The Holiday Killer Page 2

  "Sparky sniffed it out. I didn't see anyone." He rubbed at his face. "Look, can I go home yet? The missus will be waiting for me, and I really need a sit-down and a stiff drink after seeing … that." He gestured vaguely toward where Mike's body was being gently lowered from the fire escape by the forensic hands.

  "I'll see about getting you your dog, and you can go home." She smiled at him and patted his shoulder. "I don't think I need to tell you not to talk to the press about what you found."

  The man nodded. "You catch that bastard, Detective, and you make sure he can't do that to anyone else."

  Her lips thinned as Mike's head gently landed on the fresh plastic sheet the forensic team had laid out on the ground, hoping to avoid any further contamination. "We will. You bet we will." She gestured for a uniform to take down the man's details and escort him off the scene, and walked, slowly and shakily, toward Mike's body, laid out on the tarp.

  The kid was a mess. Blood had run from his broken nose down his face, setting in a jagged, dark streak that split his forehead in half. Liz covered her face, trying not to look into the boy's eyes—he looked just like Jamie, and it made her feel sick, the involuntary image of Jamie, dead on the ground, flashing in front of her eyes.

  "Do you need a few minutes?" Lisa asked, a hand on Liz's shoulder.

  "No. Make sure Officer Malcolm gets that man's details, gives back his dog, and drives him home." She crouched down to examine one of the boy's hands, which was missing the top segments of three fingers.

  "Dog? What dog?" Lisa asked, looking back at the place where the man and the officer had stood.

  "He said he was walking his dog when he found the body." Liz looked up at her, then over to where the man had vanished. "Where did he go?" She looked to one of the other officers. "Find him!"

  The officer ran off, but stumbled as he passed a trashcan. "Larry!"

  Liz and Lisa looked up to see another pair of officers pulling the body of Officer Malcolm from the trash, his throat slashed open and his head lolling sickly. She ran over to him, her eyes scanning the crowd behind the others, even as she realized that the cop was dead – the man slit his throat, and ran for it. She couldn't see the man she'd been talking to, and now they had a downed officer to deal with.

  "Dammit! Where'd that man go?" she yelled, running toward the crowd.

  The reporters looked to her, cameras flashing and questions firing, and she found herself unable to see through the after-flashes inflicted on her retinas. She stumbled back, rubbing her eyes, and cursed the buzzards behind the cameras.

  "Liz, come on," Lisa called, guiding her away from the crowd and back toward the body. "We'll put out an APB on him, and have him by tonight. There were enough people here to get a detailed description, and we'll charge the bastard with, at the least, assaulting an officer."

  "I don't believe it!" Liz fumed, still rubbing her eyes. "It must have been him! The fucker was right there!"

  "If he's shown up at the scene once, he'll do it again," Lisa said, crouching beside Mike's body and handing her a pair of latex gloves. "And we'll know what face to look for, now."

  Liz angrily pulled the gloves on and lifted the boy's hand again. It was covered in blood from his missing fingers, but there was dirt and fiber under his remaining fingernails. She pointed it out to one of the forensics boys. "Make sure you get this stuff. And don't screw up like you did yesterday. I want everything bagged and tagged. We need to catch this freak."

  The man looked at her rebelliously, upset at her suggestion, but didn't make an effort to argue with her. Instead, he roughly pushed her aside and scratched at the drying blood under the boy's fingernails, collecting the scrapings.

  "Make sure you get all the forensics this time. Every drop of blood, every footprint. Don't miss anything." She looked at Lisa. "You keep them working. I have to go deliver some bad news to a pair of very upset parents. Maybe I'll pick up a killer on the way home."

  "Don't do anything stupid, Liz." Lisa squeezed her shoulder.

  "Before you go, there's a call for you over the radio. Sergeant Davis intercepted it, but the guy wants to speak to you. Won't say what it's about," the sergeant called, jogging up to them. "What happened? I mean, aside from the mutilated kid."

  "Nothing." Liz smiled sadly at her partner and stood up, taking off the gloves and handing them to the forensics guys.

  The man gave her the finger as she left, Liz catching it out of the corner of her eye. She ignored him, used to the male-macho bullshit of guys who had it easy joining the force. She'd dealt with much worse from guys who hated taking a woman's orders.

  She jerked her collar up to shield her neck from the icy wind and headed for her car. She slumped into the driver's seat, pulling the radio down to where she could speak into it.

  "This is Special Detective Elizabeth Donhowi, please identify yourself."

  "Hello, Detective Donhowi, this is the Holiday Killer. Are we alone?" His smooth voice made the hair on the back of her neck shiver. It was the same voice she'd heard before, at other scenes of gore, gloating and taunting the police, daring them to catch him. But it was nothing like the man who had killed Officer Malcolm a few minutes ago—the man who discovered the body and then disappeared.

  A chill ran down her spine. If the man who attacked Officer Malcolm wasn't the killer … then the Holiday Killer wasn't working alone.

  She felt sick, even as she gestured the captain, Bill, to come closer, to hear what the killer wanted to gloat about this time. "Yes."

  "Good. What do you think of my artwork, Detective? Do you like it?" She could hear the smile in his voice. "I made it especially for you, you know. I know you have a son around his age. I thought you'd appreciate it."

  Heat flooded her face. "How do you know about—" Then she took a deep breath, and stopped herself. "How do you know about him?"

  "Oh, Liz. I don't think you realize just how open public records are these days. I know where Jamie goes to school, when Phil leaves for work, who looks after your son after school… You could say that I know him better than I know you."

  Nausea gripped her belly, making her feel like she was going to throw up through the car window. "You dare to touch him, and I'll—"

  "Oh, don't worry, Liz. I have no intention of touching him ... yet. There are other pieces calling out to me, begging to be created first. But each in its own time."

  "What do you want from me?" she asked, glancing out the window to where Bill and the other officers stood, listening to the conversation.

  "I want you to give up leading this taskforce, Liz. You're too good. I don't want you inadvertently catching me. If you don't agree, I'll forget what I said about the other pieces, and Jamie will be my next masterpiece, to hang on the walls of galleries for generations to come."

  "How long—"

  But there was only static on the radio. Liz hung up, her hand shaking, and looked out the window at Lisa running toward her.

  "Same guy from the last scene, I assume?" Bill asked, rubbing at his eyes.

  "That's the strange thing. It's not. Which means—"

  "He's not alone," Bill muttered, looking Liz in the eye. "This is worse than we thought."

  Liz nodded, looking at Lisa as she slid to a stop in front of the car. Liz filled her in, and felt oddly relieved when the same feeling of sick shock crossed Lisa's face.

  "I've told Bill everything. Get Phil on the phone," Lisa called, heading for the other side of the car. "Tell him to keep an eye on Jamie, not let him out of his sight. We're going to the precinct."

  "Why is he targeting me?" Liz asked herself, putting her head in her shaking hands. "How long has he been watching my family?"

  "I don't know, Liz. But I think you saw him, or you saw enough of his partner to spook him," Lisa continued, the car heading for the throng of civilians and press trying to glimpse the crime scene from two hundred feet up the road. "You're going to tell the sketch artist about the guy you were talking to, the one who found the body. An
ything and everything you remember—anything that could help us find him."

  "Why should that guy matter?" Liz asked, her muddled mind moving slowly as she drew out her cell and dialed Phil's number with shaking fingers.

  "Because I think—and Bill agrees with me—that the guy who called it in, who said he found the body, is working with the guy who put it there." She sped away, almost running over a cameraman who was too stupid to move, and headed onto the main road. "He gave you a false story, and attacked Larry Malcolm when he decided to vanish."

  Liz nodded, then put the phone up to her ear, waiting nervously until Phil answered on the third ring.

  "Liz? What's wrong?"

  "Have you got Jamie with you?"

  "Yes, he's right here, playing with his trains. Liz, what's happened?"

  "The Holiday Killer just threatened us, Phil. He said his next victim will be Jamie if I don't take myself off the case."

  There was stunned silence from the other end of the phone.

  "Phil?"

  "I'm going to take Jamie to your mum's house. You do whatever you can to catch the bastard. Rose and I will look after him. Whatever you do, Liz, don't walk away from this."

  "But Jamie—"

  "We can protect him. Your mum was the police commissioner for twenty years, for God's sake. She has more guns in that house than cushions. We'll keep a constant eye on him, because you've got to keep working that case. You're the only one who can catch this bastard. And he knows it."

  "Thank you, Phil." Liz pulled into the police station. "If you see anything weird, if you don't feel safe, I want you and Mum to bring him to me at the police station. Do you understand?"

  "I will, Liz. You take care."

  "You too, Baby. I love you."

  "I love you too."

  Liz hung up and opened the car door. The smell of the river wafted on the breeze, bringing the smell of the fish at the docks with it. The cranes above them creaked in the breeze, the gulls cawing and crowing.

  A block from the river, the police station managed to smell like rotten fish and sound of drunken men, even when the holding cells were empty of sailors. The station itself was almost a hundred years old, the structure bowed with age and the razing of salt off the river. It was large enough for a force of five hundred, but nowadays, the force was barely a hundred strong for the whole city.

  Liz looked up at the place and realized that the station would be a good place for the killer to hang a victim, if he was so inclined—though how he'd get away with it with so many cops around let her dismiss the idea.

  "Come on," Lisa called, escorting her up the front stairs to where the captain awaited her decision on whether she would remain on the case. "Let's get this done so we can send you home."

  3

  Two months later

  Liz put her jacket down on the side table and closed the door behind her. Jamie ran out to meet her, followed quickly by Phil.

  "Mommy!"

  "Hey, Baby!" She crouched down and pulled him into a bear hug, smiling at Phil over her son's shoulder.

  "Eww, you smell like dead people," he complained, pushing away from her and twisting up his face.

  "Do I? I'll have to have a shower, then." She climbed to her feet. "Do I have time before dinner?" she asked Phil.

  Phil nodded, stepping forward to give her a kiss. "Eww, you definitely stink. Shower, and make it quick. Your dinner will get cold."

  Liz headed upstairs toward the bathroom. She smiled when she heard her son playing in the living room, and climbed into the shower, preparing to wash off the worries of the day. She'd spent most of it being interviewed by her father-in-law, Sergeant Bill Donhowi, who then politely asked to stand down from the Holiday Killer case, or at least put her son into protective custody.

  She'd been fighting this since Mike's body showed up—since the killer made the threat against Jamie. He'd been safe with Rose, her mum, and a detail of three officers on him at all times, but the department didn't want to expend the money to protect him anymore. Despite Jamie being his grandson, Bill was forced, on the orders of the higher-ups, to pull the officers off protective detail to solve some of the perimeter cases building up in the background, with her so focused on the Holiday Killer.

  Bill wanted to take Jamie away, put him in a safe house, away from her.

  She was of two minds about letting him.

  She washed her hair, thinking. She'd rationalized that the Holiday Killer would wait for the next holiday before he struck, and by then, she hoped to have him in custody. But she couldn't help imagining that Jamie would pay the price for her arrogance. Would she end up getting her only son killed because of a misplaced faith in her own skills?

  What if, after this killing, he didn't wait until Easter to strike? What if he took the opportunity to indulge something like Palm Sunday, or a holiday from a different country? What if he decided to take two on Easter, and ignore his previous traditions? He'd slaughtered a young girl on Valentine's Day, another holiday tradition, but what if he dropped the holiday theme altogether for the next kidnapping, just to get to Jamie when she was unprepared to counter him?

  Good God. St. Patrick's Day was coming up. What if he struck then?

  By the time the water went cold, Liz's relaxing shower had her so tense she could barely straighten her shoulders without them creaking. Grunting under her breath at the stupidity of this situation—one she was partially responsible for—she got dressed and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

  "So what did you do at work today, Mummy?" Jamie asked, swinging his legs in his chair as he awkwardly lifted some broccoli to his mouth, making a face as though worried it would be hot.

  "I talked to a bad guy and then I talked to an artist." She smiled at him, then looked at Phil. "Your dad thinks I'm nuts, but he said to say hi."

  Phil nodded, pushing his own dinner around on his plate. He kept glancing at Jamie, clearly wanting to say something, but not in front of the seven-year-old.

  They finished dinner in silence, only the clicking of forks on plates breaking the quiet. Jamie, unable to stand the tension, began rattling off the adventure he'd had that day at Rose's, but Liz wasn't really listening. She had too much on her mind.

  "Jamie, honey, why don't you go play in the living room with your trucks?" she suggested when he'd finished eating and began to spread sauce around the plate with his fingers. "But wash your hands first, and stay where I can see you."

  Jamie smiled and climbed awkwardly from the chair, heading for the living room. She and Phil both waited until they heard the plastic trucks and trains being tipped out onto the floor before they spoke.

  "You got another letter from him today, didn't you? What did he say?" Phil asked, getting up to pour himself a drink, then sitting back down. "The same old thing?"

  "He reiterated the threat against Jamie, said I was getting too close and he needed me out of the way."

  "That was a spectacularly dumb thing to tell you," he said, taking a long drink. "Surely he realizes that you would just fight all the harder, now that you know you're so close. He might as well have told you that you've almost caught him!"

  "Which is why I'm so worried about doing this," she answered, stealing his glass and taking her own gulp. "What if he's manipulating me—or trying to manipulate me—into staying with the investigation, because I'm actually very far off?"

  "So you don't know what to do." Phil sat back in his chair, rubbing his face. "Do you think you can keep Jamie safe by quitting the investigation?"

  "I don't think so, I think he's manipulating me. I think that he's coming after Jamie, no matter what. But he wants me to know he is. He doesn't want it to just be a random killing." She wiped at her forehead with shaky hands. "I don't know what to do, Phil."

  "Can you catch him, Liz?"

  "I think I can. But I don't want to bet our son's life on a maybe."

  Phil sighed and rose to stand in the living room doorway, watching their son play. "Can you keep hi
m safe?"

  "I can try to catch the Holiday Killer. That's all I can do."

  Phil rested his head on the doorjamb, waving to Jamie when the boy looked at him. "You catch him, Elizabeth, and you keep our son safe. You keep this city safe."

  Liz smiled and gently pushed past him, sitting down on the mat to play trains with her boy. After a few minutes, Phil joined them, though the glass of beer was never far from his hand.

  4

  February faded into March, and Easter crept up slowly on the town, along with a dark, deep sense of foreboding and dread. There were no decorations on the streets, no children to be seen. People hurried from one place to the next, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

  Liz drove slowly down the street in the cruiser, watching the people around her. She couldn't believe the city had come to this, to the point where holidays were dreaded instead of celebrated.

  Not that she had reason to celebrate, either, she mused, turning a corner. It was two hours into Easter Sunday, and since the first mutilated body turned up on Halloween the year before, she'd come no closer to finding the Holiday Killer.

  At home, things had become even more tense. Liz rarely went home, instead working herself to sleep and crashing on the couch in the lunchroom. Phil was left to protect Jamie with Rose, who moved in with them—along with her guns—to keep an eye on the boy when his parents were at work. Liz wasn't exactly thrilled to have so many guns around Jamie, but if they saved her son from the threat of the Holiday Killer, she wasn't going to say a word against them.

  She cut someone off, ignoring their horn, frustrated beyond belief. The residue from the handprint on the window in Mike's room had led to an abandoned factory on the north shore of Carver River's northern offshoot, but no further. The residue was that of a specific glue used to seal broken shipping containers in transit on the water—one which they found in barrels around the small room in one of the warehouses. It could have been a lair, but it really just stank of fish and consisted of a mattress thrown in the corner of the room, a small electric light near the head of it.