did identify her, right?”
“Cherie Madsen. Twenty-three, a dancer at a Miami strip club. She’d been a missing person at the time, and she was identified by her dental records.”
“And did the police have any leads?”
“Sure, they had leads, but no real suspects. They traced every name they could find for the night she disappeared, but lots of guys who go to strip clubs use cash and aren’t necessarily regulars. They talked to all her old boyfriends, same as they talked to everyone about the murder in Broward County. The first girl was found in a canal off I-595. Same thing—she was in the water at least a couple of weeks before she was discovered. Strangled, tie around her neck. There had been rain that time, too. The body had probably traveled. The girl was naked, and once again the tie could have been bought anywhere. No way to get any prints. The girl hadn’t scratched her attacker, so there were no skin cells beneath her nails, nothing. I have a friend in homicide at the Broward sheriff’s department, if you want to talk to him further about the case. And you know the guy handling the case for Miami-Dade. It’s Hector Hernandez.”
“Yes, I know him. I’ve known him for years. Big-time fisherman, down here a lot. He’s a good cop.”
“Yeah, he’s definitely a good cop. He can help you more than I can, since you’re apparently after something. I kept up with the case some, since I found one of the victims,” Jesse said quietly. “But not being Miami-Dade homicide anymore, I don’t have the same access to the experts. And it’s not my case anymore, anyway. You know how small the Miccosukee force is. Something like this, Miami-Dade comes in.”
“Did you hear anything about a psychological profile?”
Jesse nodded again, taking a long swallow from his can. “The cops in both counties got together and asked the FBI to give them a hand with the profiling, and they brought in an expert who has been pretty right on with each case he’s profiled that has been solved. White male, twenty-five to forty-five, has a day job, maybe a wife and family, maybe not. Even though the second girl was found out in the Everglades, the profiler is certain the killer is a white male. Someone who knows the area and may even know what happens to a body in the water. He probably looks decent, maybe he’s even good-looking, and he may have a certain charisma. He’s an organized killer. Nothing is left to chance. He’s smart enough to keep his prints off any traceable materials, use a condom and dump the bodies where nature will take care of the rest. There might be two different killers, one copycatting the other, but the homicide guys don’t think so. They kept a few details about the first body secret, and those same details were also consistent with the second victim.” Jesse shrugged, taking another long swallow from his beer can. “In private, of course, the homicide guys admit to having just about nothing to follow up on. Both girls were strippers. They’ve questioned every man they could get a lead on who was at either club the night the girl was last seen. They’ve questioned family and old boyfriends. They’ve looked for witnesses. They don’t have prints, fibers, tire tracks or anything else. They haven’t given up, but they’ve followed every lead they had, and the trail hasn’t gotten them very far. It would be bull to suggest they’re not hot on it because of what the girls did for a living. They’re just working with nothing.”
“I never suggested they weren’t working every angle.”
“You didn’t, but some guy wrote it up in the paper that way.”
“Was he questioned?”
“You bet. He was just some jerk who’s down on the police. He writes up every scrap of corruption he can get his hands on. He tried to suggest years ago that the cops didn’t really give a rat’s ass when a psycho was killing hookers on Eighth Street. Then the cops cornered the killer and he had to eat his words. But there were witnesses on that case. At least they had the make and color of the car to go on. They don’t seem to have a damned thing this time. Then there was the guy a while back who was killing working girls, cutting them up and stuffing them in suitcases. They thought they had it all solved when they were able to trace a guy to the last victim—except she hadn’t been a prostitute, she’d been a lounge singer, and the guy they traced was her ex-boyfriend. Turned out he hadn’t killed the prostitutes, he was just hoping to get away with murder by disposing of the body in the same manner. They caught him, but they still don’t know who did in the other women.”
“Think it could be the same man?”
“With a change in style? I don’t know. I don’t know enough about criminal psychology to answer that, but the guys I know seem to think they’re looking for two different killers. Since they haven’t found new bodies in suitcases in a while, they’re afraid the guy they called the ‘Bag-man’ might have moved on. He was a slasher. This guy strangles. Apparently a different psychology brings about the difference in methods. Hey, you took a lot more classes in criminology than I ever did. You should know.”
Dane shrugged. “It’s not likely that a slasher would become a strangler,” he said. “In this case, though…well, I just hoped you might have some insight. You saw the body in situ and all.”
“I told you—I called in the specialists the minute I found her. I mean the minute. I knew damn well that I didn’t have the manpower or equipment to investigate a crime scene like that, to protect every little hair and fiber that might turn up.” He was quiet for a moment, studying Dane. “So why your renewed interest in the case?” Jesse asked.
“Sheila’s missing,” Dane said. He was comfortable saying that much.
One of Jesse’s dark brows arched against his forehead. “What do you mean, missing? Sheila is always off somewhere, and she always turns up again. Why are you worried and connecting her to this case? She doesn’t fit the victim profile. Or has she started wearing pasties and dancing?”
“No. But…she was running pretty wild.”
“She may still be running wild. Sheila’s taken off for long periods of time before, hasn’t she? I don’t think she came back to Key Largo much before you showed up down here again. And before that, if I understand it right, after her divorce from Larry, she took off for Europe for a while, came back and gambled in Vegas, then hopped around some more before settling into renting that duplex with Cindy. Why would you suspect she might be a victim just because she didn’t share her plans with anyone? Cindy told me that even after they rented the duplex, Sheila often went off for a few nights. Cindy would start getting worried, and then Sheila would suddenly call her from the Bahamas or somewhere to say she was all right.”
“She hasn’t called anyone this time.”
“Still…well, you’re talking about Sheila.”
“Call it a hunch,” Dane said.
Jesse stared at him. “It’s more than a hunch, but, hey, you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
“I’m still dealing with it myself,” Dane said.
“Have you been to the local cops?”
“No, but Kelsey is down. She was supposed to meet Sheila here. And she said something about having gone to the cops.”
“I’m sure they mollified her and filled out a report. And that’s about all you’re going to get. Not that you haven’t got decent guys working the Keys. It’s just that Sheila is a grown woman, a woman known to leave her home for long periods of time without giving notice to those around her. She’s over twenty-one and doesn’t really owe explanations
