Wild Card

The station house was a tomb when Valentine came in at five past nine.

“Hey Joe, where is everybody?” he asked the desk sergeant.

Joe Scagglione looked up from the sports section of the newspaper. He’d gotten shot in the spine during a foiled bank robbery ten years ago, and was a constant reminder to every cop of what happened to the disabled.

“Jesus, Tony, didn’t you get the memo?”

“What memo?”

“Banko wanted everyone here at nine sharp. He’s brought in the FBI.” Joe pointed down the hall at the room that was used for morning briefings. “In there.”

Valentine hurried down the hallway, and entered the briefing room to the stares of a hundred of his peers. The briefing room had tiered seating, and he saw Doyle sitting in the last row, holding a chair for him. He scampered up the aisle and joined his partner.

Moments later, Banko entered the meeting room followed by two men wearing off-the-rack suits that screamed law enforcement. One was Mexican, heavyset, with salt and pepper hair and slate blue eyes. The other was white, with a hatchet face and a mouth as thin as a paper cut. Banko addressed his troops.

“Good morning. I realize it’s not the wisest thing to pull every cop off their beat for a meeting, but I believe this situation warrants it. As you know, there’s a killer on the loose, and we have no idea who he is, or where he’ll strike again. To help our investigation along, I’ve asked the FBI for help. Special Agents Romero and Fuller are based in Washington, and work in the bureau’s Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Agent Fuller will speak to you first.”

Fuller took center stage. He wore a scowl, and looked like a classic ball-buster. Behind him, Romero pulled down a movie screen hanging above a chalkboard.

“Good morning,” Fuller said. “The FBI normally doesn’t involve itself with local problems. But with serial killers, we make an exception. And that appears to be what you’re dealing with here.”

A slide projector sat on a table in front of the screen. Fuller picked up a clicker and pressed it. A slide appeared containing two photographs. One showed a smiling brunette, the other, the same girl hanging by her bound wrists from the ceiling. The dead girl wore wide bell bottoms, a denim shirt with flower embroidery, and strands of love beads. Rigor mortis had left her body, and her flaccid skin hung limply from her bones.

“This is Mary Ann Crawford, originally from Philadelphia, most recently Atlantic City,” Fuller said. “Twenty-two years old, trained as a beautician. Moved to Atlantic City six weeks ago, lived by herself. She was found in a hotel room on the beach, cause of death starvation. The hippie clothes are her killer’s calling card.”

Fuller pressed the clicker, and a second slide filled the screen. It was similar to the first: A photo of a smiling brunette on the left, the same woman hanging from her wrists on the right, dressed in a flowing Woodstock dress and love beads.

“Melissa Edwards, twenty-two, part-time actress and model, a recent transplant from the Baltimore area. Cause of death was also starvation. Same deal with the clothes. She was also found in a motel room hanging by her wrists.”

He hit the clicker a third time, and the roomful of cops stared at the photos of the most recent victim. “Connie Howard, twenty-four, aspiring actress, originally from New York, lived in Atlantic City a few months, reduced to skin and bones and hippie clothes. She was found hanging by her wrists in an abandoned warehouse last week.”

The screen went blank. Fuller stuck his hand in his pocket, and the scowl on his face grew. “This killer — who we call the Dresser — is on a spree. We believe he’s suppressed his murderous urges for a long time. Now, he’s erupted. Why, we have no idea. But we are reasonably certain he’s going to strike again, and probably soon.

“There’s a great deal we don’t know about our killer. We don’t know his name, or what he looks like. However, there are certain things we do know. Our profilers have determined that he’s a white male, between the ages of thirty and forty-five, who lives alone and has few friends. His taste in women runs to attractive brunettes between five-four and five-six, with green eyes. He’s methodical, and of above-average intelligence. We also think he’s an Atlantic City native, since he seems to know where to dump these bodies without getting caught.

“My partner and I are asking for your cooperation in helping us track this guy down. We need you to put the word out on the street, and talk to everyone you know. Our guess is, other women have been approached by the Dresser, and might remember him. With a little prodding, perhaps we can get a solid lead on who he is. I’m leaving a stack of sheets with the killer’s profile for you to distribute. Before we go, my partner would like to say a few words.”