Untraceable

CHAPTER ONE

Detective William Hopper stepped his wingtips around the red liquid mirror on the ceramic tile floor. Blood-filled grout sprawled from the edges of the thick puddle like skinny legs of a flattened spider. He held his Jerry Garcia tie against his stomach and leaned over to examine the body of the woman he had just learned was twenty years old. Telephone wire bound the strawberry blonde’s neck, wrists, and ankles to an imitation leather recliner. Cornflower-blue eyes remained half-open, dried lifeless, but blood drenched her blouse, still tucked into her black polyester skirt.

He studied the knife, plunged into the victim’s chest like the killer had staked claim to the body. A beauty mark on her left cheek, no bigger than a dot from a fine felt-tip pen, caught his attention, as did the movie-slate clacker nametag pinned above her left breast.

Laurie Cannon

Usher Supervisor

WestShore Theater

Hopper stopped fiddling with the $100 black poker chip in his pants pocket long enough to wipe sweat off his forehead. Again he stared at the splintered knife handle that pointed toward the Spanish-lace ceiling of this one-bedroom condo in South Tampa. A pit began to swell in his stomach, not because of the corpse in front of him — he’s seen more dead bodies in his career than a mortician — but because of what this murder could mean. Tampa is known for its share of crime, but two murders in two weeks with no solid leads has frustrated the detective, and now a third.

Bastard was strong, Hopper said. And he probably was left-handed. You can tell—

By the angle of the blade’s entry, but only if the killer was facing her. I know what I’m doing, old man, said Mike Baker, the tech squatting on the floor by the victim. His hair was dark, and his eyes looked like pitted black olives glancing at Hopper. I’ll do my job; you do yours. Don’t worry, I’ll brief you when I’m done. He paused. Hey, aren’t you left-handed?

Funny, Mike. A bit irascible this morning, eh?

Baker turned toward Hopper with a look as if he had swallowed something foul.

Ir-a-sci-ble, Hopper said, and he pronounced each syllable louder than the last. He waited for the light to go on in Baker’s head, but it never happened. You know, irascible? Touchy? Crabby? Ornery? See also prick-like?

After three murders inside of three weeks? Yeah, you could say I’m a bit crabby.

Hopper loved knowing he still could piss people off, a trait he perfected many years earlier at the poker tables. What’s the matter? Didn’t they teach you things get a little hairy out here in the real world? Don’t worry. You can always fall back on conducting paternity tests if you can’t hack it in forensics.

Fuck you, Will. Baker removed gauze from his kit and patted the victim’s blood for collection.

Hopper half-smiled, but he didn’t want to jeopardize the case, so he let up on Baker. He knew he had a bigger problem on his hands: another dead body, and now the department had appointed him to lead the task force for this headache. On the surface, the slaying posed no concrete connection to the recent murders — three deaths and no consistent M.O. But Hopper knew better.

I hate saying this, but I have a feeling you won’t find anything.

I guess I should just go home, and on the way, I’ll stop by a preschool and have some kid paint a tie for me like that shit you’re wearing around your neck.

Can I help it if Julia loves buying my clothes? Hopper said. All I meant was I got a feeling this one’s gonna turn up no prints, nothing. Just like the past two. No forced entry, and no apparent robbery. I need a serial killer like I need a third testicle. If this is all by the same hand then this guy’s as smooth as Teflon. Hopper looked back at the victim. How long do you think she’s been like this?

She’s stiff, so I’d say about twelve hours, give or take.

That’s what I thought. He leaned in closer to the victim. Hey, you see this?

Baker stood next to Hopper. What?

Look at her wrists. See the marks?

Yeah, so?

And you call yourself a professional.

Give me a break. There probably was too much slack when he tied her the first time, so he tied her up again, only tighter.

"Then why are those marks made with rope, and yet she’s tied down with telephone wire? Look at the pattern. Unless she was into S&M, I think our killer maybe grew a conscience."

What do you mean? That he wanted to kill her, he let her go, and then changed his mind again?

Exactly. And look at her neck. There are bruises under her hair line.

What are you trying to say?

"I’m not trying to say anything. I’m saying it. Look, if you’re gonna make a career out of this, you better start paying closer attention to detail and caring about the victim. He stepped away from the body. I have a feeling this sick fucker played some sadistic cat-and-mouse game with her. Follow me on this. Hopper moved his hands like a sign-language interpreter. He has her tied up somewhere secluded, so there’s no need to gag her. But she begs to be let go over and over again until he can’t take it anymore. So he starts choking her just to shut her up. But maybe that’s what gets to him. He doesn’t want these killings to look anything alike, can’t have a second ligature death in this random game of his. So he unties her and releases her. Then he realizes he can’t just let her go, so he tackles her, which explains the scuffs on her knees. That’s when he takes her here."

Why here? And why does he tie her up again just to stab her in this reclined position?

I’m not sure. Unless…

Unless what?

"Unless someone else was there to stop him. And that’s why he just stabbed her. Maybe he had some grand plan, but something or someone stopped him. Hopper shrugged and began rolling his poker chip between his fingers again. But if it’s a serial killer, they always work alone. And I can’t tell from where I’m standing if he raped her or not. You find any semen?"

Not yet, but the UV showed nothing.

Hopper paused, then looked at Baker. I gotta tell ya, this is screwed up. I know killers enjoy torturing their victims before murdering them, but this? To let her go, then chase her down only to tie her up again and kill her? I’ve never seen it.

"Maybe she was into S&M, like you said. Or maybe she rubbed her tits against this guy one night in Ybor City and left him in some bar with his pecker in his hand. Or she could’ve invited him back here, and when they were getting hot and heavy she told him to zip it up. Sometimes these cockteasers get what they deserve you know."

Hopper glared at him, now clenching the chip in his fist. If I didn’t think you’d fall on your ass and taint the evidence, I’d knock your head off.

What’s your problem?

You hear yourself? Take a look at this girl. Look at those eyes. What if she were your sister? Or wife? Or daughter? Imagine the hell she went through last night. Begging for her life, balling her eyes out. Not knowing what was about to happen to her. Wondering if she’s gonna get raped, or if she’s ever gonna see her family again. And just when she sees a light at the end of the tunnel, that bastard pulls her back and takes her life anyway. She had the rest of her life ahead of her, and you have the balls to say she had it coming?

All right, I get it. I’m sorry. Jeez. Can we just get back to work now?

Just don’t forget what I said. He pointed toward the window. And don’t forget to check the blinds. I bet he wanted some privacy last night. I already have my men interviewing everyone in the complex. Make sure they get photos of the knots, and let me know if anything else turns up. I’ll be back later for the final walkthrough.

But I haven’t briefed you yet. And the Sheriff’s Office needs to get in here still.

Hopper dipped under the police tape stretched across the door opening and nodded at the rookie standing watch. Hibiscus trees, sculpted like the tails of a row of show poodles at an AKC competition, lined the concrete walkway that led to his unmarked Crown Vic. Fresh-cut grass helped dilute the bitter stench of death that filled his head, and the morning sun warmed his face when he turned the corner of the complex. He squinted long enough to slide on his Ray-Bans, and then got into his car. In the rearview mirror he glared at his right cheek. A thin three-inch scar, partially hidden by the black hair of his neatly trimmed mustache, stood out against his tan complexion. He rubbed his fingertips back and forth across the slice of raised flesh and thought about the steak knife that stuck out of the young woman’s chest.

Son of a bitch.

A turn of the key in the ignition and the engine groaned. Hopper brushed aside the hair on his brow and drove north on Dale Mabry Highway, headed for WestShore Plaza. A few years back, International Plaza and its elitist stores opened a couple of exits north of WestShore on Interstate 275 to appease the millionaire athletes of this three-sport town. The IP attracted highbrows and celebrities as well, which turned WestShore Plaza into a virtual ghost town — a fact Hopper hoped would help his investigation. He had little trouble finding a parking spot, and when he got out of his car, he scanned the lot before walking into the mall. He found nothing unusual.

Cool air blasted him as the automatic doors opened, and Muzak wafted down from the mall-wide intercom system, echoing through the sparse halls. Neon-appareled retirees, sporting headbands to keep sweat and hair from their eyes, marched past Hopper in two-by-three formation, getting their daily exercise amid the climate control and rented security. He shook his head, then glanced at his watch: 11:23. If a Saturday matinee crowd were coming, it’d be here soon, so he quickened his pace. In the theater lobby, a high school girl with hair the color of bottled honey kneeled on a countertop inside a booth encased by three glass walls. She wore the same clothes as Laurie Cannon, except she also had on a black vest, and she fumbled with plastic numbers to update showing times on the overhead sign.

Do they put these holes in the glass so you can breathe? he said. I feel like I should throw some lettuce in there for you.

She looked over her shoulder. Heavy makeup on her face made her look twenty-five, but her squeaky voice and snapping gum belied that appearance.

Excuse me, sir?

Never mind. The manager in?

Yes, sir. I’ll page him.

Hopper watched her speak into a walkie-talkie, but he couldn’t decipher what she was saying. A few minutes later, a man in his mid thirties and no taller than a broom emerged from the silver door next to the booth. He might have been blond, but the gel he used to slick the fine strands straight back over his shiny scalp made his hair appear rusty. Rimless glasses trickled down his flat nose as he approached Hopper, so he took them off and tucked them into his pocket before shaking hands.

I’m Stan Blume. Can I help you?

I’m Detective Will Hopper. I need to ask you a few questions. How well do you know Laurie Cannon?

Is there a problem?

This is my lucky day. I ask a question and I get a question shot back at me. Tell you what. You answer my first question, and then we’ll move on from there, OK? Now, how well do you know her?

I know her very well, Detective. She’s one of my best workers. I hired her about two years ago. Is something wrong?

I wouldn’t be here unless there was. What else can you tell me about her?

Please, just tell me what’s wrong first.

Someone killed her last night, most likely in her condo.

Blume gasped, and then crumbled onto the white bench against the wall. He leaned to the side, removed a handkerchief from his rear pants pocket, and dabbed his eyes and forehead.

After years of deciphering tells, little subconscious indicators that reveal someone’s true feelings, Hopper knew Blume genuinely had no idea what happened to Laurie Cannon. While the manager composed himself, Hopper grabbed a notebook and pen from inside his Jos. A. Bank blazer. "We found her in her uniform, but we weren’t sure if she ever got to work. So was she here last night?"

Huh? Yeah, she worked last night. She was the sweetest girl. He took a moment. Did you catch the killer?

That’s what I’m trying to do now. I figured with this mall always so empty now, anyone seen here would be remembered. You see her with anyone?

We have fourteen auditoriums, Detective. An usher supervisor comes in contact with a ton of people, and I’m sure last night was no different. But no, I can’t remember anyone in particular if that’s what you mean. She did leave earlier than the rest of the crowd, though. Everyone stayed late to preview a movie after work, but she didn’t. I think she said she had a date.

You know if the guy came here to pick her up, or who he was?

I don’t. But Carrie might. She’s the one you just talked to.

OK, I’ll talk to her in a sec. Does this place have any security cameras? Anything that surveys the area?

Yes. All of our cameras are aimed at the ticket booths and the registers in concessions.

Are there any cameras outside the building or aimed at the entrances?

Not over here. We’re just an old theater in an old mall. Ever since International opened, things have never been the same.

OK, thanks, Blume. I’ll need to see the tapes from last night, so make sure you pull them for me. Hopper gave him his card. And I’ll want to talk to the other employees, depending on what I find out from the girl in the bubble.

Blume disappeared behind the silver door, his face a few shades paler than before. Hopper walked back to the booth, ducked down and lined up his mouth with the four-inch hole in the glass. Hey, remember me?

Still kneeling atop the counter, she looked down at him. She flashed her teeth as if she wanted to show off that her braces had been removed that morning. I got your joke about the holes in the glass after you left. Like I was a bunny or something, right? You’re pretty funny.

Thanks. Maybe when you’re older you’ll catch my act at Side Splitters. I come on right after the dancing pig.

She laughed and twirled her ponytail with her forefinger. "I am eighteen, you know. Where’d you say your act was?"

Never mind that. I have to get serious on you now, Carrie. I’m a detective. Can you tell me if a guy picked up Laurie Cannon last night? It’s pretty important.

She popped off the counter, and her jaw stopped chomping on her stick of gum. Is she all right? Her car’s still in the parking lot.

I’ll let your boss talk to you about that. Right now I need you to answer my questions.

This is weird, she said, her mouth now aligned with the cutout hole.

Weird?

Yeah. She talked all night about how she couldn’t wait till her shift ended ’cause she was going clubbing with this hottie. She said he was tall and had an awesome body. But I saw him with her when she left. He didn’t look that hot to me. He was as skinny as a straw. And he wasn’t tall either.

How tall was he?

It’s hard to say. I mean he was taller than Laurie, but not by much.

I’m six feet. Was he as tall as me?

No way. If you’re six feet then he must’ve been like five and a half.

Hopper jotted that down. Can you remember anything else? A name? What club they were going to? How old he looked? The color of his hair? What kind of clothes he wore?

She didn’t tell me his name. But his hair was black, or at least dark brown, and his clothes were all tan. Actually, his face was real dark, like maybe he was Mexican or worked outside or something. He was probably in his twenties, maybe twenty-five. But she never mentioned the name of the club, just that she was going dancing.

What time did she leave?

Well, it was pretty dead last night, and the preview started at eleven, so I’d say around then, maybe a little earlier.

The silver door swung open again. Blume came through with the surveillance tapes in his right hand and a list of his employees and their number in his left. Those tapes cover from six to twelve last night, he said.

Thanks, Blume.

Will I be getting those tapes back?

Only if I don’t need them.

The manager lingered for a second like he was waiting to be dismissed, but then he left Hopper alone with Carrie.

Any other employees see Laurie with the guy who picked her up? he said.

No, they were all in Auditorium 12 waiting to preview a movie. I would’ve still been in there, too, except I came up to the box to get my sweater. It was freezing in there. That’s the only reason why I saw them. They were over there near the exit. When they left she was walking in front of him like she didn’t want to be with him or something. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t go out with a guy wearing those ratty clothes.

Ratty? You mean his clothes were all ripped and dirty?

Well, no, not really. I just mean they were plain. Boring. No style. And I think he had on a coat. Yeah, definitely, ’cause his left hand was in one of the pockets. I think maybe it was a windbreaker.

How about his face? You get a good look at his face?

Not really, sorry. He was too far away. I just remember thinking this guy isn’t as hot as she said.

And it didn’t occur to you that maybe he wasn’t the one she was supposed to go clubbing with? Or that he might’ve been forcing her to leave with him?

No, I just figured she was bragging about him, not thinking he’d come here. You know, showing off. But she’s the nicest person at the theater, so I’d never say anything to her about it. She paused for a moment. You know, now that I think about it, she never did say he was coming here to pick her up. I was a little surprised when I saw him.

I bet she was, too. How about the others you work with? Was Laurie friendly with anyone else here?

She got along with everyone, but I don’t think she got close to anyone either. She mostly just came in and did a great job. She was promoted to usher supervisor faster than anybody.

OK, thanks, Carrie. You’ve helped me a lot. I may need to come back to talk to you again. But if you think of anything else please call me. He handed her his card.

Is everything all right with Laurie? Are you gonna tell me what’s going on now?

Hopper turned on his heel when he saw Blume appear in the booth. It was time to break the news to Laurie Cannon’s parents, the worst part of his job. He walked toward the exit with the surveillance tapes tucked under his arm, and then he stopped when he heard Carrie squeal like a tire on hot tar. He looked back and saw Blume holding her as she sobbed.

Hopper swallowed hard. The young woman was fortunate all she got was heartache from this. It could’ve been worse.

Those once-invigorated senior citizens now rested on benches in front of a thirty-foot palm tree with its fronds pressed against the domed glass roof. Hopper watched the spent old-timers and grunted.

Sure, your journey’s over today, he said under his breath. Mine’s just starting.

CHAPTER TWO

Hopper stared at three files spread out like playing cards on his desk. There was a time when playing cards and trying to decipher an opponent’s hand was his biggest problem. Now, his forehead rested on his hands, and his thumb rubbed the scar on his face as he pored over the information. Initial forensics findings, as he had suspected, turned up just about nothing in the Cannon case. No prints on the knife, no skin under her nails, no loose hair anywhere. The Luminol revealed nothing. The coroner had the dead body of a young lady who would never get the chance to be an old lady. Hopper’s headache throbbed.

Sergeant Eduardo Perez loitered in Hopper’s doorway. He had hair like singed steel wool and stood as tall as Hopper. Perez loved lifting weights at the police gym, which explained why he looked forty years old despite being fifty. You’re stressing out, aren’t you, Hop?

A little.

I can tell. My wife used to say you had beautiful auburn hair. I can’t wait to tell her you’re thinning on top now.

Screw you, Ed. You’re full of shit.

Not from where I’m standing, pal. We better call Hair Club for Men.

Oh, go to hell.

I’m just screwing with you, man. Take it easy. I’ve been thinking, maybe we need to see if Chief wants to call the feds. Three murders inside a month with no evidence and no solid leads? I think we need some help on this, and I’m not talking about beefing up our task force.

Screw that. I don’t need those pompous shitheads calling the shots while I play gopher. I can handle this without the academy boys. Besides, I’m not so sure this is a serial killer, yet. Nothing jibes with anything.

Hopper opened each folder as he talked about the cases inside them. "First, Tony Anastasio was strangled with fishing line on the docks near the Port of Tampa. No witnesses. The second case, Valerie Rodriguez, beaten to death with her own car-theft device outside an all-night self-serve gas station. Again, no witnesses. Now we find this girl dead in her own place, stabbed once through the heart. There’s no weapon of choice for any of these killings. No signs of rape or sexual dominance. No calling card. No trophies taken.