by S W Vaughn
All my attention was on Chelsea Mathers and the hot ball of anger that formed in my gut at the sight of her.
Swallowing against the bile that threatened to rise in my own throat, I opened the little case and found a pair of blue disposable gloves. I didn’t know a lot about crime scenes, but I knew about fingerprints — especially how and when to not leave them. I put the gloves on and moved slowly toward the dead girl. The rage I felt when I’d first laid eyes on the figure in the bed only grew stronger as I got closer, even as my thoughts clarified and I realized exactly why I was so furious.
I wanted to kill whoever had done this. And not in a polite, mercifully quick way.
As Clarke had mentioned, the victim was young and blonde. I had to assume there’d been another young blonde woman butchered like this before her, the first victim, and it only fueled my anger. This naked, bloodied girl who’d been carved like a Christmas turkey, wrists tied cruelly to the bedpost beneath hands that had turned dark purple, the dead marbles of her blue eyes fixing a terrified gaze on eternity — she deserved justice. It was the only thing she had left.
The man who’d died in my place was supposed to give it to her. Now, it was up to me.
Maybe I wouldn’t be getting out of Dodge just yet, after all.
I drew in a long, slow breath and exhaled the rage, leaving only cold focus behind. It was a trick that served me well in my profession — kept me alive when my targets and enemies operated on emotion. Clearly, that ability was useful for a detective, too.
Assuming that the victim had already been photographed and swabbed and whatever else the technicians did on the scene, I stepped up to the edge of the bed. I’d seen plenty of bodies up close, most of them dead by my hand, but I still felt bile rising in my throat when I got a better look at this one. She’d been sliced open repeatedly, the gashes long and deep and ugly. Most of the marks appeared random, with the possible exception of what looked like an X carved into her right shoulder. I recognized the anger and hatred, the pure venom behind wounds like these. I’d seen it plenty of times among the mafioso, though never done to a woman.
And I knew this killer enjoyed his work. He was not a professional, not killing for the purpose of ending a life that had to be ended. No, he wanted to feel it. To bathe in his victims’ suffering and drink their pain like a vintage wine.
The sight of her hands, both of them mottled in gruesome blues and purples from the lack of blood flow after her wrists had been tied so tightly, nudged at something in my mind that I couldn’t quite access. Hadn’t I heard about something like this before … something to do with gloves?
“Sorry,” a voice said behind me. It took a minute to recognize it as Clarke’s. She sounded gravelly and uncertain, like she might have to make another dash for the toilet any second. “I’ve never … this is worse than the first one. A lot worse.”
I tore my gaze from the ravaged body of Chelsea Mathers and turned toward Clarke. It was the first time I’d seen a person actually look green. Strangely, I felt a little concerned for the detective. “You okay, Clarke?”
She shook her head slowly. No, not okay. “How could anyone do that?” she grated, staring straight at me as if she was desperate to avoid looking at the body again. “You’ve seen stuff like this a lot more than me. Do you ever get used to it?”
“No.” The truth was, I’d never seen anything like this before. Not even what was left of thieves and traitors after a mob enforcer got through with them could compare to what’d been done to this girl. But I reminded myself that I didn’t know what I was supposed to know, so I had to keep my responses short and vague.
Hell, my answer was true anyway. I couldn’t imagine ever getting used to seeing this.
Clarke jerked and made a thick sound deep in her throat. I moved to turn her away, so she wouldn’t vomit on the evidence, but she stumbled back a step and held a hand up. “No, I’m okay,” she said in a voice that was approaching normal with fierce determination. “I have to look at her. I want to, so we can stop this son of a bitch before he does it again.”
I nodded and drew back so she could approach the bed.
The detective stared at the body for a long moment, her gaze hardening in anger as she took in the dead woman’s condition. Eventually, she looked at me and said softly, “Were they all this bad? The victims in New York?”
Jesus Christ, what victims in New York?
That nudge in my mind finally triggered something. A front-page newspaper article that I’d been reading not more than a week ago, during my last job, while I waited in a bar for my forty-something alcoholic target to finish drinking and go outside so I could shoot him. The paper had been lying on an empty table, folded and left behind, and the headline had caught my attention. I remembered feeling a little sick — and at the same time more than a little smug that I was better at my job than the NYPD, because at least I always got my man.
Still No Leads in Kid Glove Killer Case, Six Months After Victim Number Eight
The Kid Glove Killer. That was why I’d thought of gloves. He was a serial killer who’d been operating in the New York City area for at least three years, and he’d killed eight women that they knew of. All blondes, all of them slashed to death with a knife. He’d gotten his name because of the way his victims’ hands looked like gloves after he’d tied their wrists and cut off the circulation, as they struggled while he did unspeakable things to them. The name also referred to the way he left absolutely no evidence behind, ever. Not a single fingerprint or hair or drop of blood or spit, not a footprint or a soda can or a cigarette butt.
I’d heard rumblings about the guy among the mafia community before, glory stories that I’d figured were mostly exaggeration. But the article suggested this killer was even worse than the stories.
When I’d read it, I’d mostly thought about the incompetence of the police and the criminal justice system as a whole, and how the mob’s way of dealing with people who’d screwed up was more efficient. More final. You find the guy who did it, you kill him. Finito. Zero repeat offenses.
At the time, I hadn’t thought about the victims. I hadn’t placed the blame where it belonged — not with the cops, but with the sick bastard who’d done that to so many women and gotten away with it for so long.
Clarke was waiting for an answer to her question, and I didn’t have one. Not exactly. “They’re all bad,” I said, shaking my head. “This guy isn’t human.”
“I believe that,” Clarke muttered angrily. “So … this must be a copycat, right? Because the real Kid Glove Killer is in New York.”
I didn’t comment on that. If Detective North, the real one, had been coming here to help with this, it probably meant that he’d worked on the actual Kid Glove Killer case. Maybe the chief asked him to come because she thought it was a copycat, and he might have some insight they didn’t. Or maybe they thought the killer might have moved to a new hunting ground. After all, it’d been six months since the last murder in the city.
Either way, I had to find out what he’d known before this went much further.
“Let’s get through this scene, and I have to catch up on the first victim too,” I told Clarke. “I need more to go on before I can speculate.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea. We don’t want to jump the gun on this one.”
“Exactly.”
I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what she was agreeing to, but at least she’d stopped asking questions. Right now, there was only one thing I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt.
When I managed to escape back to the hotel and North’s stuff, I was going to need some answers. Fast.
Chapter Ten
Preston
She was more embarrassed than anything else that she’d gotten sick at the sight of the body. She’d expected some kind of mocking from Detective North, the seasoned professional who’d worked on the Kid Glove Killer case and written a book, but he seemed just as outraged and horrified over the woman’s death as she was
. He hadn’t said a word about her rush to the bathroom.
That was a point in his favor, at least.
Once she’d finished looking at what was left of Chelsea Mathers, at least as much as she could stand, the two of them walked the rest of the house. North barely said a word and mostly hung back as he watched her take notes, bag the victim’s phone and purse and other essentials; talk to the officers and send them on various tasks to canvass the neighborhood, have the victim’s car towed, and cover all the tedious investigative steps that would hole even the remote possibility of turning up a clue. Through it all, the other detective offered no help and no comment.
She wasn’t sure if he was too arrogant to participate, or just lazy.
By the time she headed out to the porch with North in tow, the ambulance had left with the victim’s boyfriend ensconced inside, and most of the personnel had vacated the scene, including August — a fact that somewhat relieved her. He was a good cop, a good person, but ever since he’d read that stupid book, he’d developed a sight-unseen admiration for Donovan North that bordered on hero worship.
When Chief Palmer announced, two weeks after the first murder, that she’d hired the detective, August had practically exploded with excitement. He’d attempted to get Preston to read the book before the amazing Detective North arrived, so she could ‘familiarize herself with his methods’ before she had to work with him.
She tried, purely out of politeness, but she hadn’t even been able to get through the first chapter. It was awful.
She’d also found herself wondering why, if North was so great, he’d left the high-profile Kid Glove Killer case in the big city to come way out here. Her mind flashed back to the drive out from the Junction, when she’d gotten the sense that the detective was running from something back home. She thought it was a strong possibility.
But from what, though? His failure to catch the serial killer in New York?
Or was he running to something?
Did he think that the actual Kid Glove Killer had come here, to Landstaff Junction?
She suddenly realized that she’d asked him whether he thought this was a copycat, and he hadn’t answered that.
Before she could repeat the question, Palmer and Kratt were heading up the porch stairs from where they’d been talking to Tommy Brand, who had packed up his gear and was heading for the evidence van. The last two uniformed officers on the scene were at the van, pulling a stretcher and body bag from the back.
She grimaced in sympathy. She didn’t envy their task.
The chief and the lieutenant reached them, and the four of them moved off to the side so the officers could get through with the stretcher. “Okay, Detective,” Chief Palmer said, addressing North. “Let’s have your preliminary thoughts.”
Preston tried not to take offense that the chief hadn’t asked her first.
For just an instant, a deer-in-headlights expression flashed across North’s face. Then he set his jaw and folded his arms. “The M.O. is definitely similar,” he said. “But there’s at least one difference. This victim was sexually assaulted, while the victims in New York weren’t.”
The back of Preston’s neck heated, and she raised her hand instinctively to cover the flush she knew was there. Damn it, why hadn’t she noticed that? She should have picked up on it, especially since she knew Lynn Reynolds had been raped. But the records she’d received from the NYPD weren’t complete, and they contained no mention of the lack of sexual assault. They simply hadn’t mentioned a sexual aspect to the case one way or another.
And if Chelsea Mathers had been sexually assaulted, she’d missed the signs. She hadn’t looked closely enough, or maybe she’d been relying on the upcoming medical examiner’s report to ultimately confirm that. Or she simply wasn’t experienced enough to recognize that sort of thing.
Either way, it was a stupid newbie mistake, and she felt embarrassingly incompetent.
“Good catch,” Chief Palmer said, while Kratt nodded along approvingly. “Not conclusive, but it’s a start. Anything else?”
Again, North seemed to panic for an instant — or she might’ve been reading into his expression, trying to find some reason to mistrust him. After a beat, he said, “I don’t want to make any definite proclamations until I have a little more to go on. I need to see the pattern.”
Let me guess. That’s in your book, Preston thought, but did not say.
The look on the chief’s face suggested that was not the answer she wanted to hear. Maybe she’d expected Donovan North to walk into town, solve the case, catch the bad guy, and have everyone home by dinner.
Preston was secretly glad he hadn’t. It was a small, shameful thrill, because of course she wanted this murdering bastard caught just as badly as everyone else—but at least the great detective wasn’t that perfect.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Chief Palmer sighed, though nothing about her looked apologetic. “I just can’t believe this happened again. But you knew it would … didn’t you, Detective?”
There was a thinly veiled accusation in her tone, as if she thought North had come up here and slaughtered this girl himself, just to prove there would be another murder. But Preston had seen the way he reacted to the victim in there — not only that, but the way he’d been on the drive when she told him what happened. How devastated he’d been that he was right about the killer striking again.
“Chief, you’re making it sound like North had something to do with Chelsea’s death,” she blurted before she could stop herself.
He shot her a grateful look, and she was almost not sorry she’d defended him.
“Remember when we talked about not referring to victims by their first names?” Chief Palmer flashed a sharp look, but it softened quickly, and she raised a hand to her head and massaged a temple. “Sorry. It’s been a long day already,” she murmured, and then squared her shoulders and looked at Preston. “Did you notice anything in there?”
Preston shrugged. “Same methods, as North mentioned,” she said. “The body was positioned differently, but it looks like that was more a function of the available space than any sort of deliberate statement. This victim didn’t have bedposts like the first one, so he—” Her stomach gave a tiny lurch as an image of the tortured young woman on the bed flashed through her mind, and she didn’t finish the statement. They’d all seen how the killer had lashed her wrists to the headboard railing, about a foot apart, rather than spreading her arms toward the bedposts the way he’d done to Lynn Reynolds. “Other than that, no sign of forced entry, no evidence of disturbance anywhere in the house except for the bedroom.”
“Okay. That could be something, about the positioning,” the chief said, though to Preston it felt patronizing, like a forced pat on the back. “We’ll have to see what the M.E. comes up with. Meanwhile, Kratt and I will head back to the station and start media damage control. She looked from Preston to North. “I’m assuming you two have some interviews to conduct.”
North winced a bit. “Actually, Chief, I really need to get back to the hotel,” he said. “I’m not prepared for this yet. I have to go over some things, and …”
He trailed off beneath Palmer’s withering stare. After a long pause, the chief said, “Fine. I’ll have copies of the Reynolds file sent up to the Whispering Pines, and I’ll expect you back in this afternoon. Can you handle things until then, Clarke?”
She nodded. “No problem.”
Honestly, she had mixed feelings about the chief dressing North down like this. On the one hand, he’d barely slept and technically wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow, so he was doing them a favor. On the other, this was a fresh, active murder investigation. The quicker they could act, the better the chances of catching the killer. That was something he should know as an experienced detective.
At least he didn’t argue about coming in later, but he did look vaguely irritated.
Maybe he really was just lazy.
Chief Palmer dismissed them, and they
got back in Preston’s car. North slouched in the seat and let his head drop against the backrest, releasing a low groan as she started the engine and drove away.
“I think I need more coffee,” he muttered when she made the turn onto the main road.
For the first time that day, Preston really looked at him. Other than being far more good-looking than she was comfortable with, the stubble shading his face and the dark shadows beneath his eyes said that he really was exhausted and fighting not to show it. The clothes he wore were casual and wrinkled, indicating that he hadn’t even unpacked anything yet and had probably just pulled them out of a suitcase when she’d gone to the resort to get him.
So once again, she found herself reluctantly giving him the benefit of the doubt.
“Tell you what,” she said. “We’ll stop in town and get you some lunch, with coffee, and you can bring it back to the hotel with you. Sound good?”
A relieved smile broke across his face. “It sounds amazing,” he said. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” She offered a smile of her own and considered all the other challenges he was probably facing right now, being the new guy in a town where he didn’t know anyone and had just met his co-workers today. His transfer out here had been so abrupt that he didn’t even have time to find a permanent place to live before he’d moved. Bethy had told her that he’d booked two weeks at the Whispering Pines, with an option to stay longer if he had to.
Maybe she could help him with that.
“By the way,” she said casually, “I don’t know if you’re looking to rent or buy, but my brother’s a real estate agent here in town. I can hook you up, tell him to make sure you get a good deal, if you want.”
North snapped his head toward her, suddenly very alert. “Rent or buy what?”
“Er,” she said slowly. “A house? Or an apartment, if that’s your preference.” She quirked an eyebrow at him and added, half-joking, “Unless you’re planning to resign already. You know Chief Palmer created the second detective position just for you, right?”