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Authors: Michael Prescott
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she could make a positive I.D. only from the ring on Rebecca’s finger, a ring Rebecca had bought for herself in celebration of her promotion and her exciting new life.
After the second murder, there could be no doubt that the Gryphon meant to go on killing till he was stopped. The task force had been formed, with Delgado in charge; the miscellany of unrelated cases he’d been investigating had been handed over to other detectives, most of whom groused about the additional caseload for days. The second tape had arrived within a week, the FBI had been contacted, and Delgado had begun working twenty-hour days and sleeping on the cot in the corner.
And then the week before last, on Wednesday, March 6, Elizabeth Osborn had lost her life.
Delgado shook his head slowly.
If the women had died in street muggings or bungled burglaries, their deaths might not have seemed so difficult to accept. There was a kind of logic to events like that, a motive and purpose that could be, if not defended, at least divined. Here there was no logic, no motive, no purpose. There was only the terrifying randomness of a restless evil that claimed lives as arbitrarily as an airborne virus or a cloud of poison gas.
All three victims had been young middle-class women; but other than that, no common denominator appeared to link them—not occupation, not background, not religious affiliation, not business associates or friends or doctors. Although all three had been attractive, their physical features had varied as well: Julia Stern, dark-haired and pale-skinned; Rebecca Morris, redheaded and freckle-faced; Elizabeth Osborn, blond and salon-tanned.
As far as Delgado could tell, the three women had had nothing in common except the fact that they were young and vital and alive. Presumably that had been enough.
He turned to a map of the city tacked to the far wall. Three red push pins marked the locations of the murders and suggested the parameters of the Gryphon’s field of operation. It was an area of roughly six square miles, extending west to Bundy Avenue, where Julia Stern had lived; east to Rebecca Morris’s apartment on Beverly Glen Boulevard; south to Elizabeth Osborn’s neighborhood near National Boulevard. Everyone on the task force assumed that the killer lived somewhere on the Westside and was operating reasonably close to home. He was not a drifter; he was settled, using a house or apartment as his base of operations. And he was mobile; he must own or have access to a vehicle.
The three victims had been Caucasian, a fact that virtually guaranteed that the Gryphon was white also; serial killers rarely crossed racial lines. Julia Stern’s murder had taken place on a Saturday morning; Rebecca Morris had been killed at about six-forty-five in the evening; Elizabeth Osborn had died in the middle of the night. Those time periods suggested the possibility that the Gryphon held down a daily nine-to-five job, which would restrict his activities to nights and weekends.
It seemed clear that the Gryphon watched each house or apartment building for at least a short while before acting. He must have seen Robert Stern depart with his golf clubs, just as he’d seen Rebecca Morris open the garage door and hurry inside. Presumably he’d observed Elizabeth Osborn’s house as well, lingering nearby until the lights were out and she was asleep. Only once he had determined that his victim was alone and vulnerable would he strike.
By all odds, somebody in one of the neighborhoods should have noticed a strange man, an unfamiliar vehicle—something, anything, out of the ordinary—during the period when the killer watched and waited. But the Gryphon’s luck had been excellent—the luck of the devil, Delgado thought. Nobody had seen a thing.
The murder weapon remained unknown. The victims’ heads were severed at the base of the neck, so if a knife or razor had been used to slash their throats, as Delgado suspected, there was no way to confirm it
After the second murder, there could be no doubt that the Gryphon meant to go on killing till he was stopped. The task force had been formed, with Delgado in charge; the miscellany of unrelated cases he’d been investigating had been handed over to other detectives, most of whom groused about the additional caseload for days. The second tape had arrived within a week, the FBI had been contacted, and Delgado had begun working twenty-hour days and sleeping on the cot in the corner.
And then the week before last, on Wednesday, March 6, Elizabeth Osborn had lost her life.
Delgado shook his head slowly.
If the women had died in street muggings or bungled burglaries, their deaths might not have seemed so difficult to accept. There was a kind of logic to events like that, a motive and purpose that could be, if not defended, at least divined. Here there was no logic, no motive, no purpose. There was only the terrifying randomness of a restless evil that claimed lives as arbitrarily as an airborne virus or a cloud of poison gas.
All three victims had been young middle-class women; but other than that, no common denominator appeared to link them—not occupation, not background, not religious affiliation, not business associates or friends or doctors. Although all three had been attractive, their physical features had varied as well: Julia Stern, dark-haired and pale-skinned; Rebecca Morris, redheaded and freckle-faced; Elizabeth Osborn, blond and salon-tanned.
As far as Delgado could tell, the three women had had nothing in common except the fact that they were young and vital and alive. Presumably that had been enough.
He turned to a map of the city tacked to the far wall. Three red push pins marked the locations of the murders and suggested the parameters of the Gryphon’s field of operation. It was an area of roughly six square miles, extending west to Bundy Avenue, where Julia Stern had lived; east to Rebecca Morris’s apartment on Beverly Glen Boulevard; south to Elizabeth Osborn’s neighborhood near National Boulevard. Everyone on the task force assumed that the killer lived somewhere on the Westside and was operating reasonably close to home. He was not a drifter; he was settled, using a house or apartment as his base of operations. And he was mobile; he must own or have access to a vehicle.
The three victims had been Caucasian, a fact that virtually guaranteed that the Gryphon was white also; serial killers rarely crossed racial lines. Julia Stern’s murder had taken place on a Saturday morning; Rebecca Morris had been killed at about six-forty-five in the evening; Elizabeth Osborn had died in the middle of the night. Those time periods suggested the possibility that the Gryphon held down a daily nine-to-five job, which would restrict his activities to nights and weekends.
It seemed clear that the Gryphon watched each house or apartment building for at least a short while before acting. He must have seen Robert Stern depart with his golf clubs, just as he’d seen Rebecca Morris open the garage door and hurry inside. Presumably he’d observed Elizabeth Osborn’s house as well, lingering nearby until the lights were out and she was asleep. Only once he had determined that his victim was alone and vulnerable would he strike.
By all odds, somebody in one of the neighborhoods should have noticed a strange man, an unfamiliar vehicle—something, anything, out of the ordinary—during the period when the killer watched and waited. But the Gryphon’s luck had been excellent—the luck of the devil, Delgado thought. Nobody had seen a thing.
The murder weapon remained unknown. The victims’ heads were severed at the base of the neck, so if a knife or razor had been used to slash their throats, as Delgado suspected, there was no way to confirm it
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