The Murderers' Club Read online

  Darren puts his seat belt on and starts the engine. “So, have you got a picture of Malcolm’s killer in your head?”

  “Kind of. I need to find out more about Malcolm and write up a formal victimology first. Then draft the profile of the killer.”

  “Hopefully someone will be able to tell us what Malcolm was doing in the Mojave.” We pull out of the parking bay and drive to the airport exit.

  “It’s a bloody big area.” Yesterday I did an Internet search on the Mojave Desert, only to discover it stretches for 25,000 square miles and spreads across four states: California, Nevada, Arizona and Utah. That’s some big crime scene.

  Darren heads north on South Cicero, like the woman at the rental desk told him to, and it takes us just over twenty minutes to reach Oak Park. Soon we’re sitting across from Hamill, an African-American in his late forties. His head is shaved and incredibly shiny, and he wears a small, trimmed goatee and frameless glasses. His stocky frame is covered by jeans and a Chicago Bears jacket, teamed up with expensive-looking sneakers.

  “I’ve spoken to the Jacksons. They’re expecting you to come by later today.” He pauses. “They’re still real shell-shocked. And they want to see the body.”

  It’s a natural reaction, particularly when the death is sudden. For most people, it’s hard to believe their loved one is gone, and it’s not until they see the body that they can truly accept that there hasn’t been some terrible mistake.

  Darren nods. “The ME hasn’t released the body yet, but should in the next couple of days.”

  “You’ll tell the Jacksons when you’re over there?”

  Darren nods again.

  “I finally managed to get a hold of Kitty Dow, Malcolm’s boss at Rendez-Vous. I’ve set up a two o’clock with her for you.”

  “Great. Thanks, Hamill,” Darren says. “How do you want to play this one?”

  Hamill shrugs first, but then shows his cards. “Your body, your case.” He pauses. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll help in any way I can.”

  “That’s fine,” Darren says. “Thanks.”

  “Besides, you’ve got the FBI on it, too. What do you need me for.” Hamill doesn’t phrase it as a question. He turns to me. “What’s your role at the Bureau?”

  “I’m a profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” The profilers at Quantico are divided into two teams, Behavioral Analysis Unit 1—counter-terrorism and threat assessment—and Behavioral Analysis Unit 2—crimes against adults.

  Hamill scratches the palm of his hand. “We work with the Bureau’s profiler in the Chicago office, Sean Field. You know him?”

  “No, haven’t come across him yet, but I haven’t been with the Bureau long.”

  He nods. “Well, here are the addresses and directions you need for the Jackson family and—” he attempts a slight French accent and raises his voice, mocking Malcolm’s employer “—Rendez-Vous.”

  I must admit, I’m curious. I know nothing about the escort business, and certainly not male escorts. It will be an interesting interview. The Jackson interview, on the other hand, will be traumatic.

  We follow Hamill’s directions to Naperville, and Wilson Avenue. The Jackson residence is a large two-story brick home on a beautiful street. Looking at the house, it surprises me that Malcolm had to save for college. If the house is anything to go by, his family is wealthy. We park out front and open the large iron gate. The small garden looks like it was once very well tended, but now weeds invade the well-designed flowerbeds.

  I ring the doorbell and Darren and I wait silently for the Jacksons. Within a minute the door opens and we’re greeted by a striking African-American woman in her mid-forties. Her hair is pulled up into a loose bun, which emphasizes her high cheekbones.

  “Mrs. Jackson?” Darren flashes his badge.

  “No, I’m her sister, Billie. Come in, Officer, we’ve been expecting you.” Her voice sounds ragged, as though she’s been crying constantly and could burst into tears again any minute.

  She leads us down a long hallway and through the second door on the right. Sitting in a large living room is a woman that can only be Mrs. Jackson. The resemblance between her and her sister is remarkable and it looks like there’s only a year or two separating them. Next to her is a very tall, well-built man. He has his arm around her and when we first enter, both of them are staring vacantly at the TV, which is turned off. Once we’re inside the room they look up at us.

  “You the detectives from Arizona?” The man stands up and towers over everyone in the room.

  “I’m Detective Darren Carter with Tucson Homicide.” Darren shakes his hand. “And this is Special Agent Sophie Anderson from the FBI.”

  I shake hands with Mr. Jackson, who’s gentle despite his obvious strength.

  “Sorry for your loss.” My words are totally inadequate but it’s better than remaining silent on the subject.

  Mr. Jackson gives me a tiny nod and his lips pinch together. Mrs. Jackson stands up and greets us on remote control, her eyes glazed over. Her sister offers us a drink, which we both decline.

  “Have you seen Malcolm?” Mrs. Jackson asks, rubbing her hands together.

  “Yes. We both have.” I don’t elaborate, don’t tell her that we witnessed the autopsy. That would definitely be too much information.

  “And it’s definitely our Malcolm?” She looks at a family portrait that hangs on the wall next to the television. The photo depicts Mr. and Mrs. Jackson and four children, two boys and two girls. I recognize Malcolm instantly as the oldest child in the picture.

  “I’m afraid it’s definitely him.”

  Mrs. Jackson starts crying and Mr. Jackson tries to comfort her. She sits back down, although it’s more of a collapse than a controlled sit, and takes Mr. Jackson with her.

  He holds her. “I’m sorry, we still… We just can’t believe it’s happened to our boy.”

  Darren speaks for the first time. “That’s a very normal reaction, Mr. Jackson.” Darren pauses. “And I’m sorry we have to intrude on you now of all times.”

  Mrs. Jackson suddenly stops crying. “No. I want the bastard who did this to our boy.” Her anger takes over.

  “That’s why we’re here, Mrs. Jackson,” Darren says.

  Mrs. Jackson sits more upright, and leans less on her husband.

  Her sister comes forward and sits on her other side. “What can we do to help?”

  I take over. “We need to find out as much as we can about Malcolm and his movements before he left Chicago.”

  They nod and I continue. “Detective Hamill from Oak Park mentioned you thought Malcolm was in New York on business.”

  Mrs. Jackson winces.

  “Yes,” Mr. Jackson says.

  “But we know from forensics that he was in the Mojave Desert. And he was found in Tucson.”

  “We just don’t understand.” Mr. Jackson removes his arm from around his wife’s shoulders and holds her hand instead. “Why would he tell us he was going to New York if he was going to Arizona?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.” I take out a notepad and start scribbling. “We need to know everything that Malcolm said about his New York trip.”

  “He didn’t say much. He called us about ten days ago and said he was going out of town for a month or two.”

  “That’s all?”

  Mrs. Jackson puts her head down. “We haven’t been in contact with Malcolm much over the past year, not since he started that job of his.” Mrs. Jackson’s disapproval is clear, yet it’s manifested more as shame than anger.

  Mrs. Jackson’s sister intervenes. “We were devastated when he told us. We didn’t approve.”

  “He was doing it to put himself through college?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  “Yes.” This time it’s Mr. Jackson’s shame that surfaces. “Things have been rough for us. I lost my job at an insurance firm a few years back and I haven’t been able to get anything much since then. We couldn’t afford to put
Malcolm through college. If Billie hadn’t taken us in…” He doesn’t finish his sentence.

  The family dynamic is becoming clear to me now. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson have been doing it tough and relying on Billie’s charity and Malcolm is the family’s black sheep. He was selling his services—although exactly what “services” covers is unclear—to create a new life for himself. All this is essential background information to give us a realistic picture of Malcolm. Without info like this, he’s just another body on a slab. Although I can never truly think of any murder victim as just another body.

  I turn back to the photo. “He’s a good-looking man.”

  “Yes. Very good looking. He always had women chasing him,” Mrs. Jackson says with a hint of pride.

  “Was he confident?”

  Mr. Jackson responds quickly. “Very. He knew he was handsome.”

  I nod, getting the message loud and clear. There was no hesitation in Mr. Jackson’s response whatsoever—Malcolm had an ego.

  “How…” Mrs. Jackson takes a deep breath. “How did it happen? The detective from Oak Park said something about strangulation.” She spits the words out, the subject matter leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Darren looks at me.

  I nod. Now’s as good a time as any to give them more details.

  “It’s possible the killer is a woman.” Darren says it slowly, reading their reactions.

  They’re all shocked, but it’s Billie who expresses it first. “How could a woman overpower Malcolm? Strangle him?”

  Darren gives me a look, so I take over. “Was Malcolm involved with anyone that you know of?”

  “No. He had girlfriends in high school and was with one girl from his senior year up to a couple of years ago. But—”

  “Do you know how they parted company? This ex and Malcolm?” I ask.

  Mr. Jackson laughs, a forced laugh. “Agent Anderson, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Angela is…well, she’s not involved in this. No way.”

  Still, I take down her details and add her to our interview list.

  “Why are you asking about Angela?” Billie says.

  “We believe it was a sexual crime.”

  My comment is answered by more confusion.

  Finally Mrs. Jackson speaks. “Sexual?”

  “I’m afraid there are things that we can’t tell you, not yet. But there are elements from the crime scene that indicate a romantic or sexual nature.”

  “It’s that damn job of his.” Mrs. Jackson stands up. “Lord have mercy on me, but I’ll kill that Kitty Dow. Flashing her dirty money in our Malcolm’s face!”

  I stand up to face her and put my hand on her arm. “Mrs. Jackson, we don’t have any evidence that this was related to his job. Nothing indicates that his killer was a client.” It’s true, we don’t have any evidence to back up that possibility, but it’s certainly the first line of questioning we’ll be following with Kitty this afternoon. “I know this is hard, but we need to focus on Malcolm. The more we know about him and his movements, the easier it will be to track down his killer.” I sit back down and let my comment sink in. It has the desired effect and within a few seconds Mrs. Jackson nods and also returns to her seat.

  I fire another question at her, hoping to keep her focused. “So, your son was a confident man. What more can you tell us about him?”

  Mr. Jackson stands up and crosses to the family portrait. He stares at Malcolm for a few seconds and then looks back at me. “He was a bright boy. Real smart. He wanted to study law at college. He got the marks, but it all happened around the same time that I lost my job. We just couldn’t afford it. He worked in a bar for a couple of years. That’s where he met Kitty.”

  Mrs. Jackson intervenes. “She told him how much he could make working for her. And that he’d be helping lonely professional women.”

  I nod. It would be hard for a young man to turn down. Good money to go on dates, coupled with the prospect of scoring. Most men fantasize about being attractive enough to secure a job like that.

  “Was he outgoing?”

  “He tended to be a quiet child,” Mr. Jackson continues. “But he did change after he’d been working at Rendez-Vous for a few months. His quiet confidence turned to—” he pauses “—well, to be honest, he was quite egotistical. We asked him to stop working there, then told him to stop.”

  “We were always fighting about it,” Billie says. “Whenever he’d come over. But he wouldn’t listen to us. Didn’t see anything wrong with it.”

  Mrs. Jackson nods. “In the end, he just stopped coming over. He’d call us once a month to check in, but we hadn’t seen him since his birthday in January.”

  I nod and scribble the notes down on my pad.

  “And what about his friends?” Darren says. “We’d like to interview his closest friends too.”

  “Sure.”

  The Jacksons rattle off a few names and we take them all down, with contact details from Mrs. Jackson’s address book.

  I take a deep breath, ready to ask the next question. We have to explore all options—and it’s possible that the killer is a male, albeit a young one or a man with small hands. “To your knowledge, has Malcolm even been involved with other men?”

  “What?” It’s Mr. Jackson who voices the initial shock.

  “We have to cover all bases,” I say to the three family members.

  Mr. Jackson seems about to say something when Mrs. Jackson puts her hand on his. She answers the question calmly. “No, he’s only had girlfriends and he’s only ever expressed interest in the opposite sex.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jackson.” I give her what I hope is a comforting look. “One more question.” I take out James Powers’s sketch of the brunette from my dream. If Malcolm’s killer is a woman, the dream is unrelated, but if the killer is a man, despite Malcolm’s apparent heterosexuality, maybe Malcolm and the girl from my dream are related. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  Mr. Jackson shakes his head. “No.” He looks at his wife and sister-in-law for confirmation. They both shake their heads.

  “Do you think…do you think she did it?” Mrs. Jackson asks.

  “No, not at all. In fact, she may be a victim too.” I don’t elaborate, and although Mrs. Jackson seems confused by my response, she doesn’t seem to have the emotional energy to question me further.

  I look at the sketch again, and the memory of the girl’s screams bubbles to the surface of my conscious mind. I repress the flashback and bite my lip—hard—hoping to drive the thought away.

  10

  Rendez-Vous is in a very respectable twenty-story office building on West Roosevelt Road—but maybe that’s the point. The clientele probably comes from the insurance offices, banks and other high-paying employers in the building itself and the nearby area. We catch the elevator up to the twelfth floor and follow the signs. After a few left turns, we wind up in front of a glass door with a large decal featuring the Rendez-Vous name and logo. Wrapped around the “Rendez” and the “Vous” are the profiles of two faces, meeting in between the two words almost in a kiss. It certainly gets the message across.

  “Nice logo,” I say as Darren pushes the door open.

  He glances back at it over his shoulder as he enters. “Uh huh.”

  Directly in front of the door is a reception desk. A stunning redhead flashes us a toothy but attractive smile. Braces and whitening, for sure.

  “Welcome to Rendez-Vous.” Her voice is husky, but it’s forced not natural.

  “Thanks,” we both reply.

  The place oozes class. The carpet is a thick pile of musky brown, and the walls are a very light grayish blue. Sitting in each of the front corners of the reception area is a leather armchair, and the walls are covered with artistic photos of men and women, mostly dressed in evening wear. Presumably the images are of Kitty’s employees.

  We approach the redhead and Darren is quick to get out his badge. “We’ve got an appointment to see Ms. Dow.�
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  The receptionist takes the badge in her stride, presumably expecting us, and picks up the phone. “Your name?” she asks, even though I’m sure she knows. We do have an appointment, after all.

  “Detective Darren Carter.”

  She smiles again and I can picture her sitting in front of a mirror practicing her smile over and over again.

  “Kitty, I’ve got Detective Carter and—” she looks up at me “—his colleague here to see you.” She hangs up the phone. “She’ll be with you shortly. Have a seat.” She motions toward the two armchairs. Darren and I sit down, both aware of the absurdity of sitting a few meters apart from one another. But then again, I guess Rendez-Vous doesn’t get many couples coming in.

  We wait silently. We’re too far away from each other to carry on a private conversation, so I glance around at the photos. Behind the receptionist are two black-and-white pictures: to the left, an extremely handsome twenty-something male wears a tuxedo, and to the right, a slim but curvaceous woman is depicted in a figure-hugging evening dress. As my gaze moves around the room, I see a photo of Malcolm. A color photo, he’s wearing black jeans and a maroon skin-tight T-shirt that shows off his physique.

  “Darren.”

  Darren looks up from the magazine he’s flipping through. I nod my head toward the photo and he follows my line of sight.

  I continue sweeping the room. The men are of all ages, but the women in the photos are all in their twenties. Why would a man pay for a forty-year-old date when he could pay the same for a twentytwenty-year-old date? From the outside at least, Rendez-Vous seems to be a legitimate escort agency. Stylish, good-looking men and women available for hire for that special evening or dull work function. I can see the slogans now.

  After five minutes a woman in her fifties appears. She has dyed-blond hair that’s piled on top of her head, and sparkling green eyes, possibly contacts. She’s petite, at about five feet four inches, and is immaculately dressed in a navy suit with a plunging neckline. Her lips are plump and her skin taut—she’s well-acquainted with collagen and the surgeon’s knife.