by DB Kennison
Becca picked up a satellite aerial photo she’d printed out of the location. There were businesses not far from where the vic died, but even if she’d regained consciousness, the sub-zero temps would have thrown her into hypothermia before she could be heard by anyone. Becca took a sip of water and placed the pictures in the lineup. On to the fourth file:
Marcia Niffenegger
Single, white, female, age 49, of Mt. Horeb, WI
COD: Severed Iliac artery during evisceration
Ligature marks present on wrists and ankles
BD: Found on the front gallery to the Creek County Financial Bank in Blue Lake
Misc: right ear removed post mortem
Becca nibbled on her thumbnail as she studied them. They were all from Wisconsin, but different towns. Each killed differently, most somewhere else, and brought to the location where they were eventually discovered. Different races, ages, marital status, jobs, family…all of it varied. The only consistent was the post-mortem posing of the bodies, except Alexis Thomas, who bled out as she thrashed on the ice making a bloody snow angel. And the post mortem removal of the right ear, though in Cathy Schutz’s case that wasn’t certain. It was like putting together a puzzle with pieces from different boxes.
Logically Cathy Schutz—the ATV vic—was the earliest kill based on the decomposition, and the ME’s time frame made that assumption possible. But she wasn’t the first. Becca put her hands on her hips and arched her back. She yawned loudly and was startled to hear someone clearing their throat right behind her. She spun around.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Blair apologized. “You’re burning the midnight oil.” She looked at her watch. “Literally.”
“Literally burning oil?”
“Literally midnight.”
“Can’t help it. Can’t sleep when I have this shit in my head.”
“Know what you mean.” Blair had been involved in some capacity within the DOJ for more than twenty years. “Even when it’s over, it doesn’t go away. So cut yourself some slack, we just established these as connected cases…” She looked over the photos. “And with this random-no-pattern bullshit, it’s going to get even tougher.”
“Right, but at least there is a signature. He poses them, and that means something. He cuts off an ear, and that means something. That’s a pattern. It’s what gets his rocks off.”
Blair pointed to a stack of printouts on the far side of the table. “What’s that?”
“I expanded the search in the database. I figure this guy had to start somewhere, and his signature may be crude with a first or second murder. I’m hoping we can still recognize his work.”
“How far back you go?”
“Ten years.” She shrugged. “Got to start somewhere.”
“Take some advice from an old lady, take a break. Have another look in the morning when you’re fresh. It’s the subtleties, the tiny similarities that may bring these cases together.” Becca nodded and got up. Blair helped her gather up the case information. “Hey, you want to grab a beer at The Tap?”
“Yeah, I could use it.”
“Damn straight. You’re less than useless if you live this shit day and night without letting it go once in a while.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Becca’s mood was lighter as she looked forward to a night out with Blair. She grabbed her purse, locked up her desk and practically ran out of the office behind her. She’d worked at her desk since lunch and remembered leaving only once to pee. Hell, she needed to be done.
Within moments of walking through the entrance to The Tap, they were sipping on ice-cold Coronas and eating bar burgers. But they couldn’t completely leave work behind it seemed, and talked a little shop as they ate.
“I’ve got a butt-load of hits from the database to eliminate.” Becca said around a mouth full of fries. She put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry, I’m starving.”
“It’s okay. I can relate, remember.”
“There’s just so much info to cover.”
“It’s a numbers game, really. We live in a big country, which means a large population, which equates to lots of killers.”
Becca grew quiet as she drank her beer.
“Maybe this guy is just waiting for you to publicize his activity. Most serial killers want recognition for their prolific count or the content of it. Maybe that’s why he’s so darned creative. He’s trying to impress you.” Blair swiped a napkin across her lips. When the waiter came to pick up their plates, he dropped off refills.
“All right, you have to assume because these women are unrelated that they are being chosen at random, which is an act of opportunity. The question is, where were they when they were taken, and how did they get to where they ended up?” Blair asked.
“We checked out boat rental on Fuchs and ATV rental on Schutz—nothing. According to family and friends, they were all going about their normal routines.”
“So how’d they get to the secondary crime scenes?”
“Well, we know they were all drugged with benzodiazepine,” That was the hypnotic sleeping aid found in each of the victim’s blood work. It could only be bought with a prescription. “So our guy must be strong enough to cart these women to whatever venue gives rise to his vision.”
“Not necessarily. Timing is everything when it comes to drug use. Could be he drugs them just enough to put them at ease, and he can maneuver them for the most part. It would be like they were drunk.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” Becca idly peeled the label off her beer as they talked. “There’s that level of escalation as well. Not in timing, but in the details. It’s obvious he’s spending more time with each kill.” She slammed the last third of the beer. “I just know that son of a bitch stood over Lexi Thomas and watched her flail on the ice as she was bleeding to death.”
“Okay—enough shop talk for the night. We’re supposed to be unwinding, not winding up,” said Blair. “Let’s talk about important things. Been laid lately?”
Becca burst out laughing and nearly choked on her beer. “No time, you know that.”
“Oh honey, there’s always time for sex. Seriously, do you know the statistics on the subject?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The average sex act is seven-point-three minutes. Thankfully that does not include foreplay, which in my opinion can sometimes be better than the grand finale.” Blair gave a bawdy laugh. “So don’t talk to me about time constraints. It takes the average woman longer to order lunch, for Pete’s sake. You need to let down your hair, have a little fun, and forget what’s-his-name.”
The waiter appeared, interrupting them with the delivery of two fresh bottles of beer. They exchanged puzzled looks.
“Compliments of the two gentlemen.” The waiter motioned toward a pair of tall attractive men leaning on the bar-rail watching for the reactions of the women.
Blair raised her eyebrows. “I’m game if you are.” The innuendo was not lost on Becca. When she didn’t react immediately, Blair pursed her lips and exhaled in exasperation. “You have got to move on. Pining over Jon has gone on long enough. Put yourself back on the market before you spoil on the shelf!”
Becca shrugged. “Fine. What the hell.”
Blair favored the men with a smile and waved them over. “All right you two,” she said in a low voice before they arrived, “Let the games begin. Let’s see which one can hit a home run first.”
The women slid across the booth seat to make room for their guests to sit. Introductions were made, and it was all Becca could do to keep a straight face when she learned their names. Bob and Bob.
Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was just too weird. Chances were, had she been completely sober it wouldn’t have been funny at all. Right now she found it hilarious that they had the same name. The least they could do when in public was go by Bob and Robert or Bob and Bobby. They both wo
rked in a medical lab out east and were in Madison to spend a few days at Promega, the Biochem Corporation. They both lived in Lake Ridge, VA and worked in D.C., or was it the other way around? Becca couldn’t remember because when it came right down to it, she didn’t give a shit.
Blair’s “Bob” had dark hair and serious eyes, while her “Bob” had sandy-colored hair and a gorgeous smile. She sipped her beer, mentally comparing him to Jon, the last man to see her naked. She had forced him out of her life. A decision she’d regretted for a while now. But maybe Blair was right. It was time to move on. She looked into the sparkling eyes of sandy Bob, returned his high-wattage grin and scooted closer to him.
Bob caught her staring at him and laughed. They were all laughing now. He inched in her direction and slipped an arm around her waist, his hand grazing her breast on the way. She arched into him at the touch. Their small group toasted and downed Tequila shots that the guys bought, chasing them down with more beer.
With more alcohol in her system, getting a bit tipsy, Becca’s head bounced off Bob’s sizable shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his smile got bigger and brighter. She sipped more beer, lost balance and bobbed forward once more. She gripped the table edge and giggled, mumbling something unintelligible about bobbing Bob.
When she brought her head up Blair caught her gaze and gave her a wink. Blair—the older, wiser woman—her work mom. The career-driven gal that had put aside any aspirations she’d had for a personal life and family. Becca realized that times had changed since Blair started at the bureau and that it was possible to have a family and a successful career—it just took a hell of a lot more work and a partner that supported the job. Those types of men didn’t come along often.
She had thought Jon was one of those that chose career over family, like her. Turned out she was wrong. He wanted a simpler career and a family. She just couldn’t do it—at least not then. Now, even though she questioned that choice, she knew it was too late.
And here was Blair, giving her permission to let down her guard along with her inhibitions. It was like a weight being lifted off her shoulders. It was just what she needed to forget Jon Bricksen.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Perrot State Park, Trempealeau, WI
The Great River State Trail is twenty-four miles of low-grade trail that runs through La Crosse and Trempealeau counties along the winding Mississippi River, its breathtaking scenery making it popular for recreation year round.
Sally Henshew biked the trail every morning in good weather and sometimes in bad. It was only three miles of paved park road to the trailhead from her house, and she took advantage of the meandering wooded ride through the campground as a warm up to the rest of the trek.
This morning the pungent scent of damp leaves and thick moss lay heavy in the air. She’d hit the park well before full sunup, and as she coasted past the campsites, she could hear a small orchestra of snores from pop-ups and tents near the path. As she crested the rise of a short hill, she banked left to avoid hitting a squirrel-haired woman in a fuzzy yellow bathrobe headed to the shower house. Sally heard the flop-flop-flop of her slippers as she whizzed across the path in front of her. Most mornings Sally saw no one.
The first few times she’d ridden in the dim light the deathly quiet had unnerved her. She’d jumped at every little noise, which sent her heart racing. Over time, she relaxed and embraced the solitude—loving the peace of the trail that time of day.
Ahead the forest flared out, and the landscape brightened as the trail narrowed from tarmac to gravel. Under the waves of the undulating dappled light she smelled crown vetch, phlox and wild roses as the forest ended and the trail opened onto roller coaster fields.
To date, the only macabre event that Sally had witnessed was the hatching of the mayflies. Each year, like some bizarre sci-fi movie, the silvery green moth-like flies hatched and swarmed inland all at once. So thick was the invasion that snowplows were sometimes deployed to clean the massive slippery piles off of bridges along the Mississippi.
One particularly aggressive incursion in ’06 was dense enough to show up on the weather radar. After the initial onslaught, the migration would slow to a trickle, and hatchling flies would be on the trail for days. It only took once for Sally to get caught in the mass to make it a habit of checking the hatch reports before jumping on her bike.
The trail was in constant use from spring through fall, and that kind of traffic meant seeing the occasional dead thing as well. Sally had run across flattened moles and mice, snakes with tire-tread indents, pieces and parts of larger dead varmints that hadn’t yet been carted off by scavengers.
So she wasn’t completely taken aback by the sickly sweet smell of death as she pedaled toward a thicket of young sumac. She was downwind of the thick copse and assumed the stench she smelled was sour whey fertilizer spread across the cropland. Or perhaps it was a feral cat or some other poor creature that had been struck by a fast-moving cyclist the day before and crawled into the underbrush to die.
It was just luck—good or bad could be debated—that as the sun rose in the crisp pink sky there was just enough light for Sally Henshew to see something lying on the side of the trail. If she had left the house earlier that morning and it had been any darker, she might have barreled right over the thing poking out at the edge of the foliage and assumed it was a broken tree limb.
Sally’s bike skidded sideways in the loose gravel, nearly toppling over as she squeezed the brakes and came to an abrupt stop. Pebbles shot out from under the back tire and bounced off the thing in the road. With a hand to her forehead shielding her eyes from the rising sun, she saw the hot-pink color of polished toenails but did not recognize the attached foot. Not fully comprehending what it was she was seeing, she popped the kickstand down, took a drink from her water bottle and walked over to drag the obstruction off the trail.
Something in Sally’s mind clicked the moment she noted the polish on the toes was scuffed, the nail of the big toe jagged. Almost at once she was aware of the stench and the road dust veiling the scraped leg as it trailed into the tall grass under the overhanging sumac. A woman’s shoeless foot stuck out onto the gravel path and blended with the bone-colored limestone.
Good Samaritan instincts were the driving force behind Sally’s further explorations. She bent over and parted the tall grass with one hand as she removed the sumac with the other. The view Sally had of the corpse was one she’d never forget. The intricate design carved into the woman’s skin would be forever imprinted in her mind. The horrible images of torture, mutilation, and insect infestation would keep her from biking any trail ever again.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Becca locked her car and managed to find enough energy to trudge the rest of the way on foot. Official vehicles lined the roadway and personnel were deep into the park by now and worked the scene. She had never been to Perrot State Park. In fact, there were tons of parks she hadn’t been to. It had crossed her mind that for a woman her age she really should be doing something with her time other than looking at dead bodies and chasing killers.
The forays from last night popped into her head, and she felt a bloom of crimson across her face but there wasn’t anybody to witness it, so her walk of shame was hers to bear alone. Becca had never had a one-night stand before, not even in college.
She had also never been late to a scene before.
There was an officer waiting at the head of the trail to take her to the body via an ATV with a bench seat, something the officer called a Gator. It would have been a good fifteen-minute walk otherwise. They stopped twenty yards back from the tape. Not wanting to stir up trail dust, she got out and walked the rest of the way. Blair broke loose from the crowd and came to meet her.
“Jesus. I was afraid you weren’t going to pick up the phone this morning.” She handed Becca some gloves and booties. “You look like hell, by the way.”
“
I blame you. You’re the one that took me out and got me drunk.”
“In my defense, I also got you laid.”
Becca blushed, but admitted nothing.
Blair nudged her friend with an elbow. “Was he any good?”
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Let’s hope you did more than just kiss, or I wasted my time.”
The aspirin she’d taken earlier had finally kicked in, but Blair was annoying as hell right now, and the painkiller wasn’t helping with that. “Tell you what, let’s just get through this and you can buy me breakfast and maybe I’ll share a detail or two.”
Blair’s eyes widened. “Okay then, first blood, then breakfast.”
The area was filled with activity. It was a multi-jurisdictional case, and there was representation for each—the DNR, cops from county and state, a couple of CSI, and the ADA. Most were men, and the testosterone level was palpable. Becca recognized a couple of faces and nodded hello.
At the fringes in another ATV sat a young woman in bike shorts with a blanket around her shoulders. Her bike was parked on the trail a foot or so from the corpse. There were skid marks where she stopped. An EMT was currently trying to comfort her, and Becca knew the look of shock in the woman’s unblinking eyes.
Tommy made his way through the throng. “Same sick SOB, I’d put money on it.” He was changing out SD cards in his camera as he spoke. “It’s a bloodbath.” He nodded in the direction of the traumatized witness. “Good thing she came along when she did. Coyotes are as big as wolves ’round here. Vic might have been dragged into the brush, and we’d have never found her—not in one piece, anyway.”