Nature of Darkness

by Robert W. Stephens

  “It was a Saturday night in Baltimore,” Webb said.

  “The first car we found is registered to a twenty-five-year-old female. No criminal record,” Santos said.

  “Same story with the next. Thirty-three-year-old female,” Porter said.

  “The third sedan is owned by a forty-year-old African American male,” Webb said.

  “And the fourth?” McMahon asked.

  “Registered to Maxwell Davison, white male, twenty-nine years old. Has a juvey arrest record for arson,” Santos said.

  “That’s him,” McMahon said.

  It matched the typical profile of a serial killer. Most were white males. Most were aged twenty-five to thirty-four with criminal records, usually for some sadistic activity such as animal cruelty, but often for arson. They were usually from single-parent households, almost always raised by a domineering mother. One or both of the parents probably had a criminal record and almost certainly had a substance abuse problem, such as alcoholism or drug addiction or both.

  “He lives in an apartment six blocks from Blue’s,” Porter said.

  “We’ve already done a drive-by. The car is parked on the street in front of the complex,” Santos added.

  “And a search warrant?” McMahon asked.

  “Submitted the request about an hour ago,” Webb said.

  “Good. Let’s keep agents on that house. I want to know if he moves.”

  “You got it,” Porter said.

  She paused a moment.

  Then she continued, “We heard about your friend’s meeting with Marcus Carter.”

  McMahon looked at Santos, expecting him to say something. He didn’t.

  “Who could be feeding Marcus Carter that information? It would have to be someone at the hospital,” Porter said.

  “I asked the medical director for a list of everyone who comes into contact with Marcus Carter,” Santos said.

  “I want a background check run on every one of them once it comes in. Also, I want to go through all of Marcus Carter’s correspondence again,” McMahon said.

  “We’ve been through it twice already. There’s nothing there,” Webb said.

  “Then let’s do it a third time. He’s getting details of the crimes from someone. He’s not pulling it out of thin air,” McMahon said, even though he knew that’s essentially what he’d suggested to Penfield earlier.

  McMahon left the main room for his private office before any of his team members could protest again, not that he expected them to. They were all solid agents and they’d hunted killers before. They knew what needed to be done, but he realized that didn’t mean they truly knew what they were up against this time.

  The MAI murders were unlike anything McMahon had experienced. If this new killer was anything like Marcus Carter, and if he was working with him as McMahon expected, that meant a lot more blood would be spilled.

  There was also the ease at which they’d located Maxwell Davison – the man with the beige sedan. It had been a little too straightforward. Most serial killers had above average intelligence and Davison had made a critical mistake, one that should have been easily avoided.

  Yes, Davison had gone to the trouble of hiding his face from the club’s cameras and he’d paid cash to eliminate the credit card trail. He’d also parked his car in the back of the lot to ensure the exterior security camera couldn’t get a good view of his license plates. Still, McMahon doubted MAI would have even used his own car in the first place. If he had, he would have certainly stolen the plates from another vehicle.

  There was another thing that baffled McMahon, something he’d yet to discuss with the other agents. That something was the inconsistency with the victims. McMahon didn’t know why this new killer had hidden the bodies of the first five victims but had left the last two in relatively plain sight.

  It was possible he’d grown more confident as the number of his victims grew, but it was a definite departure from the pattern of the first MAI killer. Marcus Carter had only buried one of his victims, a woman named Leah Grey who’d been his first kill.

  Furthermore, there was the discrepancy in the mutilations of the bodies. The careful removal of the faces and the carving of the letters MAI were the same. But the method of death was different – a severed throat versus a snake bite with the previous killing spree. McMahon didn’t know if that signified something.

  The snake bite hadn’t been a random cause of death either. There was almost certainly symbolism to it, but McMahon had no idea what that had been.

  Slitting someone’s throat represented an entirely different form of execution too. It was always associated with rage and a deep personal connection to the victim.

  This new MAI killer had chosen his victims from a broader geographical sphere, which was another divergence in the two cases. Marcus Carter had targeted women in the Hampton Roads region, not a small area by any means, but nowhere near as large as these new killings.

  McMahon was about to call Penfield and arrange a time for a second meeting with Marcus Carter when Porter entered his office.

  “We got the warrant, boss. Davison is still in his apartment, as far as we know.”

  McMahon, still somewhat lost in his internal debate, nodded.

  “You okay?” Porter continued.

  “Yeah, let’s go get this guy.”

  It took just under two hours to get back to Baltimore. McMahon, Porter, Webb, and Santos met with the two agents who’d been staking out Maxwell Davison’s apartment. They parked their dark SUV a couple of blocks from the building. They climbed out and walked to the rear of the vehicle where they had their soft body armor stored. They’d already changed out of their business attire and had put on athletic shirts and tactical pants.

  McMahon caught Porter looking at him. She had a worried look on her face. He didn’t think she was nervous about approaching Davison’s apartment. Rather his somber mood had probably concerned her.

  “You ready, Porter?” he asked her, even though he already knew she was.

  “Ready,” she said.

  “Then let’s go see if this is our guy,” McMahon said.

  The plan was straightforward. McMahon, Porter, Webb, and Santos would go to the front door. The other two agents would circle to the back of the building in case the suspect fled out the back window and down the fire escape.

  Santos had called ahead and arranged for the apartment manager to meet them at the main entrance. The old man was waiting as they approached the door.

  “Good afternoon, sir. I’m Agent McMahon. This is Agents Porter, Webb, and Santos.”

  The old man nodded, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Do you know if Mr. Davison is in his apartment?” McMahon asked.

  “His car’s out front, but I think he might be gone,” the manager said.

  “Why is that?” McMahon asked.

  “He’s always playing loud music all day, but I haven’t heard anything since last weekend.”

  McMahon exchanged looks with the other agents.

  Porter reached into her pocket and produced the search warrant.

  “Sir, we have a warrant to search Mr. Davison’s apartment. Do you have a key to his apartment? We’d prefer that you stay down here.”

  The old man reached into his coat and removed a key. He handed it to Porter.

  “This is a master key for the entire building. It will open Max’s apartment.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Porter said, and she took the key from the manager.

  “Let’s go,” McMahon said.

  It was an older, four-story building without an elevator. The FBI agents climbed the stairs to the top floor. They heard the sounds of loud voices as they opened the stairwell door to the hallway. As they passed the first apartment, it became apparent the voices were coming from a television.

  The hallway had a thin, tattered carpet over the cement floor, so their footsteps made no sound as they walked to Davison’s place at the far end. As they got within several feet
of it, the smell hit McMahon. The others didn’t notice it until a few seconds later.

  McMahon turned to Porter. He nodded and she banged on the door.

  “Mr. Davison, this is the FBI. We need to speak with you,” Porter said in a loud voice.

  They got no response, not that McMahon expected one.

  “Open it up,” McMahon said.

  Porter put the master key in the lock and unlocked the door. She stood off to the side as McMahon, his sidearm drawn, pushed the door open and entered first. Porter was right behind him, followed by Webb and Santos.

  The inside of the apartment was warm, maybe eighty degrees, and it seemed to make the smell of rotting flesh even more unbearable. The muted television was on and its glow was the only thing that cast light on the remains of Maxwell Davison. He was seated on the sofa on the right side of the apartment. It looked like he’d been stabbed multiple times, and dried blood covered the front of his hoodie, his jeans, and the tan cushions of the sofa.

  “Check the rest of the place,” McMahon said with a calm, controlled voice.

  Porter headed for the small kitchenette in the back of the apartment, while Webb and Santos took the hallway that led to the bedroom and bathroom.

  McMahon approached Davison’s body. He examined it closely and found four stab wounds, all to the victim’s torso. Davison’s face was still intact, though. McMahon didn’t know why MAI had failed to leave his main calling card. He also didn’t understand why Davison’s throat hadn’t been slit like the others.

  McMahon looked around the living room. It was messy, but nothing looked knocked over or tossed on the floor, indicating a sustained struggle had probably not taken place. There was also no blood anywhere except on the victim’s clothing and the sofa. The floor was covered with a beige carpet, typical of most apartments. It would have been near impossible to clean that much blood from it if Davison had been attacked while standing near the door or in the center of the room.

  Porter was the first one back.

  “Kitchen is clear. No blood stains. Nothing out of place.”

  Webb and Santos returned a moment later.

  “Nothing in the back,” Webb said.

  “He let his killer in,” McMahon said.

  “He knew him?” Porter asked.

  “Or else didn’t feel threatened by him,” McMahon said.

  “Why didn’t he take the face? And why did he stab him in the chest and not the throat?” Santos asked, echoing earlier observations McMahon had made.

  “Did MAI follow them here or did Lily King make it out of here alive?” Porter asked.

  “And Davison just happened to bite it afterward?” McMahon asked.

  “Okay, it’s a coincidence. Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Porter said.

  “I didn’t see any cameras in the lobby or the hallway, but let’s confirm with the manager that he doesn’t have a video system in place. Let’s also start knocking on doors. Maybe someone saw or heard something,” McMahon said.

  The next three hours went by in a frenzy. The forensics team swept the apartment while McMahon and his agents interviewed everyone in the building they could find. Most of the people recognized Davison from the driver’s license photo the FBI agents had printed. Some knew him by name. Some by face. No one knew of anyone who had issues with him.

  The agents finally got two hits, although they were minor ones. One woman on the first floor had seen Davison enter the building with a woman who matched Lily King’s description around two-thirty in the morning. She didn’t see Lily King leave, though, nor did she see a third person coming or going.

  Another woman, this one a fourth-floor neighbor of Davison’s, had heard Davison and a woman walking down the hallway. She said she recognized Davison’s loud voice, and the laughter coming from the second person had clearly belonged to a woman.

  She also provided another important piece of information, this one potentially explaining the break in MAI’s pattern. Davison had been a drug dealer and she’d complained to the manager numerous times about people coming to his apartment at all times of the day to purchase drugs.

  McMahon realized he owed Porter an apology. Davison might have conducted his business with Lily King, only to be murdered later in the night by a desperate client or rival dealer.

  MAI could have easily grabbed Lily King while she was on her way home from Davison’s apartment. It was a long walk back to her row house. There was no convenient mass transit nearby, and she might not have been willing to pay for a ride, if she could even find one that time of night.

  McMahon had just gotten back inside Davison’s apartment when Porter approached him.

  “I just got a call from Quantico. One of our missing women turned up,” she said.

  “Alive?” McMahon asked.

  “Just barely. They found her in a homeless camp under a bridge. She was pretty strung out.”

  So, McMahon thought, the number of victims was off by at least one, if Davison’s murder had been connected to his drug business.

  Marcus Carter had guessed after all.

  13

  The Partner

  Penfield knew he was dreaming. Despite that, he couldn’t will his body to wake. He looked all around him. He recognized the woods, but he couldn’t remember exactly when he’d been in this place before. There was a worn path in the leaves in front of him. He walked slowly down the path, listening for the presence of anyone else. The woods were silent, though, like he was in the eye of a storm.

  He lost track of how long he’d been walking when he finally approached a clearing in the woods. As he got closer, he saw the silhouetted shapes of several people. They were standing at different points in the clearing, but they were all looking away from Penfield.

  “Who are you?” he called out.

  He got no response.

  He knew he should turn and leave, but his body still wouldn’t obey him.

  Penfield walked closer to the dark figures.

  “Who are you?” he asked again.

  There was still no reply.

  Penfield stepped closer to the nearest figure. The person’s back was to him. He walked around to their front side and saw it was a mannequin. Its face was covered with the skinned flesh of one of MAI’s victims.

  He walked to each figure and confirmed they were all the same. In total, there were seven victims.

  “Help me, Alex. Help me,” he heard a female voice say.

  Penfield made his way toward the sound of the voice. The woods grew darker the farther he went. He looked up to the sky, but the trees were so thick that they blocked out any sunlight.

  The wind picked up and the leaves at his feet danced around him.

  “Help me, Alex. Help me,” the voice said again.

  “Who are you? Where are you?” Penfield yelled.

  He eventually found a second clearing. There was a cabin at the back of it. It was at this point that he realized where he was. This was the place MAI had killed and skinned his prey.

  Penfield walked up to the front door of the cabin. It was open by a few inches. He listened for the sound of someone inside. There was nothing.

  He nudged the door open the rest of the way. He stepped inside and saw a series of glass tanks on tables that lined three of the walls. There was another table in the center of the room. It was covered with a canvas tarp.

  Penfield walked to the table to his left and peered inside the tank. He saw the black coiled shape of a snake. It looked up at him and its tongue flicked in and out. He turned from the snake and moved to the table in the center. That’s when he saw the blood stains on the canvas. He grabbed one edge of the tarp and slowly pulled it back. He saw the pale body of Angela Darden.

  He touched her wrist and felt for a pulse. There was none. Penfield pushed the hair away from her face and her eyes flared open.

  “You can’t make him stop. He’ll never stop.”

  Penfield lurched backward, crashing into one of the glass tanks and kno
cking it over. The snake uncurled its long body. Penfield instinctively moved away from the reptile, but it lashed out at his lower body and sank its fangs into the flesh of his leg.

  Penfield woke, his body drenched in sweat from the nightmare. He rolled over in bed and looked at the time on the nightstand. It was already after ten in the morning. He’d stayed up way too late the night before, his mind consumed with thoughts of his encounter with Marcus.

  He knew McMahon wanted him to take another crack at Marcus, this time with McMahon present. Penfield had gone into the first meeting expecting it to be a bust. He’d been completely unprepared for what Marcus had to say. Things would be different the second time around.

  Penfield climbed out of bed and walked into his bathroom. He brushed his teeth and splashed cold water over his face. He then made his way into the kitchen and grabbed his phone off the counter. He searched through his contacts list for the number of a man he’d not spoken to in years.

  Michael Woods had been a contemporary of Penfield’s father. In fact, he’d been present when they’d found the young Penfield buried in the Dismal Swamp. The connection ran deeper, though, as Woods had been a mentor to a young Marcus Carter. He’d been Marcus’ first partner for several years until he’d retired. Marcus had then gotten paired up with Angela Darden.

  Penfield pressed the dial button on his phone. It rang several times and Penfield expected it to go to voicemail. Woods finally answered, though, and he sounded out of breath.

  “This is Woods,” he said in a stern voice.

  Penfield laughed for the first time in days.

  “You still sound like a cop.”

  “Who is this?”

  “I guess I don’t rank high enough to be in your phone’s contact list,” Penfield said.

  “My wife, my kids, and my grandkids are the only ones on that list.”

  “I find that hard to believe. Don’t worry, I’m not offended.”

  “How are you, Alex?” Woods asked.

  “So, you do still recognize my voice?”

  “Of course, I do, even though you haven’t called me in years.”