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Twenty minutes after Brady’s call, Conklin and I were climbing the chilly ramp of a parking garage. It was several levels of a winding concrete helix that connected by an overpass to Pier 39, a gigantic mall full of restaurants and shops, the perfect place to disappear after bloody murders.
Brady introduced us to Special Agent Dick Benbow, a square-shouldered man of about forty with a crisp haircut and mirror-shined shoes. Benbow shook our hands, then walked us toward the scene, which was now being processed by a dozen Federal agents.
Benbow said, “Sergeant Boxer, no one knows this animal the way you do. I want to know what you see. What’s the same? What’s different? What’s your theory of the case?”
My scalp tightened and every hair on my body stood up as we closed in on a young black woman lying under the glaring fluorescent lights, her eyes wide open and a bullet hole in the center of her forehead.
She was wearing expensive clothing: a long, printed designer skirt, a navy-blue jacket, a white blouse with tucks and fancy buttons. It looked like she was visiting here, not just going to the mall.
A tipped-over double-wide stroller lay six feet behind her. Two dead children were hidden by the stroller, but I could see a lot without taking a step: twin puddles of blood, a little foot wearing a small white shoe to the left of the stroller, the hand of another young child flung out to the right, a pacifier only inches away.
He might have reached for that small comfort before he died.
Benbow said, “The victims are Veronica Williams; her daughter, Tally; and her son, Van. They were visiting from LA. We’ve notified the family.”
I held down a scream of outrage as I stood over the dead bodies of victims number seven, eight, and nine. It wasn’t just murder. It was slaughter.
I stared helplessly at Benbow, then walked over to the Blazer with rental plates. The driver’s-side door was hanging open, and lying on the ground was an expensive black leather handbag. It had disgorged a wallet, an open makeup bag, a pacifier, an airline-ticket folder, aspirin, a cell phone, and packets of moist towelettes.
I leaned into the vehicle. The light coming through the glass outlined the lipstick lettering and turned it black. Instead of three cryptic letters, there were six words, just as unfathomable.
WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST. GET IT?
No, I didn’t get it. I didn’t get it at all.
He was smart and slick, and he hated women and children, that much I got. But what set him off? How had he committed nine homicides without being noticed? How would we catch him?
Or would the Lipstick Killer case become one of those unsolved mysteries that haunt cops into their graves?
I said to Benbow, “No question, this is the same shooter. He’s spelling out the acronym. It’s his signature. I don’t have a theory on this case. I wish I had one frickin’ clue.”
I put my
back against a concrete pylon and called Claire, saying to her voice mail, “I’m at the Pier Thirty-nine garage. Three more victims, two are little kids.”
Claire picked up. She doesn’t swear often, but she let loose an impressive stream of curses before saying she was on her way. As she hung up, I heard footsteps on concrete. I turned to see Jackson Brady coming up the ramp with two other men: a uniformed police officer and a wiry white male with graying hair. Brady’s eyes had brightened, and there was a new expression on his face that gave me hope.
He smiled.
I felt storm clouds part and a godlike finger of light break through the concrete ceiling when Brady said to me, “This is Mr. Kennedy. Says he’s a witness.”
Chapter 88
SIX LAW ENFORCEMENT officers surrounded the man called Daniel Kennedy. We were standing so close we were pretty much sucking up his air, but he seemed glad for the attention. Kennedy said that he was a crime buff and had read everything about the Lipstick Killer. He told us that he was the owner of U-Tel, a telephone shop at Pier 39, and then he got into his story.
“A white guy in his early thirties came into my store,” Kennedy said, “and right away, I thought he was wrong.”
“Why was that?” Benbow asked him.
“He goes over to the rack of prepaid phones, picks one with a camera and a two-gig chip. Cheap prepaids fly off the shelves, but expensive phones? Who throws away an expensive phone? Anyway, this guy knows what he wants. And he keeps his head down, never even looks up when he pays.”
“Was he wearing a cap?”
“Yeah, baseball cap, blue, no logo but a different jacket than the one in the artist’s rendering on TV. This jacket was brown leather, kinda distressed, American flag on the right sleeve.”
“Flight jacket,” Conklin said. “What color was his hair?”
“Brown, what I could see of it. So after he buys the GoPhone, he leaves, and I tell my manager to take over for a couple of minutes.”
