Malicious. Jacob Stone
against the door and got no answer. After Malevich identified himself and also got no answer, he kicked in the door on his third try. A large man lay crumpled facedown on the tiled floor, a puddle of blood and gore pooling under his head, his color a grayish-white. He was wearing a brown blazer and tan slacks, the type of clothes you’d expect on a doorman. Morris stood outside the room and forced Parker to sit, and clamped his hand over the dog’s snout and ordered him to be quiet. Parker’s growling dampened to a soft rumble. While this was going on, Walsh kneeled by the body and checked for a pulse.
“The skin’s cold,” she said through clenched teeth. “He’s been dead at least a couple of hours.” She pulled latex gloves from her pocket and slipped them on. After a few seconds of feeling around the back of the man’s skull, she announced that she’d found the entry wound. She lifted the man’s head up and grimaced as she reported that a hollow-point bullet must’ve been used, and that most of his face was gone.
Greg Malevich had called for backup units after he kicked open the door, and he was now back on the phone calling in the homicide. While he was on the phone, he indicated to Morris and Walsh that he was going to secure the back of the building, and he hurried off.
Morris’s phone alerted him that he had just received a text message. He half expected to see a taunt from the killer, but instead it was Natalie, and it simply read “Gold Medallion”. He stared at it confused for several seconds before realizing that his wife was giving him the name of the tree he had asked her about minutes earlier.
An excited yapping noise came from behind. Morris turned to see a woman in her late fifties holding a yapping Shih Tzu. The woman was trying to look past Morris to see what all the fuss was about in the bathroom.
“Ma’am, please stand back,” Morris ordered.
The woman looked almost as if he had yelled boo at her as she took several steps backward. She seemed oblivious to the noise her dog was making. Parker likewise ignored the small dog, his attention focused on what was going on in the bathroom.
“Did something happen?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so. You live here, right?”
“Yes. For seven years.”
Morris held an index finger up. “Could you wait here for one moment?”
He turned back toward Walsh. She had taken the dead man’s wallet from his pocket, and was looking through it. Morris asked her if there was a driver’s license. Her face had a white-hot intensity to it as she nodded. Morris knew she was seething with fury over having the killer in her grasp and letting him go. When she approached the woman holding the Shih Tzu, the woman looked startled and even the dog stopped its yapping.
“Do you know him?” Walsh demanded as she showed the driver’s license of the man lying dead in the bathroom, her voice lashing out like a whip.
The woman now looked fearful, her eyes darting first to Morris and then back to Walsh. “Y-Yes,” she stammered out. “T-That’s Javier. One of our doormen.”
“How many do you have?”
“Three.”
“Any of them in their thirties with red hair, a short-cropped beard, and mustache?”
“No.” Her eyes widened, and now there was only dread in her face. “Are you a police officer?”
“Yes. Detective Walsh. LAPD robbery-homicide division. When was the last time you were in the lobby?”
“I just came down minutes ago so I could take Rascal outside.”
“Before then.”
“That would be a little before eleven o’clock. Why, what has happened? Is Javier in trouble?”
Walsh ignored the question. “Was Javier Lopez working as the doorman when you came down then?”
“Yes.”
“Have you noticed anyone suspicious hanging around the building lately?”
“I don’t think so.”
The woman was beginning to look unsteady on her feet, and Morris signaled to Walsh to cut her loose.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” Morris asked.
The woman looked grateful for the interruption. “I think I just need some fresh air,” she said.
“Why don’t you take Rascal outside,” he said.
The woman looked like she could’ve kissed Morris, and she turned and fled toward the lobby. Walsh watched with disgust. She was still seething over the way the killer had fooled her.
“You and your soft spot for dog owners,” she said as if she were spitting out vulgarities.
“Is that what she was holding?” Morris asked with a straight face.
The high-pitched wail of sirens could be heard descending on the building.
“The cavalry has arrived,” Morris said.
“A lot of good it will do,” Walsh complained. “That sonofabitch psycho is long gone.”
“Maybe not. He could be hiding somewhere in the building. We’re going to have to call the management company and get keys.”
She muttered something under her breath that Morris couldn’t quite make out, but she didn’t argue with him. Of course, he agreed with her. The odds were the killer had left while Walsh was outside hiding so she could shadow Morris, but they were still going to have to search the building.
“Why don’t you keep watch over the crime scene. I better get to the door so I can let the reinforcements in,” Morris offered.
“Let me show you something first.”
Walsh took a plastic evidence bag out of her jacket pocket and handed it to Morris.
“I found this stuck in the victim’s wallet.”
Inside the evidence bag was another business card, similar to what was left on Heather Brandley’s body.
Written on it was: To Morris Brick: I can only imagine how frustrating this must be—R. G. Berg, Serial Killer Extraordinaire.
Chapter 14
The killer sat in front of the lighted makeup mirror admiring the job he had done earlier that morning. It had taken him more than two hours of painstaking work, as well as many hours of practicing over the last six months, but the transformation he had achieved was quite remarkable. While the disguise he had put together for Heather Brandley was adequate enough to do the job, this was at a whole different level. He proved this by seeing that Lopez had no clue who he was. The man had blubbered like a baby when the killer marched him into the bathroom, and even when he promised to let Lopez live if the doorman could only tell him his name (which was an inane lie—Lopez’s brains were going to be blown out no matter what he had said) Lopez in his panic still couldn’t give him an answer. The killer couldn’t be too unkind to him; after all, the face now staring back at him in the mirror would’ve fooled his own mother.
But enough of patting himself on the back. It was time to get to work.
The killer popped out the cosmetic contact lenses, changing his eye color back from blue to brown. Next, he removed the hairpiece. After that he poured solvent into a bowl, picked the right brush to use, and removed the red-colored eyebrows that he had glued on. With those taken care of, he lifted the edge of the latex foam prosthetic that he had attached to the bottom half of his face just enough so that he could work the brush in and dab the tiny bit of exposed adhesive with solvent. This was a slow, methodical process as he worked his way down the jawline, across the neck, and then up the other side of the jaw. After twenty minutes, he was able to peel away the prosthetic, and he went from having chubby chipmunk cheeks to a lean, angular-shaped face. He also lost the beard and mustache that had been glued onto the prosthetic.
He continued the