Vanished - A Mystery (Dixon & Baudin Book 1) Page 4

  “Call it what you want,” he said, pulling out a package of cigarettes. He set one between his lips without lighting it. “Just before the eleventh, there was an enormous amount of put options placed on American and United Airlines stocks. The put option gives the owner the ability to sell at a predetermined price. Prices fall after an attack like that, then the owner sells for the much higher price they got before the attacks. Traders knew it was going to happen. Even The Journal of Business said the volume was so high and unusual that the only conclusion is that traders had knowledge of the attacks before they happened. And not just the airlines—the insurance companies and banks in the World Trade Center all had jumps in put options.”

  “That don’t prove the government had anything to do with it.”

  He leaned back in his seat. “When the attacks happened, what’s the first thing our government did?”

  “I don’t know. Close down the airports?”

  Baudin shook his head, replacing the cigarette in the package. “No, man. They rounded up the Bin Laden family and gave them passage back to Saudi Arabia on military planes.”

  “So you’re telling me our government killed thousands of people, committed one of the worst atrocities in history, protected the people that did it, and nobody knows about it?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say our government did it. But clearly they knew about it, and a lot of people in the investment banks made a lot of money from it.” He turned the package in his hand. “Covered up, man. That’s what they do best.”

  “There’s a flaw in your logic, though,” Dixon said, pointing his finger. “The government is so inept that they can’t keep it a secret that the president got a blow job in the middle of the night. No way they could hide something this big.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Dixon shook his head. “You were a soldier. You’re supposed to defend this country, not accuse us of being terrorists.”

  “We’re all terrorists, Kyle. Some people just hide it better than others.”

  The waitress came back with the drinks and set them down hard enough that some spilled onto the table. She took a green notepad from her apron and said, “What’ll y’all have?”

  Dixon ordered the turkey sandwich with fries, and Baudin ordered a salad.

  When the waitress left, Dixon debated not saying anything. He thought maybe he wouldn’t work this case with Baudin. He could ask Jessop for a new partner. He felt that he had enough credibility to get his request granted.

  “She was put up there for us,” Baudin said, his eyes gazing out the window. “She was put up there to die for us.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “That was a show. The whole thing. It was meant to shock us.”

  He nodded, taking a sip of his Sprite. “Well, consider me shocked.”

  “There’s something he doesn’t want us to see. Something he wants attention drawn away from.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dixon hesitated. “You deal with this type of thing much?”

  He shook his head. “No. I think we have what’s called a sexual sadist. They’re really rare. The rarest type of criminal. They have a mis-wiring in their brains where sex, torture, and death are all the same thing. The mating instinct and the aggression instinct are merged. Even among serial killers, they’re rare.”

  “You can tell that from what we saw?”

  “Sexual sadists don’t kill. They torture, and the vics just die during the torture. They don’t want them dead. The dead don’t scream.”

  Dixon inhaled through his nose and leaned back in the seat, tapping a finger against the table a long time. “I’m not sure this is gonna work.”

  “What’s that, now?” he said, his eyes fixed on Dixon.

  “This. Me and you.”

  The waitress brought over the food. The sandwich looked greasy, sopping with runny mayonnaise.

  “You want another partner, just say the word.”

  Dixon shook his head. “It’s not you, necessarily. I think I work better alone.”

  Baudin shrugged, picking up the fork. “Do whatever you think is right. But I want this case.”

  “You kiddin’ me? A body that’s been out there for weeks? There isn’t gonna be a collar on this. But you wanna spin your wheels, be my guest. I want cases I can clear off the board.”

  Baudin stabbed at some lettuce and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed a while and said, “That girl went through more pain than you or I can even imagine.”

  Dixon watched the man eat before pushing the greasy sandwich away and staring out the window.

  9

  As he walked back into the precinct, Dixon watched Baudin stop on the steps and answer his cell phone. Dixon had seen enough craziness. He didn’t want another partner so soon and regretted not telling Jessop. He’d figured the department wouldn’t hire someone so quickly and hadn’t thought he had anything to worry about.

  When he got to his desk, Jessop shouted out his door, “Kyle, get in here.”

  As he rose, he wished Jessop would learn to use the damn intercom on their phones. “What is it?” he asked at the door.

  “Chief wants to see you. You and Ethan.”

  “‘Chief’ as in our chief?”

  “Yes, dipshit, the chief of police. Get over there and see him.”

  He hesitated. “What’s he want?”

  “How the hell should I know? But he signs my paychecks, so get your ass over there.”

  Dixon folded his arms. “I wanted to talk to you about Ethan.”

  “Later. Go see the chief first.”

  He nodded. “Right.”

  As he turned, he saw Baudin hurry over to his desk and go to his computer. He typed something into Google, and Dixon could see the search results. It was a search for crucifixion symbolism in murders.

  “This what they do in LA?” Dixon said, sitting down across from him. “Google how to solve killings?”

  “Google’s the best friend a detective ever had. If I’m right and that girl was posed for us, he’s communicating as much as if he’d written a letter. We need to know the language he’s speaking.”

  “See, that’s dangerous thinking. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, right? You may think we’re just simple country folk, but we got a ninety-eight percent clearance rate for homicides. You show me one other precinct in the country that’s got ninety-eight percent.”

  “I’m not talking about walking into a house and seeing a husband covered in blood with his dead wife on the floor. This is something else entirely. Something new. For me, too.” He looked at Dixon. “Or maybe it’s something old that nobody’s recognized before. Maybe he’s done it a long time, and no one put them all together.”

  “You said this was his first.”

  “His first crucifixion. I doubt it’s his first vic.”

  Dixon swiveled in his chair. He glanced up at the homicide board. Someone had written “Jane Doe: Dixon & Baudin” in red marker. He sighed and stood up. “Chief wants to see us.”

  “What chief?”

  “Chief of police.”

  Baudin took his eyes off the screen and fixed them on Dixon. “What for?”

  “I don’t know, but he specifically asked for me and you, so let’s go.”

  The chief, the assistant chief, and most of the administrators were in a different building. The recent structure across the street looked like an office building—brown, two stories with large windows, and brick exterior.

  Dixon kept his head low as they crossed the street, looking up only once. Baudin appeared lost in thought, probably wondering what he’d done wrong for the chief to call him in on his second day on the job. Dixon wondered if it had something to do with the policies the department had been instituting since last February. A secretary had sued the department and won on claims of discrimination and sexual harassment, costing the city a cool million. Maybe all new detectives and their partners had to meet
with the chief to ensure they understood what the department’s policies were.

  The building was much more pleasant than the station. It was cool from air conditioning, and the secretary was young, perky, and blond. Dixon smiled at her and said, “Hi.”

  “Hi, how can I help you?”

  “Detectives Dixon and Baudin to see the chief. He called us in.”

  “Okay, one sec.” She picked up the phone and spoke quietly before saying, “You’re all set. Go right in.”

  Dixon went in first. He’d been here only once before, on a tour when it was completed, but the building was empty and undecorated then. It looked a lot different now.

  Chief Robert Crest sat behind his desk, staring at his computer screen. He was a pudgy man with a large face and a flat forehead that gave him the appearance of always being angry. Most people found him intimidating, but Dixon saw him as the perfect boss: one who left him alone to do his job. Until now.

  “Kyle, good to see you again,” he said, rising and shaking hands.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And you must be Ethan. Good to meet you, son.”

  The men sat. The chief finished up something on his computer and then unbuttoned his jacket, resting his interlaced fingers across his protruding belly.

  “I’ve been told about the one you caught this morning, the girl on McCabe’s property.” A pause followed. Dixon waited until the chief spoke again. As he’d seen before, Baudin seemed off in his own world. “The reason I brought you boys in is because I spoke to the sheriff about this earlier. There’s some special circumstances where I thought it might be better if we brought this one in-house. That’s why you were there.”

  “What circumstances, sir?” Dixon said.

  He hesitated. “The mayor is up for reelection in four months. To put it bluntly, we can’t have people thinking about a killer on the loose while he’s out there pressing the flesh. Makes him look weak. Inept. We all know he ain’t got shit to do with it, but he’s the face of this department.”

  “Then it could’ve stayed in Laramie County,” Dixon said. “No one would’ve pointed the finger at him. It would’ve been the sheriff’s deal.”

  Chief Crest chuckled. “That ain’t how people think. They’re stupid, son. Like sheep. A brutal killer on the loose will be put on the mayor’s neck, guaranteed. It’s his city.”

  Baudin said, “And your neck.”

  Baudin and Crest glared at each other in silence until Dixon asked, “What is it you need from us, sir?”

  “I need this closed quickly. Even if it’s a cold case and transferred down to the open-unsolved files in the basement.” He looked from one man to the other. “As far as we know, this is a one-time deal. Could be a jilted lover, could be someone she ripped off, could be anything.”

  “Could be a serial murderer,” Baudin said.

  “Sir,” Dixon quickly interjected, “we don’t know what it is. But we keep our mouths shut until we do know.”

  “That’s all I’m asking. Discretion and speed.” He smiled, but it looked odd, as though his face wasn’t used to it. “I’m glad you both understand. Get to it then, boys. Keep me in the loop on any developments, would you?”

  “Sure thing, sir,” Dixon said, rising. He held out his hand, and the chief shook it. Baudin didn’t offer.

  As they were crossing the hallway to the front entrance, Dixon said, “What the hell is your problem?”

  “Fuck him. Take it down to the open-unsolved? He wants us to bury this to save their asses in an election.”

  “So what?”

  “So what? You don’t care that he brought us in there to intimidate us into closing this case?”

  “That’s what’s gonna happen anyway. You ever seen a homicide solved where there’s no suspects and the body’s been out in a damn field for a month?”

  Baudin stepped in front of him. “She counts, Kyle. She counts.” He spun around and left the building.

  Dixon stared at the closing door. He put his hands on his hips and glanced back at the receptionist, who was chatting on her cell phone and giggling.

  Evening fell quickly as Dixon worked. No matter how many files he closed, there were always more. The bin on the filing cabinet was for cases that were to be transferred to the open-unsolved storage in the basement of the precinct. Transferring a case down there took it off the homicide board, or the active cases calendar if it wasn’t a homicide, and off a detective’s schedule. Only once before had he felt the urge to put a case in that bin before he felt it was necessary.

  A homeless man had been found stabbed to death below a freeway underpass. The man had been positioned flat on his back with his hands on his chest as though he had been preparing to die. No one saw anything. The man had no relatives and likely no possessions to steal. Dixon had caught the case on the heels of several check fraud cases and was enthralled by it. Seemingly no one had any reason to hurt this man.

  After six months of investigation, he had turned up no additional evidence—not even a place to start. The turnover at the shelter meant that even two months later, there was no one left who’d known him.

  Dixon had filed it in the open-unsolved bin and then had a knot in his stomach the entire day. He stayed awake in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. At two in the morning, he rushed back to the precinct, took the file out of the bin, and returned it to his desk.

  Three months after that, he was interviewing another homeless man on a drug charge. The man had been found with cocaine. On a whim, Dixon told him he would cut him a deal if he had any information on the murder case he was working. The man had not only known the victim, but he also knew who killed him. Within two weeks, Dixon had a collar. The victim had been killed over a coat that the killer had wanted.

  Dixon wished he could remember the name of that victim now. He felt that he owed him that. But no matter how much he thought about it, the name wouldn’t come to him. He’d never put a file in the open-unsolved bin again.

  It was past seven, and Dixon stretched and got to his feet. Baudin was still at the computer, sipping an energy drink and poring through websites and internet archives, studying cases of murder by crucifixion.

  “Heading out,” Dixon said.

  “Have a good night,” Baudin said without looking up.

  Dixon nodded. “Yeah… so you really think that’s what we got? A sexual sadist?”

  “I don’t know, but I think so, yeah. To do something like that to another human being… it’s not something just anybody could do.”

  “So this person, this sexual sadist, if his urges are as strong as you say they are—”

  “He’ll kill again. If he hasn’t already.”

  Jessop stepped out of his office and said, “I’m taking off. You still need to talk?”

  Dixon hesitated, watching Baudin on the computer, his eyes glistening as though he weren’t blinking enough. “No,” he said. “It’s nothin’, Cap. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

  10

  The image of the girl wouldn’t leave him as Dixon drove home. The interstate wasn’t packed, but because it was dusk, all he could see was an ocean of red brake lights. He glanced toward the city center on his left. The tallest building in Cheyenne was only twelve floors, but from the interstate, the city looked larger than it was. Dixon thought of a story he’d read in high school English about some Russian monarch who built a city of cardboard to drive dignitaries through. That was what the city felt like sometimes: cardboard buildings with cardboard people. It was an unnerving image he always had to push out of his mind as quickly as possible.

  He took a different exit from the one he needed to get home and looped around a curving ramp. At the stoplight at the bottom, he pulled up next to a car full of teenage girls. They glanced over and then spoke to each other for a second. One of them lifted up her shirt and pressed her breasts against the window, to the uproarious laughter of the others in the car. When the light changed, they sped away.

  Dixon pul
led in at Lion’s Park and stopped in a parking space near a gazebo. The large pond was empty, with the exception of a couple in a paddleboat. He sat on a bench and watched them. Hillary and he had been that young once, but it seemed like a lifetime ago now. They’d met at the University of Wyoming when he was working as campus police and she was working on her art degree. A showing of hers had drawn him in. Her show, Homeless of Wyoming, was all black-and-white close-up photos of the men, women, and children who lived on Wyoming’s streets. In a move that was quite unlike him, he strode right up to her and asked her out on a date there and then, to which she agreed.

  Five years later they were married, and two years after that Randy was born.

  Dixon had never pictured his life turning out that way. A wife, kid, mortgage, steady paycheck… it was more than his father, an alcoholic construction worker, ever had. His mother ran out on his father and him when Dixon was three years old. After that, his father just had a series of flings that never amounted to much.

  Dixon wondered if his parents had ever ridden in a paddleboat like the couple on the water—if they’d ever truly been in love.

  He tried to get the image of the girl on the cross out of his mind. He knew it wasn’t good police work to push the victim away—that wasn’t detective’s work—but he couldn’t help it. Thinking about it gave him that familiar knot in his stomach.

  Most detectives might complain about their workload, about their cases not making a difference, about all sorts of things, but Dixon didn’t have many complaints. He liked his graffiti cases and check frauds. Seeing what he’d seen that day reminded him that there were cases he didn’t like.

  When it was dark, he rose and drove home.

  Every time he pulled into his driveway, he was amazed by the kind of house he could afford. Anywhere else in the country, he might be living in the poor area of town, but in Cheyenne he could afford three thousand square feet and a big backyard. He got out of the car and was heading inside when someone said his name. He turned to see a man walking toward him from across the street.