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I said, “And the coroner speaks for the dead. The difference is, I listen to the coroner.”
The moment I landed my zinger, John Macy stormed back into Grissom’s office.
I’d launched a grenade. This meeting could have gone better.
Chapter 36
I sat at my desk like a kid in middle-school detention. I tried not to focus on Harry Grissom’s closed office door, but it was tough to concentrate on anything else.
I could only imagine what the mayor’s aide, John Macy, was ranting about inside my lieutenant’s office. I assumed that by now he had called someone at One Police Plaza and told them how I was acting like a bratty child. I didn’t have much defense for that charge.
I was kicking myself for failing to reel in the worst of my smart-ass tendencies. If one of my kids behaved like this, I’d definitely punish them for it. I didn’t deserve anything less.
I noticed some members of the squad had found reasons to be elsewhere. Except for me and Brett Hollis, the office looked like a ghost town.
To help fill the time and ease my anxiety, I turned to Hollis and asked, “What are you working on?”
Hollis barely looked up. “My application to take your spot on the squad permanently.”
I sat in silence for a moment until a smile crept across the young detective’s face. He really was getting the hang of surviving as a cop: laugh at everything. I said, “Funny. Although it’s probably not a bad idea.”
“It’s a waste of time.”
“You don’t think I’ll get transferred to some precinct in the Bronx?”
“Nope. Because Lieutenant Grissom already told me I could have your spot.”
That made me laugh out loud. “Seriously, are you working on anything I can help with? I wouldn’t mind being distracted about now.”
“I’m doing more research on serial killers. There’s gotta be something in all the information and evidence gathered from the multiple crime scenes and calls to the tip line that fits some sort of pattern.”
“Isn’t that what the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico is for?”
“From everything I’ve heard, the FBI doesn’t always play fair. We could give them all the information we have and never hear back from them. Or we could give them all our information and then they swoop in and take over the case. I wouldn’t care if it meant they caught the killer. But if you haven’t noticed, their track record is mediocre at best.”
“You’re learning,” I said to my young partner. And I meant it.
I asked Hollis about his research on serial killers. Whether it was official or unofficial, his knowledge of the subject might come in handy.
Hollis lit up at the opportunity to share his research, now that he knew I was truly interested.
“Okay,” he began, “so first I was looking at debunking a bunch of stuff. Like, you know how everyone assumes most serial killers are Caucasian?”
I nodded, remembering how Dr. Jill St. Pierre had said just that to me in our earlier conversation.
“Well, the truth is that as more information becomes available, it turns out that the serial killer population mirrors the diverse racial makeup of the US population as a whole. In fact, there’s a black guy in his late seventies named Samuel Little who could be the country’s most prolific serial killer.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask—how many people do they think he’s killed?”
“He’s confessed to nearly a hundred murders, but they don’t have enough credible details to charge him with all of them. Even so, he’s still being charged with murders going back to the eighties and nineties. He is very specific in his obsession. He strangled his victims and selected them according to the shape of their neck. He also worked in gritty neighborhoods in multiple states and picked on homeless women and prostitutes, folks he believed would not be missed. Something about his theory must’ve held water, because it took decades to corral this asshole.”
Hollis looked over at me. “It’s hard to get a good sense of how many people are actually murdered by serial killers. As I’m sure you know, there are so many unsolved homicides across the country—plus deaths misattributed to overdose, accident, or undetermined causes—that no one can really say whether a serial killer is responsible for them or not.”
“I don’t think that’s our issue here,” I said dryly. “In our particular case, we have no reason not to believe our suspect is white and male. The forensics team says that based on the application of force, the suspect is probably about five foot ten and fairly strong. And we know he mutilates his victims, stabs their left eyes. I think he likes the feeling of power and control that comes from creating bloody, wild crime scenes. But I also think his technique hinges on how much time he has at each scene. How do you see it?”
Hollis said, “I agree with your assumptions about the time needed to create such nasty crime scenes. I think he’s smart. Really smart. And clearly he travels. Probably for work, which would make him a white-collar professional. That combination is what makes him so hard to catch.”
I was impressed by the young detective’s curiosity. It was the sign of a good cop. “Those are some good theories. I’m proud of you.” It was part joke and part serious. Regardless, I noticed it made my junior partner beam. I made a mental note to be a little more generous with the praise.
