable of any act. Preserving body parts and eating them is not unusual, and having sex with the corpse of a victim is even less rare. Lucas decapitated one of his victims and had oral sex with the head for a week until the odor became so extreme he had to dispose of it.”

  “Is that the type of crazy bastard we’re dealing with here?” Grimsbo asked.

  “Not ‘crazy,’ Detective. In spite of the extremes of their behavior, these people are not legally insane. They are well aware of what is morally and legally right and wrong. The terrifying thing is that they do not learn from their experiences, so neither treatment nor imprisonment is likely to alter their behavior. In fact, because of the compulsiveness associated with these sexual acts, it is most likely that they will kill again.”

  “What does the black rose mean?” Nancy asked.

  “I don’t know, but fantasy and compulsion are very much a part of these killers’ actions, and the rose could be part of the killer’s fantasy. Prior to the killing, they fantasize about it in great detail, planning very specifically what they will do. This increases their level of excitement or tension so that ultimately their act is one of compulsion. When the murder is completed there is a sense of relief until the tension builds up again, starting the cycle anew. Son of Sam talked of the great relief he felt after each killing, but he also demonstrated his faulty judgment when he said he did not know why his victims struggled so much, since he was only going to kill them, not rape them.