‘What you got?’
‘Uh?’
I repeat the question without ire, aware his attention is focused on the computer and the information he’s extracting from it.
‘I’m sorry to say you’re right. I’ve found three before Kira and there are a number of deaths that have been ruled as suicide or accidents which may also prove to have been his doing.’
I keep quiet as he reaches for the mouse again. Being right has never seemed so wrong.
I feel the determination compelling me to catch this killer being replaced by a cold anger. I no longer want the killer to pay for his crimes. I want him to suffer for them.
My fury isn’t the religious eye-for-an-eye type. It’s the rage of the aggrieved, the empathetic person who’s seen too much suffering and needs to nullify the cause.
I’ve no doubt the chief feels a similar way. Yet if I’m confronted by the killer I would not want to end his life myself. I’d rather he receives his retribution at the hands of the state than stoop to his level myself.
Barring an insanity plea, he’ll be an odds-on favourite to spend a few years on Death Row before being strapped down and given a lethal injection.
The idea of him having years of false dawns as appeals fail is one which pleases me.
I’ve read how studies have proven Death Row inmates suffer in a way no other prisoners can begin to comprehend. After preparing themselves for death, they are given a stay of execution for one reason or another. Full reprieves are rare, but there are many reasons why the carrying out of their sentence may be delayed.
By the time they make the final walk to the execution chamber they are so mentally weary of the torturous process they are looking forward to the escape death brings.
I recognise this is a cruel thought, but I believe it’s no less than this monster deserves.
‘Well?’ The chief strides into the room. ‘Was Kira his first victim or not?’
‘She wasn’t the first. Without looking at coroner’s reports I can’t be sure, but I’ve traced four other deaths before hers which have the same connection between the person who finds a body and the next victim.’
Four? How many deaths is this guy responsible for?
‘The son of a goddamn bitch. Are you telling me there’s been a serial killer at large and we’ve only found out after he’s killed nine people?’
Alfonse fails to meet the chief’s eye. ‘Like I say, I need to verify the details, but that’s what it’s looking like.’
A thought occurs to me. ‘What’s the time frame on these deaths – and were they recognised as murder victims?’
‘They span over the last three months give or take a week. Two were classed as suicides, one was misadventure and the other was a hit and run that was never solved.’
‘How far apart did they occur?’
Alfonse checks the notes he’s made. ‘Working back from Kira, they were ten days, fifteen days, four weeks and three months.’
The chief and I exchange a knowing look. The killer has escalated in the last few days, going from sporadic unconnected dates to regular daily attacks. It is classic serial killer behaviour right out of the big book of clichés and stereotypes.
‘At least he’s broken cover now.’
The chief’s words stand at odds with his position within the community, but I know what he means. Until Kira Niemeyer was discovered as an obvious victim of a violent attack, nobody had thought to consider that a killer was preying on the residents of Casperton.
By changing his methods, he’s alerted us to his existence. There’s no telling how long he could have stayed under the radar if he’d stuck to his earlier routines and kept passing the murders off as something else.
Now we are aware of him we have a chance of ending his spree. Or at least of getting some help from the FBI. When all is said and done, one police chief, a squad of inept detectives and a pair of amateurs is nobody’s first choice to go after a serial killer.
I look to the chief. ‘Surely the FBI will step in now.’
‘Once I have proof of this guy’s count I may be able to bring them in. Until then I can’t expect to, and I quote, “call the FBI for help every time one of my detectives comes up with a half-assed theory”.’
His words leave a bad taste in my mouth. Their abandonment of him in his hour of need is typical of beaurocratic organisations. Always quick to protect their own careers, they’ll be only too happy to demand proof from the chief before allocating any of their precious resources.
All possible future blame for a false call will lie at his door, while they’ll be safeguarded.
A devil’s advocate may suggest they can’t come running every time someone cries ‘wolf’. While that position may be understandable, this is a case of life and death.
I try another tack. ‘What about the commissioner in Salt Lake City? The mayor? Can’t they get you some help?’
‘The commissioner’s office told me I should contact the FBI as they have no spare bodies. And as for the mayor.’ He gives a snort of disgust. ‘He’s only helpful if you want something opened or have a camera to point at him. The rest of the time he makes his son look like a picture of efficient ability.’
‘You’re joking.’ I know Farrage is little more than a waste of space, but to hear his father is worse comes as a shock.
‘Believe me, I’m neither joking nor exaggerating. The mayor is brilliant at civic functions, but as a politician he’d be outclassed by a stuffed bear. The people in his office run this town while he swans about playing golf and posing for the camera.’
‘Never mind the mayor, you two.’ Alfonse’s voice is raised to attract our attention. ‘I’ve got another here. A Miss Ganderson was found dead on the college campus with a needle sticking out of her arm. The cause of death was a heroin overdose, but the coroner’s report says there were no signs of a history of drug abuse. Her death was passed off as someone who’d experimented and gotten it wrong. She was found by the sister of the next victim.’
The chief’s face turns from puce to ashen and back to puce as anger and shock compete for control of his arteries.
I make a slight change to the subject before the chief has a coronary.
‘This is all useful information, but it’s not going to help us catch this killer.’ I point to Alfonse but keep my eyes on the chief. ‘If he gets all the information and the necessary proof, have you a spare body who can write it down in cop-speak so you can present it to the FBI?’
He nods. ‘Darla could do it.’
‘Then let them do that while we try and figure out a way to catch this guy.’
The chief lays a heavy hand on my shoulder, relief of a shared burden in his eyes. ‘Thank you, Boulder. You make good sense.’
We move to his office to give Alfonse peace to work. On our way, the chief stops Darla and informs her of what he wants done.
‘Sure thing, honey.’ Her tone is rich with her native Caribbean patois, but it’s the way she calls the chief honey which grabs my attention. From anyone else the word would be met with a scowl at best. On her lips it sounds like a natural term to use when referring to a boss.
The chief and I stare at each other for a moment when we reach his office. I’m waiting for him to speak first but a wave of his hand indicates he wants me to lead.
‘I’m not convinced about the safety of the Oberton guy. I think you should bring him in. By force if necessary.’
‘I would agree if it weren’t for one fact.’
‘Which is?’
‘He’s a vet. Spent time in ’Nam. Our killer goes after him – he may just bite off more than he can chew.’
‘It’s still a hell of a risk with a civilian.’
‘He’s under surveillance, remember?’
I get what the chief is saying and I can see why he’s prepared to use Oberton as a tethered goat, but the Vietnam war happened a long time ago. Once-sharp fighting skills have had many years to dull.