How It All Started – Chapter Three
How Many Friends does it take to find a Clue?
"Grrrr."
Mark cast a concerned look in his son's direction, but carried on preparing dinner. He knew Steve was thoroughly frustrated with himself and his job. There had been four murders in six months, and with the most recent victim, a twenty-six-year-old single mom who'd left behind a two-year-old son to be cared for by his absentee father, except for the positioning of the body and the means of death, the few seeming similarities that did exist were now shattered.
"Augh!" Steve jabbed the pencil he held in his fist into the tablet beside him hard enough to break the lead and leave a dent through several sheets of paper.
This time, Mark looked at his son with something more than concern. "Steve, that's enough," he said sternly. "Take a break. Go set the table or something. Jack and Amanda are going to be here soon."
"But, Dad . . . "
"No 'but's." Mark said firmly. "You're too frustrated to think clearly, so there's no point in plodding along any further right now. Besides, that table has survived two teenagers, your battles with algebra, your sister's English term papers, and more Thanksgivings, Christmases, and birthdays than I can count without so much as a scratch. I'll not have you cracking the glass now."
Mark could see the little muscle in Steve's jaw jump, and he knew his son was trying to choose between a full-blown tantrum and quiet compliance. Smiling slightly, he told his son, "I'll even keep them from nagging you to let them help, this time."
Steve couldn't help smiling back. He took a deep breath and let it out, and he felt some of the tension leak out of his body. "Thanks, Dad," he said. "Could we maybe eat out on the deck again? I need to have one more go at it before I go to bed tonight, and it would be easier if it were left undisturbed."
Mark nodded. "That would be fine, Son," he assured Steve. "Maybe we can help, too . . . if you want us to," Mark added hastily as the little muscle in Steve's jaw started jumping again.
~~~~~
"Steve?"
He just sat glaring sullenly at the ocean.
"Steve!"
"What? Oh, Amanda, yeah, what do you want?"
For a moment, she just stared at him. The tone hadn't been particularly rude or unfriendly, just . . . absent, but the words had clearly told her she was interrupting some serious thoughts.
"I just wanted to know if you'd like another pork chop or some more vegetables while it's out of the oven," Amanda said. She had volunteered to serve the seconds because she had already eaten her fill.
"No, no I don't," he said and shook his head.
Again, the tone was not unpleasant, but the words were far from polite. Amanda shrugged and headed back into the kitchen with the platter of stuffed pork chops, content to let the matter slide. Steve was clearly preoccupied, and he wasn't trying to be hurtful, but as she came back out onto the deck, she heard Jack asking, "Hey, Steve, what gives?"
"What do you mean?" Steve asked, slightly irritated.
"Well, you've hardly said a word all evening. You didn't even say hello to me, and you were just really rude to Amanda," the young doctor told him. "Unless she has done something to offend you, I think you owe her an apology."
"Jack, it's all right," Amanda said. Turning to Steve she said, "I can tell something is bothering you, Steve, it's fine, really. Don't worry about it."
Steve frowned slightly, and then his expression changed as he replayed the conversation he had just had with the lovely pathologist, and he realized Jack was right.
"Yeah, Jack," he said. "Something is bothering me, but that doesn't excuse rudeness. Guys, I'm sorry. It's just this damned case!" he huffed, suddenly frustrated, and tossed his napkin on the table.
"It's been six months since I was first assigned to Jason Fletcher's murder, and all I have managed to do is collect three more bodies. I'm about ready to ask the captain to reassign me, because at the rate I am going, this guy could continue killing for years, and I would come up with exactly zilch."
He stood abruptly and moved over to lean on the rail and stare out at the waves. Immediately realizing that with his dad and friends on the deck, he wouldn't have the privacy to contemplate things that he usually did when he watched the sea, he turned around and strode deliberately into the house. As he stood at the dining table, all his notes and files on the four murders stared back at him, mocking him. Clutching the back of the chair in front of him in a white-knuckle grip, he tried to forestall the urge to sweep everything off the table and onto the floor, and he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Let's talk about it, Son," he heard his father's concerned voice say. "The four of us together might be able to generate some new ideas. If we still come up with nothing, well, if you do have the captain reassign you, at least you'll know you have done all you can."
Steve bit his tongue to stop a cutting remark, but then it registered that his father's voice, while full of care and affection, had revealed none of his avid curiosity. He felt the tension drain out of him as he realized that his dad really wanted to help him feel better and wasn't just looking for another crack at a perplexing intellectual puzzle.
Sighing, Steve nodded, "Ok, let's do that, but you guys finish your meal first, and let me get organized in here."
~~~~~
Half an hour later, with the leftovers in the refrigerator and the dishwasher running quietly in the kitchen, the four friends sat at the table, and Steve briefed his father, Jack, and Amanda on the case once more.
"Victim number one, Jason Fletcher, schoolteacher, age 45, married with two kids, killed January 21 in a parking lot about four blocks from the high school where he worked in Tarzana," he began reeling off the facts that he knew by heart now as his father and two friends took copious notes on the long legal pads he had given them.
"Do you think one of his students might have done it?" Jack asked.
Steve shook his head. "Fletcher taught special ed. He dealt with students with below average IQs. Most of them read at about a second grade level and can't add two digit numbers, so I doubt they could have formed the intent to commit this crime, let alone carried it out, positioned the body, and removed all traces of evidence. He also coached wrestling, and it's possible one of the wrestlers was involved, but all of their alibis checked out."
Jack nodded, Steve paused a minute in case there were other questions, and when none were forthcoming he moved on
"Victim number two," he recited, "was Lazaro Coronado, a florist, age 43, unattached, killed March 24 near a dumpster in an alley about half way between his shop in Reseda and the deli where he usually went for lunch. We couldn't find a single suspect in this case. He had no enemies as far as we could tell. We must have done over a hundred interviews, but we couldn't find a single unhappy client, unpaid supplier, outraged competitor, or disgruntled employee. The guy was truly loved by all who knew him."
"What about a jilted lover?" Mark asked.
"No joy there, either, Dad. He seemed to live an almost monastic life." Steve smiled somewhat sadly. "He was really a great guy. Three times a year, he contacted the coroner's office and arranged a Christian burial and donated a funeral spray for an indigent or a John or Jane Doe, and he didn't even write it off on his taxes."
Steve was quiet a moment more, and the friends could tell he really wanted to make the person who killed such a decent man pay for the crime. Finally taking a deep breath, Steve went on.
"Victim number three, David Little, computer programmer, age 44, married, no children, killed May 15 in the Woodland Hills park where he liked to go running. He worked from home and sent his programs to his employers on disk."
Steve frowned slightly, remembering something that looked like a lead at the time, and said, "Little was involved in a dispute with the neighbour next door over a damaged fence, and the neighbour had a son whom Fletcher had caught selling marijuana at school during lunch, but the neighbour had an alibi for both murders, and we couldn't link him to Coronado at all."
"If he worked from home, he might not have had as many friends and acquaintances as the other victims," Amanda said. "Maybe you could start by looking more closely into his murder. Get a list of people who had access to him, and see who among those names you could connect to the others."
Steve shook his head. "It's not that simple," he said. "Until a year ago, he taught a couple of university classes. Also, he's apparently one of the best in his field, and several technology journals have done articles on him. He was featured in the LA Times and a few other major metropolitan newspapers over the past year, too."
Amanda nodded and sighed defeatedly.
"Victim number four, Vivian Donovan, librarian, age 26, single mother of a two-year-old, killed June 23 at a construction site on the campus of the California State University at Northridge just a few minutes walk from where she worked," Steve said, sounding almost depressed. Murder in general was not a pleasant subject, but it was particularly disturbing when the victim had young children like Vivian Donovan or when he was especially decent like Lazaro Coronado.
"She was a reference librarian at the Undergraduate Library. From what I understand, she was a particularly gifted student, and when the position opened up just as she finished her master's degree, she was a shoo-in for the job."
"Isn't Northridge out of your jurisdiction, Son?" Mark asked.
Steve nodded. "It's actually in Devonshire Division, but they kicked it over to me as soon as they matched the MO to my other three victims."
After glancing through his notes one more time, Steve sat back and watched as his 'assistants' reread the information they had written down as he was talking. Just from the tablets on the table, he could tell he had brought three different perspectives to the case. Amanda wrote her notes in long paragraphs in a fluid, elegant hand, and underlined key ideas as she went. Jack had clumps of information scattered across the page with underlined headings and bulleted details underneath. His dad had turned the paper sideways and made a timeline with the murder date and name of each victim above a tick mark on the line and the other relevant information below it. As he watched them think, Steve realized that if the three of them with their unique ways of working couldn't come up with something to help him, there was no point in passing the case on to someone else, because that detective wouldn't be able to find any leads either.
Suddenly Jack gave a wide grin at the same time as Mark frowned deeply and Amanda delicately wrinkled her brow.
"What?" Steve asked excitedly. "What am I missing?"
They gave him three different answers at the same time.
"I know how he's deciding when to kill."
"He's stepping up the killings, not waiting so long."
"I've figured out how he's choosing his victims."
The three men turned to Amanda, Mark with a proud smile, Jack with a jealous frown, and Steve with an anxious look, because they all knew if she was right, she had made the most important break in the case so far.
"Well?" Steve demanded when she continued to study her notes.
"Just double checking," she said as she drew some circles and lines on her pad. Then she turned it around for all of them to see.
"The first victim was named Fletcher, the second was a florist. The second victim was named Coronado, the third was a computer expert. The third victim was named Little, the fourth was a librarian. The fourth victim was named Donovan, the fifth will be . . . "
"A dogcatcher," Steve suggested just as Mark and Jack said, "A doctor" in stereo on either side of him. After a short, uneasy silence, Amanda said, "Or a doorman, or a dowser, or a double agent for that matter. Whatever he chooses, it will begin with the letters d-o because he is using the surname of one victim to choose the profession of the next."
"It is a little strange," Mark said, "but it's too consistent to be a coincidence, and I do think the next victim will be a doctor. All of the others have been professionals. That pattern would rule out doormen, dowsers, and dogcatchers, and I think even our killer would have a bit of trouble finding a double agent to kill."
Steve nodded, sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Studiously avoiding his father's comment about the next victim's profession because he knew if he acknowledged it all three of the other people at the table would want to volunteer as the bait in a trap set for the killer, he turned to Jack and asked, "How do you know when he is going to kill again?"
"I don't know when he will kill again, but I know how he's deciding the date."
"What's the difference?"
"Let me explain. When I was a kid, I used to run numbers for my old man," Jack said sheepishly. "He used a simple substitution code so if the cops ever got their hands on any of his documents, they wouldn't be able to prove what they were. I could read that code as easily as I could read English."
Jack had been writing on his tablet as he'd been talking, and as he finished, he turned it around to show the others. The numbers one through twenty-six ran down the side of the page with the letters of the alphabet in reverse order listed beside them. The letter F as in Fletcher fell beside number twenty-one. C for Coronado was beside number twenty-four, L as in Little was at fifteen, and D for Donovan was next to twenty-three.
"So, you can't predict it," Steve said frowning, "but chances are the next victim will die on the number of the day represented by the first letter of their surname."
"Right, in reverse alphabetical order."
"So, you and Dad need to watch your backs on the eighth, and Amanda should be careful on the twenty-fifth, if she's right about it being a doctor."
Jack nodded. "That's right."
Steve propped his elbows on the table and held his head in both hands. "If it's really that simple, why didn't I see it?" he moaned shaking his head.
He felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder and heard his dad say, "You were looking for things the victims had in common, like you were trained to do," Mark said. "You weren't solving a puzzle like Amanda, Jack, and me."
"I still should have spotted it."
"I disagree, Son, but we don't have time to argue the point," Mark said. "He's going to kill again soon, and we need to stop him."
"I know he's accelerating his pattern, Dad," Steve said. "The first two killings were sixty-two days apart, but the third one came only fifty-two days after the second, and this one has only been forty days since the one before it, and we don't need to do anything, I need to stop him."
"But, Steve . . . "
"No, Dad," Steve interrupted, realizing with a sudden dread that Community General Hospital was right in the middle of the killer's territory. "I appreciate the help more than you can imagine." He smiled at Jack and Amanda to include them and, hoping none of his 'helpers' would get any more bright ideas about catching the killer, he said, "I really do, but just because doctor begins in d-o doesn't mean I am going to let one of you be the bait in a sting operation to get this guy."
"Ok, Son, we can respect that, and we appreciate your concern," Mark said amiably, "but for the record, we're all safe anyway."
"How can you possibly know that?" Steve asked, glowering.
"It has to do with exactly how he's accelerating the pattern. Would you like me to explain?"
Steve frowned. Apparently there was something else he had missed. Folding his arms and smiling, he said, "Ok, Dad, explain for me, but don't get any reckless ideas about helping me catch the killer while you're doing it."
"Well, the first gap was just over two months, and the next one was just under two months," Mark said, and when Steve nodded, he went on.
"The next gap was just over one month. I have a feeling the next one will slightly less than a month. When he's done with this more or less than a month pattern he's going to go to more or less than a fortnight, then more or less than a week, if he gets that far."
"And the next victim will be a doctor," Amanda said.
"Or a dogcatcher or a double agent or a dowser for that matter," Steve replied.
"Come on, Steve," Jack said, "the first occupation most people think of that starts with the letters d-o is doctor."
"I said dogcatcher," Steve reminded him.
"All the other victims were educated professionals," his father reminded him, "but like I said, Jack, Amanda, and I are safe anyway, Son."
Steve barely managed to suppress a growl of irritation. "Ok, how do you know you are safe?" he asked through clenched teeth.
"Because with Jack's reverse alphabet, Bentley is too late for his acceleration pattern and Stewart and Sloan are much too early," Mark said beaming.
"And you don't think he'd change his pattern to eliminate a meddling physician or three?" Steve asked dangerously, not liking the glint in his father's eye and suddenly remembering the huge loophole he had sensed in their agreement to 'just talk' prior to the most recent murder.
Amanda smiled sweetly. "If you're right, the next victim will be a dog catcher anyway. Why worry?"
This time, Steve failed to suppress his growl and the few unpleasant words that came with it. His only other reply to Amanda's comment was to pack up his things and carry them down to his apartment without so much as a goodnight.
~~~~~
Steve stared at his list. He'd been staring at it for an hour. At first, his eyes had begun to hurt, then it had spread to his temples, into his jaw, and around to the back of his head. The list had still told him nothing.
He'd started the list when he'd called Rosemary Fletcher, the wife of the first victim, to assure her that he was still working on the case and to see if there was anything else she could tell him that might be of use. She had told him she couldn't think of anything else, but wondered if he knew what had happened to her late husband's headache medication. It wasn't among his personal effects, and when the family doctor had called to express his condolences, he had also asked Rosemary to bring the medication in to him at her earliest convenience so it could be safely disposed of.
A couple of phone calls later, first from Rosemary to the doctor to authorize the release of information, and then from the doctor to Steve to discuss Jason Fletcher's medical condition, and Steve had started his list. Jason Fletcher was on an antidepressant called amitriptyline to control his chronic tension headaches.
Within twenty minutes, Steve had discovered that Lazaro Coronado was missing his inhaler. He suffered from allergic asthma, which was mostly controlled by a daily dose of Claritin. The inhaler was only for emergencies. David Little had lost his wrist brace, and Vivian Donovan's personal effects no longer included a brand new pair of glasses.
Steve was going to need glasses if he kept staring at his list. His stomach growled, and he knew it was lunchtime. They were serving meatloaf at the hospital.
No, he couldn't actually encourage his father and friends that way, he appreciated their help when it was offered, sometimes, but asking for it, well, he would really be asking for it.
But if he went to the hospital for lunch and his father realized something was troubling him, he could be reluctant to share and let them coerce him into telling them. Surely, one of them would see something he was missing. He popped a couple of aspirin into his hand from the bottle in his desk and munched them down on his way out the door.
~~~~~
Half an hour later, Mark took one glance at the list and said, "They all had job-related medical conditions."
Steve frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How can you tell?"
"Teachers often suffer from chronic tension headaches," Mark said. "Probably at least as often as cops."
Steve smiled at the concerned affection in his father's tone and said, "I've already taken something, Dad. If it doesn't kick in before I go, I'll let you know."
Mark peered over his glasses and muttered, "Swallowed them dry, no doubt."
Steve sighed and rolled his eyes at the implied reprimand. At least Amanda and Jack were busy and couldn't be there to harass him, too.
Mark looked back at the list and continued, "Chances are Coronado developed his asthma as an adult, after he became a florist. He probably always had the allergies, but as a florist, he was constantly exposed to pollen and other allergens that triggered the asthma."
"And as a computer programmer, Little was always typing. He probably developed carpa . . . carpet . . . "
"Carpal tunnel syndrome," Mark said.
"Which is why he needed the wrist brace," Steve said and his dad nodded his confirmation. "And Vivian Donovan needed glasses because of all the reading she'd been doing."
Mark nodded. "The fact that they're a new prescription almost proves it was job related. Her eyes shouldn't have been changing that much at her age. She was too old for it to be growth-related and too young for presbyopia."
"So, now, I need a list of work-related medical conditions doctors are likely to develop, don't I?"
"Doctors . . . or dog catchers," Mark agreed with a grin.
Steve looked daggers at his dad and said, "Are you going to help me or not?"
"Are you sure you want me involved in your case?" Mark said teasingly.
"Grrrr."