by Karen Rose
“Trying to get away from the snake,” Jack said, horror in his voice.
Noah cringed at the thought. “He tied her to a chair and set a rattlesnake on her?”
Jack looked ill. “If she struggled, she wasn’t sedated. Why the ketamine?”
“Good question. Perhaps he sedated her before, to get the jacket on her,” Ian said. “Officially, strangulation was once again the cause of death.”
“He terrified her,” Noah murmured. “Why? Other than the fact he is a sick bastard?”
“Sometimes it’s just because they can,” Jack said.
Noah sighed. “True. But why a snake? How did he know that would scare her?”
“Most people are afraid of snakes,” Jack said thinly. “It’s a common phobia.”
“I suppose. Still doesn’t feel right. What else, Ian?”
Ian shrugged. “She ate waffles a few hours before she died, with maple syrup.”
“And time of death would have been when?” Noah asked.
“Sometime between five and six yesterday morning.”
Noah did the math. “So she ate waffles around 3:00 or 4:00 a.m. She either made them in her own kitchen or she went out.”
“I didn’t see any evidence that she cooked,” Jack said. “I think she went out. And at that time of the morning, there aren’t many places that serve. This is a good break.”
“So we take her photo to the all-night diners and waffle houses around town.”
“She also filled her tank with gas. There were traces of hydrocarbons on her hands.”
“A waffle house near a gas station,” Noah mused. “When will you get Samantha?”
“Sometime after eight. Since I’ve given you my prelim, I’ll stay here and start on Samantha Altman’s autopsy as soon as she arrives. I’ll be in touch.”
Tuesday, February 23, 7:45 a.m.
Eve was frying eggs when David stumbled into her kitchen, rubbing his eyes.
“You need a new couch, Evie. I could feel every spring.”
She handed him a cup of coffee. “I know. I got it from a yard sale.”
“Yeah, I noticed. Nice to have someone cook for me occasionally.”
She put their plates on the table. “Don’t any of those other firemen cook?”
“Out of a Hamburger Helper box. Hey, these are pretty good.” “Even I can fry an egg. So, you gonna fix my roof today?”
“If it stays dry. Who was that on the phone earlier?”
Eve picked at her breakfast. “Noah Webster. They found the first murdered woman on my list. She’d signed up under her married name, but got divorced. Three for three.”
David sighed. “Sucks, kid. But you still aren’t responsible.”
“Neither Samantha nor Christy had played Shadowland before we placed our recruiting ad. They were there to be preyed upon because they signed up for my study.”
“And if you’d asked them to take a daily walk in the park and they’d been mugged? Would that have been your fault, too?”
He was right, but that didn’t make it any easier. “No.”
He set back to work on his breakfast. “You break into Shadowland yet?”
“Not yet. I upped my network privileges, but I still haven’t got the keys to the kingdom. I’m a lot closer though. Shouldn’t take too much longer.”
“So you’re going to stay here all day to work on that, right?”
“No. I’m not going to stay here all day so you can watch over me. But thanks.”
He frowned. “Then where will you be today?”
“On campus. Somebody’s gotten access to our study files. It’s the only way he could have picked all three women.”
His frown deepened. “And what will you do should you find this person?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not planning to make any citizen’s arrests. I’ll call Webster.”
“And what if he comes after you when you’re alone on campus? What then?”
“I’m licensed to carry a concealed. I never leave the house without my gun in my computer bag. Except for yesterday.” She bit at her lip. “I was so rattled over seeing Christy hanging like that, I forgot a lot of things.”
“Considering you were cuffed and questioned, it’s probably good you didn’t have your gun with you. I’ll drive you to school. Let me know when you’re ready to leave.”
Tuesday, February 23, 8:05 a.m.
Abbott tossed the morning Mirror on the table. “That punk reporter Buckland was at your scene last night,” he snapped. “What happened to securing the perimeter?”
Jack frowned. “I didn’t see Kurt Buckland there yesterday.”
Micki pulled the paper closer to where she and Carleton Pierce sat. “I didn’t either, and Christy’s house is pretty remote. We would have seen his car if he’d driven up. Must have parked a ways off and used a telephoto.”
Noah scanned the front-page article whose headline screamed RED DRESS KILLER and in smaller caps, THREE WOMEN DEAD. “He’s named all three women, including Samantha. Here’s a quote from her mother. ‘We knew our daughter could never have killed herself.’ ” He passed the paper to Jack. “I bet he was following us yesterday when we went to see Samantha’s mother.”
“Asshole reporter even added the part about the snake,” Jack said, pushing the paper away in disgust. “We would have held that back.”
“Find out where he was hiding,” Abbott said grimly. “I want to know how he knew about the red dresses and the snake and I want him kept away from our crime scenes.”
Carleton looked uncomfortable. “Are you sure that’s the best approach? It’ll just make him more determined. Maybe he would make a better ally.”
Abbott scowled. “I’m not embedding any media in my teams.”
“I didn’t say strap him to your chest like a papoose, Bruce,” Carleton said mildly. “I’m familiar with minds like his. If you deny him access, he’ll go on the offensive.”
“The doc’s right,” Jack said. “I’d rather control what this Buck-land guy knows. On the bright side, at least he didn’t know about the connection.”
Carleton looked around the table. “And that would be?”
“Ever hear of a computer game called Shadowland?” Noah asked before Jack could mention Eve. Noah wasn’t sure Carleton would be allowed to keep her involvement from her faculty advisor. Ethically Carleton might have to tell.
“I never got into computer games,” Carleton said. “But I take it that the victims did.”
“Big time,” Jack said. “Hours a day.”
“I have a few patients who have game addictions. They talk about a Worlds of War.”
“Warcraft,” Jack corrected. “Similar principle.”
“We found that all three women were participating in a psychological study at one of the local universities,” Abbott added and Noah wanted to protest, but it was too late.
Carleton’s brows shot up. “How did you find this out?”
“Confidential informant,” Noah said.
“Does this informant have a name that you’d care to share with the team?” Carleton asked quietly, but he was angry and Noah supposed he had a right to be.
Abbott nodded. “Yes. If it comes down to it, we’ll tell you.”
“For now,” Noah added, “we don’t want to put you in the spot of having to report it.”
“Pesky ethics,” Carleton said tightly, his smile forced. “Fine. For now. So… obviously somebody besides your CI knows about this study. Do you know who?”
“We’re investigating that today,” Noah said. “Your profile would be a big help.”
“I’m not so sure it’s accurate anymore. Knowing about the computer game could make a difference. Knowing there is a link to a psychological study makes an even bigger difference.” Carleton’s voice was sharper than Noah had ever heard it. “It’s possible I wasted five hours of my night on a profile that is completely meaningless.”
Noah closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Carleton. I didn�
�t think about that.”
“I guess not,” Carleton replied. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, then lifted his head. The anger was gone, but the irritation was still there. “Tell me what you can.”
Tuesday, February 23, 8:45 a.m.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for Eve Wilson.”
Dr. Donner’s odious secretary, Jeremy Lyons, pointed. “She sits back there.”
Eve closed her laptop quickly. Dammit. She’d been so close to getting into Martha Brisbane’s Shadowland file, but a man was coming her way. He was clean-cut, well dressed, but there was an arrogant gleam in his eye. Eve instantly did not trust him.
“Miss Wilson.” He held out his hand. “I’m Kurt Buckland, with the Mirror.”
She shook his hand reluctantly. “Mr. Buckland. I’m rather busy at the moment.”
He ignored her. “So tell me how you knew the three murdered women.”
Years of maintaining the secrets of Dana’s shelter had taught her how not to react. But it was hard. She blinked. “Murder? You have the wrong woman, Mr. Buckland.”
“You drive an old Mazda. Blue with a dented fender. Yes?”
“Yes. But I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your car still sits in front of Christy Lewis’s house. You were at Martha Brisbane’s apartment.” He handed her another photo. It was her with Noah and her heart sank.
He knew. Soon everyone would know that her study had lured these women to their deaths. Their killer would know they knew and the police would lose any advantage.
“You spoke with the detective,” he said. “I want to know what he said.”
Even as her heart pounded, she was relieved. The intruder last night was this reporter. Not a killer. “Talk to Detective Webster.” She swiveled in her chair, hoping he would leave.
Instead he leaned against her cubicle wall. “So. What was it like to die? Twice? Did you see bright white lights? God? Angels? Or was it hellfire and brimstone?”
Fury bubbled, but she kept her cool. “Use your imagination. It’s what you’re good at.”
“I’ll pick God and angels. So, when that man strangled you, did it hurt?”
It had. It still did, in her worst nightmares. Worse, it shamed her. No more.
Slowly she stood, damned if she’d be victimized again. “Yes, it hurt very much. I have a scar from where he wound twine around my throat. Would you like to see it?” She unfastened the leather choker she always wore, leaned forward, chin high. “Would you like to touch it? So that you can more accurately describe it to your readers?”
His eyes flashed. “You can’t bluff. I get what I want, or I will print your personal story. Tell me about these three murdered women and your privacy will remain intact.”
She smiled at him, a full smile that accentuated the dead side of her face. It looked creepy, she knew. Phantom of the Opera creepy. She’d perfected her half smile so she wouldn’t see the disgust she saw on Kurt Buckland’s face at this moment.
“You’ve already breached my privacy,” she said loudly. “Everyone in this room is googling me. They’ll be too polite to come and ask about it to my face. But they’ll talk among themselves. Bad move, raising your voice like that. You just lost your leverage.”
“The rest of my readers won’t be so polite,” he snapped. “They’ll point and stare.”
Eve laced her fingers loosely even though her insides were so taut she thought she’d break in two. “If you want a story, talk to Webster. You won’t get shit from me.”
He drew himself up tall and put his smile back on. “I’ll make sure you get a copy of tomorrow’s paper. For your scrapbook. You can paste a clipping next to this one.”
He tossed a photocopy of a murky newspaper photo to her desk and her taut insides shattered. That’s me. The day she’d been released from the hospital, almost six years ago. The face was horrifically scarred, the eyes wide and terrified. Eve felt the pain, all over again. But she’d made it through then. She was stronger now.
“One last chance,” he said quietly. “Nobody else has to see that.”
Eve made herself touch it. Keeping her hands steady, she brushed past Buckland, walked straight to the bulletin board and pinned the picture in the middle with a tack. Then she turned, her half smile in place. “I’m not afraid of you. Leave. Now.”
One of the other students rose from his cubicle. Jose was built like a brick, and now he put one of his beefy hands on Eve’s shoulder. “The lady said leave.”
“And stay away from my apartment,” Eve added, “or I’ll get a restraining order.”
Buckland glared. “I haven’t been near your damn apartment.”
“Save it for the judge. Stay. Away. From me.” With a final glower, Buckland walked away and Eve let out a breath. “Thanks, Jose. I owe you one.”
He took the horrible picture down. “You want me to shred this?”
Eve took it from his hands. “No. I think I’ll keep it.”
He took the choker from her stiff fingers and fastened it around her neck. Eve turned to thank him but something in his eyes gave her pause. “You already knew, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “I was doing research last year for Abnormal.”
The class she was taking now. “The mind of serial killers,” she murmured.
“I found articles on Rob Winters.” She winced and he grimaced. “I’m sorry, Eve.”
“It’s okay. Really.” She made herself smile. “It’s not like we can go around calling him ‘He who should not be named.’ That’s kind of long.”
His lips twitched. “I think that’s copyrighted, anyway.” He sobered, kindly. “None of us knew what to say, so we decided not to say anything. It’s your business. Your life.”
“Which I think I just took a little more back of this morning.” And it made her proud.
Her elation was short-lived. Donner’s assistant was watching her with ill-disguised curiosity from behind his round spectacles. She’d waited all morning for Jeremy Lyons to take his break so she could download the study files from his PC. She didn’t want access traced to her own laptop and she wouldn’t dig Ethan in any deeper than he was.
But Jeremy had stubbornly stayed and soon Donner would return from the class he was teaching. After Buckland, Eve wasn’t sure she had the energy left to stand up to Donner, too. Donner would demand to know what she’d done, why she’d told the police about Martha when he’d all but commanded her to forget Martha’s name.
Besides, Donner had access to the list. As did Jeremy. They could be involved. She’d thought it a hundred times since talking with Noah that morning, but it was no easier to believe. Donner was an academic, Lyons an annoying weasel. Neither of them looked like killers.
But then, neither had Rob Winters when she’d first met him. “Jose, can you divert Jeremy? I need to get out of here and I don’t want to deal with him.”
Jose’s eyes narrowed. “I hate that little troll. Just leave him to me.”
Jose blocked Jeremy’s view and Eve sailed by without detection, but once outside the building, the bubble of accomplishment popped. I don’t have my car. And then Jeremy was running out of the psych building, followed by Jose. Instinctively, Eve ducked around the corner, into the alley between their building and the next. From here she could listen and see without being seen.
“Where is she? Dammit,” Jeremy said angrily.
“She’s gone home,” Jose said. “Let her be.”
Jeremy looked afraid, and the hairs on Eve’s neck lifted. “I’m so dead,” he muttered.
It could have been simply an overused phrase, but Eve was taking no chances. Sticking to the alleys, behind and between the buildings, she began to run, her cell phone in her hand.
Chapter Ten
Tuesday, February 23, 8:45 a.m.
So this is all being done within a game?” Carleton asked incredulously. “This is… amazing. And certainly changes the nature of my profile.”
“How so
?” Noah asked.
“There’s a level of intelligence, of order that I’ve never seen before. You say he’s able to go in and change these game characters—”
“Avatars,” Jack inserted.
“Avatars,” Carleton repeated. “He’s got technical skills or he’s able to learn them quickly. And then there’s the cruelty. I have to tell you, I haven’t been able to get that victim from yesterday out of my mind. That he went to the danger and effort of locating a highly venomous snake, immobilized her… I don’t even want to imagine what that poor woman went through. I have patients with snake phobias and they are very real.”
Micki glanced at Jack, looking chastised. “We’re still trying to find out where he got the snake. But why only the snake with Christy? Why change his MO now?”
“And how will he change it the next time?” Jack asked grimly.
“I don’t want a next time,” Abbott said. “Micki, anything else from the scene?”
“Yeah.” Again the cautious look at Jack. “The snake had just ingested a mouse.”
Jack grimaced. “Oh God.”
“It hadn’t digested it yet. It must have swallowed it right before the killer blew its head off. We found a puncture in the mouse. It had been dosed with ketamine as well.”
“Why?” Jack mouthed the word.
Remembering the snake bite on Christy’s foot, Noah knew why. It made him ill.
“The mouse would have remained alive, warm-blooded,” Noah said. “Attractive to the snake. The mouse just wouldn’t have been able to run away.”
“The mouse was bait,” Carleton said, his voice thin and horrified. “Dear God.”
Abbott cleared his throat. “Keep the mouse out of the paper.”
Jack pulled his palms down his face. “I don’t want to think about that. Give me a few minutes to pull up the all-night waffle houses in the area and we can roll.”
“Christy Lewis’s last meal was waffles,” Noah explained. “We figure she ate it in the middle of the night, so we’re off to check the twenty-four-hour waffle houses and diners.”