“Six years ago, Jillian Stubbs, a fashion model, age thirty-six, was found hanging naked from her bedpost by a single black stocking in her Worcester apartment,” Steve said. “Again, no signs of an intruder nor forensic evidence of foul play nor traces of alcohol or drugs in the woman’s system. She was single, living alone, and had no steady boyfriend. Her death had been ruled an accidental suicide. The M.E.’s autopsy reported that she had dyed red hair.
“Five years ago, Marla Murphy, a thirty-nine-year-old white female and former television reporter for a Washington NBC affiliate, was found hanging naked from a single black stocking in the shower of her beach house in Wellfleet on Cape Cod. She was gay and living alone. Her death had been ruled an accidental suicide. She had naturally auburn hair.”
On the screen was a spreadsheet comparing the women, their physical and vital statistics, and the similarities of their killings.
“Each was a single female between the age of thirty-six and forty-two. They were similar in body size, in appearance, and they all had red hair of varying shades, one natural, three dyed. Each lived alone—two were single, one divorced, the other gay. They were found dead in their homes, strangled with a black stocking—three so far identified as Wolfords.”
“Got to be the same perp,” Hogan said.
“Looks it,” Steve said. “But if it is the work of a single killer, we’re going to have to determine what it was about these women that brought the killer to them.”
That meant examining their private, social, and professional lives for commonalties as well as geographical overlaps just in case there were particular venues where the women had lived or visited that could reveal the killer’s topography.
“It says here that Jillian Stubbs was left-handed, like Terry Farina,” Hogan said.
“Yeah, again making it likely the suicide was staged.”
“According to crime scene photos,” Dacey said, “three of the four victims had beds with headboards. For some reason he shifted his MO from the bed to shower to closet and back to bed.”
“Since Farina’s the latest, maybe that’s his preferred killing venue.”
“Could be he changed to cover the pattern.”
Steve nodded and continued. “On the surface we’ve got a wide spread of professional backgrounds. Murphy was a former reporter, Novak a buyer for Ann Taylor, Stubbs a fashion model, and Terry Farina a personal trainer and part-time exotic dancer. But a common theme to each vic’s employment is female appearance.”
“What do you make of that?” Reardon asked.
“I’m not entirely sure, but I think it may hold a key to how the killer was drawn to them—how he may have even stalked them. It’s something to work on.”
“Given they all had red hair,” Vaughn said, “maybe we should put out an APB at the Irish-American clubs.”
That released some chuckles from the table. Given the mounting tension, had Vaughn told a moron joke he would have gotten laughs.
“What bothers me,” Steve said, “is that he might still be hunting.”
71
July 1.
The desk calendar hung right next to the photo of Dana.
July 1.
Twelve years ago today they walked down the aisle at the Unitarian church in Arlington center followed by a reception at Habitat on Belmont Hill. It was a glorious day and a glorious wedding, and they danced their first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Markarian to “As Time Goes By.”
Well, time went by, more than a decade, and according to national statistics they were supposed to be living in their happy suburban Carleton home with two point something kids and entering middle age with grace and contentment. Instead, Dana lived by herself in their happy suburban home with her new face and new prospects while Steve bumped around a monastic four-room flat with zero point zero kids and not much else.
The good news—and the only good news—was that nearly three weeks had passed since he had last consumed alcohol. It was the one thing that kept him going because he tied that to the belief that if he conquered this demon, he might win back Dana.
“Hey.”
Steve turned and his heart gave a kick. Neil was standing behind him.
“I’m on my way out, but I want to let you know I got your messages.”
His face was an implacable pink blank. The slender end of a toothpick stuck out of the corner of his mouth. It had been a week since the break-in, and Neil seemed more drawn and his eyes slightly muddy, as if he had not gotten much sleep.
Steve stood up. “What can I say? I’m sorry.” Steve held out his hand, uncertain if Neil would take it or spit at it. And for a moment that seemed to last a week, his hand posed in the air while Neil moved his eyes from Steve’s to his hand. Then he took it.
“You did what you had to do.”
“It was nice of you not to blow my head off.”
Neil nodded. “Until Dacey showed, I was convinced you were there to make a plant.”
“We’re even.”
Neil had not filed a complaint for their unwarranted creeping, and Steve did not file a report that Neil pulled his weapon on a superior officer. Neither would have accomplished anything but a lot of administrative wrangling and lost time on their cases.
“How’s the Farina thing going?”
“It’s going.”
Even though Neil had been cleared, Steve did not want to compromise the integrity of the investigation even within the department. Also, over the last several days, Steve had, in total confidentiality, contacted Neil’s superior at the Gloucester P.D. to determine if Neil had an alibi for the other cases. Luckily, as it turned out, during the estimated time window of Corrine Novak’s murder, he was on duty with other police officers investigating the vandalizing of a local high school by some townie kids. And on the evening when Marla Murphy was killed in Wellfleet, Neil was at a conference in St. Louis. His whereabouts on the other two cases could not be pinpointed, but Steve was satisfied that Neil had nothing to do with the murders.
“I guess it’s not official, but I hear it’s gone serial.”
So much for tight lips. Admitting what they both knew might convince Neil that Steve’s suspicion was dead. It would also serve as a gesture to make up. “Yeah. Got four so far.”
“Any suspects?”
Steve shook his head.
“Establish a motive?”
“Nothing yet.”
Neil shook his head. “So, what have you been doing?”
“Diddling with the files and hoping we get him before he gets the next one.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Yeah.”
Neil made a move to leave. “How are things with Dana?”
“The same. How about Lily?”
“She’s making progress.”
“Good to hear that.”
Neil put out his hand and Steve took it. “l wish I could make it up to you.”
“You can,” Neil said. “You get the son of a bitch, let me have five minutes with him.”
“You’re on.”
72
It was a beautiful July Fourth day—clear, dry, and mild: perfect weather to celebrate Independence Day and to watch the fireworks later that evening.
Dana was ready and waiting at four. But instead of the black BMW pulling up her driveway, a shiny limousine appeared with a uniformed driver and nobody else. He introduced himself as Max and said that Dr. Monks apologized for not coming by in person, but that he would drive her to their rendezvous. He walked her to the limo, where he retrieved a cell phone and handed it to her.