Part 22 (1/2)
”Which suggests that the victims were upright and the killer held them while they died. That's a very intimate way to kill.”
”That's what I said!” Lucy exclaimed, excited that Hans saw the crime the same way she did.
”Which could in its own way be a s.e.xual murder, even if the killer didn't attempt intercourse.”
”I hadn't thought of it like that.”
”Did you realize what you said before?”
”That I didn't think about it as a s.e.xual crime?”
”No. You said he or she in reference to the killer.”
”I didn't notice. Considering the victim profiles and the intimate aspect of the crimes, of course the killer would be male.”
”I think I know what has been bothering you about the murders,” Hans said. ”It's that the victims were suffocated. Suffocation is traditionally a more feminine method of murder. Along with poisoning, it is more common among female killers than male killers.”
”Wade Barnett is a good suspect,” Lucy said, weighing Hans's comments. She hadn't considered a female killer; why was that? But the manner of death had caught her attention and wouldn't let go.
”Is there any physical evidence connecting him to the murders?”
”Not that I know about. But the investigation isn't over. The FBI has a search warrant, and lying about knowing the victims is a big red flag.”
”People lie for many different reasons.”
Lucy asked, ”Do you really think that a woman could hold someone for the seven minutes it takes for them to die? Then coldly remove the bag, drop the body to the ground, remove one shoe, and walk away?”
”Yes,” Hans said without hesitation. ”Female killers can be just as cold-blooded and merciless as their male counterparts. Was there any bruising on the torso?”
”I don't know. I only saw the one autopsy report.”
”If you consider that the victims were, in a sense, poisoned with drugs-even if they took the drugs willingly-which made them compliant, then were suffocated, without any s.e.xual component, that makes it even more likely to be a female killer. I wouldn't rule out the current suspect, of course, but I'd hesitate to bring the case to the U.S. Attorney without solid physical evidence tying him to the murders.”
”Suzanne Madeaux is a smart agent,” Lucy said. ”I shouldn't have said anything.”
”But it's been on your mind. I'm glad you called. How long are you staying in New York?”
”I don't know. Sean said until we find Kirsten. And maybe when we do, she'll be the eyewitness we need to indict Wade Barnett.”
Or point them in a completely different direction.
TWENTY.
Suzanne and Vic Panetta split the search warrant-she took Barnett's residence, Panetta took his office.
Barnett lived in a secured high-rise in the upper nineties off Central Park West. The tall building with views of Central Park from the higher floors was bordered by older four-story town houses, some single residences and some converted into apartments. Suzanne preferred her flat on the Lower East Side to the opulence of Barnett's apartment building, but she admitted that she coveted one of the brownstones.
Not in the cards on a government salary.
She flashed her badge and warrant to the doorman, who rang the manager on duty. Ten minutes later, she was let into Barnett's nineteenth-floor five-room apartment.
It was a larger version of his office. Cool gray carpeting; white leather furniture; lots of steel and gla.s.s. Yankees posters-framed and signed; an eclectic version of art on the walls from realistic charcoal drawings to flashy, bright paintings that didn't appear to be anything specific. But the framed artwork that caught Suzanne's eye were photographs of abandoned warehouses. She recognized the printing supply house where Jessica Bell had been killed.
”Where do you want us to start?” asked Andie Swann, from the Evidence Response Team.
”Photograph everything, then dedicate someone to the computer and any electronics. Our warrant covers everything in his apartment and any storage, in addition to his car. And can you also get someone to pull down those photographs?”
”Of the buildings?”
”Yes. I want to know who took them and when and ID every site.” She didn't immediately see photographs of the first three crime scenes, but that didn't mean they weren't around.
She turned to the manager. ”Does Mr. Barnett have a vehicle stored on the property? Any storage unit?”
”We have an underground garage where he has a slot, number 103. We have storage units, but he doesn't rent one.”
She said to Andie, ”Send someone down to the garage to check on the status of the car and arrange for transport.”
The manager said, ”Oh, no, he never drives it. It's a cla.s.sic.”
”What good is a car you can't drive?”
”I suppose he might take it out on occasion, but I haven't seen it missing in months. It doesn't have a roof.”
”You mean it's a convertible?”
”No, it doesn't have a roof. He bought it at auction, and the roof was damaged. He only drives it on nice days if he's going out of town.”
Suzanne looked at Andie and Andie nodded. She would check it out. ”Prints, fibers, and trace,” Suzanne called after her.
”Mr. Barnett is a good tenant,” the manager said. ”We've never had any problems with him. No complaints.”
”Good to know,” she said in dismissal. ”You're welcome to stay and observe, but I ask that you stay in the hall. Let my people do their job.”
”No, go ahead; just please let me know when you're leaving so I can lock up.”
”I'll be putting a police seal on the door,” she said.
Suzanne slipped on latex gloves and walked through the apartment. A large living area, a separate dining area, a kitchen that was bigger than her entire one-bedroom apartment. And the view of Central Park was nice. But the best thing about the place was the light-lots of windows, lots of open s.p.a.ce. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an office. Large s.p.a.ce for a bachelor. Had to be at least 2,000 square feet. Maybe more. For a New York City apartment with a view, that was rare and pricey.
Suzanne walked through the apartment slowly, taking in the atmosphere, imagining Wade Barnett living here. Killers came in all shapes and sizes and economic cla.s.ses. Psychopaths weren't rich or poor; black or white; men or women. Suzanne believed any human being had the capacity to kill, given the right motivation. But while most people killed only when they were in immediate jeopardy, psychopaths killed for pleasure. Whether it was a g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger who had no regard for human life or a serial killer with a sick, twisted view of women, they could come from any socioeconomic background.
She wouldn't allow Wade Barnett to get away with murder because he was rich.
While Andie was down in the garage and her team methodically worked through the apartment, Suzanne went to Barnett's office, which was more cluttered than the living areas. The computer tech was already at work, and Suzanne focused on the contents of the desk. They were already working on getting Barnett's financials, but because he was paid by a trust it was tricky. She'd leave those details to the accountants and lawyers.
Nothing jumped out at her. Baseball, architecture, and the historical society. His bookshelves were lined with books on those same three subjects, with few exceptions. He had three Yankee game b.a.l.l.s, all signed by the player who'd hit a home run. They were displayed under lights, behind gla.s.s. An award from a local preservation society was prominently displayed on the wall, next to a picture of the former mayor handing a teenage Wade Barnett a plaque.