Fatal Game

by Linda Ladd

  Junior was already thinking the murder through. “We need to go there now, pick a place where we can make our plans in complete privacy. I want a house of my own, under an assumed name, of course. That way we can hole up and case things out and won’t be noticed as transients passing through the area.”

  “You been there before?”

  “No, but I’ve Googled it, because that’s where my dad grew up. I know where it is and what it’s like.”

  “What’s the name of the place?”

  “Lake of the Ozarks. It’s way out in the sticks in the middle of Missouri. Rural place. Big lake, though, about halfway between Kansas City and St. Louis. Lots of tourists go there.”

  “Good, rural towns like that have Podunk, dumbass cops. Sounds good, like it’s destiny, my friend. A celestial sign from heaven above. Or more likely from hell. Maybe the devil’s gonna help us right some wrongs with your daddy. This is meant to be, my brother. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “I don’t give a flyin’ fuck if it’s meant to be. It’s a way to screw my dad. He’s gonna be sorry that he abandoned me and took up with her.”

  Then they settled down and got serious about their plans. They pulled up info on the lake where Junior’s half-sister was gonna get herself a great big, new house. But hell was gonna rain down on her as soon as Junior got there and found the little bitch. Oh yeah, he was going to make her pay.

  Chapter 16

  Trying not to gnash her teeth but highly exasperated, Claire walked alongside FBI Special Agent Bob Brady all the way down a completely deserted corridor to the conference room. Neither of them spoke a word. They sat down at the head of the long table facing each other. Claire studied his face intently, trying to see something amiss. He did the same to her, openly but less antagonistically.

  Claire sucked it up. “Mind if I take a look at your badge, Special Agent? I’m getting a mite wary of FBI impersonators showing up so willy-nilly in my sphere of operations.”

  Face impassive, Brady simply gazed at her for a moment and then reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a badge folder. That’s when she saw that he carried a Glock 23 9mm in a leather shoulder holster. Well, at least he had good taste in weapons, though she preferred her own Glock 19. He handed over his credentials. Claire examined the badge at some length and found nothing wrong that she could ascertain, so she handed it back without comment. Then they sat there, staring silently at each other.

  Claire bit first. “Okay, FBI Special Agent Brady, go ahead: Tell me what you’ve got on this game killer. Maybe his name and social security number, by any chance? That would give you a really pertinent reason to jump aboard on my case.”

  Unperturbed, he smiled, giving her the impression he thought her silly, and maybe stupid as hell, but also of a cautious bent. Oliver Wood came to mind. “Actually, Detective, I do happen to know his name. His birth name, anyhow. He could be operating under a false identity now, of course. Probably is, in fact. And please, call me Bob, if that’s not a problem. No need for such formality. We’re all on the same side here, now aren’t we?”

  “Okay. Special Agent Bob. Please, hit me with his birth name.”

  Brady smiled some, but not much. “You’re everything I’ve heard and more. The more is the problem right now, I suppose, and that would be your apparent distrust of everyone, no matter if they’re on your side or not. I understand that you’ve been betrayed a number of times, but I assure you right here and now: I am legitimate. Background check me, do whatever you like, but we need to trust each other and work together or we’re not going to get anywhere on this case.”

  Well, slap me down and make me cry, why don’t you? Claire thought. But he was probably right. No, he was right. She didn’t trust him. He was going to have to earn that, just like everybody else in her life. She didn’t deign to comment.

  “Okay then, let’s get back to the case. I’ve got the medical records right here of whom I believe to be your perp. I think you’re going to want to see them.”

  Okay, now he was talking. She decided to stop with the accusatory attitude, accept what she couldn’t change, and let him share his information. Maybe he did have something important that she and Bud could use. “Yes, by all means. I would love to see your documentation.”

  Claire watched as he retrieved a black leather briefcase off the floor beside him. He put it down on top of the table facing him and clicked open both latches. Then he lifted the lid and pulled out a thick manila folder held together by a heavy-duty red rubber band. His gaze met hers. “I’ve been looking for this guy for over a decade. Ever since he left home around the age of thirteen.”

  “That’s a long time to tail somebody. He must be clever at evasion. What’s his name?”

  Brady held her regard for a few extra seconds. His eyes were unusual, a dark green color, like swamp water. He had long black eyelashes, looked almost as if he wore mascara. She was pretty sure he didn’t. Still, those lashes were downright girlish. She wouldn’t mind having them. “My suspect’s name is Troy Edward Wood. He’s from around here. Born in Columbia, Missouri, in fact, just right up the road from your lake. He’s been in and out of psychiatric hospitals since he was around eight years old.”

  Okay, now that was a mouthful of info, and she needed a minute to digest it. She took several seconds to absorb the ramifications; the most striking was the fact that that name was more than familiar. “And his diagnosis is?”

  “Schizophrenia with homicidal tendencies. He’s been designated a sociopath—batshit crazy, using layman’s terminology.”

  Since hooking up with a one Dr. Nicholas Black, and after incarcerating several off-the-charts-nuts serial killers, Claire had, unsurprisingly, become adept with such psycho talk. She and Bud preferred the layman’s speak, of course, but she didn’t use it in front of Black for fear of offending his shrink sensibilities. “Sounds like the crazy I’m looking for, all right.”

  “I think he’s still somewhere nearby. Somewhere out around the lake. I’ve studied his movements a long time, Detective. I can feel it in my bones. I’m close now, and I want to get him.”

  “Well, I can ditto that. Would you happen to have a photograph of him, so I can spot him if I should happen to run into him in the grocery store?”

  Brady stared at her, a serious sort, it seemed. “Actually, I do. Several, as a matter of fact.” He shuffled through a pile of eight-by-ten photographs and slid one across to her. “Here, this is a family picture of Troy Wood and his brother. I got it when I visited his father’s assisted living facility in Columbia. He gave me permission to take it out of its frame for ID purposes. He still lives there, and is totally blind now, I’m afraid. He’s afraid of his son, worried he’ll come back and kill him, too.”

  “Too?”

  “Troy Wood murdered his mother when he was still in his teens.”

  “Well then, I can see his daddy’s concern.”

  The photo depicted two young boys. Scrawny teenagers, by the look of them. One was taller and staring straight into the camera lens—oh, yeah, and he looked a hell of a lot like Oliver Wood, aka Superman Eyes. Exactly like him, in fact.

  It was Wood, all right. He was years younger, not as tall, and not as broad-shouldered or muscular. The other kid was a bit shorter and had his face averted, looked like he’d rather be anywhere but where he was. He was scared out of his wits by his insane big brother. The kid’s body language revealed that in no uncertain terms. She suspected that Troy Edward Wood had already started to display his mental deficiencies by that time and his poor little brother had been the beneficiary of his growing insanity. Having your brother kill your mother did that to a person, she suspected.

  Claire reversed the photo on the tabletop and put her finger on the tall guy. “This is our suspect. He said his name was Oliver Wood.”

  The FBI agent kept his eyes riveted on the photo a moment
and then looked up at her. “Yes, and he lied to you. The taller one is Troy Edward Wood. The little guy is his brother, Oliver, who joined the Marines as soon as he reached legal age. He’s deployed in Iraq, I believe, on his second tour of duty. I spoke to him once by satellite, and he told me that he lost touch with his older brother years ago. He calls their dad regularly but hasn’t been able visit him much. Their last visit in person was about three years ago.”

  “So you’re telling me that your suspect, Troy Wood, is going by his kid brother’s name when he’s out murdering people? That’s not very brotherly. He’s been here at the lake for a while. I had a one-on-one with him a couple of nights ago, in fact. We had him at the game store and were taking him down to the sheriff’s office when that car tried to run us down. He took advantage of the situation and promptly disappeared.”

  “Maybe he’s running with an accomplice who was driving that Mustang.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Here’s a picture of him at a mental institution when he was just a kid.”

  Claire looked at it closely but couldn’t tell much. It was black and white and depicted a young boy sitting at a table, but it was too grainy to see his features all that well. Brady slid another picture across the table with his right forefinger. “This one was taken out of a yearbook from Hickman High School in Columbia. He dropped out before he graduated.”

  Claire pulled the picture up close and stared down at the face of a teenage boy. This one looked a lot like Oliver Wood, too. But it appeared to be a photo taken of a photo and wasn’t all that clear, either. He looked very young. She looked up at Brady. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure this is the guy who came to the hotel to see me. Not exactly—he’s a lot younger and less developed in these photos—but his eyes look sort of the same. The guy we met kept staring at me, very intensely, to an unsettling degree. He seemed to look right through me, and he made a point to pull Black’s chain.”

  “Black?”

  “My husband, Nicholas Black.”

  “You call him by his last name?”

  “Long story.”

  Their gazes held for a brief moment. “Yes, I did happen to notice your wedding ring. Quite the diamond you’ve got there. You and Black must do very well.”

  Claire resisted rolling her eyes. This guy was quite the nosy nelly. Not one iota of her personal life was any of his business, so she pretended he hadn’t said anything. “The guy said his name was Oliver Wood. And he’s going by his brother’s name? If he was a man on the run, a psycho as you said, why would he do that, Special Agent? Why wouldn’t he opt for a totally fake identity?”

  Brady shrugged. “Please, call me Bob.”

  “Why do you think he’d do that? Stick with his family’s last name? That doesn’t make sense. Not very bright of him, either, and I think this killer is very bright.” Claire kept the conversation on point, because she did not know this guy yet and did not want to get chummy; all she wanted was to solve this case, sooner rather than later.

  Brady grinned a little. “Nothing he does makes a whole lot of sense. That’s because he’s crazy, which also makes it hard for me to catch him. He’s inconsistent in his actions, and that makes it difficult to pin down his motivations or his next move. But he’s clever, as you’ve already recognized. I think he lives inside some kind of fantasy world of his own making, at least that’s what all the psychiatrists’ reports say. Read some of his hospital interviews and your hair just might stand up on end. He particularly gets his jollies killing animals. Started with his own Golden Retriever puppy when he was six.”

  Brady watched for Claire’s reaction to that distasteful image, but she’d dealt with insane serials plenty of times, so she just stared at him until he continued.

  “After that, he quickly graduated up to harming people. I can’t prove it yet, but I know he’s perpetrated multiple crimes all over the world. All random, all miles apart, with little evidence left behind. I think he killed your victim, the young girl you found dressed up as an angel, and this time, I think he might have chosen her for a specific reason.”

  “What reason?”

  “If only I knew.”

  “How did you know our victim was left looking like an angel?”

  “Sheriff Ramsay mentioned it.”

  Again, Claire contemplated the agent. “If he’s so sick in the head, why was he released from the hospitals?”

  “His family committed him for observation and psychological treatment several times when he was young, but he always managed to either con his way out or escape. He’s got a brilliant mind, albeit a criminal one. They say he’s easily able to manipulate others. Hospital employees always talked about how charming he could be. It’s all down there in that folder for you to read through.” He stopped, found another piece of paper and brought it out. “Here, take a look at this. After he got out of the psych ward the last time he was committed by family members, he went straight home and ran down his mother with her own car. It says he lay in wait until she was crossing the street from her workplace and then just plowed right over her. Then he actually put the car into reverse, backed up, and ran over her two more times. Then he took off, never been seen again. Not that I know about, anyway. Until you met up with him.”

  Claire pulled the report closer and skimmed through the first page. “So you’re saying it’s his M.O. to use a car as a weapon? And you’re sayin’ he’s the one who tried to kill me and Bud? That’s funny, because he wasn’t driving the car that hit us, he was walking across the street with us. And he pushed me out of the way and saved my life. How do you explain that?”

  “I’m not saying that I can explain anything for certain about your case. I am saying that vehicular hit-and-run is one of his known methods of murder. It’s happened before, and more than once. I believe he could now have an accomplice working with him. Could be a woman he’s taken up with, a wife or a lover, somebody like that. She could have been in that car that plowed into you in order to keep him from going to jail. Also, he knows you are now in the process of looking for him, intent on bringing him to justice. He’s already made face-to-face contact with you. I think he must’ve decided you and your partner were getting too close and needed to go.” Brady’s serious stare held her full attention, nice and steady and quite intense. “You’re lucky to be alive, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. So is your partner. I think he’s committed a long and bloody string of homicides by vehicle, starting with his mother. And even more kills that have something to do with those game pieces we’ve found at some of the murder scenes. He likes to leave them in his victims’ mouths, or forced halfway down their throats. Like your Christmas angel. Your sheriff said you found a game piece and also a dog tag shoved down into her stomach. That’s new, and even more violent.”

  “Yes, it is.” She nixed a rising vision of green goo. But all this wasn’t quite adding up in Claire’s mind. “Why would he come see me in person like that and use his brother’s name? Why take that kind of chance? Doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Because you’re investigating his case, I would think. Maybe he was playing around with you. Baiting you. Evidently, he likes to do that. Did he spar verbally with you? According to the shrinks, that’s one of Troy’s trademarks. Clever repartee, I guess you’d call it.”

  “Yes, he did that. Not all that clever, just stupid stuff. But then he was out in public the next day, and stuck around after that car hit us until I called 911. That doesn’t sound like the man you’ve been describing.”

  Brady shook his head. “He’s demented. Who knows how his brain works? Again, maybe he’s got a partner or some kind of apprentice he’s training. I’m telling you, the hospital reports tell me he edges right up there at the genius-level IQ. Problem that faces us right now, though, is that he descended into madness at an extremely young age. I feel like he now thinks, after all these years of murdering people and getting away with it, tha
t he’s invincible and unstoppable by anyone. I think he toys with police and investigators now. I also think he enjoys killing people for whatever kind of sick pleasure it gives him. His dad told me that he loves to play games and that he excelled at them. Raged around and tore up the house when he didn’t win, punched holes through the walls and destroyed furniture.”

  “You really think he’s still here at the lake?”

  “I only know that he’s been known to hang around and taunt investigators with false clues until they get too close. You know, tantalize the cops and try to lead them down the wrong roads—and he’s smart enough to do it.”

  “Nobody’s ever caught him?”

  “No. We’ve got some hits of him on security cameras in various towns, but he usually wears a hoodie that hides his features. He is highly intelligent, I’m telling you, and that’s how he evades capture. Some of his shrinks think he believes everything in life is just a game to be played and won.”

  “If he is Troy Edward Wood instead of Oliver Wood, and he wants me dead, why would he push me out of the way yesterday? Why did the driver almost hit him, too, if the driver was working with him?”

  “Good questions that I’m afraid I can’t answer yet. Hopefully, if we work together amicably, we just might catch him this time. Especially if he’s hanging around here because of some kind of fascination with you.”

  Claire jerked her face up. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because he approached you and talked face to face. I’ve never known him to do that before.” He paused. “Did you happen to do or say anything that he might have taken as a come-on when he met you and your husband?”

  That felt insulting. “You think I came on to some stranger in front of my husband?”

  “Well, I don’t know you very well yet.”

  “Obviously.”

  “If you did not encourage him, I might have a working theory as to why he targeted you.”