“So, two deaths makes a serial killer, then?” came a comment from one of the detectives.
“Whatever official definition of a serial you choose,” said Buziak, “these two sexually based homicides look to be the work of the same offender, someone with a very particular signature, and one with strong religious overtones. This is a ritual that means something to him beyond simple sexual assault. It’s also possible that the Drummond and Hocking homicides are linked to two violent sexual assaults three and four years ago. Allison Fernyhough, fourteen, and Sally Ritter, sixteen, were both raped and sodomized, also in the greater Victoria area. Detective Pallorino from sex crimes worked those cases with the late Hash Hashowsky.”
Some of the men turned to look at her. Angie shifted slightly in her seat, wondering if it was blame that she could read in some of their eyes, or if it was her own mind putting it there, because on some level she would always wonder whether Hash might still be alive if she’d read the situation differently, if she hadn’t been so hotheaded.
“What links the Drummond and Hocking homicides to the assaults on Fernyhough and Ritter, then?” came Leo’s gruff voice from the back.
“I’m going to let Pallorino walk you through those cases. Pallorino?”
Angie got up and went to the front with her files. She set them on the table. Clearing her throat, she pointed to the photo of Ritter on the whiteboard, an attractive teen with long brown hair, petite build. “Sally Ritter was assaulted in August four years ago after leaving an outdoor concert to relieve herself in the woods nearby. By her own admission she was severely intoxicated. Once in the trees, out of sight from the concertgoers, she was grabbed by her assailant from behind. He held his arm tightly around her neck and pressed a knife blade to her throat. She remembers a male voice, dark clothing, and a ski mask. She believes her assailant was Caucasian, about five feet eleven inches tall, lean, very strong. Probably in his twenties or early thirties. He dragged her deeper into a bushy area, where he forced her facedown to the ground. He pressed her face into the dirt, and, holding the blade to her neck, he yanked up her skirt and ripped off her underwear. He ordered her not to scream or he’d slice her throat. He then said these words:Do you reject Satan, father of sin and prince of darkness?Fisting her hair, blade to her throat, he forced her to sayI do.He then penetrated her with his penis from behind, vaginally and anally, leaving tears. Ritter was sixteen at the time.”
Angie paused, feeling Maddocks’s eyes on her. She resisted glancing his way and focused instead on the men in front of her. “He then struck her on the head, she thinks with a rock, rendering her temporarily unconscious. When she came around, she made her way back to the concert, where friends asked her what she had on her face. Her assailant had drawn, in red waterproof Sharpie, a crucifix on her brow, and a lock of her hair had been cut from just right of center of her hairline.”
Angie pinned up a photo of the red cross on Ritter’s forehead. “This photo was taken by her sister—Ritter reported her incident three days after the fact. The size and shape and positioning of the cross matches the ones carved into Drummond’s and Hocking’s foreheads. The lock of hair was cut from the same area.”
She pointed to the photograph of Fernyhough. “Allison Fernyhough was fourteen at the time of her assault. She was leaving the Tudor Bar downtown in early September three years ago where she’d been drinking under a false ID. On a deserted street, she was attacked, also from behind, an arm around her neck, knife to the throat. She was pulled into an alley and behind a dumpster, where she was forced facedown into the paving and told not to scream or her throat would be cut. Her assailant ripped her clothing and repeated the same words:Do you reject Satan, father of sin and prince of darkness?He forced her to sayI do, then raped her in the same manner as Ritter before rendering her unconscious. Fernyhough didn’t remember much about her assailant—she also admits she’d had too much to drink and was vulnerable. She only discovered the red crucifix on her forehead and the missing lock of hair after she returned home that night and looked in the bathroom mirror.” Angie pinned up the photo of Ritter’s brow with the crucifix. “Again, same shape, size, positioning. This photo was taken by her friend. Ritter reported the incident six days later, at her friend’s, then her mother’s insistence. Neither Ritter nor Fernyhough had rape kits done. Their clothes had been washed in both cases, and their assailant, they believe, wore a condom. We found no witnesses, nothing, other than both victims admitted to having felt they were being ‘followed by a man’ in the two weeks preceding the attacks. There were no further assaults reported, nothing matching this MO on ViCLAS, nothing from the high-risk offender unit matching this offender’s MO, either.”
“So if this is the same perp, where’s he been?” came a question from the group.
“Possibly in prison, or offending elsewhere, or there’ve been additional cases that have gone unreported.” She met the eyes of each man and the one woman in front of her in turn. “Those specific words,” she said, “are part of the Roman Catholic baptism ritual. Given those words, the crucifixes, the references to sinners, and the fact that Drummond was immersed in water and posed at the feet of the Virgin Mary, and that two of the victims were defeminized—had parts of their bodies removed that serve no other role in human biology other than to experience sexual pleasure—it’s possible that our offender believes he’s punishing the girls for their sin of female sexuality. Or for stimulating lust in himself. He—”
Buziak came sharply to his feet. “Thank you, Detective. Let’s gather the facts and not speculate at this point.” He checked his watch. “This is all very preliminary. We’re waiting on final autopsy reports and lab results, including the results of tests being conducted on what appears to be animal hair and seeds found on Hocking’s body. We’ll be seeking further entomological, botanical, and odontological interpretation on that trace. We’ll also be soliciting meteorological and ocean current expertise. Our techs are combing through the results of the canvass that was conducted around Ross Bay Cemetery, including examination of footage secured from a 7-Eleven security camera across the street from the graveyard. And we’ll be doing further interviews with Blue Badger staff and a canvass of the surrounding area.”
Chairs scraped back, and detectives gathered around while Buziak assigned investigative tasks.
“Leo, you and Holgersen go to Harbor House—see if anyone there can tell us more about Faith Hocking. And take these.” Buziak handed Holgersen a pile of flyers with Faith Hocking’s mug shot. “Maybe someone in that area has seen her around recently.
“Maddocks, you and Pallorino head to the morgue, see what O’Hagan has for us on Drummond.” He glanced at his watch again. “After that, visit the Drummond residence and see what the victim’s living conditions can tell us. I’ll be sending patrol officers with questionnaires to canvass residents in the area around her residence. Maybe they’ll locate someone else who got on that same 6:07 p.m. bus at the stop outside the Drummond apartment block.”
Fitz said nothing, just watched like a dark hawk on the side.
Voices rose.
Buziak banged the base of an empty water glass on the table. “Listen up.” Chatter quieted.
“We solve about eighty-five percent of our homicides in this country, and there’s a simple reason for that—most people are attacked by someone they know. But as soon as we have stranger-on-stranger crime, that nexus between victim and offender is broken. Find that nexus, and we’ll find him.”
Fitz unfolded himself and rose from his chair. He came to Buziak’s side in front of the whiteboard. As tall as Maddocks, he was as narrow as Buziak. Beak of a nose. Long face. Sensual lips. Hooded, lugubrious eyes that belied a crackling sharp intellect and temper.
A heavy quiet settled over the room.
“Statistically,” Fitz said in his oddly high voice, “this offenderwillstrike again, and soon, if this current time span between Hocking and Drummond is anything to go by. We’re not going to let that happen.” He paused. “I want this suspect in custody before Christmas.”
Buziak added with a clap of his hands, “So, what’re you all waiting for? A hug goodbye? C’mon, let’s get started already.”
CHAPTER 21
Angie stepped outside and ducked under an overhang to call her dad. While she waited for the call to pick up, she watched Leo and Holgersen exit the building and make for cover farther along the building. Holgersen bent forward as Leo lit his smoke. She turned her back on them as her call connected.
“Dad, it’s me. How’s Mom today? Any better?”
Her father sighed heavily. “It’s not going to get better, Ange, only worse. She got all hyper and stressed and disoriented with the move. They have her heavily sedated at the moment.”
Her heart ached. He sounded so defeated. Lonely. She glanced over her shoulder at the guys smoking, laughing. What was she doing with her life anyway? What was family to her? Suddenly these questions were big and real. Her mind went to Lorna Drummond, her brutally murdered child. The sense of lost time.
“I’ll try to go—” She hesitated. “No. Iwillstop by today. I promise. When I get a moment.”
“Yeah, Angie. Yeah.”
