Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  “Not surprising,” Sheriff Callahan said. “Since it was so hot.”

  “Yes,” Clay agreed. “But it went beyond that. I’m thinking he stayed out of the sun so he wouldn’t burn.” He thought of the man on the beach the day he’d met Tate, the fair skinned man under the umbrella. The one who’d sparked their debate about sun protection. He reached over and pointed at the screen. “What do you notice about him here? Look at him in comparison to the girl.”

  “You mean aside from the fact that he’s built like a tank?” Jones commented, then tilted his head as he studied the screen. “He’s pretty pasty, even for a white dude. But maybe this was filmed during the winter.”

  “No,” Kim countered, shifting in her chair to address the deputy. “The girl in this clip went missing last August. Her body wasn’t found until this past spring, but by then she’d been dead for almost nine months.”

  Clay nodded, because that simply backed up his speculation. “Janie Collier went missing during the middle of the day – that service station attendant placed her in the back of his car mid-afternoon – and when I observed him at the carnival it was early evening. But he had been there all day. Lola Rodriguez said she served him a funnel cake around lunchtime. Meaning that he’s out and about doing his scouting in the daytime, probably because his prey will have usually gone to ground at night. Unless they’re real street walkers, and that’s not the type he wants. He wants girls who have at least an air of innocence, for his own need and for the clients’. It feeds the pedophiles’ fantasies, and makes him feel better about his own. So my guess is that’s his usual pattern. And if his usual pattern is to be outside, but he’s avoiding the sun so assiduously, he probably has to have a good reason.”

  “Do you think he’s allergic to sunlight?” Josh asked.

  “Good question,” Clay admitted. And one that he had considered. “But I don’t think it’s that extreme. People with sun allergies usually can’t risk even the kind of exposure I saw him getting. I think it’s a little more mundane, but probably equally uncommon.”

  He waited to see who’d arrive at it first.

  “He’s an albino,” Kim concluded. “How very Da Vinci Code.”

  “Well, that would certainly set him apart.” Callahan shook his head. “And explain his feelings of inadequacy, because kids were almost certain to have teased him about that.”

  Clay agreed with the sheriff’s assessment. “It explains his motivation, so to speak, and was probably a bone of contention with his parents. I’m theorizing, in this case, that his problem stemmed from his father, who probably didn’t deal well with the fact that his son was somewhat of a freak. Almost like some men overreact when their boy shows an inclination toward effeminate behavior or another so-called undesirable characteristic. If the son is a reflection of the father, some men can’t handle that kind of ego blow, so they take their frustration and disappointment out on the kid. That could explain the excessive weightlifting, which was either forced upon junior as a means of making him into an acceptable man, or was his own attempt to garner his father’s favor.”

  “Not to sound like a broken record,” Josh interjected, “but how does that assist the investigation?”

  Again, Clay turned to address Harding. “If my speculation is correct, our offender’s condition should still be something of a sore point. He covers it up with disguises out of a necessity to blend into a crowd, but at the same time he resents the disguises because they remind him that he’s somehow inadequate. It would bring up the hurt and rage he felt over his father’s disapproval, and he’d feel the periodic need to rebel. And by rebelling, I mean that there will be times when he goes into the public eye au natural. When he does, his hostility will be right under the surface, like he’s almost daring anyone to make a comment. It’s his way of asserting control, of thumbing his nose at his father, and reassuring himself that he’s not really a freak. Of course, he’s likely to encounter some curiosity or negative attention during these outings, which is really defeating his purpose. One, because that only serves to reinforce his subconscious fear that he’s totally different from others; and two, because people are much more likely to remember a huge albino than a dark-skinned, attractive weightlifter.”

  “And when he encounters that curiosity,” Josh surmised, “he’s likely to react with hostility. Which would make him even more memorable to whoever saw him.”

  “Exactly.” Clay began to feel a grudging respect for Harding. The man was a good cop.

  “I should do another composite,” he told Clay. “One that depicts our guy with his albino coloration. We can distribute the two together, and might be able to generate even more leads.”

  “We’re talking about a pretty large area of distribution,” Sheriff Callahan said. He slid off his desk to stroll over toward the map of Charleston and its surrounding counties which they’d taped to the wall of the office. Multicolored pins stuck out from various locations, indicating girls whose disappearances they were questioning. “Hit the lights, will you, Harding?”

  Josh reached behind him to flip the switch, so that the office was bathed in florescence.

  “These pins represent quite a number of jurisdictions. Janie Collier was reported missing here,” Callahan pointed to a red pin on the map, just south of Charleston proper, “whereas Casey Rodriguez was abducted from here.”

  “Yes, but the fact that Janie’s body – and I’m going to go out on a limb here and state for the record that I believe she’s our vic – was located in your jurisdiction, only a few miles from where the Rodriguez girl was abducted, leads me to believe this area right around here,” Clay stood up and crossed toward the map, motioning to a blocked-off area “is in the vicinity of our guy’s home base.”

  “So he was bringing Janie Collier back here when she attempted to escape.”

  “It makes sense,” Clay agreed with the sheriff. “These guys need to have a safe, quiet place where they can keep the girls until they deliver them to their clients. Something out of the way, so that nosy neighbors can’t get all in their business.”

  Clay swung his gaze to Harding. “Deputy Harding, make sure you post both composites. This is our perp’s temporary home base, his comfort zone, and this is where he’d most likely be seen in public as an albino.”

  “That’s completely contrary to logic,” Deputy Jones commented. “You would think this would be where he’d be most cautious about being recognized.”

  “If he were merely criminally minded, I’d be inclined to agree. But as I said, this guy has some serious psychological issues that drive him to be not always prudent in his behavior. Being seen in public in his most recognizable state is just another way that he’s seeking control. It’s his way of refusing to be held captive to his condition.”

  “So in other words, it’s his hang-ups that will eventually hang him.”

  Clay’s mouth tugged into a smile at Josh’s observation. “It usually is. That’s why profiling can be such a valuable tool. Deputy Harding, if you could put a rush on that new composite, I think that will be your most valuable tool in catching him. The sooner you can get those flyers out, the sooner someone who’s seen him can come forward.”

  Josh nodded and shifted in his seat. “You, uh, don’t feel the need to have Ms. Hennessey take a look at the new composite, or at the video for ID confirmation? I’d hate for her to have to see that.” He nodded toward the image on the screen.

  And elevated himself yet again in Clay’s estimation. “I think we can spare her that discomfort,” Clay assured him, “unless you don’t trust my visual ID.”

  “I trust it.”

  “One question,” Sheriff Callahan commented with a raised finger. “We’ve focused all of our attention on this one man, but you said you believe he operates with a partner. What, if anything, do you know about this other person?”

  Clay turned to Kim for the answer, as she had a great deal more information than he did.

  “What we know unfort
unately isn’t much.” She looked at Clay. “I’d like you to take a look at what info we have, and see what you can put together.”

  “You can use the interview room,” Sheriff Callahan offered. “Unless this guy wanders in here to ask directions, it should be free for most of the day.”

  “HE’S definitely dominant,” Clay theorized as he and Kim went through what information she had. “The fact that you have almost no evidence on him leads me to believe as much. He’s letting his partner get his fingers dirty, while he’s content to stay behind the scenes. It suggests that he’s organized and intelligent, and has no need to become intimately involved with the girls. I doubt that he ever touches them sexually.”

  “Because he has no interest or because he’s cautious?”

  Clay sighed and rubbed his hand across his neck. “If we had more to go on, I might be able to give you a better answer. There are several possibilities to consider. One – he’s capable of what we would classify as normal adult interactions and therefore gets his kicks in a more traditional manner. In which case, he’s probably a well-functioning male, dates or maybe even has a girlfriend, though I doubt he would let anything get serious. He’s cautious and smart – not a risk taker, clearly – and looking at the situation from strictly a business standpoint, he would see the girls as a means to a financial end. Essentially nothing more than merchandise.

  “Two – our man’s a voyeur. He likes the girls’ pain, their humiliation and subjugation, and he enjoys his role as director. His partner gets physical with the girls, but it happens under his instruction. Ironically, of the two of them he’s probably the one with a deep-seated problem with women. He has his own need to control the situation, which would suggest his own childhood trauma. Maybe he was a victim, and this is how he reasserts domination. It’s quite possible, given what we know about the other perp. Theirs would be a co-dependant relationship, with each feeding off the other’s character disorder. Like some of the male/female partnerships we see in this kind of situation, there are elements of domination and submission. As long as the subordinate maintains his place, their interactions should proceed quite smoothly. That’s tenuous, though, because offender number one – the albino – doesn’t particularly like taking orders. His stepping out of line, making waves, might drive perp number two toward breaking.”

  He drummed his fingers on his knee and looked at Kim.

  “I’m wondering,” he admitted, “how seeing his partner’s face plastered around town will affect him. The albino’s obviously made a couple of errors in judgment – killing the girls is not part of the plan – and I’m speculating that our dominant perp will not be pleased with our composites. It may cause a fracture in their relationship, which could either prove beneficial for us or entirely disastrous. There’s a very real possibility that the situation may incite him to violence, rather than risking us catching his partner and getting him talking. Once those wanted posters go up, the albino definitely falls from asset to liability.”

  “So if that happens,” Kim surmised “and he knocks the guy off before we find him, we’re essentially back to square one. Because almost all the information we have regards his partner. So our best way of catching one guy may make it almost impossible to catch the other.”

  “It’s definitely a catch twenty-two,” Clay agreed, leaning back in his chair and studying the ceiling. It was closing in on lunchtime, and he found himself wondering what Tate was doing.

  “You know, that little smile thing you have working leads me to believe you’re not entirely present beside me. Your body’s here, sure, because I can see you as well as smell you. But your mind is clearly wherever your badge is.”

  Clay frowned, and then found himself laughing.

  Kim leaned back in her seat, lashes fluttering.

  “I have to compliment you on your control. It’s been what, five hours, and this is the first time you’ve lowered the boom. You’ve shown an admirable level of restraint.”

  “Neither the time nor the place,” she commented, sitting up straight and adjusting her jacket. “But I have to admit it’s been killing me. Especially that thing with the condom.”

  Clay groaned, burying his face in his hand.

  “I mean, how drunk were you, exactly, to stuff a used condom back in your pocket? Were there no trashcans in Hot Sex Land? Were you hoping to use it again? Because I have to tell you, that’s highly ineffective. Not to mention a little gross. Of course, not quite as gross as seeing it stuck to your cell phone. Now I’ll have that image in my head every time I call you, thanks very much. But just for the record, way to be bold and exciting. I had no idea you were the colored condom type.”

  He’d had no choice. They’d been the last available box at the drugstore.

  Apparently the pharmacist had miscalculated demand, or there’d been a full moon when he wasn’t looking. Maybe something in the water.

  “Do they come in a rainbow assortment,” Kim asked, “like, you know, today I’m in the mood for Do Me Blue? Or are they all that shockingly red? Were they flavored?”

  The door, thank God, opened at that exact minute.

  It was Josh Harding, bearing his composite, which he’d already transformed into a box full of flyers. “Sorry to interrupt.” He jostled the box to get a better grip. “But we’re a little short on manpower at the moment, and I was wondering if I could press you into service.”

  Clay looked at Kim, who nodded and shut down her computer. “We’ll be happy to help.” He stood, stretched his legs. “Do you have a list of addresses for the establishments you want us to visit?”

  “Right here,” Josh said, using his knee to balance the box while he procured the list. “A few post offices, several mail box places and a list of grocery stores and restaurants. I figured the guy has to eat.”

  “Right,” Clay said, finally finding a companionable smile for the deputy. There was a busy brain behind the pretty face.

  Then he took a sizable stack of flyers, and he and Kim went to work.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JOSH Harding carried a flyer into the Main Street Diner, sweating through his second uniform shirt of the day. It was ninety-two degrees, so humid the air was like syrup, and he was starting to smell almost as bad as Agent Copeland.

  But at least he didn’t reek of having had one too many the night before, and then somehow fallen into a field of pansies.

  It was petty, he knew, because Copeland honestly seemed like a good guy. But Josh had overheard part of the two FBI agents’ conversation, and the fact that the pansy field Copeland had fallen into the night before had involved Tate Hennessey and the use of a condom… well, it was okay to be bitterly pleased that the guy smelled bad.

  Lucky bastard.

  What kind of a name was Clay, anyway? It was like calling your kid Dirt.

  Or… Sediment.

  Mud.

  Feeling marginally better, Josh scanned the restaurant, locating Sally Huggins – who’d worked at the diner since the dawn of time – and put on his cop face as he strode over. As Sally insisted on reminding him, she’d known him since he was in diapers, which meant she tended not to take him seriously.

  His baby face was a definite liability in his line of work, but damn if he could help it. Unlike Copeland, who’d started to look ragged around the edges by twelve o’clock, Josh was cursed with appearing terminally clean shaven. And his hair – he didn’t even have to arrange it. It just did that thing all on its own. And so what if he preferred to smell good? People thought he was obsessed with his appearance, and cultivated that teen idol image, but oh, if they only knew.

  “Hello Mrs. Huggins,” Josh said sternly, trying to set the stage for a serious discussion.

  But apparently he’d only managed to look adorable, because Sally smiled and reached across the counter to pinch his cheek. “Joshua, honey, how are you? You want to sit down here and have a little pie? Lordy, baby, your cheeks are all red. Why don’t I get you a glass of tea while you ge
t out of this heat. Or would you rather have one of them grape sodas? They always were your favorite.”

  So much for Sally taking him seriously.

  “Actually, I’m here in an official capacity.” He placed the flyer on the counter.

  A group of teens came in, momentarily distracting Sally, and she waved to them to let them know she’d seen them. They wandered down to the opposite end of the bar and took up residence on several stools, their cargo shorts dropping so low on their hips that they verged on indecent exposure.

  “Be with you in a minute, boys,” she called out. Then she turned to Josh with a frown. “Hooligans,” she told him in an undertone. “These young ones nowadays don’t know from respect.”

  Josh eyeballed the pack of young boys, thinking that they were probably more mischief than trouble. But if they were giving Sally a hard time, he wanted to know it. “Any problems I need to take care of?”

  “Don’t you worry yourself, honey.” She patted his hand. “T’aint nothing old Sally can’t handle. Just the usual shenanigans – loitering, stirring up the other customers, but there’s no reason for you to be worried.”

  Josh shifted, placing his booted foot on the rail. “Well you just say the word, Mrs. Huggins.”

  “Thank you, baby. Now tell me your official business.”

  Josh handed her the flyer, the one showing their perp as Tate described him. This diner was right in the heart of the target area, which should fit Copeland’s theory exactly. Of course that was assuming he wasn’t too hung over to know what the hell he was talking about.

  “I was just wondering if you might remember this man,” he asked, “there’s a chance he may have come in here.”

  Sally pulled her glasses up from the chain around her neck, perching them on the tip of her nose. “Not that I can recall. Unless it was one of my off days. What’s he done, son? Robbed a bank or something?”