Nature of Darkness

by Robert W. Stephens

“Keeping secrets from me?” McMahon asked.

  “Not at all. I spoke with Michael Woods, Marcus’ old partner. I also talked to Sergeant Ramsey a couple of days ago.”

  “Ramsey! That old man! He’s not retired yet?”

  “He’s got another year, at least that’s what he told me. But you know Ramsey. He’ll find some excuse to postpone it again.”

  “What did you two talk about other than his ever-changing retirement?”

  “I was following up on a hunch. You may not know this, but Angela actually came back to work for one day before she supposedly committed suicide.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I was there. They threw an office party for her, but you could tell she didn’t want one.”

  “Didn’t they do that for you when you came back after getting shot?” McMahon asked.

  “They do it for everyone in those circumstances. I know people mean well, but trust me, it’s the last thing you want. You just hope things will get back to normal, even though they never do.”

  “Do you think there was something done or said at the party that pushed her over the edge?”

  “No, nothing like that. My point is this. I don’t think Angela ever planned on coming back, but she had to let Ramsey know, otherwise it would have caused too much attention. You don’t come back unannounced, especially after everything that went down.”

  “You’ve lost me. Why would she have come back if she never intended to?”

  “Think about it. Why do you go anywhere?”

  “Is that an actual question?” McMahon asked.

  “Yeah, why do you go somewhere?”

  “To see someone.”

  “Or to get something. I don’t think Angela came back for all of one day to see the good old gang. I think she wanted something, and she knew she’d draw too much attention if she just strolled through the front door. So, she told Ramsey she was ready to come back to work. She got what she wanted in the office, and she moved on the next day.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What did she want?”

  “I asked Ramsey if anything was missing from the files.”

  “The MAI files from a decade ago?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did he check on it?”

  “He had one of his detectives go through everything, which surprised me a bit. I wasn’t sure he would play along with my little theory,” Penfield said.

  “What did his detective find?”

  “There was only one thing missing: the journal.”

  “What journal?”

  “Ten years ago, there was a journal left at Marcus Carter’s apartment. At the time, we thought the MAI killer had broken into his place. You know, in an obvious attempt to intimidate the lead detective. We had no idea Marcus had put it there himself. The journal was written in an ancient language. I think it was Aramaic. Marcus and Angela had the journal translated, but the rest of us never saw the translation. It was destroyed in a fire at Marcus’ grandfather’s house.”

  “Did Angela ever see the translation?” McMahon asked.

  “I don’t know. Marcus murdered the man who did the work, but that was also around the same time that Angela was shot. I doubt she ever had the chance to read it and I think that’s why she wanted the journal.”

  “But for what reason? By the time she came back, Marcus had already been arrested. Everyone knew what he’d done. The case was closed.”

  “Yes, but you know that’s not enough for us. We need to know why. We can’t just leap to an answer and be all right with it. We need to process each step to get to the solution ourselves and to verify that it’s the right one. Marcus Carter did what he did, but Angela had to know why. That journal may have had the answers, at least some of them. That’s what she probably thought.”

  “So, your working theory is that she took the journal out of the evidence locker, faked her suicide, and then left for God-knows-where?”

  “I’ll admit it sounds farfetched,” Penfield said.

  “Maybe not, but it’s been ten years. Why haven’t we heard from her by now?”

  “Because we don’t matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The answers to Angela’s questions have nothing to do with us. It’s just her and Marcus. That’s all it ever was back then, and the way I see it, nothing has really changed since then. It’s her against him. She gains nothing by contacting us.”

  “Okay, but your theory still doesn’t explain why Marcus is asking for her. What does he want with her and is any of this actually connected to these new murders?” McMahon asked.

  “I’d say we’re three hours from finding out. If this new victim is indeed Kara Carr, then you know without a doubt that Marcus Carter is somehow involved.”

  “Do me a favor. Let’s change the subject.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Anything apart from this case. Tell me about that lady Elkton cop. Anything going on with her?”

  “By anything, I assume you mean is there something romantic going on.”

  “What else would I mean?” McMahon asked.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but the answer is no.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Alex? You’re single. She’s single. What’s holding you back?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m going to disappoint you again. I don’t have a good reason for not pursuing anything. She’s my only friend in Elkton. Maybe I don’t want to mess that up.”

  “Stop being so responsible.”

  Penfield laughed.

  “Okay, I promise. I’ll start being more reckless in the future.”

  “That’s better.”

  They spent the rest of the drive talking about a variety of topics: Penfield’s cabin, his thoughts on the future of his investigative career, and McMahon’s own career with the FBI.

  The longest topic, by far, was McMahon’s daughter, Jenna. She was less than a year from graduating from George Mason University in Northern Virginia, and it was obvious how proud McMahon was of her.

  Penfield had been around Jenna on a number of occasions. She’d inherited her father’s legendary self-discipline and drive. The young woman was going places. That much was sure.

  According to the GPS, they were less than ten minutes away when McMahon’s phone rang.

  He answered through the SUV’s Bluetooth system, which put the call on the vehicle’s speakers.

  “This is McMahon.”

  “We just got a positive ID from the brother,” a female voice said.

  “How?” McMahon asked.

  “She has a tattoo of a rose on her left forearm. He said she got it a few years ago. It’s almost certainly her.”

  “Okay. Good work. We’re almost there.”

  McMahon ended the call.

  Neither Penfield nor McMahon said anything for a few minutes.

  Then McMahon said, “Yeah, I know.”

  Penfield didn’t need his friend to explain what he meant. Marcus Carter had given them the name of the next victim and he’d been right.

  “I don’t understand it,” McMahon continued. “Video surveillance at Central State showed every interaction the staff had with him for the last month. He doesn’t talk to anyone.”

  “Does the footage have audio?”

  “I know what you’re getting at. Marcus doesn’t need to talk. He just needs to listen. But that gets back to the original question when I first called you into this mess. How does the new killer know the details of a ten-year-old case?”

  “You already know the answer to that. He was working with Marcus back then.”

  “We’ve run background checks on everyone at the hospital. As far as we can tell, none of them crossed paths with Marcus.”

  “Background checks don’t reveal everything. You know that.”

  “What are the chances this guy left something at this crime scene. All we need is one small mistake.”

  Penfield didn’t respond. He knew it was
unlikely any mistake had been made, especially if this new killer had been Marcus’ protégé of sorts.

  They arrived at the park entrance for the walking and hiking trails. The local cops had blocked the two-lane road with crime scene tape, but one of McMahon’s agents must have told him they were close. The lone police officer pulled one end of the tape back and allowed McMahon’s SUV to pass.

  McMahon entered the lot and parked his vehicle beside a police car. He turned to Penfield.

  “Just a heads-up. My guys were a little surprised that I asked you to come along.”

  “They’re worried you’re losing faith in them?” Penfield asked.

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. They’re good people, but they’re not you. Plus, I don’t have to tell you how rare it is for a civilian, even a former cop, to be brought along on an FBI investigation.”

  “I understand. I’ll keep a low profile and stay out of the way.”

  “Do me a favor and don’t stay too far away. I want your eyes on this. That’s why I asked you here. Now that we have confirmation of Marcus’ involvement, you’re the perfect guy to be here. No one on my team knows him like you do.”

  Penfield nodded and opened the SUV door. McMahon climbed out as well and they met at the rear of the vehicle.

  “I don’t expect you’ll need to touch anything, but just in case,” McMahon said, and he handed Penfield a pair of latex gloves.

  Penfield slipped them on as they made their way down the walking path. It was a narrow dirt path, maybe only large enough for two walkers or joggers to run side by side. The ground was soft and there were dozens of shoe prints. Any one of them could have belonged to the killer, but Penfield doubted it. The man had almost certainly taken a different route to the site where he’d dumped Kara Carr’s body.

  Tall trees lined each side of the path. Most of the trees had lost their leaves in the cooler weather and had blanketed the ground in a colorful mix of reds, yellows, and browns. The absence of foliage in the trees also allowed Penfield to see deep into the woods. He realized it would have been easy for someone to have spotted a body, even if it had been placed twenty or thirty feet from the path.

  As they approached the crime scene, Penfield spotted several police officers. There were also two men and one woman wearing khaki pants and the navy-blue windbreakers with the yellow letters FBI on the backs.

  “That’s Agents Porter and Webb. You already know Agent Santos,” McMahon said.

  “Younger than I thought.”

  “They’re not young. We’re just old,” McMahon said, and he cracked a half-smile.

  The FBI agents turned to McMahon as they saw him and Penfield approach.

  “Just like the other two victims,” Porter said.

  It was an obvious statement, but what else was she going to say? Penfield thought.

  McMahon introduced him to Agents Carly Porter and Paul Webb. Porter made eye contact with him for all of one second and then turned back to McMahon.

  Penfield walked away from them. He could already guess that the conversation would be a variation of the same things he and McMahon had discussed on the way down to Hope Mills.

  He walked several feet off the dirt path and moved closer to the victim. She was naked and had been left on her back. Her legs were crossed at the ankles and her arms were extended away from her sides.

  Penfield saw the slice on her neck, which had been the cause of death. There was no blood on the surrounding leaves, which told him that she’d been killed somewhere else. The letters MAI had been carved into her stomach, but there was no blood around the cuts. The killer had wiped her clean.

  There was also the missing face. Penfield took a couple of steps closer and kneeled to get a better look. The incisions on the woman’s forehead, jawline, and the side of the head were neat and precise like the work of a plastic surgeon. There was no way this was just his third victim, Penfield thought. He’d done this many times before.

  There was something else. The killer had taken his time, which meant he’d felt safe, like there was no chance he’d be interrupted. That meant he either lived alone or he had a secluded place that only he went to.

  Penfield turned when he heard leaves crunching behind him. He saw McMahon and the other agents looking at the body.

  “I know you’ve seen the other crime scene photos, but does anything look different to what Marcus did?” McMahon asked.

  “Cause of death is obviously different. There’s also this,” Penfield said, and he pointed to Kara’s abdomen. “The letters on her stomach are a bit shorter than what Marcus did to his victims.”

  “We know all of that,” Porter said, and there was no hiding the frustration in her voice.

  “He would have come in from the woods. He wouldn’t have used the path. It would have been at night. Maybe he walked too close to a branch and something tore. You might get lucky and find a piece of fabric,” Penfield said.

  “The forensics team has been going through these woods before you even got here,” Webb said.

  Penfield stood, but he didn’t take his eyes off of the victim. There was something he was missing. It had been ten years since he’d been at Marcus’ crime scenes, but now he felt transported back in time, as if it had only been a few days.

  “Is that all you have?” Porter asked.

  “That’s enough, Carly,” McMahon said.

  “No, it’s all right. I understand,” Penfield said.

  He still didn’t turn to meet Porter’s critical gaze. He didn’t want to waste precious time and energy defending himself to an insecure agent.

  Penfield studied the body for several long moments. Then he saw it.

  “You didn’t want us to miss it, did you?” Penfield asked in a low tone.

  It was almost a whisper, but McMahon heard it.

  “Miss what?” McMahon asked.

  “Not very subtle, Marcus, or maybe it’s because you didn’t think we had time to waste,” Penfield said.

  “What are you seeing?” McMahon asked.

  “Look at the angle of the head. It’s different,” Penfield said.

  “Different how?” Santos asked.

  “Different than the other crime scenes, at least the ones I attended. The head is angled back, and the mouth is partially opened.”

  “Makes sense. The jaw would have dropped with the head positioned like that,” Porter said.

  “No, Alex is right,” McMahon said, and he knelt beside the body and looked under the victim’s head. “There’s a small branch under her neck. The killer propped her up like that. But why?”

  “Is the medical examiner here?” Penfield asked.

  Porter turned from the group.

  “Doc, we need you over here,” she yelled.

  Penfield turned and saw a short, thin man around sixty approaching. He had a small black bag in his hand.

  “We think we found something, Doctor,” Penfield said.

  “What do you have?” the medical examiner asked.

  “We believe there’s something in the back of the victim’s mouth or throat,” Penfield said.

  Penfield watched as the doctor looked at the victim. The mouth was only partially open, and he guessed the medical examiner was trying to determine how Penfield knew that.

  Penfield turned to Porter.

  “Toward the end of the investigation, Marcus Carter started leaving messages for us at the crime scenes. I could have this wrong, but my money is that he’s still doing it.”

  “Then why not tell you when you were at Central State?” Webb asked.

  “Because it would have been too soon. He wasn’t ready yet,” McMahon said.

  The medical examiner opened Kara Carr’s mouth with a gloved hand. He reached into his coat pocket with the other hand and removed a small flashlight, which he shined into her mouth.

  “There is something in her throat. It looks like plastic.”

  The medical examiner
reached into his bag and removed a pair of tweezers. He inserted them into the victim’s mouth and removed a plastic bag. Penfield saw a folded piece of paper inside.

  “There’s your message, Agent Porter,” Penfield said.

  McMahon took the bag from the medical examiner. He opened it and removed the paper, which he unfolded.

  “Oh my God,” he said.

  “What is it?” Porter asked.

  McMahon handed Porter the slip of paper and stepped away from the group. Penfield watched as McMahon pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.

  Porter read the note out loud.

  “I have her, Agent McMahon.”

  She turned to Santos.

  “Who does he have?” she continued.

  Santos didn’t respond, but Penfield didn’t need him to. He knew who the killer had taken. This case had just become personal like the last one.

  18

  The Daughter

  The last thing Jenna McMahon remembered was a fine white powder coming toward her face. She’d closed her eyes and had tried to hold her breath, but it was too late. Before that, she’d been at a bar, a rare night out and a break from her college studies. She’d left her friends there and had walked outside to her vehicle. She had a class early the next morning and it was one she couldn’t afford to miss.

  She’d only made it four or five miles from the parking lot before the flat tire warning light on her dashboard turned on. Jenna had assumed it was a slow leak and she’d be able to make it back to her apartment. She’d deal with the flat in the morning. The leak was worse than she’d realized, though, and the SUV had started to pull hard to the right.

  She’d pulled off to the side of the road after struggling to keep the Chevy Tahoe under control. Unfortunately, she’d taken a shortcut and the road wasn’t well traveled that time of day. She’d climbed out of the SUV and walked around to the back of the vehicle. The tire was completely flat.

  Her parents had purchased a roadside assistance plan for her, and she’d called for a tow truck. It was late in the evening, though, and it would be at least an hour before help would arrive, the assistance center had told her. She’d waited about ten minutes before trying to change the tire herself. She’d gotten out the jack and the lug wrench. She was in good shape from hitting the gym four to five times a week, but she’d still lacked the strength to loosen the lug nuts. Those air guns always put them on so tight.