Splintered Page 7

  HUTCH HAD been right. Stepping back from the case for a few hours was enough to recharge him. At least he felt as if he could think straight. Grabbing a legal notepad and a pen, Hutch settled into a chair, propped his feet up on the ottoman, and began scratching out his profile.

  Male, Caucasian, thirty to forty-five.

  Sexual orientation: Closeted homosexual. Homophobic.

  Single. Introvert with few friends.

  Ritualistic. The ritual is intoxicating.

  “Hey, Byte,” Hutch called out. “Are you absolutely sure you can’t find any cases prior to Jared Martin that we could attribute to our guy?”

  “Nope,” Byte responded without looking up from his computer. “I know it seems impossible, but even with the incompetence, I think this fucker was as good with his first kill as he is with his eighteenth. He’s organized, meticulous, wouldn’t surprise me if he suffers from some form of OCD.”

  Hutch added OCD? to his profile and then tapped his pen against the paper. This killer was smart. Very smart. Hutch had never encountered one as well organized and cunning. In his experience, serial killers evolved, learned from their mistakes, and perfected it. Not this one. This one was special. He’d studied, cultivated his technique even before he struck. But what if the killer wasn’t just smart, but also lucky? Hutch jerked upright as it hit him. Maybe they just hadn’t found the bodies of the first.

  “What about missing gay men prior to Martin?” Hutch asked hopefully.

  “I thought of that too,” Byte admitted. “In 2006 there was a young man who went missing from a gay club. He resurfaced in ’07, however. Apparently he’d gotten hooked on meth and was living and working on the streets.”

  “Shit!”

  Hutch slumped back in his chair and added Above-average intelligence, highly organized, possible military or law enforcement background. Superior knowledge of forensics to his profile.

  Hutch then turned his thoughts toward the condition of the victims. The torture could easily be attributed to a sexual sadist, but the mutilation of the victim’s genitalia screamed self-loathing in the killer, almost as is if he were trying to eradicate the offending organ.

  Raised in a fanatically religious atmosphere. Likely missing or unknown father in the household. Probable mother also absent or incapable of nurturing. Older relative? Aging grandmother? Aunt?

  “Whoa! I got your man,” Byte said excitedly.

  Hutch tossed his notepad aside and jumped to his feet. “Our killer?”

  “I’m good, but not that fucking good,” Byte chuckled. “Check this out!”

  A familiar shaggy-headed man stared back at Hutch through the computer screen. “That’s him! Got a name?”

  “Yup.” Byte clicked a few buttons on his laptop, and the stranger’s history popped up on the screen. “Meet Noah Walker. The interesting thing is I cross-referenced his photo with other crime scene photos and found him among the crowd at many of the scenes.”

  “How old?”

  “He’s twenty-six.”

  A bit younger than Hutch would have thought based on the profile, but only by four years. “What about his profession?”

  “It says student. Hold on,” Byte muttered, and his hands flew across the keyboard.

  Hutch’s pulse began to quicken, and he started to pace. He still couldn’t come up with where he’d seen the kid—the man—before. Why? Why was this guy familiar to him? Where had he seen him before?

  “He’s a graduate student,” Byte informed Hutch. “Hey, this is interesting. He’s working on his PhD in psychology. Criminal psychology, to be exact.”

  Hutch tossed that fact over in his mind. Was that where he’d seen Noah before? Perhaps at a lecture he’d given? During an interview? He’d once worked a case where the psychiatrist stalked and eventually murdered the object of their delusional love interest. There was a second case where a psychiatrist murdered one of her patients when he refused to return her attentions. Not military or law enforcement, but still smart. He would have studied crime and would have an understanding of forensics. Noah, so far, was fitting the profile Hutch had begun to form.

  “What about family history?” Hutch inquired. “Does it say anything about his parents?”

  “Whose parents?” Granite asked as he stepped into the room still towel drying his hair.

  “Byte found the kid I saw at the crime scene. Turns out he’s not a kid, but a twenty-six-year-old man who’s studying criminal psychiatry.”

  Granite raised a brow at Hutch. “You think he’s working this case?”

  “Could be, but so far he’s fitting the profile of the killer,” Hutch informed him.

  “Here it is,” Byte interrupted. “Noah Walker, born to one Barbara Walker. Father unknown.”

  Hutch grabbed a chair and pulled it up close to Byte so he could read the report along with Byte. “I didn’t see his name in any of the reports. Has he been interviewed?”

  “Not on any of our cases. Looks like he was born and raised in Joliet, moved to Chicago about six years ago. Oh wait, holy shit,” Byte cursed. “In 1994 he was interviewed by the Joliet police after his mother and sister were killed”—Byte looked over and met Hutch’s gaze—“by the Eastside Strangler. He was eight.”

  Hutch’s pulse sped even further as excitement coursed through him. This could be their guy. Weeks without a single lead and finally it looked like they might get a break. “Who took him in after the death of his mom and sister?”

  “Maternal grandmother. One Sophia Walker.”

  “I want an address,” Hutch demanded as he went to his feet. “Granite, get dressed. We’re going to go talk to this guy.”

  “One step ahead of you,” Granite tossed over his shoulder before he disappeared into the bathroom.

  “You think this could really be our guy?” Byte asked.

  “He certainly fits the profile,” Hutch said as he checked his weapon and then slipped it into his holster and buckled it into place. He grabbed his shoes, sat on the edge of the bed, and laced them up. “Close to the correct age range, Caucasian, smart, knowledge of forensics, absent father, and raised by an older relative. I’d say it’s either one hell of a coincidence, or we may have just gotten a break.”

  Byte scribbled the address on a sheet of paper and handed it to Hutch. “Hyde Park area, only about twenty minutes from here.”

  “Thanks,” Hutch said, accepting the piece of paper, and then yelled out to Granite, “Stop fucking primping and get your ass out here.”

  “You want me to come with?” Byte asked.

  Hutch pulled on his sports coat and grabbed his keys and wallet. “Nah. You keep digging. I want to know everything about this guy. Who his friends are, where he hangs out. What he fucking eats for breakfast. I highly doubt he’s going to admit to anything, and given his background, I suspect he’ll lawyer up the instant he discovers who I am and why I’m there.”

  “I’m on it,” Byte assured him.

  Granite stepped out of the bathroom dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and an Insane Clown Posse T-shirt. “Jesus fuck, Granite,” Hutch growled. “Would it kill you to wear a goddamn sports coat once in a while?”

  “No problem, boss,” Granite said. He went to the small closet and pulled out a red plaid suit coat and shrugged it on. “Better?” he asked.

  “Why do I even bother?” Hutch grumbled and headed out the door.

  “Don’t know,” Granite chuckled. “You’d think you’d be used to my superior fashion sense by now. In fact, I would have thought I’d have been able to teach you a thing or two about it after this many years.”

  “Fuck you,” Hutch growled.

  “Not going to happen,” Granite shot back as he hurried to catch up with Hutch, checking his weapon as he moved. “But I’ll be more than willing to stuff you as full as a hoarder fills their house.”

  Hutch pressed the button on the elevator, then turned to Granite, who was grinning smugly. “Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.
That was totally lame.”

  “Bullshit, it was fucking brilliant,” Granite said confidently. “Have you ever been in the house of someone with a severe hoarding disorder?”

  “No, and to be honest, I’ll be glad when you run out of cheesy lines.”

  “Not going to happen,” Granite assured him. “I’m always thinking of ways to fill your ass.”

  “You think about my ass all the time?” Hutch asked with one brow raised. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. “You realize if you admit that, no one is going to believe you’re straight. Hell, I’m beginning to question it.” Hutch stepped into the elevator.

  “I’m only gay for you, baby,” Granite said slyly and waggled his brows.

  “Oh good Lord.” Hutch chuckled. “Here,” he said and handed Granite Noah’s address. “Plug this—”

  “You want me to plug you?”

  The elevator door opened on the ground floor, and Hutch whapped Granite on the back of the head before stepping out. “How about concentrating on something other than my ass for a minute?”

  Granite gave a wolf whistle. “Kind of hard to concentrate when you have such a fine ass like that.”

  Hutch pulled his jacket down over his ass and flipped Granite off. Granite laughed good-naturedly, but Hutch had no doubt Granite was just teasing him and was already thinking of plugging the address into his phone rather than plugging Hutch’s ass.

  Chapter 9

  DEAR MR. Jensen,

  How are you today? My name is Noah, I’m sixteen, and in the tenth grade. I’m doing a research paper on the conditions of the prison system and hope you can tell me what it’s like. I’ve never been to a prison, but I hear it really sucks. I hope you can answer my questions. I really need an A on this stupid paper, or I’m going to get kicked off the swim team. I hope I hear from you soon.

  Sincerely,

  Noah

  Noah folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. It was utter and complete bullshit, except for his name. Charles Jensen was a death-row inmate who had been convicted of killing seven teenage boys. The authorities suspected more but couldn’t prove it, and Jensen wasn’t talking. All of Jensen’s victims were lean and athletic. What Noah hoped to get out of the deception was an honest view into the killer’s mind.

  By setting himself up as a potential victim, he hoped to do what numerous officers, attorneys, and various others had tried to do but failed: get Jensen to talk. He wanted to get a better understanding of Jensen based on how he seduced and manipulated his prey. How he was able to go undetected for so long, how he learned from his mistakes, how he evolved from disorganized to organized. Jensen’s ability to elude the police for ten years was awe-inspiring. Noah also hoped to find the answers to the unanswerable. Why he killed. Was it genetics? Nurture? Both? What made a boy from a small Midwestern town—the only child of two loving and involved parents—become a sadistic killer? There had to be a reason. Something. People didn’t just wake up one day and start raping and killing people.

  Noah addressed the letter to Jensen care of the Texas Department of Corrections and added his own name and P.O. Box in the upper left corner. He blew a wayward curl out of his eyes, placed a stamp on the envelope, and stuffed it into his backpack. He’d mail it in the morning.

  He’d set up the postal box years ago when he’d first started corresponding with killers while he was in junior high. Mr. Jensen would be his twenty-third murderer, his fifteenth serial killer. Sometimes he pretended to be a disciple, as he had with Richard Ramirez, also known as the Night Stalker. Noah had claimed he was a member of the Church of Satan and wished to sit next to Ramirez in his chair next to Satan. He’d also assumed roles as an admirer or lawyer, but the guise that seemed to garner the most honest knowledge was when he portrayed himself as the perfect victim.

  The information he’d gather would be valuable in his chosen field of study: a doctorate in psychology. Not that he could technically use the information he obtained using deceptive tactics, at least not officially. There was a whole set of rules and regulations he had to abide by if he wanted to use Jensen as an official case study. Lying his ass off was not an acceptable means of data collection. Go figure. Didn’t matter, his knowledge-seeking, while important academically, was really to satisfy his far greater personal need to know.

  Noah slid out of his chair and stretched his arms up over his head, yawning. He’d been too worked up to sleep the night before, and it was starting to catch up with him. He’d have to rely on coffee and sugary snacks to get him through his presentation today. He grabbed the news article he’d clipped from yesterday’s paper and a push pin. He studied the walls of his small apartment. There wasn’t a single spot that wasn’t covered with a news article, photo, map, or report.

  “Going to need more wall space,” Noah surmised and attached the article next to one he’d put up the day before.

  He hadn’t yet covered the walls of his bedroom, had worried it would somehow disrupt his sleep or bring back the nightmares of his youth. Considering he didn’t sleep long enough to dream, and most of the time passed out at his desk, he supposed the point was moot.

  Anyone who entered his apartment would be shocked. Not because he’d turned his living room into an office, the only furniture a desk, office chair and several bookcases. But he was sure anyone seeing the death and mayhem that covered the walls would think he was nuts, obsessed even. Perhaps he was. At twenty-six, he had twelve years of obsession on his walls, stacked on bookshelves, and, if that wasn’t enough, in boxes in his storage locker in the basement.

  Noah checked his watch. He had thirty minutes before he had to be at the lecture hall. He grabbed a Pop-Tart—breakfast of champions—on the way to the bathroom, scarfing it down as he pulled off his clothes. A hot shower and a quick stop for coffee and hopefully he’d be coherent enough to make it through the lecture and answer the umpteen zillion questions that always came after one of his lectures. Today, given his topic, he expected even more.

  A COOL autumn breeze rustled through the trees as Noah sipped his coffee while he made his way past the gothic buildings. He zipped his jacket up as he hurried along the sidewalk. It had been a typical Chicago fall—one day blazing hot, the next, freeze-your-balls-off cold. Today was in between, cold but at least bearable.

  The University of Chicago was one of the world’s premier academic and research institutions. It was at the nexus of ideas that challenged and changed the world. It was part of the reason Noah had chosen to attend. That and the abundance of other attractive incentives such as student-run cafes, a unique museum, local festivals, and architectural masterpieces by famous architects such as Frank Lloyd Wright. Since he’d first arrived in Chicago six years ago, however, Noah still hadn’t taken advantage of what the city or the campus had to offer. He’d hoped with all the sights, sounds, and eats Chicago had to offer he’d get out more, meet people, and make a friend. His fascination with death hadn’t waned, though—in fact had only continued to grow, which kept him too busy to socialize.

  Noah entered the auditorium and shrugged out of his jacket. Fifty to sixty people were already sitting in the stands, and he felt a tingling of nervousness skitter down his spine. It wasn’t the first time he’d stood before a class, but no matter how many times he had to stand at the front and address a room full of people, he had to fight nausea and shaking limbs. He was much more comfortable in his little apartment with his books and laptop. He could even handle one-on-one conversation, but he would never get used to, or like, being the center of attention.

  He hung his jacket on a hook near the door, shouldered his backpack, and made his way to the podium. His honors seminar professor, Dr. Fritzwald, nodded in greeting from where he sat at a small table off to the side. Noah responded in kind. He laid out his notes on the podium, then nervously shifted from foot to foot and adjusted his tie as he waited for the signal to begin. The crowd talked among themselves, but Noah could only make out bits and pieces of their con
versations. “Noah…. Gonna be good…. Freak…. Death….” Their collective voices combined with the echo reverberating off the walls sounded more like a buzz rather than actual words.

  At precisely 10:00 a.m., Fritzwald stood. He didn’t say a word, simply clasped his hands behind his back, looking out toward the students in the auditorium over the rim of the glasses that sat perched on his nose. It only took a few seconds for the class to realize Dr. Fritzwald was standing at attention before them.

  He commanded the utmost respect, and it only took one student to notice him and say, “Shh! He’s starting,” for the room to fall silent. Dr. Fritzwald looked to Noah, gave a curt nod, and returned to his seat.

  “In this presentation,” Noah started, his voice cracking with nervousness. He swallowed hard and started again. “Today I will be talking about becoming the perfect victim.”

  There was a collective gasp and then complete silence as if they were all holding their breaths.

  “Although much is known about the patterns of serial killers’ behavior,” Noah continued, “even the nature of their childhoods, their motives, and fantasies, we really know very little about how they manage to overpower people, manipulate, and degrade them. To get them to do things they wouldn’t otherwise consider.”

  Noah then went on to relate how, while only a student in junior and senior high school, he’d figured out a way to lure a half dozen of the most notorious serial killers into communication with him, eventually forging full-blown relationships with several. In each case, he had meticulously researched what would interest them the most and then cast himself in the role of disciple, admirer, businessman, surrogate, or potential victim. He spoke about how, in a few instances, he actually interviewed the killers in prison, winning their trust and uncovering their secrets. Noah was able to keep his audience rapt, hanging on every word he spoke, and he completely captivated them by showing samples of the killers’ perverted writings on the overhead and playing eerie recordings of their voices. As he’d suspected, he was flooded with questions once the presentation was concluded, a few asking about particular cases or killers, but most asking why? Why he would undertake a project such as that, one that would not only jeopardize his sanity but his physical safety. That was the one question Noah couldn’t answer with honesty, choosing to give vague answers rather than admitting to the truth of it.