Why 319? Read online

  Why 319?

  Mark Love

  Copyright Mark Love 2014

  Published by Black Rose Writing, Publishing at Smashwords

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  © 2014 by Mark Love

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61296-409-6

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Kim, who is still with me after all these years.

  Acknowledgements

  A special note of thanks to Kim Love, Travis Love, Meredith Ellsworth and Cory York for their suggestions and insights into early versions of this story.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Prologue

  The killer was already scoping out the next victim. It was almost becoming too easy. After all, it’s not like there was any shortage of targets out there to consider. They were everywhere. One plain Jane after another kept crossing the radar screen. Some nights it was like shopping for bananas, and they were visible in bunches.

  Tonight was one of those nights. It was as if someone was holding up a sign, steering them in this direction. Like right now. Off to the left at one of those elevated stations, where you had to sit on a barstool in order to reach the table were two perfect physical examples of the ideal target. Four women, each in their early to mid-twenties were crowded around the postage stamp-sized table. Two were ruled out immediately. They were chunky by the killer’s standards, flashing lots of cleavage with large breasts. For a nanosecond the killer wondered if the flesh was real or the results of surgical enhancement. It didn’t matter. They were unworthy of any further consideration.

  But it was the other two who caught the killer’s eye. The one on the right was a bottle blonde which was obvious by the dark roots showing and the dark eyebrows. The other was a brassy redhead. She was tiny, almost doll like. The killer was in a perfect position to observe her. She was wearing high-heeled red boots that came up over her knee, sassy looking things that accentuated her legs. The black skirt she was wearing barely touched the middle of her thighs, but it might have been longer if she was standing up. She was wearing a heavy wool sweater that covered her from the throat to the waist. It was ivory in color and was loose enough to keep the goodies beneath it a well-guarded secret. With the boots and the short skirt, she was almost too good to be true. And upon reflection, the killer realized she was.

  Her attitude was a turn off. This was a girl who flaunted the little bits she had. As she sat on the stool, swaying to the background music, she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs, putting on a floorshow of her own. Her hands were constantly in motion. Now they were slowly, seductively sliding down her arms, dropping below the table into her lap. They lingered for a moment then skittered down her legs to tug at the bottom of the skirt. This was no timid child. She was well aware of her body. By the way she was moving she knew how to use it.

  The focus returned to the bottle blonde. This one had potential. Her wardrobe was the polar opposite of the redhead. Loose fitting slacks, with low heeled shoes that would have been rejected by a nun with an orthopedic condition, she wore a blouse buttoned to the neck and a jacket to help conceal her. The only thing that broke the mold for this plain Jane was the hair color. Upon a closer look, it was blonde highlights swirled in with the natural brown, a shade best described as mousy brown. Perhaps she was letting it grow out after getting it dyed for the holidays. Now the imagination kicked in, wondering what she would look like, sprawled naked on a bed, unable to resist, unable to stop, unable to do anything at all.

  The killer’s body began to respond.

  Yes, she could very easily be the next one.

  But first the stage had to be set. And it was a time for patience, because the plans were perfection, which was evident by the lack of awareness of the public or any progress by the police. Those bumblers in blue would never put it together, because of the meticulous planning. If by chance they somehow managed to get a clue, the misdirection was already in place. So there could be no deviation from the plan. It had taken weeks of study, of strategizing each and every move. Every step was plotted out. Every move was a smooth, choreographed motion. Every action triggered the next in a series of reactions. Just reflecting on the past efforts was enough to make the killer smile.

  “What the hell are you grinning at?” Malcolm asked as he stepped up.

  “Just thinking about how good a night this will be,” the killer said.

  “I don’t want a bumpy ride tonight.”

  The killer turned and looked him right in the eye. “You got nothing to worry about, man. Everything will be smooth.”

  Malcolm hesitated a moment as he studied the killer, then nodded in agreement. “We can’t ever be too smooth.”

  The killer’s smile widened. “That’s me, man, I’m too smooth.”

  * * *

  The killer was elusive. The killer was a cold, calculating, efficient machine. No computer could analyze the killer’s moves and predict when and where the next victim would be found. No one could determine the motive that lay beneath the actions. Only someone who had lived in the killer’s body, who had the same experiences, the same influences, the same events coursing through their veins would have even the slightest glimmer of a possibility of figuring this out.

  “I’m too smooth,” the killer said softly, closely studying the reflection in the mirror. “That’s smooth spelled with seventeen Os.”

  Everything was moving forward according to plan. The next victim was being developed, that timid one with the blonde highlights from the bar last week. She was so uncertain of herself it was as if a strong wind could change the direction of her focus. Her name was Melissa. She was a preschool teacher, helping four and five-year-olds learn their colors and the alphabet. For a moment the killer wondered if that was the extent of Janet’s own knowledge. She certainly didn’t appear to be experienced in the ways of the world when it came to dating.

  It had almost been too easy to cut her from her small group of friends at the bar. With the crowd noise, the interactions of both men and women reveling in the
music, the booze, the pheromones and the physical contact, it was only a matter of paying attention, of waiting for the right moment to pick her off. Each of her three friends was drawn to the dance floor, where the press of bodies was intense.

  “Melissa, my dear, you are about to discover the world of excitement. The world of romance, of passion, of intensity that you could never imagine is waiting for you. And I intend to be the one to introduce you to it.”

  The killer spun from the mirror and snapped off the lights. Game on.

  Chapter One

  You never really get used to the smell of a dead body. It’s that thick, ghastly odor that attacks the nasal passages and stubbornly clogs the back of your throat and just hangs there. It lingers, waiting, like some sadistic culinary delight that you really don’t want to sample. The temperature in the room was hot, which would expedite the decomposition process. The gases inside the body were already starting the decay. That was the stench that assaulted me the second I crossed the threshold of the motel room.

  There were two crime scene technicians already at work. One was busy with a video camera, filming the details. The other was making notes and dusting surfaces for fingerprints. Standing in the outer hallway was two uniformed police officers and a detective in a gray flannel suit. As I was taking in the details of the room, I felt a finger prod my spine, just below the shoulder blades.

  “Hey, Koz,” I said without flinching.

  There was a chuckle in the deep voice behind me. “Damn, Chene, you must be a great detective. You never even turned around.”

  I inclined my head toward the small oval mirror on the opposite wall. “Sometimes you make it too easy. Anyone else get the call?”

  “Nah. You figure it’s the same guy?”

  “Hard to say. But it’s got the right feel to it. They haven’t given the media the specifics yet, so we can rule out a copycat.”

  Koz nodded as the guy in the grey flannel appeared in the doorway. The suit was badly wrinkled. The guy was in dire need of a shave. He was about five foot ten, with curly black hair framing his head. We followed him across the hall to another room and waited while he closed the door behind us. Koz slumped into one of the upholstered chairs. I leaned against the wall.

  “Name’s Costello. I was just going off duty when we got the call from the hotel manager. I’ve got two detectives on a stakeout, one on vacation and another out with appendicitis. This just isn’t going to be my day.”

  We did the business card exchange. His had the Bloomfield logo in the background. Sergeant Norman Costello. I doubted that the State of Michigan shield on our cards impressed him. I didn’t really care. He gave the cards a quick once over then looked up quickly. “Jefferson Chene. Isn’t that an intersection downtown?”

  Reluctantly I nodded. “I’m Chene. That’s Kozlowski. Koz is easier on the tongue. What made you think to call us?”

  Costello pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and looked at us briefly. Koz raised his hands palms up. I merely nodded. It took him three tries to get a match lit. He took a deep drag before answering.

  “Saw the notice from the top yesterday. There have been two other killings in the Metro area in the last two months. Both fit the same description. Young females, slender build, with no evidence of drug use. Both found nude, spread eagle on the bed. Sexual activity evident, but it’s uncertain as to whether it was pre or postmortem, or both. Cause of death appears to be suffocation.” Costello rubbed his left hand across his face. “It looks like he used the pillow. No apparent struggle. No signs of forced entry.”

  “How long you been here?” Koz asked.

  Costello checked his watch. “About forty-five minutes. We’re lucky that the room is on the end of the hallway. I put one uniform on the door, another at the end of the corridor to keep any guests out. Called for the evidence techs then called you guys.”

  “Who’s the top?” I asked.

  “That would be Chief of Police Ryun. Him and the lady mayor notified us yesterday. She wanted to make it abundantly clear that we contact the State Police immediately. It’s almost like she expected us to be involved.”

  “This scumbag has committed two other murders, one each in Wayne and Macomb Counties. Stands to reason Oakland was due,” I said.

  “Yeah, but why couldn’t he pick something like Troy or Southfield? Or even Royal Oak where all the trendsetters are,” Costello grumbled.

  “Just lucky I guess,” Koz said.

  “No offense, but we’ll have our forensic team join the party. We’ll need copies of whatever reports you generate from this investigation.”

  There was an inch of ash on Costello’s cigarette. He looked around the motel room for an ashtray, then gave up and cupped his palm beneath it. He took another long drag and walked into the bathroom. I could hear the hiss of the ember hitting the water then the toilet flushed as he got rid of it. He came back in the room, brushing ashes off his hands.

  “You smoke much?” Koz asked as he rose from the chair.

  “I gave it up three years ago, used to do two packs a day without even thinking about it.”

  “So what’s with today?”

  Costello gave a reluctant shrug. “First homicide I’ve seen in years. Most of what we get is home invasions. Maybe some snatch and grabs, DUI, that kind of stuff. To make matters worse, she looks like a girl that works as a babysitter in our neighborhood. We don’t get homicides out here in the suburbs.”

  Koz gave him a single nod of understanding. “You do now.”

  We gloved up and went back into room 319. Costello remained in the hallway. The room was average size for a motel, but not big enough for half a dozen people to be moving around inspecting a crime scene. He conferred with the two uniformed guys out in the hall. Koz and I took a quick look at the body while the techs hung back.

  She was a plain girl. Not gorgeous, not pretty, but plain. Average looks that you would pass in a store or on the street and wouldn’t cause you to glance at her twice. Once upon a time, she’d had large dark green eyes. She had thick brown hair that extended just beyond her shoulders. She had a straight up and down figure, a size one or maybe a size two, with small almost nonexistent breasts, and a narrow waist. I guessed her to be about five foot three, maybe ninety pounds.

  I picked up her wrist and slowly rotated the hand. Her skin was clammy in the overheated room. Koz instructed one of the techs to turn off the heat.

  “Nails were cut. Just like the others.”

  He nodded. “Not the type of girl to bite them. Check out the polish. Same shade on the toes and it looks recent. Spent some time making herself look good.”

  “Pro?”

  “Doubt it. She’s probably a career girl. We’ll know more from registration. I’m guessing we’ll find a car in the lot.”

  I leaned back on my heels, studying her. I knew it was the same guy. It had to be the same guy. I glanced at Kozlowski. He was looking at the wall above the bed. The cream- colored paint and wallpaper was immaculate. There were no splatters of blood. Death must have been quick. No bruising on the body. He was neat and tidy, just like before.

  “I’m guessing he used a douche on her too. Makes sure he doesn’t leave any DNA.” Koz shook his head in disgust. “Guy even shaves off her bush, so he doesn’t leave any of his hair behind.”

  “You never know. Some girls prefer the smooth look.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Yeah, like hookers trying to pass for thirteen.”

  “You check?” I asked.

  “Nah. Go ahead.”

  I walked into the bathroom, flicking on the light with the back of my knuckle. It was on the mirror. The message was written in lipstick, the smeary letters almost a foot tall. I felt the acid build in my stomach as I studied the riddle.

  WHY 319?

  I don’t normally spend time gazing upon my reflection in the mirror. But as I stared at the message and the light skinned black man staring back at me, I noticed it was written fairly high up
on the glass. It was just about eye level on me, so maybe this was a clue to our killer’s height. My gaze flicked down. Lying on the counter was the lipstick container. During the resulting investigation, we would learn it was hers. Victim number three. I hadn’t asked her name yet. But in the next few days, I would strive to learn everything I could about her. Leaning out toward the room, I hooked a finger at the tech with the camera equipment.

  “Don’t forget the bathroom,” I said. “Get the whole room.”

  Kozlowski was waiting for me in the hallway, snapping off the latex gloves and stuffing them in the pocket of his coat. His blue eyes were cold and hard as he stared past me into the motel room.