“But, sir, it’s a family again...”
“Christ on a crutch, Pryor, years separate these murders, which only have vague similarities and many differences. That’s not the makings of a serial killer, especially in a city of this size.”
Mark got to his feet and leaned his hands on Kelley’s desk. “I’ve done some digging on my own, Captain. On my own time. I don’t think he’s killing just here.”
Kelley gave him a long, cold look.
The thing for Mark to do right now was say, Yes, sir, thank you for your time, sir, and go clean up as requested.
Instead, he said, “I think we’re just the perpetrator’s home base. I’ve found other murders, following a similar pattern, in several other parts of the nation.”
The captain said nothing.
“They all take place between the murders here in the greater Cleveland metro area. It’s almost like the killer traveled for a period of time, committed one of these atrocities, then traveled some more, committed another, then eventually, would complete the circle with another instance here in Cleveland.”
Kelley shook his head in slow motion. “You don’t even hear me, do you, Pryor? You know the feds keep track of such crimes. They gather statistics, using sophisticated algorithms that are beyond our capacity. This allows them to focus on patterns like you’re talking about. If what you’re saying was the case, they would know.”
Mark shrugged. “That leaves two possibilities. They already know and are working without our support, for some reason. Or... they missed one. They may be sophisticated, sir, but it’s not an exact science.”
“Pryor...”
“At the very least we need to alert them. But what we really need is a citywide task force, spanning all the suburbs and surrounding towns.”
Kelley’s clipped laugh was a pit bull’s bark. “I wonder if the FBI will appreciate the free advice? The way I appreciate being told how to operate courtesy of a rookie detective.”
“Not my intention, sir. Just providing input. The day you welcomed me to the detective bureau, you said my input was always welcome.”
“That was one ‘welcome’ too many,” Kelley said. “I must have been in a really good mood. I was in a good mood, briefly today, when you told me you’d bagged that pervert. But do you think I’m in a good mood now?”
“Possibly not, sir.”
Kelley smiled, or anyway pretended to. “All right, rookie — you want a task force? Fine. You think we have another Mad Butcher? Okay.”
The Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run, Cleveland’s most infamous serial killer, had murdered at least a dozen people in the nineteen thirties. The Butcher had worked for years, undetected, before police realized the scope of their problem. In the end, though suspects emerged, no arrest was ever made.
“Now,” the captain was saying, “how are we going to pay for it? And what cases are we going to pull detectives off, what crimes do we have them ignore, all so they can hunt a monster that no one on the planet but you thinks exists?”
That was a lot of questions, but Mark knew enough not to answer any of them.
Kelley let out a long breath, pushed back in his chair, away from the desk a little. “Look, son... you’re smart. That’s how you went from uniform to plainclothes so quickly.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But are you smart enough to know what I need, to be able to take your theory upstairs?”
“Evidence,” Mark said.
“And what do you have?”
“A pattern.”
“That overstates it. I’d call it... a hunch. You think you might have a pattern. And you know you have no evidence yet.”
“But I’ve uncovered information, facts, that may lead us to actual evidence.”
“I should hope so. Or do you think the chief or the mayor or God almighty is going to let me set up a task force based on a rookie detective’s hunch?”
Dejection washed over Mark, mingling with the mustard, crud, and pervert’s sweat that stained what was left of his suit. “Sir, this is the third time I’ve brought this to you.”
He nodded. “Actually the second. Last time you let that poor bastard Pence risk his pension on it. And frankly, that you sold Bob Pence on this thing is probably why this conversation has gone on as long as it has.”
“People are dying. Someone has to care.”
The implication of that, of course, was that Kelley didn’t care. Mark felt the way he had as a kid and had overstepped with his dad. An explosion would likely follow, and it wouldn’t be pretty.
But Kelley was only looking at him, hard and unblinking. It took forever for the words to come, but they came: “You’ve got two days to get your shit together, then bring it in to me, Detective. I’ll look at it and if you’ve got something, we’ll kick it upstairs.”
Elation flooded through him. “Yes, sir.”
“But if you don’t convince me that there’s something to do, you’re never going to bring this up again. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.”
A bony finger pointed itself at him. “And, Pryor, that goes for even efforts on your own time. If there’s nothing there, you will leave this shit alone, forever. Otherwise, you’ll drive yourself crazy with this kind of shit, or worse... me. Agreed?”
“Agreed, sir.”
“Now, get the fuck out of my office.”
Mark did so.
Driving home, Mark was on automatic pilot, his mind racing. He was exhilarated by the opportunity he had practically forced from his captain. But he knew he lacked objectivity. He knew that he had... what was it, a blind spot? A sore spot? Whatever it was, it dated all the way back to high school, and a girl he still loved though they’d never even kissed.
He had been working up the courage to ask Jordan Rivera out on a date when his hopes and dreams were interrupted by her family’s slaughter. Those brutal, tragic deaths had sent her to St. Dimpna’s as a mental patient. High school senior Mark had felt helpless, unable to do anything but follow the unsuccessful investigation in the newspapers.
Somewhere along the way, he must have said to himself, I could do better than this. But he had no conscious memory of it. Still, he knew very well that the Rivera tragedy had sent him down the path to law enforcement.
He had stayed close to home after high school, enrolling at Case Western Reserve University in downtown Cleveland. During Mark’s senior year, the famous thriller writer David Elkins had suffered a tragedy similar to the Rivera girl — the rest of his family shot, then mutilated.
The case made national news, though only the local papers covered the police efforts to find a connection between the Rivera and Elkins homicides. Captain Kelley may have thought Mark picked up MO from TV, but actually the press coverage had provided him that — the differing modus operandi having discouraged investigators from continued pursuit of any link between the crimes.
Jordan’s family had been knifed while the Elkins family had been executed by gunfire, the latter victims disfigured by knife slashes almost as an afterthought. The Riveras’ door had been forcibly thrown open, but at the Elkins residence there had been no sign of illegal entry. Elkins had, in a later magazine interview, gone so far as to mention unlocking the door when returning home with a pizza.
In his early days on the PD, Mark was discouraged to find he still had no access to either the Rivera or Elkins case files, and no way to investigate either. He approached the detective who was in charge of the still open Elkins case and had been told to ef off.