Gone, But Not Forgotten Read online

  “Since fantasy is so much involved in their behavior, these killers often take a specific body part or item of clothing with them. They use it to relive the act. This heavy use of fantasy also results in the crimes being very well planned. The Hillside Strangler not only brought a weapon, he brought plastic bags to help him dispose of the bodies. This could account for the absence of forensic evidence at your crime scenes. I would guess that your killer is very knowledgeable in the area of police investigation. Am I correct that an analysis of the notes and the roses have yielded no clues, and that the crime scenes haven’t turned up so much as a fiber or hair that’s been of use?”

  “That’s pretty much true,” answered Glen Michaels. “We did get a print from the Lake note, but it turned out to be the wife’s. All the other notes were spotless and there was nothing unusual about the paper or the ink. So far, the lab hasn’t picked up a thing we can use.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Klien said. “There is a peculiar interest among these men with police and police work. Some of them have even been involved on the fringes of law enforcement. Bundy attended FBI lectures and Bianchi was in security work and in the police reserve. That means they may be aware of the steps they must take to avoid detection. Their interest in police work may also lie in a need to know how close the police are to catching them.

  “Let’s talk about the victims. Usually they’re accidental, in that the killer simply drives around until he fixes on someone. Prostitutes make easy victims, because they’ll get in a car or even allow themselves to be tied up. The victim is generally not from the killer’s home turf and is usually a stranger, which makes apprehension much more difficult.”

  “Do you see that as being true in our case?” Nancy asked. “I mean, these women all fit a pattern. They’re married to professionals, they don’t have regular jobs, and except for Mrs. Lake they were all childless. They’re also from the same town. Doesn’t that show advance planning? That he’s looking for a particular victim who fits into his fantasy, rather than grabbing women at random?”

  “You’re right. These victims don’t seem to fit the usual pattern of random selection. It’s pretty clear that your killer is stalking a particular type of woman in a particular area, which suggests he may live in Hunter’s Point.”

  “What I don’t understand is how he gets to them,” Wayne Turner said. “We’re dealing with educated women. They live in upscale neighborhoods where the residents are suspicious of strangers. Yet there’s no sign of a struggle at any home but the Lakes’, and, even there, the crime scene was relatively undisturbed.”

  Klien smiled. “You’ve brought us to one of the major misconceptions about serial killers, Detective Turner. In the movies they’re portrayed as monsters, but in real life they fit into the community and do not look suspicious. Typically, they’re bright, personable, even good-looking men. Bundy, the I-5 Bandit, the Hillside Strangler, Cortez—they’re all respectable-looking men. So our killer is probably someone these women would let into their home without fear.”

  “Didn’t you say there were two types of serial killers?” Grimsbo asked.

  “Yes. There’s also the disorganized asocial killer, but in this case we’re not dealing with someone who fits that category. That’s unfortunate, because they’re easier to catch. They’re psychotic loners who relate quite poorly to others and don’t have the charm or ability to melt into the community. Their acts are impulsive and the weapon is usually whatever is at hand. The body is often mangled or blood-smeared and they frequently get blood all over themselves. The crime scenes can be very gruesome. They’re also not mobile, like the organized nonsocials. Their homicides often take place close to their homes and they often return to the scene of the crime, not to check up on the investigation, but to further mutilate the body or relive the killing. Rarely do they penetrate the body sexually. They usually masturbate on it or in the immediate area, which can be helpful, now that we have workable DNA testing. But your boy is much too clever to be a disorganized asocial.”

  “Why haven’t we found the bodies?” Turner asked.

  “He’s obviously hiding them, like the Green River Killer. Chief O’Malley tells me there’s a lot of farmland and forest in this area. Someday a hiker is going to stumble on a mass grave and you’ll have your bodies.”

  “What will they look like, Dr. Klien?” Nancy asked.

  “It won’t be pretty. We’re dealing with a sexual sadist. If he has his victim isolated and he has time … You see, these men are expressing their rage toward their women victims. The mutilation and murder increases their sexual stimulation. In some instances, where the killer is usually impotent, the violence makes sex possible. The fantasy and the torture are the foreplay, Detective. The killing is the penetration. Some of these men ejaculate automatically at the moment they kill.”

  “Jesus,” Grimsbo muttered. “And you say these guys aren’t crazy.”

  “I said they weren’t crazy, but I didn’t say they were human. Personally, I see the man you’re looking for as less than human. Somewhere along the way, some of the things that make us human were lost, either because of genetics or environment or … Well,” Klien shrugged, “it really doesn’t matter, does it, because he’s beyond hope and must be stopped. Otherwise he’ll go on and on and on, as long as there are women out there for him to feed on.”

  Four

  Nancy Gordon, Wayne Turner, Frank Grimsbo and Glen Michaels were waiting in O’Malley’s office when he returned from dropping Dr. Klien at the airport.

  “I sort of expected this,” he said, when he saw them.

  “Then please explain to us what the fuck is going on,” Turner demanded.

  “There’s no way to sugarcoat it,” O’Malley said. “I argued with the mayor and lost, period. We’re stuck with Lake.”

  “You’re shitting me,” Grimsbo said.

  “No, Frank, I’m not shitting you. I’m telling you the facts of political life.”

  “The guy’s a potential suspect,” Grimsbo said.

  “Let’s get this on the table, boys and girls, because I might be able to dump him, if it’s true.”

  “I don’t think it is, John,” Nancy said. “I’ve met with him a few times and he’s pretty broken up about losing his wife and kid.”

  “Yeah,” Turner countered, “but he says he didn’t see anyone coming from the house. Where did the killer go? There’s only one road out of that development from the cul-de-sac.”

  “The neighbors didn’t see anyone either,” Nancy said.

  “No one saw anyone at the scene of any of the disappearances, Wayne,” said Glen Michaels.

  “What I want to know is what a civilian is doing on a police investigation,” Grimsbo said.

  O’Malley sighed. “Lake’s fixed politically. He’s known as a criminal lawyer because he won that insanity defense for that fruitcake Daley. But the guy’s specialty is real estate law and he’s made a few million at it, some of which he has contributed to the mayor’s campaign chest. He’s also a major contributor to the governor and he serves on some land use planning council in Albany. The bottom line is, the governor called the mayor yesterday, who then called me to explain how Lake’s experience as a criminal lawyer will be invaluable in the investigation and how lucky we are to have him on our team. The press is already on the mayor’s ass for keeping the disappearances quiet until the Lake murders forced his hand. He’s desperate for results and he’s not going to buck a request from the governor or a major campaign contributor.”

  “I don’t trust him,” Turner said. “I had a case with Lake a few years back. We served a warrant on this guy and found a kilo of coke in his room. There was a pregnant woman at the house with no record. She swore the coke was hers and the guy was doing her a favor by letting her stay in his room while she was expecting. The defendant beat the case and the d.a. didn’t even bother to indict the chick. I could never prove it, but I heard rumors that Lake paid the woman to perjure herself.”
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  “Anyone else heard anything like that?” O’Malley asked.

  Michaels shook his head. “He’s cross-examined me two or three times. My impression is that he’s very bright. He did an excellent job in a case involving blood-spatter evidence. Really had me going up there.”

  “I’ve heard he’s a smart guy,” Grimsbo said, “but I’ve heard those rumors about the fix too, and a few of the lawyers I know don’t like Lake’s ethics. He’s still a suspect, even if he’s a long shot, and I just don’t like the idea of a citizen working on something this sensitive.”

  “Look, I agree with you, Frank,” O’Malley said. “It stinks. But it doesn’t matter. Until I can convince the mayor otherwise, Lake stays. Just try to keep him out from under our feet. Give him lots of busy work, make him read all the reports. If something comes up you don’t want him to see, or there’s trouble, come to me. Any questions?”

  Turner muttered something about the mayor and Grimsbo shook his head in disgust. O’Malley ignored them.

  “Okay, get outta here and back to work. You all heard Klien. We have to stop this psycho fast.”

  Five

  Nancy Gordon’s stomach growled. She guessed it was a little after six. Her watch said it was almost seven. She had been writing reports and lost track of time. On the way out of the station, she walked by the task force office and noticed the lights were still on. Peter Lake was in shirtsleeves, his feet up on the corner of the desk. Near his elbow were a large stack of reports and a yellow pad. He was making notes as he read.

  “You’re not going to solve this case in one night,” Nancy said quietly. Lake looked around, startled. Then he grinned sheepishly.

  “I always work this hard. I’m compulsive.”

  Nancy walked over to Lake’s desk. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading about the Reardon and Escalante disappearances. I had an idea. Do you have time?”

  “I was going to eat. Want to join me? Nothing special. There’s an all-night coffee shop over on Oak.”

  Lake looked at the stack of reports and the clock.

  “Sure,” he said, swinging his legs off the desk and grabbing his jacket. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

  “I was caught up in something too. If my stomach hadn’t yelled at me, I’d still be at my desk.”

  “You must like your work.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How did you get into it?”

  “You mean, what’s a nice girl like me doing in a job like this?”

  “That never occurred to me.”

  “That I was a nice girl?”

  Lake laughed. “No. That you’re not suited for police work.”

  Nancy checked out at the front desk and followed Lake outside. After sundown Hunter’s Point was a ghost town, except for a few spots that catered to the college crowd. Nancy could see the marquee of the Hunter’s Point Cinema and the neon signs outside a couple of bars. Most of the stores were shuttered for the night. The coffee shop was only a block and a half from the station. An oasis of light in a desert of darkness.

  “Here we are,” Nancy said, holding open the door of Chang’s Cafe. There was a counter, but Nancy led Lake to a booth. Chang’s wife brought them menus and water.

  “The soup and the pies are good and the rest of the menu is edible. Don’t look for anything resembling Chinese. Mr. Chang cooks Italian, Greek and whatever else strikes his fancy.”

  “You’re not from Hunter’s Point originally, are you?” Lake asked, after they ordered.

  “How could you tell?”

  “You don’t have the accent. I’m a transplanted westerner myself. Let’s see. I’d guess Montana.”

  “Idaho,” Nancy said. “My parents still live there. They’re farmers. My brother is a high school teacher in Boise. Me, I didn’t love Idaho and I wanted to see the world. Fortunately I run a mean eight hundred meters and the U. offered the best scholarship. So I ended up in Hunter’s Point.”

  “Not exactly Paris,” Lake commented.

  “Not exactly,” Nancy said with a smile. “But it was New York, and without the scholarship there was no way I could afford college. By the time I realized New York City and Hunter’s Point, New York, were worlds apart I was enjoying myself too much to care.”

  “And the police work?”

  “My major was Criminal Justice. When I graduated, the Hunter’s Point P.D. needed a woman to fill its affirmative action quota.”

  Nancy shrugged and looked at Lake, as if expecting a challenge.

  “I bet you made detective on merit,” he said.

  “Damn straight,” Nancy answered proudly, just as Mrs. Chang arrived with their soup.

  “How did you end up here?” Nancy asked, as she waited for her minestrone to cool.

  “I’m from Colorado,” Lake said, smiling. “I went to Colorado State undergraduate, then I served a hitch in the Marines. There was a guy in the judge advocate’s corps who went to law school here and suggested I apply. I met Sandy at the U.”

  Lake paused and his smile disappeared. He looked down at his plate. The action had an unnatural quality to it, as if he suddenly realized that a smile would be inappropriate when he was discussing his dead wife. Nancy looked at Lake oddly.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I keep thinking about her.”

  “That’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with remembering.”

  “I don’t like myself when I’m maudlin. I’ve always been a person in control. The murders have made me realize that nothing is predictable or permanent.”

  “If it’s taken you this long to figure that out, you’re lucky.”

  “Yeah. A successful career, a great wife and kid. They blind you to the way the world really is, don’t they? Then someone takes that away from you in a second and … and you see …”

  “You see how lucky you were to have what you had, while it lasted, Peter. Most people never have in their lifetime what you and I had for a little while.”

  Lake looked down at the tabletop.

  “At the station you said you had an idea,” Nancy said, to break his mood.

  “It’s probably just playing detective,” he answered, “but something struck me when I was going through the reports. The day Gloria Escalante disappeared, a florist’s truck was delivering in the area. A woman would open the door to a man delivering flowers. She would be excited and wouldn’t be thinking. He could take the woman away in the back of his truck. And there’s the rose. Someone who works in a florist’s would have access to roses.”

  “Not bad, Peter,” Nancy said, unable to hide her admiration. “You might make a good detective after all. The deliveryman was Henry Waters. He’s got a minor record for indecent exposure and he’s one of our suspects. You probably haven’t gotten to Wayne’s report yet. He’s been doing a background check on Waters.”

  Lake flushed. “I guess you were way ahead of me.”

  “Peter, did Sandy have any connection with Evergreen Florists?”

  “Is that where Waters works?”

  Nancy nodded.

  “I don’t think so. But I can look at our receipts and the checkbook to see if she ever ordered anything from them. I’m pretty certain I never did.”

  Their dinner arrived and they ate in silence for a few minutes. Nancy’s spaghetti was delicious, but she noted that Lake just picked at his food.

  “Do you feel like talking about Sandy?” Nancy asked. “We’re trying to cross-reference the activities of the victims. See if they belonged to the same clubs, subscribed to the same magazines. Anything that gives us a common denominator.”

  “Frank asked me to do that the night of the murder. I’ve been working on it. We were members of the Delmar Country Club, the Hunter’s Point Athletic Club, the Racquet Club. I’ve got a list of our credit cards, subscriptions, everything I can think of. I’ll complete it by the end of the week. Is Waters your only suspect?”

  “There are others, but nothing solid. I’m talking abou
t known sex offenders, not anyone we’ve linked to any of the crimes.” Nancy paused. “I had an ulterior motive for asking you to eat with me. I’m going to be totally honest with you. You shouldn’t be involved in this investigation. You have pull with the mayor, so you’re here, but everyone on the task force resents the way you forced yourself on us.”

  “Including you?”

  “No. But that’s only because I understand what’s driving you. What you don’t understand is how self-destructive your behavior is. You’re obsessed with this case because you think immersing yourself in detective work will help you escape from reality. But you’re stuck in the real world. Eventually you’ll have to come to terms with it, and the sooner you do that the better. You’ve got a good practice. You can build a new life. Don’t put off coming to grips with what’s happened by continuing to work on the murders.”

  Nancy was watching Lake as she spoke. He never took his eyes off her. When she was finished speaking he leaned forward.

  “Thank you for your honesty. I know my intrusion into the task force is resented and I’m glad you told me how everyone feels. I’m not worried about my practice. My associates will keep it going without me and I’ve made so much money that I could live nicely without it. What matters to me is catching this killer before he hurts someone else.”

  Lake reached across the table and covered Nancy’s hand with his.

  “It also matters to me that you’re concerned. I appreciate that.”

  Lake stroked Nancy’s hand as he spoke. It was a sensual touch, clearly a come-on, and Nancy was struck by the inappropriateness of his action, even if Lake was not.

  “I’m concerned for you as a person who is the victim of a horrible crime,” Nancy said firmly, as she slid her hand out from under Lake’s. “I am also concerned that you might do something that would jeopardize our investigation. Please think about what I’ve said, Peter.”