Another Way to Die Page 9

  ‘If he did use Chloroform or some kind of sedative,’ Quinn speculated, ‘that would explain the evidence of sexual contact but no signs of violence.’

  Johnson disagreed. ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘But there were no signs at all, in all of Cordell’s victims, of any sexual violence. It was only the traces of lubricant, which could have been left there by a partner.’

  ‘Sam,’ said Johnson, ‘you said all of the women were single, solitary. So how could they…?’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Leroy whispered. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘There’d be no struggle if they were dead. And it’s not uncommon for sex murderers to use a condom. For starters, it would prevent DNA being left. Secondly, if the victim’s a prostitute, there might be concern about catching something. And where a killer is targeting woman as a kind of punishment, or retribution, because he considers them promiscuous, or evil, he might view them as unclean. Hence the protection.’

  Leroy was curious. ‘Then surely by killing them, wouldn’t they themselves be committing something evil? “Thou shalt not kill”?’

  ‘No. They normally associate sin and retribution with sex. Murder, theft, they’re okay. And men tend to compartmentalise, don’t they?’

  ‘Do they?’ asked Leroy. ‘Do we? How so?’ He looked at Quinn as he spoke.

  ‘You know. A man happily’ - she drew quotation marks in the air with her fingers - ‘married. Loves his wife and kids, but has no problem sleeping with a work colleague, or with hookers. Thinks of them as in some kind of different situation, different reality. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Not all men think like that,’ said Quinn.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting…’

  ‘There’s little more we can do here,’ said Leroy, breaking the ice. ‘Hobson’s taking the body back, the pick-ups being transferred to West LA. Let’s go check out the security cameras.’

  The LAX security offices were situated in a large steel and glass building on World Way West, around a mile from the main terminal buildings. Leroy’s call ahead led to the Chief Security Officer greeting them at the door.

  ‘Chief Security Officer Harris,’ he said. ‘Follow me to my office. I can access any camera’s footage from there.’ Once settled in his office, he swiftly established which camera to access. ‘There’s your truck there,’ he said, pointing at the screen. The time stamp read 08:14am. Two uniformed airport police officers were checking the vehicle. One was speaking into a radio. ‘That’s when the vehicle was discovered.’

  ‘You can just rewind until you get the time it arrives?’ Leroy asked.

  ‘Sure can.’ He leaned forward and pressed a key. The picture flashed repeatedly, cars reversed past the pick-up, it quickly got dark, there were several minutes of nothing happening. A counter on the top left of the screen showed the picture was being reversed thirty-six times normal speed. Eventually they saw sunset in reverse, and it was light again. Finally, a figure walked in reverse away from the truck. It was almost comical, like an old silent movie.

  ‘There!’ Leroy exclaimed. Harris leaned forward again and tapped a key. Now the figure reversed back to the vehicle. ‘Can you freeze the picture for me?’ he asked. Harris complied. Leroy leaned forward so his nose was a foot away from the screen. ‘Got you, you bastard.’

  The figure was wearing a dark sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers. The sweatshirt hood was up, and he was wearing something over his face, obscuring his features. He was plump, and had a limp, as if one leg was slightly shorter than the others. He was wearing gloves.

  ‘Hang on, Sam,’ cautioned Johnson. ‘We have him on here, but we need to see where he goes when he leaves the parking lot.’

  ‘This is Terminal Three, that right?’ asked Harris, as he tapped a few more keys. Now they were looking at a view of the pedestrian walkway from the parking structure across to the terminal building. Still limping, the chubby figure was making its way to the terminal.

  The walkway led to Departures; but, by checking the views from an assortment of cameras, they were able to follow the figure down the escalator to the Arrivals floor.

  ‘At least your man’s not catching a flight somewhere,’ muttered Harris.

  ‘Of course,’ Johnson whispered, as they watched the figure limp into the men’s room.

  ‘You got cameras in the restrooms?’ Leroy asked.

  Harris shook his head. ‘No can do. Rights and privacy.’

  He, Leroy, Quinn and Johnson stood and watched and watched and watched. No stocky figure in a hooded sweatshirt and with a limp came out.

  ‘That’s some dump your guy’s taking,’ said Harris, turning red when nobody shared the joke.

  ‘He’s used the restroom to change,’ said Johnson. ‘Gone into a stall.’

  Leroy said nothing; he silently continued to stare at the screen.

  ‘Look,’ said Johnson. ‘Most men coming out are carrying cases or backpacks. We could never ID everyone there.’

  ‘Don’t you have facial recognition technology?’ Leroy asked, his eyes still firmly fixed on the screen.

  ‘Not that sophisticated. We can barely pick out those guys’ faces. Look for yourself. Let’s face it: we’ve lost him.’

  Leroy continued to stare at the restroom door. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, appositely.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Agent Johnson was perfectly correct. The killer limped into the first-floor restrooms, located between the Interjet and Delta bag drop and check in desks. He headed straight for the first vacant stall, and locked the door behind him. Once locked in, he turned and took off his hooded sweatshirt. The padding comprised three old sweaters and a backpack. He took out from the backpack a grey raincoat and white laundry bag, then thrust the sweaters inside, the shades and scarf which he wore round his mouth as well.

  From the laundry bag he took out a hairpiece, dark hair, slightly curly. Once the wig was fitted, he put on the second pair of sunglasses he carried, and hung the backpack over his shoulders. Then he turned and peed, ensuring the stream did not touch the sides of the bowl, then flushed. Straightened the wig one more time, exited the stall, washed and dried his hands, then casually walked out of the restroom sans limp.

  He walked back out of the terminal, and over to the FlyAway bus stop. He had a short four-minute wait, during which he played head down constantly on his phone, and forty-six minutes later he emerged into the sunlight. A short walk to the parking garage and within five minutes he was heading home.

  Once home, there was much to do. On the way home, he took a side street and dropped the sweatshirt into a dumpster. He noticed a small group of homeless people shuffling around a hundred yards or so away: if the sweatshirt ended up in landfill or back in circulation, then all well and good – he didn’t care; he was just rid of it. Back into the car, unnoticed, and home.

  Back home, he poured himself a drink, went to a drawer and pulled out a large, coloured book. A scrapbook.

  He sat at his table and turned to the pages marked by a yellow post-it. Running his fingers down the cuttings, he carefully studied the various photographs of the woman whose body he had left at the airport. Then he reached across the table for a red pen, a thick marker pen, and drew a big tick across the largest photograph. Across the photograph of a dead woman’s face. He angled his head slightly: she could have been sleeping, he had arranged her so well.

  He spent another few seconds on the image, then turned to the next page.

  The next pages had several empty spaces. A work in progress. He had a shot of the woman getting out of the car to visit an ATM, and one - not quite so clear – of her in her bedroom early one morning before it got light. She was getting dressed. He studied the picture, running the tips of his fingers over her topless figure. He felt a slight sensation below his waist; putting his left hand down there, he stared some more at the picture.

  He checked the time: it would be time to go to work soon. His paid employment, not this labour of love. This woman still had
a few more days to live. His immaculate research was not yet finished; he was not quite ready.

  He ruminated. The last two had been in quick succession: should he wait a while, so he could enjoy watching the police on television chasing their tails?

  He decided against any type of hiatus.

  He was on a roll.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Leroy stared at the screen. Without taking his eyes off the flickering image, he said to Harris, ‘I’ll need a copy of this.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Agent Johnson asked, ‘What have you got in mind next, Sam?’

  Leroy looked over at Quinn. ‘How long does a guy normally take in the men’s room?’

  Quinn shrugged. ‘Depends, I guess.’

  Leroy said, ‘Let’s see. Unless you’re taking one mother of a crap - pardon my French, Genine - you’re in there, what? Five minutes, tops.’

  ‘Or unless you’re cruising,’ Quinn added.

  ‘Unless you’re cruising.’ Leroy turned to Harris. ‘Are there shower facilities in there?’

  Harris shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘We know what time he went in. We should be able to figure out approximately when he’d leave the restroom.’

  Quinn could see what Leroy was getting at. ‘Nice theory, but remember he was probably locked in one of the stalls while he was changing. He could have stayed in there for any time afterwards. Nobody would have challenged him.’

  ‘Except,’ Johnson pointed out, ‘he would have wanted to get out of there and out of LAX as fast as he could. Most killers want to leave the scene as soon as they can. Unless they’re really cool.’

  ‘Cool?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘I don’t mean cool in that sense. Calm, unruffled, collected.’

  ‘What time did he enter the restroom?’ Leroy asked Harris, who pointed down at the time stamp at the bottom of the screen.

  ‘There you go. 4:18pm.’

  Leroy leaned back on the desk and folded his arms. ‘Let me figure this out. He goes into the restroom 4:18. Using Ray’s five-minute rule…’

  ‘Not my rule,’ Quinn protested.

  ‘Using that rule, he’s outta there 4:28. Make that 4:30. No, make it 4:35 in case he is taking a mother of a, you know…’

  Harris frowned: Leroy had lost him.

  ‘If we check,’ Leroy was saying, ‘that screen from 4:08 - no, 4:05 - until 4:40, then we’ll see everybody who went in and went out in that time period, right?’

  Quinn nodded his head slowly. ‘Right…?’

  ‘I know it’s going to mean a lot of work, but by doing that, by starting at 05 and going through 40, then we could in theory match everybody who came out with everybody who went in.’ He turned to Johnson. ‘Well?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she replied slowly. ‘I guess it’s possible. Then what?’

  ‘I know it’s a very long shot, but if we can identify anybody leaving who we didn’t see going in, we could use the CCTV to establish where they went. Did they go to a parking garage? Did they get a cab? Were they picked up by somebody else?’

  ‘I’ll get that downloaded for you to take away, Detective,’ said Harris. He made a gesture with his forefinger and thumb. ‘Have it put on a thumb drive.’

  ‘Please. I’d appreciate that.’

  *****

  Back in the car, and on their way out of the airport, Leroy looked up at Johnson’s face in the rear-view mirror. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Any ideas? Any input?’

  She said, ‘Those markings the victims - Harlan Cordell’s alleged victims – had on their thighs.’

  ‘Not alleged. What about them?’

  ‘You said details about those markings weren’t released. I’m not interested in why.’

  ‘They weren’t. What’s your point?’

  ‘Who knew about them?’

  ‘Like I said. The LAPD.’

  ‘Who in the LAPD?’

  ‘Me, Perez, the lieutenant at that time, the captain, I guess.’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘I don’t recall. I guess so.’

  ‘And where else? The Coroner’s Office. Who there?’

  ‘The ME, obviously; his assistant, the clerical staff. The usual people. I don’t recall names. Why?’

  ‘I’m trying to figure out how it got out.’

  ‘We’ll never find out now. It’s too long ago. In any case, it doesn’t have to have been done maliciously. It could have been just mentioned innocently in passing, or pillow talk, something like that.’

  ‘You’re probably right, Sam.’

  Johnson sat back in her seat as Leroy took them out of LAX and back onto the freeway north. They sat in silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  They had been back at West LA Station an hour now. On arrival, Leroy charged Quinn with the task of following up the results of any tests that had been done so far on the two vehicles, and to speak with the Missing Persons Unit. Agent Johnson took the notes Quinn had taken at the visit to Professor Ramos. Leroy himself had spent half an hour updating Lieutenant Perez on the investigation so far. Once he had spoken to Perez, he put a call into Russell Hobson, who not surprisingly was on voicemail, now having two Jane Does on his tables.

  He had kept the most tedious job for himself: laboriously trawling through the video footage from the airport, looking for a match, or rather a no match, in the men entering and leaving the restroom. He could see no alternative but to check the video frame by frame, scribbling down a brief description of each man he saw.

  He had gotten as far as 4:14. He stopped, rubbed his eyes, drank more coffee - extra black, extra sugar - and exhaled loudly. This was a task that needed to be carried out in short bursts, as it was easy to be overcome by fatigue and boredom.

  He turned to Quinn as his partner walked over. ‘Any luck with the vehicles?’

  Quinn sat in the next chair as he replied. ‘Both reported stolen.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The Beetle on the fifteenth, and the Chevy Saturday.’

  ‘And they were stolen in the middle of the night while they were parked outside the owners’ houses.’

  ‘How’d you know that?’

  ‘Same MO as before.’

  ‘Sure.’ Quinn tapped his notebook. ‘Last time round, what type of vehicles were used?’

  Leroy closed his eyes momentarily. ‘I don’t remember, to be honest. I don’t recall the make; nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I mean. Were they a variety of vehicles, or were they all sedans?’

  After a moment’s pause Leroy said, ‘They were all sedans, I’m sure. And the bodies were found in the trunks, every time.’

  ‘So why a pick-up? Why not the normal sedan?’

  ‘Good question. And tell me again when the Chevy was stolen.’

  ‘Saturday night.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘During the night. The owner reported it stolen at just after seven on Sunday morning.’

  ‘That would mean then that it was taken during the hours of darkness that night. He would have waited until midnight at least to make sure everywhere was deserted.’

  ‘At least midnight,’ Quinn agreed. ‘Saturday night.’

  ‘In the case of the Beetle, and in all of Cordell’s victims, the vehicles were reported stolen several days before the bodies were found. But the pick-up: only a matter of hours. What does that say to you?’

  ‘That it was a substitute vehicle.’ Johnson had just joined the conversation. ‘He already had a vehicle ready, but something went wrong almost at the last minute. A breakdown, or a flat, or something like that.’

  ‘But that would seem too rushed for our guy,’ said Quinn. ‘Why not just wait another day or so and get the problem fixed? Assuming it was stored somewhere on his property, he’d have to get rid of it at some time.’

  ‘Because he was on a clock,’ Leroy suggested. ‘If the body was also stored there, it would soon be decomposing. A decomposing body smells a lot, a
nd it can get messy. He’d want to place the body as soon as he could. Plus, he may have had his own personal schedule. I’m guessing he works: he might have had to go to work. Any absence, any deviation from his normal routine, might arouse suspicion.

  ‘I’m also thinking this. Everything else, the planning and the execution, has been meticulous, planned down to the last detail. When the other vehicles were stolen, he took care to take the vehicle from a location where CCTV wasn’t able to pick up his image. But this time, maybe he was in a hurry, maybe he was careless, maybe he cut a corner somewhere. Where was the Chevy stolen from?’

  Quinn checked his notes and laughed. ‘You’re not going to believe this, Sam. Stolen from a property in Venice. Could have been one of your neighbours.’

  Leroy quickly explained the joke to Johnson. ‘Not a million miles away from LAX. What street?’ he asked Quinn.

  Quinn referred to the notes again. ‘Boone Avenue. Know it?’

  Leroy shook his head. ‘No, but I want to get down there today. The owner of the Beetle can wait; I’m in no hurry to talk to him.’

  ‘Her,’ corrected Quinn.

  ‘Her. But I do want to see the Chevy owner. Him?’ Quinn nodded. ‘More than talk to him; to have a scout around the locale. Somebody might have seen something this time, or there might have been some cameras around.’

  ‘When do you want to do that?’

  ‘I might even go there on the way home. No, it’ll probably be after dark then. We need to go down there in the daylight. Look, let’s get to grips with what we have here, then think about going down to Venice. What about the vehicles themselves? Have they been checked for forensics yet?’