Murderous Twins Read online

  “Apparently the cops think it was a mugging gone bad.”

  “Real bad.” Gary sighed deeply, taking the paper when Steve handed it back to him. “It says it happened right after Jim left work. He works…worked for a high-class restaurant and, according to some of the other employees, usually left by the back door since it was the quickest way to get to his bus stop.”

  “Why take a bus?”

  “May, his wife, is handicapped—in the early stages of MS—so he leaves the car for her. I should call her. We got to be friends while I was working for them.” He smiled to himself. “May used to kid us that we could have been siblings, as much as we looked alike. Not that we really did, but there was a vague resemblance.”

  Steve nodded. “Now I know why his name sounded familiar. You mentioned them several times because, so you said, they were the ideal clients.”

  “They were. They knew what they wanted, didn’t change their minds ten times, and they trusted me when I made suggestions. What’s wrong?” Gary asked when Steve frowned.

  “This reminds me of something I read a while ago about another mugging. Hang on.” He got up, going to the desk in the corner of the room. Booting up his laptop, he went online. It took him a few minutes to find what he was looking for. “I knew I was right. Take a look at this.”

  Gary came over, resting his hand on the desk while leaning over to read the article Steve had found. When he finished, he looked at his husband. “Sure sounds like what happened to Jim, down to the alley as the murder site, and the fact the victim was around our age. Are there any others?”

  Steve did a search, using the parameters of Denver, muggings, and age 40 to 50. It returned several articles, but only four other events where the beating had been as traumatic as Jim Waters’s. The first had been almost three years previously, followed approximately every six months by another one—until Jim Waters. His had happened less than three months after the one Steve had remembered reading about.

  “If we have a serial killer,” Steve said, leaning back to look up at Gary, “he might be escalating.”

  “Surely the police are aware of what’s going on.”

  “Only one way to find out. I’ll call Owen first thing tomorrow morning.” Owen was Detective Owen Kemp, of the DPD, and Steve’s favorite contact on the police force. They had first met when Steve had been looking for a missing man who might have been involved, according to his wife, in something criminal. He’d called the precinct, asking to talk to someone who would be willing and able to discuss the man in question. The desk officer had connected him with Owen, who had informed him that his client was correct. Her husband had been sitting in jail, awaiting his bail hearing. After that, Steve had called Owen occasionally when he needed information the detective might have. Owen was willing to help whenever he could. In exchange, Steve shared information he picked up on that Owen might be interested in. They had become friends, in the casual way two men will when they have a common interest, but nothing beyond that.

  Gary nodded, giving Steve a thumbs-up as he took out his phone. When his call was answered, Gary talked for a few moments, telling May Waters how sorry he was about the death of her husband.

  Although she was obviously broken up by what had happened, she managed to say, “It was murder, Gary, plain and…” She gulped, taking a deep breath. “Plain and simple. Whoever killed him, it wasn’t a mugger. He still had his wallet, his wedding ring, and the solid gold watch I…” Again she paused in an obvious attempt to regain control of her emotions. “I gave him that watch for our twentieth anniversary. Gary, he didn’t fight back. Jim knew how to defend himself, but the police said he didn’t fight the guy. There were no defensive wounds, they said. My husband would have fought tooth-and-nail before he let some son of a bitch rob him, if that’s what the killer planned on doing.” She finally broke down, sobbing as she said, “God, I miss him. They have to do something. They have to catch whoever did this.”

  Gary waited until her sobs abated before replying, “They will, May. It will take time, but they will.”

  “When they do, I want him to fry—here, and in Hell,” she said. “What kind of bastard does that to someone?”

  “A sick one. May, do you have someone to stay with?” Gary asked because he knew she and Jim had no children.

  “Yes,” she replied. “My sister. She’s here, now.”

  “If you need anything, anything at all, please let me know.”

  “I will. Thank you for calling. You didn’t have to.”

  “I wanted to. I liked Jim. I like you. We’re friends, even though we didn’t see that much of each other.”

  “We are,” she agreed. “I have to go. My sister’s waiting.”

  “Take care of yourself. I’ll keep in touch, I promise.”

  “Thank you,” she barely whispered before hanging up.

  “Are you okay?” Steve asked, taking Gary’s hands.

  “Define okay,” Gary replied with a mournful sigh. “I’m pissed. No, I’m angry. Angry about how Jim died. Angry at the bastard who killed him. If the cops don’t catch the guy…”

  “As you told her, they will. If he is a serial killer, and it looks like he might be if what we’re thinking is right, it won’t be easy. He’s undoubtedly gone to ground until the next time his need kill gets too strong.”

  “And there’s no way to stop him.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Steve replied. “If he’s escalating, he might make a mistake.”

  “I hope to hell he does.”

  * * * *

  “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to sleep all day,” Blaine said when Lloyd wandered into the living room early Sunday afternoon.

  Lloyd shook his head. “You should know me by now. I’m always exhausted after a kill. Elated, flying high, but physically drained. Too drained this time to want to celebrate last night.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Blaine handed him the newspaper. “You made page three. Good job. They’re putting it down to a mugger who got over enthusiastic.”

  Lloyd smiled as he read the story. “He got exactly what he deserved.”

  “You do know…”

  “That he wasn’t our father? Of course.” Lloyd rolled his eyes. “But while it was happening, Father was all I saw. Just like all you see is the bitches who tried to take over your place in his life.”

  “Tried?” Blaine growled. “They did. But enough of this. What do you want to do to celebrate?”

  “What we always do. Nothing. It’s not like we can go out to dinner and a club, or even a movie.”

  “We can, but not together, which wouldn’t make it much of an occasion. We’ve got steak, potatoes, and the makings for a salad. How does that sound?”

  “Fantastic. I’m starving,” Lloyd replied.

  Since they were celebrating Lloyd’s latest kill, Blaine made him sit at the kitchen island while he fixed them a late Sunday lunch—or very early dinner. As he made the salad, he said, “I still wonder if it’s genetic.” It was a question they’d both voiced on occasion, with no answer forthcoming.

  This time, however, Lloyd replied by saying, “Twins are supposed to share a link. They—we have the same DNA. I read somewhere that means we share physical and mental characteristics.”

  “Well, obviously we’re the same physically,” Blaine said. “We’re identical.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s the mental thing which intrigues me. The average person may dislike or even hate a person, but they don’t go around killing them in absentia. They don’t become serial killers, which is what we are.”

  “Us? No way.” Blaine laughed. “Okay, maybe you’ve got something there. Nature versus nurture? Since we grew up in very different environments, what we’re doing has nothing to do with shared nurturing. So it’s got to be something up here.” He tapped his temple then laughed again. “The age-old question, are serial killers born that way, or are they created by their circumstances? I for one don’t give a damn. I like what we�
�re doing. It fills a need in me. The same with you. That, my dear brother, is all that counts.”

  * * * *

  As soon as Steve got to his office Monday morning, and had checked with Nanee, his secretary, to make certain there were no messages he had to deal with immediately, he placed a call to the police department, asking for Detective Owen Kemp.

  It took a few moments, while his call was transferred, then Owen answered. “To what do I owe the honor, Steve? Or do I want to know?”

  Steve chuckled. “Probably not, but…I presume you’ve heard about the mugging Saturday night.”

  “Which one?” Owen asked. “In a city this size, we get at least a dozen aggravated robberies on any given day.”

  “Yeah, get technical on me,” Steve grumbled. “Okay, the aggravated robbery where the victim, Jim Waters, was beaten to death.”

  “That one I definitely know about, since it’s my case. It was bad, Steve. The guy didn’t stand a chance from what the ME says. Why are you interested?”

  “Waters was a friend of Gary’s, for starters.”

  “Okay, and…?”

  “The story in the paper reminded me of one I’d read about three months ago. Call it my detective gene kicking in, but the two attempted robberies, if that’s what they were, are very similar.”

  It seemed to take forever before Owen replied tensely, “They were.”

  “They’re not the only ones, are they?”

  “Been doing your research?” Owen asked, not sounding at all happy about the idea.

  “You know me.”

  “Yeah, I do. I also have a good idea what you’re thinking, and you may be right.”

  “There’s a serial killer running loose in the city.”

  Owen sighed. “We think so. Two of them, in fact.”

  “Two men were involved in killing Waters?”

  “Not according to the ME. Look, if you have some time today, and want to talk about this, I’m game. But I’d rather not do it over the phone.”

  Steve checked the appointment calendar on his computer. “I’m free after one.”

  “Okay. Barring my catching a new case, I’ll come by around two.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  After hanging up, Steve set to work on what was one of his least favorite chores—background checks for two regular clients.

  * * * *

  Coming into Steve’s office, Nanee said, “The good detective is here. And I don’t mean you, though you’re not all that bad.” She laughed when he rolled his eyes, then went to get Owen.

  “So I’m the good one, huh?” Owen said, taking the client’s chair by Steve’s desk.

  “Debatable.” Steve grinned then got down to business. “You said there were two serial killers running loose.”

  “We think so. I believe one of them is the man who killed Mr. Waters, and several other men. So does the FBI.”

  “They’re involved? Lucky you.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Owen protested. “Anyway, unless we’re way off base, and we aren’t from all the evidence, what there is of it, he strikes approximately every six months. However,” He held up a finger, “with Waters’ murder, he could be escalating since there’s only a three-month gap.”

  “I figured that might be the case, unless I missed someone.”

  “Knowing you, I’m sure you didn’t.”

  “What makes you think the cases are related, other than the brutality involved?” Steve asked.

  “One. Nothing was taken from the victims and they were all carrying cash and credit cards and some of them were wearing fairly expensive jewelry. Second. They were all of the same physical type. Well built, tall, between five eleven and six one, beginning to bald here.” Owen touched his hairline at his forehead. “Dark brown to black hair. Here, I’ll show you.” He took a file from his briefcase, laying the pictures it contained on Steve’s desk.

  After studying them, Steve nodded. “I see what you mean. Not carbon copies but definitely of a type. Hell, Gary would fit right in with them.”

  “Then let’s hope our killer doesn’t run into him somewhere and decides you’re right.”

  “No shit. Did he use the same weapon or weapons each time?”

  “The first two times it was probably some sort of bat or club, from what the ME says. Then he switched to what the ME believes is a pair of brass knuckles.”

  “More up close and personal,” Steve said.

  “That’s our feeling. And more easily concealed until he’s ready to attack.”

  “I take it he hasn’t left any trace evidence behind?”

  “Oh, he has, but nothing that’ll do us any good until we catch him. No fingerprints, of course.” Owen grimaced. “That would be too easy.”

  “As far as you can tell it’s the same man, and only one, each time?”

  “Yes,” Owen replied. “He doesn’t seem to be worried about leaving hairs, fibers, soil, what have you behind. The FBI ran DNA tests on the hair and skin samples. What we’ve gotten from each kill site matches. Unfortunately, his DNA isn’t in any of their data bases.”

  “So he’s never done anything to get arrested.”

  “Apparently not. At least not in a large city where the police collect DNA as part of the arrest process.”

  “Okay. Now, what was this about a second serial killer?”

  “Several local business women have been murdered very viciously over the last three years.”

  “Just murdered? Okay, that didn’t come out right.”

  Owen smiled. “It didn’t, but I know what you meant. There was no sexual assault involved in the usual sense of the word. They were stabbed, cut, breasts sliced and mutilated. However, everything that was done to them was above the waist. Despite the fact that in several cases their panties were used to gag them, they were not forced to give the perp a blowjob first and no semen was found in their vagina or anus, and there was no evidence the perp had tried to rape them.”

  “Interesting.” Steve tapped a finger on the desk. “Were they of a type, too?”

  “Only in the fact, as I said, that they were business women and in their mid-forties.”

  “Attacked on their way home from work?”

  “No. Two of them went to movies with friends at local multiplexes. They separated afterwards, going to where they’d left their cars in parking garages. Both women were found dead, beside their cars, by passers-by. The most recent one had gone out for a business dinner with younger man. They left the restaurant together. According to witnesses, including their very harried waitress, they thought he had medium to dark hair, although the lighting wasn’t the best where they saw him, and he wore dark-rimmed glasses. That matches the description of a man seen talking with the third victim less than an hour before her body was found, again in a parking garage.”

  “Ten gets you twenty he doesn’t wear glasses in real life, and maybe the hair was a wig. Are they always killed in parking garages?”

  “There, or in one case, in a large parking lot, late enough at night that no one was around.”

  “How often does he strike?” Steve asked.

  “This is where it gets real interesting. Approximately every six months, although not the same months as our mugger.”

  “What are the chances it’s the same man?”

  “Pretty remote, according to the FBI,” Owen replied. “They say that serials generally have a specific type they go after, and rarely if ever change their MO. Their feeling, and I agree, is that two different men are doing the killings and it’s just coincidence that they use the same timing between kills.”

  “And are here in Denver, as well. Aren’t you the lucky one? I presume the Feds have checked. Is this the only city where both of them have been active?”

  “Yes. Well, unless one of them practiced somewhere else and managed to successfully hide the body.”

  “Which neither of them has since they’ve been here. Hidden the body, I mean. They seem to want people to know
what they’re doing.”

  “Probably, although that’s not given. In the case of the person killing the women, we’ve been keeping the details under wraps, once we figured out the deaths were probably connected. The last thing we need is middle-aged women deciding to carry whenever they go out. Before you say it, we could probably tell the public until we’re blue in the face that only business women have been victims. It wouldn’t stop every Sally and Jane from buying a gun and using it if they thought they had a reason to.”

  “Too true,” Steve agreed. “We live in a gun culture.”

  “Don’t get me started on that,” Owen replied dourly.

  “At least our two killers don’t seem to be enamored with them, if they’re using a knife and brass knuckles, respectively.”

  Owen nodded. “Up close and personal, and they can take their time and get a rush from what they’re doing.”

  “You do have your work cut out for you.”

  “With the FBI’s help. Speaking of which, I’d better get moving. I’m supposed to be meeting with one of the agents at four.”

  “Thanks for coming by to fill me in,” Steve said.

  Owen chuckled. “It was that, or having you hound me until I did, or worse yet, go off on your own to try to solve Waters’s murder.”

  “Now would I do that?” Steve asked innocently.

  “I would hope not. Still, stick to what you’re good at, which is finding lost relatives and doing security work.”

  “Planning on it.”

  Chapter 5

  “I saw a woman while I was out to lunch who would be perfect,” Blaine said, a week after Lloyd had killed Jim Waters.

  “You’re getting as bad as me,” Lloyd replied. “It’s becoming harder to wait.”

  “Yeah. The rush, the feeling that I’m getting my revenge on Dad’s bitches? It’s not lasting as long as it used to. I keep thinking the next one will finally do it for me, but she never does.”

  “I know. If Father wasn’t dead, I’d kill him and then maybe I could rest easy, knowing I paid him back for what he did to me. Now…” Lloyd shook his head. “It seems like everywhere I look I see him and I want him dead, like right now.”