Deadly Games Read online

  He grabbed a handful of her blond hair and lopped it off with the knife. Then he grazed her neck with the tip of the blade, spilling just enough of her crimson nectar to satisfy him. He matted the hair with the blood.

  “I’m going to send SLCPD a care package,” he claimed with maniacal laughter. “I’ll see you girls later, and lucky for you, I’m going to be around more often.”

  He went upstairs and found a baggie to store the finger and hair. Then he headed to his home in Webster Groves, where he put the items in a bubble mailer. Wearing gloves the whole time, he addressed the package to Sasha at the police station. He recalled that he was supposed to get her an arrest warrant for Sean Peirick, so he needed to come up with an excuse for not having one. He sent her a quick text.

  I don’t want to bother you while you’re working, but if you want that arrest warrant, I’m going to need the man’s address.

  He figured either she’d tell him the address in Parkdale, or she’d tell him there was no such person in the area. He medicated himself and sat on the sofa to wait for her response. His legal secretary already knew he’d be out the rest of the day, so time was on his side. He was drifting off to sleep when his phone chimed.

  The address is 201Morgan Ridge Drive, Parkdale, 63049. However, I don’t think it’s in his name.

  He got on his laptop and printed out a fake warrant. Then he took his package to the FedEx box in town, so she’d get it tomorrow.

  LUCY SANDERS SHOWED up at the station with her painting by Sean Peirick forty minutes after we ended our call.

  “Sorry it took a while to get here, but I live across the river in Cahokia,” she explained. “Anyway, here it is.”

  She held up a black and white silhouette painting of a woman with red tears, which was presumably bloody tears. That reminded me of the red painting of me, and I called down to the crime lab.

  “I need a swab done on another painting, please,” I told Jackie, and she immediately came upstairs.

  “Do you think this is blood again?” she voiced, and I nodded.

  “I just wonder whom it belongs to,” I declared. “Also, why did he paint it?” I turned to Eric, who was studying the piece. “While I talk to Miss Sanders, could you see about getting a psychologist in here? Perhaps the police shrink will come in.”

  “Sure,” he replied and went to his Rolodex while I invited Lucy to sit by my desk. “So, I’ll call up the sketch artist in a minute, but I have some questions first. Did you talk much with him before purchasing his artwork?”

  She looked down nervously at her lap. “Not really. I was talking about how much I liked the piece, and he told me it was his work. That’s when I asked for his autograph, and that’s pretty much the extent of the conversation.”

  “Did you recognize him from the area?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No. I always go to the galas for new artists, and I’ve never seen him or his work before.”

  “Hmm…I guess he’s new to art then, or he’s just new to this community,” I stipulated and ran another search in NCIC, using some of his newer parameters. I looked up crimes with lacerations, broken bones, and burns, but nothing came up with a combination of the factors. I also looked up holes that were drilled into the body, and it was also null.

  “You’re just a different kind of evil, aren’t you?” I mumbled to myself.

  “Did you ask me something?” Lucy questioned, and I felt my face redden.

  “No, I was just thinking aloud. I’m going to get the sketch artist up here.” I made a call down to the main floor and was told someone would be up shortly.

  The first person to step off the elevator, though, was Jackie, and she looked excited. “The red substance was blood mixed with paint again, and the DNA matched your recently deceased victim, Tiffany Clark,” she informed us.

  Lucy jumped up from her seat. “Ew! I bought artwork with someone’s blood on it? Who is this creep?” she shrieked loudly.

  “He’s a serial killer and at the moment, impossible to catch,” I mumbled under my breath. “As unfortunate as your situation is with the painting, you’re quite lucky you didn’t get hurt or murdered by him.”

  She put one hand to her mouth and the other to her heart. “I was talking to the St. Louis Slasher? I don’t believe it,” she whispered and slowly sank back into the chair.

  “Yes, you were, and I’m glad you’re all right. We’ll need to keep the painting until after the case is over,” I informed her.

  She waved a hand at me. “Keep it forever. I don’t ever want to see it again.”

  Jackie was still standing there, and she cleared her throat. “There’s one more thing about the blood. We have a hair this time, and it has the root bulb attached. It’s in analysis still, but I’ll bring up the results as soon as I have them.”

  I clapped my hands together once. “That’s terrific news! Maybe we can finally nail this son-of-a-bitch.”

  The sketch artist, who freelanced with the station, showed up and led Lucy to the interview room for quiet and privacy. The man in the final drawing had a mole on his right cheek and reddish-brown hair. We thanked Lucy for her cooperation, and she quickly left since her part was finished. Again, she told us to keep the painting.

  I held up the sketch of the Slasher and studied it along with my partners. “So, you fancy yourself a master of disguise, don’t you? Well, I’m a master at puzzles,” I murmured aloud. “Eric, did you get ahold of the psychologist?”

  “Yes, but she can’t make it until tomorrow morning. They’re doing their holiday celebrating with family today,” he replied.

  “Okay. I’ll be here bright and early,” I told them, and then I went down to the crime lab to wait for the results on the hair follicle, hoping that we were finally getting somewhere.

  July 4, 2016

  I WOKE UP at 4:00 Monday morning and took Duke for a jog. I had my Glock strapped on for security, but my own safety wasn’t on my mind—Denise’s was.

  Last night, Justin had come back over and held me while I cried. He’d tried to put the moves on me, but I brushed him off. I needed comforting, not sex. I didn’t let him spend the night, either, because I didn’t want him to try again.

  He’d given me an arrest warrant for Sean Peirick, but the man was still a fart in a hurricane. We had no record of him anywhere. The house in Parkdale had once belonged to Robert Marx, but he had died in a drunk driving accident in 2001. He had a son, David Justin Marx, but we had no idea where he was. The house was current on property taxes, with the money coming out of Robert Marx’s estate, so the government never batted an eye. I had to wonder if the son was our killer, and if he didn’t go back to the Parkdale house, where would he hide out?

  Hopefully, the hair follicle would give us some answers. I also held hope that the psychologist would give us some understanding of the killer’s psyche. If we could figure out his next move, maybe we could prevent it. My gut wrenched when I considered that it might be to kill my sister, and I said another prayer for her.

  By 7:45, I was at my desk at SLCPD, going over the hair follicle reports again. The DNA wasn’t in CODIS, but we were able to identify that the hair was brown, and reports showed the donor was on fentanyl, Decadron, and phenytoin. The fentanyl was for pain and stronger than morphine, the Decadron was a form of chemotherapy, and phenytoin was for seizures. Jackie had told me the combination of drugs pointed to treatment for cancer.

  By 8:00, the others had arrived, and so had a psychologist named Dr. Fitzgerald, who was there to look at the paintings of Tiffany Clark and me. We studied her face while she looked over both pieces.

  “This red one conveys a lot of anger. Red is a power color that demands at
tention to be paid. It’s like he is saying look at me,” she told us, and I couldn’t help but think his crimes said the same thing. “This other one is showing a lot of pain and grief. One would think the artist is suffering from something.”

  I looked at my team and commented, “That goes with the theory that he probably has cancer. Maybe he wants the attention because he is dying.”

  “One can only hope he’s dying,” Eric sniped, and I mentally agreed, but I didn’t want to display hostility in front of the psychologist.

  “If the artist is dying, I don’t anticipate him stopping until he dies,” Dr. Fitzgerald added. “It’s likely his killings will just grow more frequent and intense as his suffering becomes worse because he doesn’t want to suffer and die alone. He feels like he is alone in the world.”

  I shook her hand. “Thank you, Dr. Fitzgerald. Your insight helps us to understand the motive better.”

  Liam spoke up before she could leave. “Why is he mixing blood in with the red paint? He used blood from five victims in the red piece and one victim in the other.”

  She appeared shocked by the news and looked at the pieces again. “It could be just another cry for attention, or it could be because he wants you to know what he’s done, so you can catch him. As he nears the end of his life, he wants the recognition he deserves. He wants the credit for the killings, and he wants people to remember him always.”

  “So, it’s possible the torture will get more dramatic then, so he can outshine other serial killers?” I wondered.

  “Yes, absolutely. He wants to be exceptional and remembered for what he brings to the table,” she answered. “He wants to be differentiated from all others.”

  “He wants his own signature,” Marisol summed up.

  Dr. Fitzgerald looked at her watch. “I’ve got an appointment to get to, but please call if there is anything else I can help with. I’ve always been fascinated with forensic psychology, and I’d actually like to interview the suspect when you capture him.”

  I nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll be in touch.”

  After she left, Liam mumbled to us, “It looks like the worst is yet to come then as he deteriorates.”

  A tear ran down my cheek. “And it will somehow involve my sister.” I wiped away the moisture, not wanting to come apart at the seams in front of my team.

  “I wish we could cross-reference the list of medications with patients to narrow our search down,” Eric said, and I had to agree with him. It would certainly make things handier.

  “At least he finally got sloppy. Hopefully, he’ll do something to totally give himself away soon,” I remarked. “Then again, if he does, it will probably be because he’s reached the end, and he might choose to go out fighting.”

  Eric rapped his knuckles on his desk. “I think you’re right.”

  “We should be able to get a warrant for patient records at the local cancer centers,” Marisol announced. “Then we can narrow the pool down to match our profile.” She jotted the thought down on her notepad.

  “That’s a great idea, but since it’s a holiday, we aren’t going to get it done today,” Liam replied and put his head in his hands. “I feel helpless as we wait for him to make the next move. I’m tired of him calling the shots.”

  My desk phone rang and made us all jump. “This is Detective Delossa,” I answered.

  “Happy Fourth of July, detective,” a creepy voice greeted me. It was the same voice as before, and it was just as full of taunts as the last time. “Are you getting closer to figuring everything out?”

  I mouthed, “It’s him,” to the others. Then I turned my attention back to the Slasher while pressing the speaker button on the phone. I needed to keep him on the line long enough for Eric to run a trap and trace.

  “I think we are. How much time do you have left? How long have the doctors given you?” I asked him.

  There was a long pause before he answered me. “What makes you think I’m ill?” His voice had irritation in it, and I knew I’d caught him by surprise.

  “You got sloppy,” I taunted. “We know you have cancer, but you can’t use that as an excuse to hurt others.”

  There was another pause. “You don’t want to piss me off when I have your pretty little sister in hand, do you?”

  I bit my lip and took a risk. “Please let her go and take me instead. If you want someone to be there at the end of your life, I’ll be there for you. I won’t let you die alone.”

  He laughed, and it sounded full of evil. “Oh, I won’t be alone, and I assure you that we’ll be meeting soon,” he threatened and then hung up.

  We all looked to Eric for information. “Did you get anything?” I squawked.

  He shook his head in disgust. “No. The call was coming from a disposable phone, and it bounced off three towers. He knows what he’s doing.”

  I wanted to rip my hair out. “I can’t handle this. Did I just get my sister killed?” I yelped.

  “I don’t think so. Whatever his end game is, I think he wants you to see her again,” Liam speculated.

  “Great,” I huffed. “So, he’ll want me to watch her die then.”

  A loud rap on the doorframe got our attention as a FedEx driver stepped into the office. “I have a package for Detective Delossa,” he announced and looked around at our confused faces. “We don’t normally work on holidays, but the sender used FedEx Custom Critical for it to be delivered here today.”

  I raised my hand, and dread filled me. “That’s me.”

  “Sign here, please.” He thrust the electronic device toward me and then handed me a large envelope, which I quickly opened to reveal a bubble mailer with blood stains on the outside.

  “Oh God!” I cried out when I saw the contents, and I quickly dropped the package. The finger peeked out and made the other detectives cringe too. Luckily, the driver had already left.

  “Get that to the lab,” Liam said to Eric, and he quickly scooped it up and headed for the stairs.

  “Was the finger the only thing in there?” Marisol asked.

  I shook my head with tears streaming down my cheeks. “No. There was a lock of bloody blond hair too. My sister is a blond.”

  I had been a cop for several years, but this was the worst moment of my career. I felt helpless, useless, and enraged. I felt torn apart. I covered my mouth with both hands and screamed as loud and hard as I could into them until my throat and lungs burned. I saw concern in my co-worker’s eyes, but I could tell they were right there with me.

  Jackie rounded the corner from the lab twenty minutes later and gave us the results. “The finger’s DNA doesn’t match the hair, but the hair and blood on it are from”—she looked at me as her voice softened—“your sister.”

  “Was the fingerprint in IAFIS?” Eric asked, and she shook her head. “Then it must be from the missing woman, Margie Moore. Unless he’s taken another victim.”

  “But where is he keeping them? We raided his house,” I yelped. “If that was his house.”

  Liam ordered us all to go home and get some rest until something else came in on the case or until tomorrow, whichever came first. I didn’t want to go home just yet, though, so I found myself driving to Webster Groves to see Justin. I needed a shoulder again, and I couldn’t face my parents without rays of hope to offer them.

  HE DROVE AROUND the city, hunting for his next victim. Lightning bolts of pain stabbed his brain, and he wanted to take it out on someone. He shouldn’t have to suffer alone. He wasn’t in the mood to torture or abduct, just kill, and it didn’t take long for him to set his sights on the one he wanted—the middle-aged man looked a lot like his father.

 
There was no ruse to lure the man to his death. He simply exited the Suburban with a wooden baseball bat and bludgeoned the man in a vacant alley. The man, who was evidently homeless, pleaded for his life and safety, but it fell on deaf ears. Every time he felt a stabbing pain in his head, the bat came crashing down on the man, even long after he was clearly dead. The man’s skull was turned to mush as was his body. Blood squirted out of every orifice under the weight of the bat, painting the pavement hot red. With each deathly blow, he pictured his father’s face, even when he could no longer recognize the man’s. Every strike was a bloody home run.

  When he was out of breath, he drove back to Webster Groves like he’d never been there. He put on clean clothes and a new fentanyl patch for the pain. Then he called the doctor’s office to complain about recurrent nausea. The nurse promised him that Zofran would be called into the pharmacy by the end of the day.

  He was ready to lie down for a quick nap when there was a soft knock on his door. He looked through the peephole and saw Sasha. Her nose and eyes were red from crying, and he could see her body trembling.

  I KNOCKED ON Justin’s door and waited patiently for him to answer. When he did, I told him that I needed comforting after a difficult morning.

  His face fell. “I had hoped my visit last night soothed you a little.”

  “I appreciated your company, but it doesn’t take away my panic for my sister,” I replied with a glare.

  He put his arm around me and led me to the sofa. “I know it doesn’t, hon. I just hope it helped some.”

  I sank into the soft sofa cushion and leaned against him when he sat beside me. “It did for the moment, but now I’m in hell again. He sent us a grisly package today. Correction. He sent me a package today.”

  “A package? Like another painting?” he inquired, and I shook my head while covering my eyes.