The Blue Crimes

By the time they called me, a whole week had passed since the second body had been discovered. This was a setback as much of the evidence would have disappeared by now and I’d have to work with what little evidence the local police, unaccustomed to these types of crimes, would have been able to collect. Luckily I had been allocated a competent enough CSI unit and as we flew from Washington to Kansas City International Airport, we imagined, quite rightly as it turned out, that the crime scene will have been spoiled by dozens of well-meaning but clumsy Deputies.

Liz, who I already knew professionally from the only case that I’d worked on up to then, handed me a folder containing photos; the cyanotic bodies of two naked girls, abandoned in a lagoon, like the unimportant remnants of a quiet morning picnic. I was staring into the open eyes of one of the young girls, who could not have been more than twenty years old, when I was struck by her plea: "You must find who did this to me."

Horrified, I turned the photos over and looked out the window of the small Gulfstream III; we were already over the state of Illinois. There were only a few clouds in the sky and I remember seeing clearly, or maybe I imagined it, the city of Springfield with its famous lake; the majestic and peaceful feeling it gave me contrasted with the murky storm that I knew lingered over my immediate future. I closed my eyes and I saw my father, casually throwing a new baseball for me to catch. I wanted to drown in this idyllic, image and live immersed in it forever.

Back to reality; I had a new challenge to face and there was a lot at stake. My first case had been closed with a thunderous triumph: I‘d been able to profile a serial murderer that was tormenting the citizens of the decadent city of Detroit for months. Initially, the detectives on the different cases had not been able to make the links between them and the records sat among hundreds of swollen archives in the city with the highest crime rate in the United States. And it was to here, that my new boss, Peter Wharton, Director of the Unit of Analysis of Conduct from the FBI headquarters in Quantico, had sent me. He trusted me mainly for two reasons: my impeccable academic record, including being top of my class in Psychology at Stanford University; and my remarkable deductive ability, tested dozens of times by himself personally during my training using detailed cases based on real events. I didn’t let him down. After several weeks of hard work, I not only managed to create a criminal profile with a 92% match, but also to define his operating areas and pinpoint where he most likely lived. In three months we’d managed to catch a monster that had swept away no less than 21 innocent souls.

On my return to Washington, not only many of my colleagues welcomed me as a hero, but Peter also started to see me as confirmation of the new generation of special Deputies emerging from Quantico. My success, undeniably, was due in large part to him and therefore it also belonged to him.

Only six months has passed since then. Half a year of resting on my laurels, enjoying the heaven earned, observing the action from the sidelines, extending my training and evaluating cases, the solution to which I already knew beforehand in the majority of cases; a comfortable and easy life. But nothing is forever.

The comfortable jet was taking me over 600 miles per hour and at more than 40,000 feet in altitude, closer to an uncertain fate that would mark my future: a new success would open the doors to the fastest elevators in the FBI; a failure would cause doubts in my abilities and until another new challenge, nobody would be certain whether I, Ethan Bush, was a genius who had a forgivable lapse or, whether I was a complete waste of space who got lucky once.

Chapter II

It took only about an hour to get to the Jefferson County Sheriff’s office, located just outside the small town of Oskaloosa, on Route US-59. We travelled in a comfortable van driven by a county Deputy, he was friendly but rather distant, surely due to his boss’ instructions; in small counties like this, the arrival of federal agents is often met with considerable reservation.

The office was a single story modest construction with freshly plastered facades in a pleasant, modern gray. On getting out of the van, I felt a gust of cool, moist air.

‘Today’s a nice day. The wind is from the west and it cools the lake’ the Deputy said dryly, as he led us into the building.

Clark Stevens, the county sheriff, was waiting for us in a large room with a round table in the center, a 50" screen on the wall and dozens of photographs, notes and loose report sheets fastened with pins on another cork lined wall.

‘Good Morning. You must be Ethan Bush and this must be your formidable team’ Clark said, holding out his hand affably, although I didn’t quite know how to interpret the "formidable team."

‘Exactly! It’s a pleasure to meet you Sheriff Stevens. Thanks for having us in your county’ I stated with studied delicacy.

I introduced the three people who accompanied me who were basically my personal support on this mission.

‘I asked for help from the FBI because a crime like this in our small county is unheard of, let alone two in just one week’ Stevens said, probably wishing to make it clear that he was the leader of the pack and that without his request, we wouldn’t even be there at all.

‘Of course sheriff and you can count on our full cooperation’ I replied, though I knew that sooner rather than later tension would grow between us.

‘Jefferson County has less than 20,000 inhabitants and Oskaloosa just over a thousand. Around here the most comfortable place to stay would be at the campsite on the southwest side of the lake, but it didn’t seem appropriate so we allocated you a residence owned by the municipality. We’ve cleaned it up and I hope you’ll feel at home. Every day someone will come to clean and prepare some food so you’ll have the amenities of a hotel in a homelier environment.

‘Perfect’ said Liz stepping forward who, until that moment, had been expectantly quiet.

Clark stood up and pulled a couple of folders from a filing cabinet and threw them on the table.

‘It's all we have on the case so far: the deputy coroner’s assessment, the history of the two girls, photographs and the identified criminals in the county’.

I picked up one of the files and looked at it. At Quantico we only had a couple of pages and four or five photographs of the crime scenes.

‘Sheriff, I want my team to make a new autopsy on the two bodies ...’ I muttered, knowing that this is the first time I dotted the I’s.

Stevens stood, taking a deep breath. He was a mature man of judicious appearance, who’d voluntarily requested our collaboration but who knew that eventually the matter would be out of his hands.

‘You didn’t read our forensic report yet?’ ...

‘We will. But Liz, Mark and Tom are very experienced in homicide autopsies. I hope you understand’.

‘Sure, sure ... But look, Ethan ... Can I call you Ethan?’

‘Certainly. I’d feel more comfortable’ I said sincerely.

‘Perfect. Call me Clark. As I said Ethan, I actually called you, I’ve asked for your help ...’

Sheriff Stevens took another deep breath. His presence, all his nonverbal communication, greatly helped me to step in his shoes, to understand and feel an immediate empathy for him.

‘Yes?’ I inquired with deference, encouraging him to continue.

‘Look, here, as I said earlier, we’re not accustomed to dealing with murders; although previously we’ve solved them with no problems. But this is something different. Facing a serial murderer, you know what I mean ...’

‘Clark, I think it's too early to talk about a serial murderer. It’s true that two bodies have been found in the same area and with only a week between the two crimes, leads one to inevitably think of only one murderer. But at Quantico, they teach us not to rush into value judgments. The second could be the work of a copycat, as cruel and simple as that. Two homicides do not make a series’ I argued, although deep inside me I rather agreed with him. But it was also true that I was trained not to rush into any initial evaluation.

The sheriff came over to where I was sitting. Cautiously, he took the record he had given me moments ago and found a sheet marked with a blue Post-it.

‘And three murders ... are a series?’

I looked at the sheet that he was pointing to with his finger. It was a picture of a young woman, a different one from the two I had already seen on the jet on my way to Kansas City. You could tell by the quality of color and slight deterioration that it was an old snapshot. I was puzzled.

‘I don’t understand ... We were only told about two girls’ I said angrily, as if Washington could hear my voice.

‘Calm down, Ethan. We kept this information for your arrival as I hoped to discuss it with you, once you had read the report. That girl is Sharon Nichols and was not exactly killed yesterday. Her lifeless body appeared in the same place as the other two unfortunates, but in 1998, that is ... almost 17 years ago. It was a case that went unsolved and was eventually shelved, like many others. This is the reason we needed you. We fear that we are facing a serial murderer who has returned to the area ... Who can tell how many victims he might have claimed during the last nearly twenty years!

Chapter III

That night I dreamed about my father. We were together in a completely empty baseball field. Surely it was the San Francisco Giants, but I couldn’t tell for sure because my eyes were completely fixed upon my father. He was the pitcher and I was holding a kids bat. My father seemed huge, almost invincible from a distance. His deep black eyes inspired respect -a respect earned by the authority of knowledge, not by imposition of force.

‘You’ve got two strikes, so you must concentrate on this throw’ he said, as if instead of being my rival, he was my coach.

‘Got it!’ I exclaimed, heartened by his words.

I concentrated on the beautiful glossy leather ball that we were premiering that same morning and I adjusted my hat so the visor protected my eyes from the midday sun. My father threw the ball as only professionals knew how to, but luckily I hit a perfectly executed stroke that at least allowed me to leave the box in search of first base. I ran like a bat out of hell and before my father, who wasn’t trying too hard, could even catch the ball, I’d already completed a home run in record time.

‘Great Ethan! Today you’ve earned a cold Bud.

Being a teenager, my father occasionally rewarded me with some beer. On one hand it was a way to be among men; on the other hand I guess he wanted my first contact with alcohol, which would inevitably happen, to be with him in a controlled way.

In the dream, my father took out two Budweiser’s from a cool pack full of finely chopped ice and tossed me one with a beaming smile that almost lit the stadium. Then we sat together on the bench.

‘You don’t like baseball ... right?’ He asked, looking away, avoiding my eyes to give me confidence in answering.

I thought for a while. That question had been waiting for a couple of years. Right from the time I had left the school baseball team to join the athletics. It was something my mother knew, but had kept hidden from him.

‘I love it. I love going to the stadium with you to see the Giants’ I replied, trying to avoid the real issue.

‘You know I'm not talking about that. I know you like to watch baseball and you enjoy every game although it’s over five hours long. I’m talking about actually playing baseball...

During dreams, time passes differently than in the conventional world. In this dream I think it took me two or three days to respond to my father, who was waiting and thinking silence was my reply.

‘No, Dad. I don’t like it. The only thing I like about playing baseball is spending some time with you’.

My father put his strong arm around me and pulled me towards him. I could see his eyes moisten with emotion. He was a strong, tough guy, but his heart was bigger than the rest of him.

‘You know, just now, when I saw you running around the bases, I was impressed; not even a cheetah would’ve been able to catch you.

‘That's true!’ I exclaimed, relieved.

‘Do you like running?

The question caught me off guard and for a moment I was sure my mother had told him our little secret.

‘Yes, I really like it Dad. For the last two years I’ve been in the athletics team, instead of playing baseball ...’ I came clean.

My father gave me two pats on the back and a look that was almost full of admiration.

‘And how do you like athletics?

‘I'm one of the best!’ I exclaimed. It was not entirely true: I was not one of the best ... I was the best; one of the best middle distance runners throughout California.

‘Then it’s decided. Starting today baseball’s over. Well, of course we’ll carry on going to see the Giants play. But I'll come with you to see you train. I want to be in the place where you’re really happy son.

I woke up drenched in sweat as if I just finished the Boston Marathon on a lousy early spring day. It took me a while to become conscious of being in the house that the Sheriff had allocated to us as a hotel.

The dream was certainly curious: facts mixed with imaginary scenarios. I didn’t understand why my mind was so driven to recall those early moments and plant them in the present. Instinctively, I reached for my Smartphone and scrolled though the agenda until I found the contact: Dad. As I pressed the call button, I realized that no one would answer. His old mobile phone was kept as a treasure in a drawer in my apartment just outside Washington. I’d continued to pay the monthly AT & T account, even though it was almost ten years since my father had been buried in the small cemetery in Mariposa, California.

Chapter IV

The same van that took us from the airport in Kansas City now took us to the lagoon where the bodies had been found. This time it was a deputy who was driving, Ryan Bowen, a young dry and distant man, but with quite a professional appearance.

‘In summer this is a busy area; but at this time of year, when the good weather is just starting, it’s unusual to come across anyone’ he said, while pointing to a dirt road heading through the bushes toward the lake, in the distance.

‘But ... are we not too close to the road?’ Tom asked, anticipating my intentions.

‘Indeed. It’s curious, isn’t it?

We moved cautiously along the kaolin colored dirt road, following in the tracks that other vehicles, most likely SUV’s, had left earlier that now appeared deep and parched. Ryan parked next to some bushes and, after getting out off the car, guided us towards a hollow in the dirt lined with broken vegetation.

‘This is where the two were found’ said the deputy sheriff dryly.

Liz, Mark and Tom were quick to get to work. They were well equipped. Even though they’d hardly brought any clothes they had not forgotten any of their precious, essential forensic equipment. I hung back with Ryan, not wanting to hinder the work of my competent team.

I quickly realized that something was amiss. We were standing with our backs towards Lake Perry’s shore, quite away from the more crowded places, just fifty feet from the water. But the area that assistant Bowen had pointed out was a quagmire. I took out the pictures of the supposed place where the victims had been found and discovered that their naked bodies were slightly submerged in what appeared to be a shallow lagoon.

‘Are you sure that this is the place where the bodies were discovered?’ I asked, puzzled.

Ryan took a quick look at the pictures that I held in my right hand and then gave me a smug look.

‘Of course. This area is flooded every time it rains. Then, after a couple of days, it becomes the swamp you see here.

‘So ... it rained all this week?’ I insisted, trying to show that my disquisition had not finished and that it was about to lead to somewhere he couldn’t even imagine.

‘No’ he replied flatly. He then rubbed his three day old beard and seemingly annoyed, he kicked at the few blades of grass. ‘Now you ask, I realize that it only rained the night before each of the murders ...’

I left Bowen behind, lost in his thoughts so I could concentrate on my own. If the murderer was the same person, he certainly wasn’t a fool. Although I still couldn’t totally dismiss it, the idea that we were looking for a disorganized murderer, seemed less likely. It rather fitted the profile of someone who knew that rain was a serious obstacle for those in charge of a criminal investigation. It was a long time since I stopped believing in coincidences, but I was still too young to discard them altogether. I back-tracked the natural route from the road that the suspect would have taken to arrive here. Soon I came across the furrows of the SUV that had served as a guide for our van.

‘They took prints of the tire tracks!’ I asked, so that Ryan could hear me and to pull him out of his reverie.

‘No, no ... I think there weren’t any tire tracks.

‘So ... these prints?

‘They must be from the Ford Explorer Interceptor from our office’ the deputy answered simply.

A police SUV. It was possible, but I wanted to dismiss this idea that the wheels had gone over the pre-existing tire marks.

‘Did anyone bother to take pictures before the Ford drove through here? ...’ I muttered, almost condescendingly.

‘The truth is that I don’t remember. All this should be in the file given to you by Sheriff Stevens.

Bowen was right. All this should be there, among the papers I had pressed against my left side but I’d barely looked at. Unconsciously I knew that they would be fraught with assumptions a priori that would eventually end up influencing me. I’d studied them in dozens of cases. This had almost jeopardized my first success in Detroit.

‘Okay. But I like to have different point of views. You know how we psychologists are ... the right way is for us the longest’ I tried to defend myself.

‘I had no idea ...’

‘Who are the people that found the bodies?’ I consulted, trying to change the subject quickly.

‘Who are they? More accurate to ask who’s the one...’ responded the deputy more confidently.

I opened the file, flipping through it quickly, as if I had actually studied it, but among those pages was something that didn’t quite fit with the information I just received. It also gave me time to clear my mind.

‘Same person found two bodies?

‘Yes. It was Tim Nolan; he fishes black and white bass which are abundant in this part of the lake. Believe me’ he said, peering I imagine into something shady he saw in my eyes, he’s not a bad guy. He frequents this area.’

‘Yeah, but Ryan’ I called him by his first name trying to appear more confident about my assumption, ‘you must recognize it’s highly suspect that the same man stumbled over two corpses within seven days.

‘Of course, but if you’d known him for years, like me, you wouldn’t think the same. But I guess that's why Clark asked you to help. You’re free from prejudice, aren’t you?’

‘More or less’ I replied, noting that in small towns the police work is more complicated than it may seem from a comfortable office outside Washington.

From my position, near the place where the van was parked, I could see the left shore of the lake and part of the basin in which the victims had been discovered; to my right was the winding dirt track that led to the road. I looked several times at one side then the other.

‘Is this a busy road?

‘Rarely more than a few a day.

‘In any case, you agree that it’s very risky to get rid of a body here. I certainly would have selected somewhere else.’

‘You’ve got a point’ Bowen replied, nodding at the same time.

‘Only someone very familiar with this place, who frequents it often, could be certain that he was actually running a very low risk’ I said.

Chapter V

Liz had already told me that she hardly got anything from the body of the first victim, Clara Rose. She’d been buried after the initial autopsy, so after exhuming her plus the two weeks she had spent in the rain since her death and with the destruction of the first forensic examination, little had been left to discover.

However luckily, with the second victim, Donna Malick, her body was better preserved as they had kept her in the morgue and Sheriff Stevens had managed to convince the family to postpone the funeral as an FBI team was on its way and it might be necessary to make a further examination. Although resentful, the Malick family accepted the situation and did not object, which undoubtedly avoided intervention from lawyers, judges and other inconveniences.

While Liz was working on the unfortunate Donna, I had rented a small lime green Chevrolet Spark in order to have a little more freedom of movement and some independence from the Sheriff’s office in Jefferson County.

Armed with a map and the precarious Smartphone’s GPS, I spent my morning circling the lake and visiting some of the closest villages. My intention was no more than to get familiar with an environment I knew was going to be with me over several weeks, maybe even months.

So, heading south from Oskaloosa, I briefly visited the small villages of Perry, Grantville, and Meriden lastly Valley Falls. Barely each village had less than a thousand inhabitants. I don’t know if the people of each of those tiny localities knew each other by heart but almost certainly everyone knew about 90% of the inhabitants in the surrounding places. I had driven just over 100 miles in total meaning these villages were relatively close to each other and more or less well connected. They were nice places where one could dream of retiring. I was disturbed at the idea that the peaceful tranquility of this almost idyllic area was disturbed by two such horrendous crimes.

When I returned to Oskaloosa, Liz greeted me with a half-smile; I assumed it implied that something had come out of the second autopsy.

‘Have you eaten yet?’ I asked, before getting down to business.

‘No, actually I feel like I’ve not eaten in years.’

‘Okay. We'll go to a place in the town center, apparently they prepare good burgers, the way you like them.’

‘Great!’

Sitting in the Chevrolet next to Liz, I remembered the short time since we were together. A few months had passed, so the memory was still fresh. It was me, who, after a few weeks of staying overnight almost daily and sharing two entire weekends, had given the relationship away. Liz was an amazing woman: intelligent, articulate, bright, friendly, talkative and, yes, also very nice. Her deep blue eyes and uniquely light brown medium length hair caught the attention of everyone. But I felt that while for her the flame of love was burning stronger everyday, for me just a few embers were fighting to stay alight. It was a very uncomfortable situation and I didn’t want to prolong it. If after the breakup, I discovered that I was losing the woman of my life, I thought there would be plenty of time to ask for forgiveness and to try to limit the damage. It was as honest as I could be. I certainly risked losing her forever. Not only lose one ephemeral companion, but lose a friend that one may consider worthy to have at their side throughout eternity. Now, enough time had passed to realize that she, unfortunately, didn’t seem to be the woman of my life, despite being a sensational girl. However, I still felt that the hope of a second chance was still alive in her heart.

‘I know you've found something. I know you and the smile that you gave me when I arrived betrays you miles away’ I said, as we waited for a friendly waiter to bring us half a pound of burgers with barbecue sauce that we’d ordered.

‘I don’t have any secrets from you ... Well, although both Sheriff Stevens and the coroner suspected it, I can now confirm that the lagoon was not where Donna Malick was murdered. I suspect the same thing happened in the case of Clara Rose. The coroner recorded no autopsy, but he did bother to take lots of photos, which will be a great help later.’

The waiter arrived with our huge burgers. I wasn’t a fan of this kind of food, but Liz deserved to be invited to eat where she felt comfortable. And she also loved burgers.

‘How come you’re so sure that Donna was not murdered at the lagoon ...?’

‘She was killed with potassium cyanide. The cyanosis in her body already gave us a clue, but that was not a decisive factor. It was also the foam that had formed in her mouth and her strange dilated pupils. Even the coroner noticed the familiar peculiar smell of bitter almonds. But the toxicological examination of her stomach contents and the sorry state of her lungs leave no room for doubt’ Liz said, excitedly. It's hard to explain that kind of satisfaction. A normal person usually feels emotionally blocked by the horror of such a crime but us investigators are used to