The Front Range Butcher Page 7

  I chuckled at the irony. “Being a Captain, he’s waist deep in the political BS now. But he did talk about the pressure getting to him, nearly causing him to get divorced. What was the pressure like for you?”

  He held out his left hand. There was a mark where a ring used to reside. I nodded my sympathy.

  “I still feel where my wedding band was. Divorced twelve years now. Not completely from the original Butcher case, but it contributed. Once I was off, things got better, but over time, being in this business is tough on everyone’s relationship. Not sure what the percentage is of divorce for us, but it’s pretty high.”

  I understood the pressure, in my line of work it was there as well. It was one of the reasons I’d likely never get married and I was more than content with my current arrangements.

  “How did you and Jonas meet up?”

  “He was a pain in the ass, like most reporters,” he said with a snicker for the first time. “But you could tell he really wanted to help, not only for the story, but to get a murderer off the street.” His tone turned somber. “I know it bothered him that we never caught the guy. When the murders stopped, with no answer on who was behind them, it bugged all of us. We wanted justice for the victims and their families.”

  “Any thoughts on why the murders stopped?”

  “Nothing concrete. Lots of discussion, conjecture and theories. Until they started up again, we all assumed we’d never have to confront the monster again. Now that he is back, we must catch him once and for all. We can’t have another batch of victims showing up on people’s doorsteps. We’ve grown tired of having to explain to their families what happened and why, with no answers on why we haven’t caught him yet.”

  We passed the man fishing again, this time stopping to watch briefly as he pulled out a small bass, a happy smile on his face.

  This case was exactly like fishing. It took patience and persistence, which I had, but it didn’t appear as though the killer would be as easy to catch as that bass.

  Chapter 13

  The bag was deposited right on the boyfriend’s front lawn, a gift to shame him for the poor way he had treated his girlfriend. He didn’t deserve her and would emotionally pay the price for the rest of his life for his cheating ways.

  She had screamed, cried and begged for the Butcher to stop the cutting as he extracted her flesh piece by piece. His calming eyes didn’t seem to relax her any, as she slowly slipped away, the shock and pain overwhelming her, until she was unconscious. It was a slow death, as she painfully left after a day or two, time of no consequence. He had claimed all the skin, studied and worshipped it before cleaning each piece carefully and placing it in a white trash bag. Doing his best to leave no evidence, a digital printed note with her name for the asshole boyfriend to understand the contents, was taped to the outside.

  The Butcher felt calm now having achieved ecstasy, a satisfaction that would hold him for a few days, possibly a week at most. He knew his next trophy would be selected at random, in another part of the city, leaving no pattern to trace.

  He meticulously cleaned the room and table where her body had lain. The remains now left in a foothills area of pine trees and brush, neatly wrapped in thick plastic, dropped off in darkness at the location pointed to in the note. He never worried about getting caught for he was too smart, too calculating, for them to understand his next moves. There was time to plan the next prize, finding the next beauty for him to behold. He could remain composed, relying on patience and calculation. Until the burning, the itching desire overwhelmed him to act. The internal struggle of his brain, urging him to work slowly and methodically, against his desire and passion to behave quickly and recklessly. He must be patient, plotting to find the right woman, until he could wait no more.

  Chapter 14

  Jonas called me when the bag of the next victim’s remains had been found. He sounded agitated on the phone and was no better when I arrived on the scene in Superior, which was in the northwestern part of the metro area. He was standing outside the crime scene, like the other reporters. For now, they were not letting him in.

  “I told you there would be another one!” he said in frustration. “Have you made any progress?”

  I raised my hands placatingly. “Jonas, I’ve only been on the case for a week. I may be good but I’m not a magician.”

  He sighed apologetically. “Sorry. But he seems to be stepping up his game. Working at a rapid pace. Whatever thrills he is getting are requiring him to find victims more quickly.”

  “This is only the third so far.” I reminded him.

  “Yes, but time between is narrowing. Rarely did we have a new victim that quickly in the past. I’m worried this may mean we’ll have another one even sooner.”

  It was hard to know what to make of this. Serial killers often went on a set schedule. But they could escalate when the thrill of the kill wore off sooner. Was this the case now?

  “Are you Jonas?” asked a uniformed officer on the scene.

  “Yes.”

  “You can step through.”

  “This is my associate, Jarvis. He is helping as well.” Jonas informed the officer.

  He glanced at me with a small frown and made a quick call on his radio. After a brief discussion he got confirmation and waved us both through. There were several people working the scene, including two suits, who were standing around watching with their arms crossed. Among the throng, we saw a familiar face.

  “Jonas, Jarvis,” said Doris. She was dressed in black slacks, tan blouse and was wearing crime scene gloves. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Who are the suits?” asked Jonas, eyeing them curiously.

  “Frick and Frack are FBI. They are here to observe. In other words, mostly stand around and look pretty in case a GQ photographer stops by.” She said with a glare in their direction.

  “And let me guess, they’ll stick their nose into the case when they feel like it,” I added.

  “Their expertise is invaluable,” Doris said sarcastically. “Or so they think. But they do provide resources that the local authorities don’t have. So, we need them, not that I’d ever admit it to their tanned faces.”

  Doris was right. I had worked with Feds in the past and though they were a pain in the ass, they had the power to do things few others had.

  “Please come this way and don’t touch anything,” directed Doris.

  We followed her and came upon a white trash bag, the contents of which I figured I’d not want to look at.

  “Same MO. Bag was left, the cut skin inside, a note attached. Boyfriend found it this morning and read the note before opening the bag. He started screaming when he saw what was inside and some neighbors came running and called 911. They had to sedate him.” She shook her head sympathetically.

  “What about the note, Doris?” asked Jonas.

  “Same as the others. Had the name of the victim and where to find the rest of the body. CSI team is heading there now. Also claimed the boyfriend didn’t deserve her and he would pay for his sins of sleeping with other women while they had been together. Mostly a mind game of mental castration. Probably a long time before he sleeps with another woman.”

  “Anything different about the note?” I kept my eyes level and I could smell what appeared to be bleach.

  “No. Printed on stock laser paper with a laser printer. Font is different again, which has been the norm. Seems he likes to change it to something new with each killing, almost like he’s showing off his artistic ability. Crime scene people will go over it, and hopefully we get lucky. But our killer has been pretty good about not leaving clues so far.”

  “Surely some type of DNA would be left behind?” I asked.

  “Our killer is thorough. He is meticulous with cleaning each piece of skin before placing it in the bag. Uses bleach and other chemicals.” She stopped pointing at her own hands. “Gloves like mine, and gowns, I suspect, as we’ve never even found a hair unless it was the victim’s or from the person opening the
bag. He must use a sterile room. Could even have hospital grade training. Of course, that doesn’t narrow the suspect pool down any.”

  I was amazed at how calm Doris was, as she methodically went through the details without a change in emotion. Knowing the circumstances and being this close to a bag of the victim’s skin made me want to pull back in horror. She made it seem like another day on the job.

  “I was telling Jarvis it seems the timing of the murders are shortening. That our killer is ramping up and finding his victims more quickly.” Jonas sounded a little panicked, his hand rubbing his temple.

  “Take a breath, Jonas,” said Doris in a calming tone. “Yes, it’s a little quicker, but by only a day or two. It’s not unusual for the time between murders to vary slightly. It if starts happening every week then we need to worry.”

  “Sorry, it’s just each death really gets to me. I really want to catch this bastard.”

  I patted him on the shoulder. The bag and the smell of bleach might have been getting to him, too.

  “Anything in particular that might trigger a serial killer acting more quickly?” I asked.

  “There can be many variables. It could be as simple as the thrill is not lasting as long. Much like sex or drugs, he needs his fix. Sometimes they are satisfied and can go longer stretches. But like any addiction, the need can come back more quickly over time. Maybe the last kill isn’t as satisfying. The next kill might be more so and could mean a longer duration before another body turns up.” She stopped showing some grit about the situation, for the first time. “Still we can’t stand around waiting to find out. We must find something, anything at all to work with. We are canvassing the area to see if anyone saw anything. We hope we’ll get lucky. But we’ve not been in the past, so…”

  “We need to talk with Simon,” said Jonas. “He has to be in on this somehow.”

  “You know, as I do, it can’t be him,” replied Doris.

  Jonas seemed to be determined. “Still he has to know something.”

  Doris’ face showed frustration. “He won’t talk to you, Jonas.”

  Jonas turned and pointed me. “No, but maybe he’ll talk to Jarvis.”

  Doris sighed. “He’ll lawyer up, as before.”

  “What do you think Jarvis?” said Jonas, his eyes willing me to say yes.

  I thought about it for a minute, contemplating what Captain Jones had said about getting into the head of a possible serial killer and the affects it had on him. The mind fucking that those on the psycho edge could play. Was I up to that challenge? There was only one way to find out.

  “Can’t hurt to talk with him, if he’ll talk.” I replied.

  “He is smart and coy,” warned Doris. “He can literally turn on a dime and hide behind the mask of sanity. Do you think you’re up to it?”

  I’d faced stone cold killers and men who would kill for love, lust, money or greed. This would be a new challenge I would have to face.

  “I guess I’ll pay him a visit and see if he is willing to play a game of Simon says.” I smirked, feeling less brave than I sounded.

  I hoped I was better at it than I was when I played it as a kid, as the stakes were much higher.

  Chapter 15

  It had been April’s day off and we were supposed to spend it together. She had planned on us shopping for some new boots and was going to look at motorcycles. Both of which she wanted my thoughts on what to choose. But the day was now getting away from me, and it looked like dinner together and a sleepover would have to do. But first I needed to rendezvous with her brother in Aurora. She had three brothers, two of which worked for Aurora PD. Clay was busy, so instead I met up with Neil in a shopping center at Colfax and Chambers. I drove into the parking lot and saw his eighties white Chrysler 5th Avenue idling. I pulled up next to him and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Nice car,” I said, admiring the soft leather seats and well-kept insides.

  “My mobster car,” he replied with a wry grin. “Makes me look dangerous as I do my vice work. Appearance is everything you know.”

  “A couple of dead bodies in the trunk would add to the illusion.” I chuckled.

  Neil laughed and shook my hand firmly. We had met briefly last year when April was shot by a Russian mobster wanting revenge for her besting him in a physical confrontation, an injury she nearly died from. We had talked one other time at a family picnic, where I did my best to be social, though I felt a little out of place.

  Neil was a busy person working undercover in vice, trying to keep the streets of Aurora a little bit safer and cleaner. It was a battle all cops faced every day on the job and often an uphill one at that. But the vice world was a quagmire in the vile streets of drugs, illegal gambling and prostitution. I had lived in it in short bursts, but not as much as the vice cops did, for they spent most hours of nearly every day in it. How he did it and stayed sane was beyond me.

  “How is the job treating you?” I asked, formed from my previous thoughts.

  “Like all jobs. Some days are better than others.”

  “I’m sure vice isn’t like the glamor of Crockett and Tubs.”

  “Nowhere near. Our budget wouldn’t even allow me to buy their wardrobe. And you see the thirty-year-old car I’m driving? No Ferraris in our motor pool to sign out.”

  For its age, it looked pretty good. A different paint job and it could be used after hours up and down Colfax keeping the street ladies in line.

  “April mention who I was looking for?” I asked, getting to the business at hand.

  “Vicente Duarte,” he answered, looking at me curiously. “What do you want him for?”

  “A case. Someone trying to track him down. I assume you’ve heard of him.”

  Neil nodded. “Absolutely. He is a bad dude. What he is into makes him a top dog on the vice hit parade.”

  “Is he in your crosshairs?”

  “Not directly at the moment. But we always have one eye on him.”

  “What are his main interests these days?”

  “Weapons. He likes to keep the gangs armed and normally has a small entourage doing his dirty work. Now that pot is legal, he sells some of that also, his one legitimate business. But illegal drugs filter through him as well.”

  “Know where I can find him?”

  Neil reached under his seat and pulled out a file, handing it to me.

  He turned serious. “You never got that from me. They are copies, so you can keep them.”

  I opened it up and found a more recent picture of Vicente than the one Rocky had provided. His black hair was shaved on the side, but long on top and down his back. He had a skull and crossbones tattoo on his neck that stood out even on his brown skin. A description of him in the file gave more details. He wasn’t tall, maybe 5’9”, but liked to wear boots with heals to make himself appear taller. He had several other tattoos, according to the report, covering a good portion of his body. He had several women he bedded regularly, typically living with one for a while before he would move on to another. His 1969 Camaro, cherry-red with black stripes, was his signature car, along with a 1986 black Trans Am with T top roof and a flaming yellow firebird emblem on the hood. He had done time for possession of drugs and guns and had been arrested two other times for assault and battery, and a homicide, both charges being dropped for lack of evidence. A career criminal, he went where the money and women took him, having worked in San Diego and the Denver metro area in his thirty plus years of life.

  “What about this homicide he was arrested for?” I asked.

  “It was several years back. Supposedly he arranged a hit on a business man here in town. A snitch fingered him, but the charges didn’t stick, as the snitch disappeared. It was in the town of Parker. They were ninety-nine percent certain he arranged it but could never prove it or figure out who’d paid him to set it up. We are pretty sure he has been involved in arranging others as well. But he is good at covering his ass. Runs the money through several accounts making it harder to trac
k. The buyers likely pay in cash and in installments until the job is done.”

  “Non-payment, and I assume they are next on the hit parade?” I asked, still flipping through the papers in the file.

  “Exactly. Failing to pay him will lead to a shorter life span.” Neil took his index finger and ran it across his throat. “What does your client want him for?”

  “I’m not certain. Though he said it was personal.”

  “Tracking him down is risky. I hope he can handle himself.”

  “Not a problem. Not many people are tougher than he is. Any way to narrow down where Vicente is staying from day to day? Sounds like he doesn’t stick to any one place for too long.” I was looking at the list of addresses, of which there were several.

  “Not really. He likes his women, but tires of the same pussy. He will bang on the lady for a week or so and then move onto the next one. Eventually he’ll come back to her, but maybe several months later. He might have as many as twelve or so women he sleeps with. Throws a lot of money around, so they are happy to oblige for the time they have with him. Of course, if they screw around with some other man, and he finds out, they likely won’t be around long either.”

  “I’m surprised he doesn’t get a social disease. And lots of unwanted kids.”

  “He likely doesn’t even know what a condom is used for. For all I know he does have a few bastard children. Whether he cares or not, is the question.” There was some venom in Neil’s tone.

  “A little harsh with the bastard designation.”

  “Probably. When you work vice as long as I have, you get a bit jaded.”

  I read a little bit more and found a couple of pictures of the women he frequented.

  “Looks like we knock on some doors and see what we find,” I said.

  “About all you can do. But I’d make sure I was prepared for the worst. If he is there he normally has some muscle close by. And if he isn’t, she will likely not be forthcoming with information.”

  “Anything else I need to know?”