Black Pearl: A Cold Case Suspense

By Donnell Ann Bell

A cold case heats up when a 9-1-1 call puts police at a Denver murder scene, pointing investigators to the abduction of a Colorado teenager fourteen years earlier. A calling card—a single black pearl—is found on the newest victim. Is the murder a copycat? Or has a twisted serial killer, thought dead or in prison, returned to strike again?

Soon, the hunt for a multi-state killer is on and brings together an unexpected team: a Denver Major Crimes police lieutenant; an FBI special agent who investigated the previous murders; a rookie FBI agent with a specialty in psychology; and the only living victim of the Black Pearl Killer, who is now a cop.

For Special Agent Brian DiPietro, the case is an opportunity to find answers. For Officer Allison Shannon, the case will force her to face down the town that blamed her for surviving when another did not. And for both DiPietro and Shannon, it’s a chance for both to find closure to questions that have tormented them for years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Sep 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094462288

Donnell Ann Bell

Before I was published in fiction, I paid my dues in the Unpublished World, finaling in or winning numerous Romance Writers of America® chapter competitions as well as several multi-genre writing competitions. I’m extremely proud to be listed as a two-time Golden Heart® finalist for RWA’s® highest competition. These particular accolades led to the publication of The Past Came Hunting and Deadly Recall. I am as at home in nonfiction as I am in fiction. I’ve worked for a weekly business publication and a monthly parenting magazine, but prefer my fictional writing compared to writing about stock portfolios or treating diaper rash. I have a background in court reporting, have worked with kids and engineers, and have volunteered for law enforcement and other organizations. A Colorado resident for forty years, my husband and I now split our time between Colorado and New Mexico.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Waltham, Massachusetts, May 1996

HE’D READ THAT arsonists loved to return to the scene of the crime. He wouldn’t know. This was his first arson. Even so, the leaping orange flames and billowing smoke climbing from the second floor of Veronica’s stately colonial truly mesmerized him.

He’d never known that fire sounded like an incoming tide or the roar of a turbulent ocean. From the balcony of a vacant property across from her estate, he could hear the collapse of beams, the pops of embers, and the frantic shouts of fire crews working to stamp out his handiwork.

They could try.

He itched to take credit. Stand among the faces he knew on this predawn morning. Listen as neighbors raced into each other’s arms and cried at the demise of such a beloved family.

Later, perhaps.

His resemblance to family presented a problem.

He gripped his fist tighter. Who would have guessed that tonight the coward would stand up to the bitch, then change his mind and turn on him?

He’d won the battle, naturally, and the silly pacifist would likely survive. The question remained whether he’d walk again.

Veronica hadn’t made it out, he was certain. She’d miss tomorrow’s board meeting, poor dear. Everybody knew she couldn’t find her way out of a body bag.

His success made him tremble with glee, and he relaxed his fist. The Tahitian pearls he’d ripped from her throat lay cool when he opened his palm. Her last moments alive had been drenched in outrage. While his had been steeped in righteous satisfaction to take something she valued over her own flesh and blood.

The beauty of it all? No one would ever know what really happened.

Unless he chose to reveal.

PART I

1

POPE

Denver, Colorado, twenty-one years later

EVERETT T. POPE hated anonymous tips. He really hated them at two in the morning. If somebody gave him something for nothing, he could bet his sweet ass it came equipped with a minefield of booby traps. He’d stepped on more than a few over the course of his career. Whether you saw them or not, they lay in wait, ready to trip you up, then explode in your face.

Or they segued into cops finding a body. He really hated that.

He pulled to the curb of an abandoned property he’d driven past for years without blinking.

St. Benedict’s. On an average day, the abandoned hospital northeast of downtown Denver looked like a sad vision of urban decay. This morning, with blue-and-red light bars illuminating the predawn skies, it looked like what it was—a crime scene.

Maglite tapping against his thigh, he walked the property’s perimeter toward his destination. Evidently, the multi-story eyesore had been undergoing a facelift. Contractors had erected the standard barriers of weld mesh affixed to temporary chain-link fencing.

He stood below one of the area’s rare streetlights, and, glancing up, read: Future State-of-the-Art Level One Trauma Center, Owner/Operator Northwestern/Rocky Mountain Health Alliance.

Correction. St. Benedict’s was on its way out.

A cop he didn’t recognize walked toward him. Apparently fresh out of the academy, he bore the typical cautionary approach of someone unsure what to make of Pope. He got that a lot. He liked to think it was because he was so damned good-looking. The realist in him pointed out it was probably his race combined with his overlarge size.

Before the officer asked for credentials, Pope saved him the trouble. He pulled back his windbreaker and revealed the shield on his belt. Lieutenant Pope. Major Crimes.

Nodding, the officer relaxed his stance. Yes, sir.

My team should already be on scene or arriving shortly. We’ve got lead on this. He scanned the cordoned-off property. So, tell me what you know.

My—sergeant’s inside, the officer stammered. His instructions were for us to send you his way when you arrived, and he’d do the talking.

Not helpful. Pope despised grandstanders who wanted to make a murder investigation all about them. Why don’t we save him his vocal cords and answer my questions, so I don’t have to guess.

Right. Might be better if I showed you. This way.

As Pope followed the uniform, broken beer bottles crunched underfoot. They crossed a dilapidated sidewalk, where, adjacent to the path, flashing cruisers and unmarked units were parked at the curb.

Some twenty yards away, the officer paused. This is the area we believe the suspect came through. He pointed to another cop controlling access to the scene. Officer Heath over there was first responder.

Pope eyed the young man taller than the first, then turned his attention to the jagged opening in the temporary fencing. The intruder had used some type of bolt cutter to work his way in. The guy must have also thought he was a smart guy when what he was, was an asshole. He’d chosen an area with a posted No Trespassing sign, and when he cut through the link, had sliced the warning in two.

Landmine number one. They were after a joker who was into subtext and liked to send messages.

Pope made his way toward Heath. Lieutenant Pope, Major Crimes. You were first on-scene?

Yes, sir.

Let’s hear your account of what happened.

The ruler-erect cop straightened even further and met Pope’s gaze head-on. Dispatch said a caller had reported seeing someone on St. Benedict’s grounds. Trespassing has been a problem, particularly before all this fencing went up. I was in the area, so I took the call. I arrived around one a.m.

And found this? Pope waved an arm over the mutilated fence.

Heath nodded.

And the caller told Dispatch someone entered? Alone?

Correct. At least that’s what they said.

Pope glanced over his shoulder. Blue mesh surrounded the entire construction site. Whoever had made that call couldn’t have seen anything. He couldn’t dispute, however, that a body had been discovered. You found the victim?

Heath nodded again. Yes, sir. My sergeant provided backup. We went in through the hole in the fence, and from there entered the building. Sarge went one way; I went the other. For the first time Heath’s measured voice faltered. Someone was in there, all right . . .

And?

Let’s just say whoever did this is pretty warped. His gaze fixed on his surroundings, avoiding Pope’s stare.

Is that why your sergeant sent you out here?

I’m sorry?

You fell apart, and your sergeant sent you outside?

The young officer’s head shook like an out-of-control metronome. Not at all, sir. I found the victim, helped perform a search of the building. It’s pitch black inside, and we could have missed someone. My guess is my sergeant wanted those of us who can run a five-minute mile out here if we needed to chase somebody down.

Good. No confidence problem here. Pope held back a smile. Even so, placing Heath at the gate was not a decision he would have made, especially since Heath had found the body. Pope ordered cop number one to provide double coverage of the scene, then to the first responder said, OK, walk me through the paces you took when you got here.

Heath came to life, pointing to the gash in the fence. We went through there, sir.

Pope sighed. Of course they had. At six five, and plenty of meat on his bones, it took some maneuvering. Still, he managed to squeeze through the severed chain link without ripping the clothes off his back or spilling blood. Whereas the patrol cop Pope appointed as his tour guide shared no such dilemma and easily slipped through.

They stood on the other side, and Pope asked, Anyone notify the ME?

Sergeant Flynn did. After I found the body, he took over. Even ordered the portable generators.

Pope mulled over Heath’s comments while they traversed their way toward the hospital’s crumbling steps. Crime scene processing rarely went off without a hitch. At least some thinking individual had opened the contractor’s double gates for emergency vehicles. Taking advantage of the barrage of headlights brightening the area, Pope discovered front-end loaders and bulldozers already on site.

Damn. Demolition was soon.

Someone called behind him, LT . . . Pope.

He pivoted to find three of his team of detectives jogging his way. About time I got some help around here.

Parking’s a bitch, Mills said, huffing. What time did you get here?

Feels like hours ago. This is Officer Heath. He found the victim.

Garza, who carried the Nikon, nodded, then said, Ready when you are, LT.

Good. From what I understand it’s a Maglite convention in there, so as soon as you can, photograph everything in sections.

Pope turned to Mills. The owner of this project has banners all over the place. Get me the name of the super in charge. Next, he focused on Ortiz, another detective on his squad. Take some uniforms and canvas the area. Have patrol drive a three-mile radius looking for stragglers. If they’re on the street at this hour, talk to them. We got somebody playing with us, and I want to know why.

As the trio departed, Pope returned his attention to Heath. What’d you do next?

The young officer tilted his head toward St. Benedict’s. I went up those steps. I assumed whoever broke through the fence would use the main entrance.

Pope strode in that direction but paused to flash his light over the entire edifice. Not a ramp in sight—this was a structure built before architects had ever heard of the Americans with Disabilities Act. Every window of the eight-story brick hospital had been covered with plywood.

At the top of the stairs, he stopped. The plywood over the once double glass doors had been ripped from its hinges. St. Benedict’s cavernous doors yawned open. Sections of the brittle wood lay scattered about.

Son of a bitch. Who cut through fencing and tossed plywood about like a superhuman paperboy?

A crime scene tech emerged from the building and nearly collided with them. Lieutenant, good timing. I was coming to find you. Diesel generators are hooked up. All we’re waiting for now is one more source of ventilation. Anything else you want me to do in the meantime?

Pope looked from the tech to the massive door frame. Sharp pieces of wood were trapped in the grooves. The perpetrator had probably used a crowbar to pry it loose. He’d also likely worn gloves—either that, or they were looking for a strong guy with a handful of splinters.

Even so, as someone who held the Guinness world record for unfinished DIY projects, Pope often removed his gloves to get a firmer grip. A remote possibility, but it had to be done. He waved a hand around the landing. Yeah. Dust the edges of this torn-off plywood for prints.

Got it.

What next? Pope glanced at Heath.

The sergeant and I went inside, then we separated to search the building.

Okay. Show me.

With Heath beside him, Pope entered the hospital’s former lobby—a madhouse in progress. The building smelled of motor oil, rotting wood, and dust and gave off the odor of a structure that had been boarded up for decades. He slowed his pace so as not to run into personnel trying to work in the dark. He toed the grime-covered white-and-black tiles and waved the beam in every direction. Wires hung from missing ceiling tiles, brick had been torn out, and concrete slabs had been gutted for mitigation.

How much longer for the generators? Pope ground his back teeth together. Did it make sense to have these people fumbling about? Should he station a skeleton crew and shut down the place until they could see?

One thing he wasn’t about to do was leave without seeing the reason for the call out. He motioned for Heath to proceed. Eventually they made their way to an ancient elevator the size of a coffin, and beside it a wide set of stairs. Another cop stood next to the banister, arms folded, protecting the body.

Steadying the Mag, Pope finally grasped the warped comment. He also understood why everyone had been so careful to reference the victim as the body, not a he or a she. He cautiously stepped forward, pinpricks raising the hairs on his neck. Cocooned in heavy-duty plastic, a blank face stared back at him, gender impossible to tell.

He’d been about to bellow at the top of his lungs to get him some fucking light when the generators clicked on. Obviously, he wasn’t alone in his frustration. The entire building erupted in whoops, hollers, and applause.

He took a deep breath. Still, a new hurdle awaited him; with the body in plastic, law enforcement couldn’t grasp what they had. Neither could the ME investigator. Once he arrived, he’d take the body downtown. Pope handed a business card to the uniform standing guard. Tell the ME to call me when he has something.

Relinquishing Heath of his tour-guide duties, Pope made a mental note to talk to the kid’s sergeant in case he faced a butt-kicking for leaving his post. Afterward, he crossed the lobby and ran into Garza.

Got a text from Ortiz, LT. He’s at 38th and Lipan. Patrol combed the streets like you wanted and came up with a witness. Get this, he’s the one who made the 9-1-1 call.

Pope started walking. Good. They may have handed us our suspect. Have Ortiz bring him here and meet us at the outside gate.

Falling in beside Pope, the detective shrugged. Will do, but Ortiz asked that we come to him.

Why’s that?

Garza’s expression turned sheepish. Witness lives out of a shopping cart, LT. Doesn’t want to leave his house.

THE HOMELESS man claimed his name was Homer, and if he’d ever had a last name, he couldn’t remember one. He didn’t care for coffee, so Pope bought him a hot chocolate from the 7-Eleven across the street. Near five a.m., the September morning wasn’t frigid, and dressed in all those layers, Pope couldn’t imagine the old-timer was cold. Nevertheless, Homer wrapped his dirty fingers around the brew as if the world was engulfed in a blizzard.

According to Patrol, Homer had shown up a year ago. He kept to himself, didn’t cause trouble, lived off charity or rummaged through back alleys and dumpsters. His realm appeared to be the streets of north Denver, and at first, cops had nicknamed him Vampire. Mainly because he came out at night and disappeared during the daytime.

Pope, who had contacts at the soup kitchens, wrote himself a note to check with the shelters and Step 13, a drug and alcohol rehabilitation center, to see what they knew about the man.

For now, he had a murder to solve, and Ortiz had indicated that Homer was key. Studying the stooped, vacant-eyed individual seated on the curb, his house behind him, Pope wasn’t optimistic.

He lowered his bulk to sit beside Homer, worked to ignore the man’s smell and the remnants of alcohol, and instead estimated his age. The man’s stringy gray hair was deceiving. At first glance, he appeared to have wrinkles, but up close Pope could see the deep lines were simply soot and grime snaking their way down his face.

How’s the chocolate? Pope asked.

Homer, who’d generally kept his head bent, answered by way of a slurp.

Mr. Homer, Pope tried again, my detectives tell me a man approached you last night. Do you remember that?

Homer nodded.

And handed you a phone?

Wouldn’t let me keep it. He sighed and stared into his chocolate.

Pope grew hopeful. These people weren’t always long shots. Is there somebody you’d like to call? I can help you with that.

Nobody to call. Homer paused a few seconds. Wanted to sell it.

Pope eyed the street and the rundown shopping strip across from him. You make the call for him?

Another nod.

Who’d you call?

9-1-1.

Why?

Stranger asked me to.

He had a phone. Why didn’t he report it himself?

Homer shrugged.

He give you money to make that call?

Homer slurped more of his drink.

If we have to take you downtown, Mr. Homer, your house can’t come with you. I doubt it’ll be here when you get back.

The homeless man’s shoulders fell, and his voice turned tinny. I was hungry. He gave me a twenty.

Nothing wrong with wanting to eat. What’d you tell the 9-1-1 operator?

I said I seen somebody go inside that old hospital. Cops should check it out. You can’t arrest me for that.

He could, but he wouldn’t. Because Homer’s statement aligned with the dispatch operator’s, Pope moved on. Can you describe this man?

Nice shoes.

Pope’s gaze traveled to the holes in Homer’s worn loafers. So far he’d met Pope’s gaze fleetingly. Can you describe him at all?

Homer was slow to respond. Finally, he said, Looked like you.

African American?

Homer shook his head. Big.

Well, Pope already knew a dwarf hadn’t taken down that plywood. Was he fat, skinny? Any moles that stood out? Did he speak with an accent? Anything?

He was . . ., the tinny voice returned, . . . big.

This was a conversation going nowhere. Sighing, Pope said, You through with your cocoa?

He nodded, and Pope took the cup. Then Homer stood and moved to his cart while Pope remained seated. There were times he wanted to throw his weight around. This wasn’t one of them. He glanced over his shoulder. Mr. Homer, do you still have the twenty the stranger gave to you?

Some of it. Got me something to eat at the McDonald’s.

Of course he had. Pope came to his feet. You stay at any of the shelters, Mr. Homer?

Not if I can help it. Can I go now?

Pope squinted, undecided. Had the killer contacted Homer by chance? The suspect had to know the police would track down the person who made the emergency call. Even so, Homer had been on the streets for a while without incident. Something told Pope that if the perpetrator of the crime carried around cash, a phone in his pocket, and wore nice shoes, he wasn’t a regular.

Yeah, you can go. But I may want to talk to you again. Understand?

Homer nodded and meandered to his cart. He secured his towering load and wheeled slowly away.

Garza and Ortiz rounded the corner. Pope handed Garza the cup; Garza deposited it in a brown evidence sack.

What now, LT? Ortiz asked.

Pope glanced at his watch, then explained that Homer may have taken money from the killer. Head over to the McDonald’s on 38th and talk to the manager. Check out Homer’s story. It’s early enough that twenty might still be in the drawer. Pope started toward his car. You want me, I’ll be at the morgue.

2

DIPIETRO

FBI SPECIAL AGENT Brian DiPietro opened his mouth to interject, remembered his place, and snapped it shut. He was no longer a supervising special agent. That title belonged to the jackass strutting his stuff at the podium in the Denver field office.

Brian had sat in on a lot of dog-and-pony shows over the course of his career, but none wasted more time than Ian Carver’s nonsensical presentation. There was cautious—something Brian understood and recommended firsthand—and then there was overkill.

If the task force didn’t act soon, the suspects they were after would cross another state line, wreak havoc elsewhere, and eventually retire to a luxury nursing home on a beach.

He scanned the room in frustration. Were all the agents in this room under the impression PowerPoint solved cases? He turned his head toward the window and the snow-capped Rocky Mountains.

A month out of DC, he’d acclimated just fine to the majestic setting outside. It was the inside that was giving him fits.

You got a problem, DiPietro?

Brian slid his gaze from the window.

Ian had paused on yet another repetitive slide while every other agent in the room focused on Brian.

No problem.

Good. Then why don’t you share your understanding of what we’ve been discussing?

Brian shifted in his seat. What was this, fifth grade? They’d been through the slides so many times, he no longer needed them for reference. He stared into Ian’s mocking gaze. "Four hooded shotgun-toting bank robbers have evaded capture for months, hitting various banks in Denver and the surrounding suburbs.

"Any time the suspects enter a financial institution, their MO is the same: fire into the ceiling, order everyone down, terrorize them, collect their stash, and split.

You’ve received a number of anonymous tips, which you’ve recounted in your presentation. Ad nauseam. But the only promising lead is a confidential informant who claims she’s related to one of the robbers.

Ian faced forward again. That’s correct—

What you haven’t addressed is that chief among your statistical probabilities is that it’s only a miracle or a matter of time until an employee, customer, or passerby finds himself loaded with buckshot. Temper flaring, Brian ordered his mouth to stand down. As always, mouth was insubordinate. So, what I’d like to know is, why are we in here, and not out there?

Everything from Ian’s bald head to the tips of his ears turned red. He set down the clicker. "Because, Special Agent, our CI is afraid for her life. She’s holding back critical information. We need her to keep talking. You of all people wouldn’t want to send this squad in unprepared?"

Recognizing the dig, Brian clenched his jaw. "Of course not. But if we need her to talk, why don’t we offer her protection or charge her with obstruction of justice?"

My office, Brian, after this briefing.

Brian sat back in his chair. Oh, goody. Not only was he back in fifth grade, he was being sent to the principal’s office.

Oh yeah, jackass, definitely. The animosity had been thick between them since Brian’s return. He’d graduated Quantico with Ian. Back then they’d gotten along. Perhaps the supervisory special agent feared Brian had been transferred back to Denver to take over.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Ian reclaimed his clicker. All right. Back to work. The sooner we get through this—

Denver’s top boss himself rapped on the door, and as Bernard entered the room, postures noticeably straightened. Paul Bernard, Special Agent in Charge, or the SAC, rarely attended situational briefings. He sent the ASAC to do menial labor. But here he was.

His watchful stare traveled to Ian, rested on the other agents in the room, and finally alighted on Brian. DiPietro. I need a word.

Sir? From his place at the podium, Ian paled.

This doesn’t concern you, Carver. Carry on. Bernard left the room; Brian rose from his chair, and he followed.

Bernard didn’t speak as they walked toward the elevators, while a dull noise roared in Brian’s ears. Resignations, transfers, even demotions caused hard feelings when the caseload was high, the Bureau was on overload, and budgets were slim. Assuming his bosses had reconsidered and decided on admonishment after all, Brian’s mind raced for what it could be.

On the second-floor annex, Bernard pushed up at the elevator. Received a call from the Denver PD, Chief of Police Vespa. He has people investigating a downtown crime scene. They’ve requested our presence.

The elevator doors chimed; Bernard stepped inside.

Brian started to enter but the SAC held up a palm. You’re not going with me. There’s a body. It’s been taken to the Office of the Medical Examiner on Bannock. They’ve completed the autopsy and requested you personally.

"Me, sir?" Brian couldn’t contain his shock. He’d met very few people outside the field office since his return to Denver.

That’s right. When you get to the OME, ask for Lieutenant Pope. He’s expecting you. Bernard jabbed a button, staying the elevator. Ian doesn’t understand why you asked for this demotion, Brian. Frankly, neither do I.

The doors slid shut, eliminating Brian’s chance to respond—not that he had a ready comeback in mind.

TWENTY MINUTES later he arrived at 660 Bannock Street and the Office of the Medical Examiner. A clear blue sky, a bright sunny day, it might have been a perfect world until he pinned his sights on the OME. Teach him to complain about PowerPoint; Karma had delivered a head smack on this one.

Brian mopped his forehead and straightened his tie, reminding himself that no matter what he witnessed in the next few minutes, nothing could be as bad as what he’d seen in Meridian. Seven months had passed. He could do this.

Inside the lobby, obviously used for functionality and not to impress, an assistant worked behind glass. Brian displayed his credentials; she picked up a phone and told him to wait.

Soon after, a door opened and a black man wearing a visitor’s badge entered the lobby. Brian’s surroundings all but shrank as the man and his baritone voice filled the room. Agent DiPietro?

That’s right. Lieutenant Pope? Brian didn’t often look up during introductions.

Everett T. in the flesh. Handshakes exchanged, he added, But don’t call me that unless you’re my mother. Most people stick with Pope.

Worked for Brian. He glanced sideways as the two started walking. SAC Bernard said you asked for me specifically?

Pope opened the door and led the way toward the basement. I did. Appreciate the Bureau helping us out on such short notice.

Happy to. What’s this about?

We’re hoping you can tell us.

Brian resented evasive behavior, especially from one law enforcement professional to another. Nevertheless, he had to trust the cop had his reasons.

Downstairs, they entered the autopsy hallway, an area that, like the shabby lobby upstairs, seemed to be crying for a bigger budget and facelift. Striding beneath ancient fluorescent lighting, they passed an occasional wall phone or squeezed by an abandoned gurney. Employee lockers were housed in this area. It was as though planners had failed to account for the lockers and located them here as an afterthought. Brian passed one that read, We put the fun in funerals. At least someone in the place had a sense of humor.

Around two thirty this morning, Pope began, evidently deciding it was time to talk, Dispatch gets a 9-1-1 call. Caller claims he’s seen movement around St. Benedict’s Hospital northeast of downtown. It’s an old facility built in the 1950s that’s been stripped of everything reusable and scheduled for demolition. Owners are making room for a medical complex and a new hospital in the spring. Patrol responds, finds the fence cut, and the place broken into.

Brian stated the obvious. They found a body?

Moments after they got inside. Lucky for us, the deceased was left in plain sight. Unlucky for us, the SOB wrapped the victim in plastic. We only learned during autopsy prep the body was female.

You attended the autopsy?

Pope returned a terse nod. I did.

So, who is she?

Unknown at this point, and no prints in the system.

Intrigued, Brian located a wall clock. Nearly ten hours had elapsed since the police had found her. Before then, no telling how long she’d been missing.

Long time for a body to go unclaimed. When’s demo slated?

Noon today . . . or it was.

Good thing a witness called it in. If that building had gone down . . .

An unreadable expression shuttered the cop’s face as they arrived at a room labeled Isolation Autopsy. Pope waved Brian inside. "I’d withhold judgment about a good thing if I were you."

The cop walked farther inside. Brian stood by the door. His