Her laughter, the always present twinkle in her pretty green eyes, and the dimple in her cheek when she smiled flashed behind his closed lids with haunting clarity.
His mind instantly rebelled against what he knew would come next, but he could no longer block it out than he could stop the waves from crashing onto the shore of the beach in front of him.
April lying in that morgue. A perfectly straight incision on her bruised and battered throat. Her larynx had been removed with the precision of a surgeon and then the wound sewn closed.
Oliver shuddered, unable to push the images from his mind. His wife, his precious April had been repeatedly raped, violated in the vilest of ways. Her breasts had been burned in numerous places, along with her genitals.
She’d been bound for days, unable to speak or scream while her killer endlessly tortured her to death. He’d then painted her fingernails and toenails a blood-red color…postmortem.
April had been his sixth victim in less than a month, categorizing him as a serial killer. He’d been dubbed the Silencer by the media for removing his victim’s voice boxes days before he ended their lives. And then he’d painted their fingernails and toenails. Always with the same red color.
“Oliver?”
Somewhere in the far recesses of his mind, Oliver knew Joyce spoke to him, but he couldn’t seem to pull back from the grief swimming inside him. He hadn’t caught April’s killer. His profile had been off.
The Silencer had vanished almost six years ago, leaving no evidence to his identity behind.
Oliver had worked day and night to profile the sicko, only to come up empty. He’d been too close to the case, making him less than objective.
His emotions, grief and helpless rage over the loss of his wife, had stood between him and his ability to be openminded and detached.
The Silencer had slipped through his fingers.
A hand rested against Quick’s back, and his secretary’s voice finally penetrated his guilt-filled mind. “Oliver, are you all right?”
He swallowed with more than a little difficulty. “I’m fine, Joyce. Thank you.”
“There’s a man here to see you.”
He answered without turning away from the window. “Have him make an appointment. I’m meeting someone in ten minutes for lunch.”
“But—”
“Please, Joyce. I can’t do this right now.”
Something in his voice must have clued her in to his current mental status. Her hand fell away, and the sound of her shoes slapping on the tile floor could be heard over the horns blowing from the streets beyond.
Oliver waited until the door closed behind her, then trailed to his desk, plucked up his suit jacket, and left by way of the back.
Chapter Two
Richard Holland waited until the waitress moved away before extending his hand across the table to Oliver. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Oliver accepted the man’s outstretched palm and took a seat. “It’s good to see you, Richard. So, tell me what you’ve got.”
Holland nodded, pushing a yellow folder toward Oliver. “You always did get right to the point.”
Opening the folder, Oliver took in the sight before him.
Dozens of photos were inside; images of the dismembered body of the female found beneath the pier in Panama City Beach.
Oliver hardened himself against his emotions. “I understand the heinousness of the crime, but why has the FBI been called in on this?”
Richard set his water glass down and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Because there were two similar cases last month less than an hour from here over the Alabama line. The Baldwin County Sheriff’s Office called us in to assist.”
Oliver’s jaw tightened. “Similar cases?”
“There’s enough similarities for us to ascertain it’s the same guy.”
“A serial killer,” Oliver stated in a deadly soft tone.
Richard nodded. “The Bay County Police Department notified us of the body found beneath the pier. They called in the local sheriff’s department and the FBI to help with the investigation. My team is there now.”
April’s cold, pale body flashed behind Oliver’s eyes. “Why are you coming to me with this? You have an efficient team working with you in Huntsville and a dozen more at your disposal at the Quantico office.”
“Because you’re one of the best profilers I’ve ever known, and I’d like your help with this.”
Oliver closed the folder and got to his feet. “I’m a private investigator now. I no longer hunt serial killers, Richard. I haven’t since—”
“Since April died,” Richard interrupted, catching Oliver off guard.
“I understand your reluctance, Quick.” Richard leaned across the table and flipped the folder back open. “But this woman had a family, a husband…and a child on the way. She can’t tell us who did this to her, but I’m willing to bet that you can.”
Richard lifted a picture of the woman’s decapitated head and held it up for Oliver to see. “Her husband needs closure. As do her parents.”
Oliver stared down into the lifeless eyes of the woman in the picture for long moments. She’d been pregnant…just as April had.
Swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat, Oliver tore his gaze from the sickening photo and returned to his seat.
As badly as he wanted to, he simply couldn’t bring himself to walk away. “What’s the victim’s name?”
“Clayton. Jennifer Clayton.”
Oliver let that sink in. “I’ll need to see the scene where the body was found.”
Richard placed the picture back in the folder and tucked it inside his briefcase. “I’ll take you there right after you get some food in you. From the look of your eyes, you could use it.”
Oliver wasn’t hungry, but he would order anyway. He needed something to soak up the overabundance of alcohol from the night before. And he needed strength for what he knew lay ahead.
* * * *
After driving to his condo to change into jeans and running shoes, Oliver donned his Oakley’s and followed Holland to the normally busy beach in Panama City.
The expected yellow tape and police presence surrounded the massive pier to keep onlookers from contaminating what was left of the crime scene.
The rising tide from the previous two nights had no doubt destroyed what evidence had been left behind. Which Oliver doubted would be any.
But it wasn’t evidence Oliver looked for. Most serial killers were meticulous. They didn’t leave behind incriminating evidence. No, he needed to see what the killer saw, hear what he heard…and figure out why he chose that particular place to dispose of the body.
Oliver trailed along behind Holland, his gaze touching on everything around him. From the mobs of curious onlookers to the surrounding storefronts and restaurants in close proximity to the pier.
His gaze then swung to the dunes behind him, coming to rest on the taped-off markings embedded in the sand. Drag marks, most likely from a body.
How had the killer dragged a bag of body parts down to the pier without being noticed by anyone?
The crowd of people gathered around, attempted to move in closer, forcing the police to order them back.
Though it had been two days since Jennifer Clayton’s body had been discovered, the onlookers hadn’t seemed to grow bored with the taped-off crime scene.
As if reading Oliver’s thoughts, Richard stepped in closer to his side. “It’s going to be like this for a while longer, I’m sure. With so much sand and the size of that pier, God knows how long it’ll take them to finish processing the scene.”
A middle-aged officer keeping the crowds back turned as Holland and Oliver approached the tape.
Holland produced his credentials, spoke a few words to the officer while jerking his chin in Oliver’s direction.
Oliver nodded to the officer, ducking beneath the yellow tape the officer lifted for him and then held up a hand, indicating he wanted
to go down alone.
Holland didn’t attempt to follow, nor did Oliver expect him to. He’d worked with the man long enough in the past to know that Richard understood his particular profiling methods.
Oliver didn’t bother to search the sugary white beach sand around the pier. He wouldn’t find anything there. Besides, the local police department was still crawling through the scene with the precision of ants erecting a mound.
With so much sand in the vicinity, they were forced to sift through it, inch by inch.
Shutting out everything around him, Oliver’s mind slipped into profiler mode. His vision grew tunneled and his senses became heightened. Sounds from the crashing waves of the Gulf faded to the background, along with the murmuring of voices surrounding the crime scene.
The bright noonday sun turned into a silvery moon in Oliver’s mind, casting shadows along the dunes and sending the long, giant pier plummeting into darkness.
Oliver’s head swiveled to the right as he imagined the lights along the rails of the pier coming on at sunset.
His gaze traveled to the local restaurant sitting a short distance up the beach. Music spilled out from the open deck to be swept away on the warm moonlit breeze.
The lights shone brightly through the fog hovering over the Gulf, illuminating the dunes between the deck of the restaurant and the pier.
Smiling faces of tourists moved through his mind, their laughter and friendly banter growing in volume in order to be heard over the music thumping in the background.
No one from that deck would likely notice a lone figure making their way beneath the pier.
His gaze swept to the left, to a souvenir shop that probably closed their doors at five o’clock sharp on the weekdays. No danger of being seen from there.
On it went, with Oliver studying his surroundings, an imaginary garbage bag in his hand growing heavier with each passing second.
He imagined himself pulling into the parking lot up the hill, waiting for his opportunity to move.
But why the busy pier area? There are literally hundreds of miles of beachfront to dump a body. Yet he chose this particular spot. Why…?
Because he’s a narcissist. Torture isn’t enough for him. He garners some kind of rush from the threat of exposure. He believes the women are beneath him. He thinks himself superior…
The face of the decapitated woman appeared in Oliver’s mind, pulling him back from the abyss, back to the dozens of eyes watching him expectantly.
He sought out Holland, who promptly moved to his side.
“What are you thinking, Quick?”
Oliver held the shorter man’s gaze. “I’d need to see the autopsy results to be sure, but I’m willing to bet that the unsub drowned the victim before cutting her up.”
“What makes you think that?”
Oliver shrugged. “He’s grandstanding by bringing her out here and leaving her to be found. But the water, the water is significant to him somehow.”
“Then why cut her up?”
“I don’t know yet,” Oliver stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “But I’d like to see the body now.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Oliver strode along next to Holland, his mind still mulling over the surrounding establishments. “Are there any cameras on the restaurant and souvenir shop?”
Richard shook his head. “Some of the shops down the beach have cameras, but the ones closest to the pier don’t.”
“I’m betting he knew that,” Oliver admitted with near certainty. “He’s been in both places. More than once.”
Holland’s gaze narrowed. “He cased the places before he chose this spot.”
“Exactly.”
They reached the parking area at the top of the hill. Holland hesitated before opening his car door. “I’ll have the receipts pulled at both places for the last month. Hopefully we get a hit on something.”
Oliver nodded, fishing his keys out of the pocket of his jeans. “I’d like to question the staff myself. Once I’ve seen the body.”
Richard slid behind the wheel of his vehicle. “Follow me.”
Chapter Three
Oliver arrived at the medical examiner’s office behind Holland twenty minutes later.
The two men entered the building, side by side, making their way to the back where the refrigerated bodies were held.
It had been years since Oliver had darkened the door of the place.
Not much had changed, he noted, recognizing the familiar scent of the chemicals used in the back. It was a smell he would know anywhere. A smell he associated with…death.
A pretty brunette exited the lady’s room on the left, nearly running into Quick in the process.
She barely flinched. “Excuse me, gentlemen, may I help you?”
Oliver pushed his Oakley’s to the top of his head.
He swiftly took in her appearance, noting her air of confidence and the direct look she gave him without breaking eye contact.
She was no doubt used to dealing with his type. And by his type, he meant suits. Even though he wore jeans at the moment.
Richard produced his credentials. “We’re with the FBI. We need to see the body of the dismembered female that was recently brought in.”
The brunette eyed his identification. “I’m assuming you’ve been here before and know your way around.”
“We have,” Richard assured her, returning his ID to his pocket.
She simply nodded before skirting them both, the clicking of her heels echoing off the hallway walls as she strode away.
Richard ambled ahead, stopping outside the door that read, Medical Examiner.
He rapped on it once with his knuckles and then turned the knob, entering the chilled room without further notice.
Oliver trailed in behind him, blocking out the smells invading his senses.
A man Oliver hadn’t met before stood over a stainless steel table, the florescent lights above him reflecting off his partially bald head. His gloved hands hovered above the corpse of a man that appeared to be in his late fifties.
The tag on the doctor’s coat pocket read, Dr. T. Ramsey.
Ramsey peered up over the rim of his glasses, glancing at Oliver and then Richard. “Holland. I figured you’d be down here before long.”
“Hello, Teddy,” Holland greeted, approaching the table. “Have you met my associate, Oliver Quick?”
The doctor shook his head, meeting Oliver’s gaze. “I haven’t had the pleasure, but I’ve certainly heard of you. Your reputation as a profiler is remarkable.”
Oliver brushed the compliment aside, uncomfortable with the praise. As was his way, he got right to the point. “Has Jennifer Clayton’s body been autopsied?”
Ramsey sent him a quick nod. “It has. She was top priority.” He jerked his chin toward the refrigerated drawers along the opposite wall. “She’s in number eighteen.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Oliver trailed across the room, pulling open the designated drawer.
The chilly air of the refrigeration sent goosebumps peppering his arms.
He stared down at the black body bag, remembering back to when he’d had to identify April.
His heart began to pound, dread and nausea growing stronger by the second.
“Is everything all right?”
The sound of Richard’s voice broke into his anxiety.
With a surprisingly steady hand, Oliver took hold of the body bag’s zipper and slowly glided it down. He stopped when Jennifer’s head came into view.
The sight of a corpse always unsettled him. But the murdered ones… The murdered ones were the worst. The frozen terror in their eyes, as if they took those last horrendous moments with them to eternity.
Doctor Ramsey appeared on the opposite side of the drawer, holding a folder in his hands.
Oliver raised his gaze to the doctor’s. “What was the cause of death?”
“Drowning. Repeatedly.”
Surely Oliver hadn’t heard him right. “I’m
sorry, did you say repeatedly?”
Ramsey opened the folder and pulled a paper free. He handed it to Oliver. “Those were my findings. She’d been drowned more than once, resuscitated only to be drowned again. It’s hard to tell the exact number of times this was done to her. I can only assure you that it’s what killed her.”
Oliver glanced down into the woman’s milky-colored eyes and then met the doctor’s gaze once more. “So, he cut the body up postmortem.” It wasn’t a question.
“Most of the body,” the doctor muttered, unzipping the bag the rest of the way. He reached inside and lifted a pale-colored hand up for Oliver’s perusal. The ring finger was missing. “The fourth finger was removed before her death, as was the fetus she carried.”
Oliver digested that bit of information, swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat. Jennifer Clayton’s unborn child had been removed from her body before her death.
Unclenching his teeth enough to speak, Oliver asked, “Was the baby vaginally removed or…”
The doctor shook his head. “He was cut from the abdomen and then the wound sewn closed.”
“He…” Oliver began.
“The gender of the fetus was discovered from the victim’s medical records,” Dr. Ramsey offered, saving Oliver the task of asking the dreaded question aloud.
Getting a grip on his emotions, Oliver shut them down completely. “I take it the fetus wasn’t recovered?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Ramsey answered.
Oliver let that sink in. “How far along was Mrs. Clayton in her pregnancy?”
Doctor Ramsey’s gaze softened. “Thirty-two weeks.”
Oliver briefly glanced at Holland. “That’s four deaths he’s responsible for. Not three.”
Without waiting for a response from Richard, Oliver nailed the doctor with another question. “Was a wedding ring recovered?”
Richard answered for the doctor. “Nothing has been recovered. Not her clothes, jewelry, or her car.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Oliver questioned the doctor further. “Was there any evidence of rape, strangulation, any ligature marks or other wounds besides the obvious?”
The doctor nodded. “There were ligature marks on her wrists, consistent with rope. We also found some marks and residue on her lower face, telling us that her mouth had been duct taped for quite some time. I found no evidence of rape.”
Elle Unleashed: A Gripping Psychological Thriller with a Twist Page 14