False Mirrors Page 3

  "Outside of the cause of death, our victims appear to have nothing in common," Rankin continued. "Victim number one is a John Doe. Caucasian, mid-thirties. From what we've been able to determine he was one of Cascade's homeless... went by the street name of Chuckles. Our JD frequented a shelter run by a Father Jameson down on Sixth and Elm. He was found down by the waterfront Sunday morning by an early morning jogger. Time of death was set at approximately 11:00 p.m., Saturday night.

  "Victim number two is Mandy Vincent. Age 21, Hispanic... worked the six to midnight shift at a minimart over on the north side of town. She was found in Fountain Park Monday morning. He body was left in a dumpster near one of the pavilions. Death occurred sometime between midnight, Sunday and 1:00 a.m., Monday.

  "Robert Jeffries, age 42, Native American, became victim number three at roughly 1:00 a.m., Tuesday morning. Mr. Jeffries was apparently new to Cascade. We spoke with the landlord of the building where he'd rented a room two weeks ago. Supposedly a nice guy -- quiet, friendly. No steady job that we've been able to ascertain yet. The body was found in an alley just south of King and Seventeenth.

  "The fourth victim has been identified as Gloria Danen. Caucasian, age fifteen. From Seattle. Her parents reported her as a runaway about a month ago. Missing Persons faxed down the confirm. Her body was also found in a dumpster, this one at the Lakewood Mall. Time of death... 2:00 a.m., Wednesday.

  "Which brings us to today... Thursday's victim... number five in as many days. We haven't found a body yet, but we're assuming there is one. All the precincts have been alerted to contact us if another corpse turns up."

  Rankin paused to let the information sink in. He flipped through his own file folder and pulled out the forensics report.

  "Differences aside, here's what we've got that links them all together. Each suffered a blow to the head. We don't have a handle on the weapon yet, but it appears to have been some kind of heavy, metal object. The bruising around the site of the head injury varies slightly, but we're guessing that the same or similar instrument was used in each case. That didn't kill them though. The ME has determined the actual cause of death to be the result of a single stab wound which punctured the heart. Presumably a knife or dagger with an approximately six inch, non-serrated, double-edged blade, tapered at the point."

  "That's an unusual weapon," Jim murmured.

  "Not unusual enough," Briggs sighed. "We've identified at least six major companies that manufacture a blade that matches that description."

  "Forensics found very little blood at each scene," Rankin stated. "Given the nature of the wound, that suggests the victims were attacked and killed in one location, then transported to where the bodies were found. The fact that death was accomplished with a single stab wound would indicate that we're dealing with someone who either knows human anatomy extremely well, or someone who's been specifically trained to kill."

  "That could be anyone from a second year med student to someone with a background like Jim's," Blair observed, making his first comment of the meeting.

  "At least it doesn't include anthropologists, Hair Boy," Brown teased quietly.

  Blair quirked an eyebrow, but remained uncharacteristically quiet, returning his gaze to the case folder.

  "Are you saying we've got a serial killer on our hands?"

  Banks had been watching Blair when Joel voiced the question. He saw the younger man's head snap up and caught the flicker of remembered terror in the wide blue eyes before the anthropologist regained his composure. Simon immediately glanced at Ellison to gauge his reaction. The detective's jaw muscles were working overtime, and his eyes had taken on a dangerous, cold glint.

  "I think we have to consider that as a very real possibility," responded Rankin, apparently unaware of the dynamics unfolding around him.

  "Four murders since Sunday night..." Rafe shook his head in disbelief and disgust. "What's this guy trying for? A record?"

  "We don't know that it is a man, detective," Briggs pointed out.

  "Whoever he is, he's a sick, sadistic son-of-a-bitch."

  Blair's angry outburst caught everyone off guard and all but Jim turned to stare at the Observer. From the slightly embarrassed expression on his face, Simon wondered if the younger man had meant to voice the comment aloud.

  "Cause of death might have been one stab wound," Blair said grimly. "But whoever's responsible for this madness didn't stop there. Your reports say the victims bodies were mutilated with multiple knife scores. Was it random or was there a pattern?"

  Rankin eyed the anthropologist curiously. "There was a consistency in the placement of the secondary wounds, but no pattern that we could assess. What are you suggesting?"

  "Nothing really," the observer demurred. "It's just speculation..."

  "That's part of what we're here for, Sandburg," Simon growled. He'd never seen the younger man so hesitant to offer his opinions.

  Blair glanced down at the file in his hands and swallowed hard. "Well, since there isn't an obvious link between the victims, then the connection has to lie within the killer, doesn't it? I mean, if we assume that these murders were done by the same person -- and the manner of death does fight the odds of coincidence -- then there has to be a reason that he's chosen these people and marked them in death. A reason that makes sense to him and not to us."

  "Your point?" Briggs said, frowning in confusion.

  "If the mutilation pattern is the same and we can figure out what that means, then maybe we'll be able to narrow down our list of suspects to less than half the population of Cascade," Jim interjected. He turned to his partner. "Did I get that right, Chief?"

  "Exactly." Blair flashed Jim a relieved smile and then glanced around the table. "Ritual mutilation of the living or the dead was a fairly widespread practice among many ancient tribes and religions. Defiling the body or corpse of a vanquished foe was often believed to transfer that enemy's power to the victor. Blood has always been recognized as a powerful symbol of both strength and immortality..."

  "You suggesting we've got a vampire cruising the streets of Cascade?" snorted Sterns derisively.

  "Not a vampire, no," Blair explained quietly. "But if there is a similarity in the pattern of the mutilation, we could be dealing with someone who's practicing either an ancient religion or some type of the black arts. Typically there would be some specific symbol or icon as part of the design that's carved into the body..."

  The anthropologist's voice trailed off and he paled as if he suddenly realized what he was describing. Ellison turned toward the shaken young observer and Simon saw the older man place a comforting hand on Blair's shoulder.

  "I don't pretend to understand the significance," Rankin announced. "But I'm all for any kind of lead that will help us find this bastard. The bodies are still in the morgue. If you want to investigate that angle, it's all yours."

  Jim glanced up at Simon and nodded. "We'll want to check out the location where each body was found as well," the Sentinel added.

  "All right. We've got more than enough ground to cover here, gentlemen," Simon decreed. "Let's divide this up and get to work."

  They spent the next thirty minutes outlining their strategy. Rafe, Brown and Taggert were assigned the task of digging further into the victim's lives and the activities preceding their deaths. Rankin and Briggs had leads they'd already developed and Simon directed them to pursue them as long as they fed the information back in to Ellison, who would act as the head investigator on the case. Fortunately, there was no resistance among the Homicide detectives to relinquishing control of the case to Major Crimes.

  Simon himself had some reservations about assigning the most grizzly aspects of the case to Ellison and Sandburg. Especially since neither one of them appeared to be at their best. Jim had readily volunteered a number of suggestions on how they should proceed, but he seemed even more reserved and unapproachable than normal. Sandburg had been fairly animated during his impromptu lecture, but had settled back into a reserved silence once the planning had begun, breaking that mute posture only when his partner asked him a direct question.

  They both looked wrung out... and they did even before the memories of Lash reared their ugly head again...

  Besides Ellison and himself, no one knew how badly the young observer had suffered after his last contact with a serial killer. Banks would have preferred to keep the anthropologist out of the action, but he knew he had little choice. Outside of the fact that he wasn't sure Jim would let the younger man out of his sight now anyway, Sandburg's insights might just have given them the lead they needed, and the Sentinel's enhanced senses had solved more than one perfect crime. Simon might regret it, but he needed them on the street, working together.

  A call came in just as they were ready to break up. Rankin took it and shook his head sadly when he put down the receiver. His eyes were filled with anger and grim determination when he announced that they now had a confirmed fifth victim.

  The trip to a small strip mall on the north side of town was made in silence. Ellison drove, his fingers clenched around the Ford's steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. His headache had returned with a vengeance. Each jolt of the truck sent a new wave of pain surfing through his skull. The polarized sunglasses he'd donned again weren't doing much to cut the glare and it seemed like even the dullest surface sent a knife-sharp reflection straight into his eyes. The skin across his forehead felt drum-tight and his stomach was rolling queasily every time he cornered the vehicle.

  Anger was fueling the headache -- dry tinder tossed on an already blazing fire. He wasn't certain what to blame it on -- the case or his whacked out senses. The suggestion that a serial killer was stalking the people of his city was enough to make the Sentinel's blood boil. His contact with the last one had been far too personal. Knowing he was operating at less than 100 percent effectiveness wasn't helping the situation.

  I never wanted these damn enhanced senses. What good are they? Now, when I could really use them they go crazy... making me act crazy. What if something happens at the scene? What if I lose it again like I did this morning?

  Out of reflex, he glanced to his right seeking the presence of his Guide. The abrupt movement sent a blinding streak of pain zooming left to right between his eyes. He ground his teeth together to keep from groaning aloud and resolutely fixed his gaze on the road.

  "Take a deep breath and dial it down, Jim."

  It was the same order he'd been giving himself for the past twenty minutes, but it hadn't been working. The softly whispered command had an immediate effect however, the soothing tone of his Guide's voice cutting through the thunderous clamor in his head and prompting an automatic response from the Sentinel. Ellison inhaled, filling his lungs with the scents of herbs and leather and musty old books -- familiar, comforting smells he had come to associate with his partner. On the exhale, he reached for the mental dials and one by one, nudged them lower.

  He felt better almost immediately. Maintaining a pattern of even, measured breaths, he loosened his grip on the steering wheel, flexing the fingers of his left hand to work out the cramps and tingles. He repeated the exercise with his right and risked a peek out of the corner of his eye, assuming he'd find his Guide glaring at him for not having the brains to ask for help in the first place. There was no 'I told you so,' in his partner's eyes. Just concern. Jim managed a weak smile and Blair nodded, turning his attention back to the case file which rested in his lap. A curtain of curly hair hid the younger man's face from view and with his senses dialed down, the Sentinel couldn't monitor the younger man as easily as he would have liked. Not that I need enhanced senses to know how he's feeling, Jim thought grimly. Now that the specter of David Lash has reared its head again, I won't be the only one having nightmares. Ellison tightened his fingers around the wheel and pushed his foot harder against the gas pedal. The sooner we get there, the less time Sandburg's fertile imagination has to blow this all out of proportion.

  The mall's tiny parking lot was plugged with police cars, the forensics van, an ambulance and the vehicles of the patrons who had the misfortune of picking that morning to do their shopping at the five small stores which the center contained. Seeing the logjam, Jim drove to the next corner and turned right, seeking a back way in. Seconds later, he pulled into a narrow alley which ran behind the building and brought the truck to a stop.

  He leaned back in his seat for a moment, watching the crowd of uniformed and plainclothed officers busily attending to their tasks. The area was cordoned off with yellow tape proclaiming the crime scene. The focus of the activity was a rust colored dumpster, its massive bulk nestled against the back wall of the structure. His sensitive nose registered the reek of garbage which wafted through the truck's half-open window. Besides the dumpster, a dozen overflowing trash cans and mounded heaps of discarded, cardboard boxes -- soggy from the morning dew -- littered the narrow space. Intermingled with the fetid odors of decay was another foul smell -- death. The heavy, metallic odor of blood was so strong he could almost taste it.

  And I was worried about Sandburg over-reacting. I'm doing just fine on my own. He resisted the urge to take another deep breath -- knowing he'd regret it if he did -- and pulled up on the door handle. Elbowing the panel open, he eased out of the seat and glanced back inside. Manila folder clasped in one hand, Sandburg was fumbling at the catch on the seatbelt with the other, obviously intent on accompanying him.

  "You don't need to see this, Chief," Ellison said quietly.

  Blair glanced up and met his gaze stolidly. "No, but you do, so I'm coming with you." He shoved a thumb down on the release point of the belt buckle and tugged at the strap, freeing himself from the restraint. Without another word, the grad student climbed out of the truck, closing the passenger door gently.

  Jim frowned and felt the muscles in his jaw spasm as they clenched. The action sent clawed fingers of pain dancing across his taut skin and renewed the throbbing in his skull. Moving gingerly, he shut his own door and walked to the front of the truck. A gust of wind caressed his face and he flinched. He shook his head to clear the stench from his nostrils and immediately regretted it. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard against the bile which rose in the back of his throat.

  "Take it slow, Jim..."

  The Guide's tone brooked no argument and the Sentinel obeyed without question. The warmth of his partner's hand on his arm worked its magic as usual, grounding the Sentinel and giving him back a measure of control. Ellison slowly turned his head toward the place where Sandburg was standing and cautiously opened his eyes.

  "Bet you feel like crap," Blair said quietly. "It's no wonder. We're standing in the middle of Garbage Central. This is the worst place for you to be right now."

  "Not much choice," Jim replied softly.

  "Yeah, I know. You have a job to do. You'd better take a minute to get centered before you leap into the fray."

  Ellison's frown deepened. "Sandburg --"

  "Don't 'Sandburg' me, Jim," Blair hissed, his own face creasing in a scowl. "You might be able to fool the rest of them, but I know you're hurting. If you'd just listen to me, I might be able to help."

  The Sentinel struggled with his own pride for a few seconds before giving in. "How do you always know?"

  Blair rolled his eyes. "I'm your observer, remember?" He tried for a grin, but the effort fell flat and his expression grew serious again. "The furrows in your forehead are a dead giveaway, but it's mostly your body language. Normally you carry yourself differently and your gait's looser. Even when you're suspecting trouble, your muscles are more relaxed. I always think of the panther when you shift into action -- all that sinuous strength. Right now, your movements seem forced, not fluid. When you turned your head it looked like you were making a conscious effort to control what should be an automatic response of muscles to brainwaves. I'm betting you closed your eyes before you even attempted it in order to avoid a nasty flash of pain across the eyeballs. Am I right?"

  Jim's reply was a barely audible grunt. His less than articulate acknowledgment didn't seem to faze the younger man in the least.

  "You need to regroup before you go over there, man. I do not want to have to pull you out of a zone-out or another episode like this morning. Just do what I tell you and don't argue for a change." The harsh edge in Blair's voice disappeared as he dropped the pitch and volume to a soothing tenor whisper. "Take as shallow a breath as you can and then shut down smell and taste. Turn the dials down below zero if you can."

  It was futile to argue with his partner when he was settled firmly into Guide mode, so the Sentinel complied.

  Blair flashed him a reassuring smile. "Good. Close your eyes and take a deeper breath this time -- fill your diaphragm, not simply your lungs -- and let it out slowly. Then take another and release it the same way. Visualize the pain dial in your head and turn it down... keep taking deep breaths, the additional oxygen in your blood stream will help relieve some of the pressure from the headache."

  Ellison concentrated on the velvety blackness behind his eyelids as the air surged in and out of his body. As Sandburg's mesmerizing voice washed over him, sluicing away the tension, the pounding in his head receded to a more manageable level.

  "You're doing great, Jim," Blair whispered encouragingly. "One last thing and you'll be good to go. We're going to try a quick fix to unknot the muscles in your neck and shoulders. Keep up the breathing and pull your shoulders back... as if you were trying to touch your shoulder blades together."

  Ellison straightened to his full height. The muscles across his back protested the movement, but he ignored the discomfort. "Now raise your shoulders toward your ears. When they're as high as you can get them, I want you to drop them. Hard." The Sentinel hesitated, anticipating the reawakening of the headache the movement would bring. "Trust me, Jim," his Guide pleaded. "This will work. Just keep control of the pain dial and you'll be fine."