The Appointment Killer Page 3

  Bruce returned to his car forty bucks richer. He never noticed that the arrangement of the food inside the box was different.

  Ted Marx had always eaten whatever he wanted, being blessed with a fast metabolism. Like Cantrell, he had ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Marx had been away from the police station for a short while. During that time, he had bought a bottle of whiskey but had returned in time to hold the door open for Bruce Mueller, whose hands were full carrying the food into the station.

  Marx and Cantrell ate with two of the cops in a back room where suspects were interrogated. Unlike Cantrell, Marx had ketchup on his fries, not mayonnaise.

  “Why do you eat mayonnaise on your French fries?” Marx asked.

  “I picked up the habit when I was stationed in the Netherlands during my time in the army.”

  “It looks nasty.”

  “Maybe, but it tastes good. Do you want to try some?”

  “I’ll pass,” Marx said with a smile.

  The first indication that something was wrong came when Cantrell began coughing, as if to clear his throat. The food was gone, and they had been sipping on their drinks. Cantrell stopped coughing as a look of alarm came over him. He stood, then leaned over with his palms flat atop the table.

  “I… I… can’t… can’t breathe.”

  The cops sprang up as Ted Marx reached for his camera.

  “Mr. Cantrell,” an officer asked, “are you allergic to anything?”

  “Pea… peanuts,” Cantrell wheezed, as his face began to redden. The cop took out his phone to call for an ambulance. As his breathing difficulty worsened, Cantrell collapsed. He was bright red and his eyes had begun to bulge. Marx filmed it all, while simultaneously storing the video in the cloud.

  He hadn’t realized that Cantrell had died until the ambulance arrived and the man’s condition was checked by a paramedic. Since the hospital was a block from the police station, they had arrived in under three minutes.

  “He’s not breathing,” said the paramedic. She and her partner tried to revive Cantrell, but it was in vain.

  Ted Marx uploaded the video of Luis Cantrell’s death less than an hour later, along with commentary that relayed the few details he had about the earlier killings.

  “Luis Cantrell was scheduled to die today by a serial killer who warns his victims ahead of time.” Marx went on to describe the black stationery the killer sent Cantrell, with its white lettering. “If you receive one of those envelopes in the mail, people, be afraid. This killer doesn’t make threats, he makes appointments, and then he keeps them.”

  Marx’s video went viral within hours and the murderer received the nickname, The Appointment Killer.

  Chapter Five

  WASHINGTON, DC, TUESDAY, JULY 9th

  FBI Special Agent Erica Novac had been enjoying time off when the call came in at three-thirty that she was to report to work. She was spending the day with her boyfriend, Angel Alvarez, along with her niece and nephew, Becca and Brady.

  They had taken the kids to see a visiting troupe of incredible acrobats from France. While they were at the auditorium, they had run into one of Brady’s friends, Gabe Downing, and Gabe’s mother, Felicia. While Erica was a good-looking woman with strawberry-blonde hair, green eyes, and ample curves, Felicia Downing was an exotic beauty who looked like a swimsuit model. It had not escaped Erica’s notice that the woman took an interest in Angel.

  For his part, Angel was polite to Felicia. After the show, they all had lunch together at a fast food restaurant that was near the auditorium. The place was packed, and Felicia sat on Angel’s left in their booth, while Erica was on his right.

  When Felicia found out that Angel had begun working part-time as a carpenter, she asked for his phone number.

  “I need some work done around the house.”

  Angel had smiled and said that he would give her a-friend-of-Brady discount. Felicia had laughed at the quip as if it were one of the funniest things she’d ever heard.

  When the two groups split up to go their separate ways, Erica had leaned into Angel and whispered, “That woman wants you.”

  “She can’t have me,” Angel said. “I’m already taken.”

  Erica had smiled at him, then put Felicia Downing out of her mind.

  As they were walking back toward the garage where they’d parked their car, Erica spotted a doll in a display window. It was an antiques store, and the doll was being exhibited along with other old toys.

  It was lifelike, about eighteen inches long, and had been handmade.

  “A Lulu doll,” Erica said, as wonder lighted her face. She explained to Angel what the doll meant to her.

  When she turned eight, her father had given her a Lulu doll. Erica’s father died a hero that same year while on duty as a Washington cop.

  An acquaintance of her father named Ben Miller handcrafted the dolls as a hobby. He had only made a few dozen of them when he died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-two.

  Over the years, the dolls had become collectors’ items, and were fetching hundreds of dollars on auction sites. Unfortunately, Erica’s doll was stolen from her college dorm room in her freshman year. She had cried then, as the doll had always felt like a link to her deceased father.

  The storekeeper, a small man with a limp, informed her that the doll had been sold. He called to a younger man who was dusting shelves.

  “Carl, you forgot to take the Lulu doll out of the window.”

  A shrug came from the other man, along with his reply. “Sorry.”

  “Will you get any others?” Erica asked.

  “No, I doubt it, but you can leave a contact number in case I hear of one.”

  “How much did it sell for?” Angel asked.

  “Twelve hundred dollars, and it’s not even in pristine condition because of a mark on the bottom of it’s left foot. Had it been in mint condition, I would have asked for two-thousand.”

  Brady laughed. “Aunt Erica, you could buy a hundred dolls for that kind of money.”

  “They wouldn’t be the same, honey. That doll has a sentimental value that can’t be replaced.”

  The call from the Bureau came in after Erica had dropped the kids off with her brother-in-law, Mike Uribe. She was planning to spend the rest of the day with Angel. It was a rare thing when they both had a full day free and she was looking forward to a romantic evening.

  When the order came in from her supervisory special agent, Erica knew that her plans weren’t going to happen.

  “I’m sorry, Angel, but it’s important. It’s about a serial killer.”

  “Will you be leaving Washington?”

  “I’m headed to Pennsylvania, and then probably New York City.”

  Angel leaned in for a kiss. “I’ll miss you, but I’ll be busy too. Between working at your mother’s restaurant, being a carpenter on my days off, and working the odd side jobs, I’m lucky I get any sleep.”

  Angel was a paroled ex-con who had been convicted of murder. He had come to the aid of a friend and been blamed when the friend’s assailant died from his injuries. Angel’s brother had an acquaintance who owned a carpentry business and needed help. Knowing that Angel had spent the summers as a teen assisting a cousin who was a carpenter, Angel’s brother had aided him in getting a part-time job.

  The extra money had been a help, and Angel had used it to buy a good used car. However, he didn’t want to be a carpenter. He had discovered while working for Erica’s mother that he liked the restaurant business. He planned to open up his own eatery someday.

  “Don’t work too hard.”

  Angel laughed. “Let’s face it, we’re both workaholics.”

  “Does my odd schedule bother you?”

  “Erica, you’re doing work you love and that you’re damn good at. I won’t ever ask you to give that up.”

  Erica smiled. “I do love hunting down criminals, and I’ve been bored lately, since they’ve had me doing paperwork and interviews to help out in a money-laundering
case.”

  “This serial killer you’re going after now, how many has he killed?”

  “Three that they know of, but nothing’s sure right now.”

  Angel kissed her. “Go get him, baby.”

  Erica laughed. “I’ll do my best.”

  When she arrived at the office, Erica grinned when she saw that her friend and fellow Agent Bradley Owens was there. Owens was tall, in his forties, was handsome, and had the lean build of a runner. They hugged briefly in greeting and began walking toward their supervisor’s office.

  “Did they call you in to work the serial killer case too, Brad?”

  “Yeah, it looks like we’ll be working together again.”

  The supervisory special agent was named Chuck McVie. He had short blond hair and stood six-foot-six. McVie had always been bulky, but he had slimmed down a great deal over the last few months. Erica wondered if her boss had a new woman in his life.

  “Before we start, have either of you seen the Ted Marx video?”

  “Ted Marx, the actor?” Erica asked, as Owens shook his head.

  “He’s moved on from acting and does a current events show on the internet. They say his channel is popular. After today, he’ll be on fire.”

  “Is he involved in this case?” Owens asked.

  McVie spun his laptop around on his desk so that Erica and Owens could view it. “Let me show you the video.”

  McVie pushed a button and Ted Marx’s latest video began playing. It opened with Marx describing the email he claimed to have received from the killer and naming the earlier victims. Afterward, Marx moved on to his first encounter with Luis Cantrell. When it reached the part where Cantrell lay on the floor dying from poison, Erica made a face of disgust.

  “This is out there for anyone to see?”

  “It might be pulled down soon, but it’s gone viral.”

  “What about the letter from the killer, has it been looked at?”

  “FBI agents in the Howesburg area are investigating, but I want you two on this. You seem to have a knack for catching these types of looneys.”

  Erica smiled at Owens. “It’s always a pleasure to work with Brad.”

  Owens returned the grin, then he asked McVie if there had been any other reports of people receiving the black envelopes.

  McVie nodded. “There’s been a degree of panic. Apparently, some people send out black letters as wedding invitations.”

  “I’ve gotten one or two over the years,” Erica said. “Have any of the actual envelopes from the killer been found?”

  “Just the one that Luis Cantrell received. The cops in Howesburg have it.”

  “Then there’s no rush to recover it, so I’d like to visit the scenes of the other two murders. Maybe we’ll uncover something that could lead us to the perp.”

  “There’s a plane waiting for you at the airport; I’ll let them know that you’re heading to New York. From there, you could drive to the crime scene in New Jersey.”

  Erica felt the rush of exhilaration that a new serial killer case always gave her. The hunt was on.

  Chapter Six

  WHITE PLAINS, NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JULY 9th

  Erica and Owens were led to Victim #2’s apartment late in the evening by the building’s superintendent. He was ready with a key, but they could have let themselves in, because someone had broken the lock on the apartment door.

  Erica made a call and confirmed with the local police that there had been no sign of a break-in when the scene was processed. They had removed Michael Heskett’s body and performed the usual procedures required at a homicide scene. Having no reason to do so, they had not searched for a black envelope and letter with white writing.

  Heskett’s TV was missing, and a glass piggy bank lay in several pieces atop the kitchen floor. Some petty thief or a junkie must have learned that he was dead and broken in.

  While wearing gloves, Erica and Owens searched the apartment for the letter. They didn’t find it. What they did find were several photos of a naked teenage girl who looked to be no more than sixteen. The pictures were inside an envelope that had been taped to the underside of Heskett’s sock drawer.

  The victim had two teenage daughters. Erica hoped the photos weren’t of either one of them. If they weren’t, then there were no photos of them in the apartment.

  Owens wondered aloud what sort of man didn’t keep pictures of his children around. Owens was the divorced father of two girls as well. One wall of his apartment resembled a shrine to them, since it contained many photos of the girls, along with the childhood drawings they had made.

  Erica took out her phone and searched the file she had on Heskett. There was no suggestion that he was a sexual predator. Erica pocketed the photos inside an evidence bag, thinking they might be relative to the case.

  Given the late hour, she and Owens decided to call it a day and continue in the morning. The drive to Hopewell, New Jersey, would take over an hour and have them at the scene near midnight. It was better to start fresh, and during sleep the mind often came up with answers, or even pertinent questions that needed to be answered.

  They drove out of New York State across the Tappan Zee Bridge and stopped at a hotel in West Nyack, New Jersey, with plans to meet for breakfast at seven a.m.

  Well-rested, fed, and fueled by coffee, Erica and Owens traveled toward the quiet town of Hopewell, New Jersey. As they drove along a two-lane road in East Amwell, Owens pointed out a side road that led to the house that once belonged to the aviation pioneer Charles Lindbergh. The home was the site of the Lindbergh kidnapping.

  “One of my uncles had a home in the area when I was a teenager. When we visited him, he took us up here to see the house. It was a little eerie to think about what had happened.”

  “That’s one murder case I wouldn’t have wanted to work. Dealing with dead adults is bad enough,” Erica said.

  Craig Rubio’s home was two stories high with a pitched roof attic. As they stepped out of their rental, the agents could smell the damp rot coming from the structure.

  “Victim #1, Craig Rubio, sixty-six, and an ex-high school art teacher,” Owens said. “He was sealed inside his basement to drown from the water pouring into it from a severed pipe.”

  “That certainly sounds inventive,” Erica noted. “So, we have one victim drowned, one electrocuted, and a likely poisoning.”

  “Maybe the perpetrator doesn’t like guns.”

  “He does like attention though, or he never would have contacted Ted Marx. I checked this morning, and although that video of Luis Cantrell’s death has been taken down from Marx’s site, it received over thirty million views and is still making the rounds on the internet.”

  “Marx was irresponsible by posting that; he also should have contacted the police earlier,” Owens said.

  “I’d like to interview him when we get back to New York. The techs should have met with him by then and figured out if they could trace the I.P. address from the computer that sent the email.”

  “It will likely be a dead-end; this killer doesn’t strike me as being stupid.”

  Before entering the home, they walked around it. As they did so, they took notice of the rectangular sheets of clear plastic that had been glued in place over the vents of the crawl space in the basement. A sealant had been applied to the wall surfaces, to help keep the water in. Erica imagined being trapped amid rising water and the image gave her a chill.

  Someone had piled up the flood-damaged furniture and other items that were in the basement in the backyard. It appeared that the local police had searched through it, hoping to find evidence that might have led them to the killer. Everything was dry after so many days in the summer sun, and yet, a damp odor remained.

  Inside the home, they came across the card the murderer had sent. It was still tucked in a cubbyhole of the roll-top desk, where Craig Rubio had placed it. After securing it inside an evidence bag, Erica and Owens checked out the rest of the house.

  In the att
ic, they came across the camera and its tripod. It didn’t take long to figure out that Rubio had been focused on the park and its playground, which was blocks away.

  “The victim was a convicted child molester,” Owens said. “Given those pictures we found in Victim #2’s apartment, I’m wondering if someone isn’t targeting child molesters.”

  “It’s possible, but Victim #3, Luis Cantrell has no record of sexual misconduct.”

  “No record, yes, but not every sexual assault or act of violence against a child gets reported. I’d like to look further into that aspect.”

  Erica nodded agreement and they left the attic.

  The doors leading down into the basement had been removed, so there was no possibility of anyone being trapped again. A sump pump had drained the water, but moisture was left behind. The dank smell was strongest underground, and there were wet spots on the still tacky basement floor, which emitted a squishing sound as they walked on it.

  When Owens studied the spot where the cut-off valve had been severed, he remarked that it appeared to have been done with a hacksaw.

  “Our perp is handy with tools, and rigging that charging base on Victim #2’s electric toothbrush took some ingenuity.”

  “It’s something to keep in mind.”

  As they were walking back to their car, a woman honked her horn as she parked her vehicle along the curb. She was in her early sixties, had white hair, and appeared fit.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  The agents showed their credentials and the woman relaxed.

  “I thought you were ghouls here to look over the house. The neighbors say that there have been other people poking around since Ted Marx showed that video yesterday. He shouldn’t have been allowed to report Craig’s name like that.”