by L. T. Vargus
A crime scene tech, she thought, relaxing another degree. But a new annoyance took the place of her earlier alarm. She’d wanted to be alone with the scene. Wanted to stand in the middle of this wooded area and hear only the sounds of the wind whispering through trees and the burble of the water. Wanted to know what the killer heard and felt when he trudged out here with Shannon Mead.
No small talk. No distractions.
But now? Now she’d be expected to shake hands and make polite chit-chat.
She couldn’t help but sigh as the man removed one of his gloves and extending his hand.
“Ted Fowles. Entomologist.”
He was tall and almost painfully thin, the most prominent features of his face being his prominent nose and hollowed cheeks. His Adam’s apple protruded from his neck like Mt. Hood in miniature.
Darger stepped forward and introduced herself in turn.
“Violet Darger. Criminal profiler,” she said, missing the Special Agent title. It carried a certain ring of authority. “Wait. Entomologist? So you’re one of those bug guys?”
“Yep. Bug Guy. That’s the preferred nomenclature, actually.”
Fowles seemed to find the exchange amusing, his mouth spreading into a lopsided grin. His blue eyes peered at her through a pair of eyeglasses, the kind with a rim of tortoiseshell on top and thin wire underneath. They made her think of a nerdy professor from the 1950s.
His good humor did nothing to rub off on Darger. She was still frustrated to be sharing the crime scene.
“Sandy PD didn’t tell me anyone would be out here,” she said, not able to keep a bit of the irritation from creeping into her voice. And maybe a little part of her was still coming down from being startled.
“Oh, I suppose they didn’t know,” Fowles said, running a hand through the thatch of dark, wiry hair on top of his head.
She raised an eyebrow, feeling a little suspicious now.
“They didn’t send you out here to collect evidence? So what is this? Extra credit?”
His head quirked to one side, an oddly bird-like movement.
“Sorry, I thought… well, Margaret didn’t tell you?”
It was a moment before Darger was able to process that question, feeling more perplexed than ever. What the hell did Margaret Prescott have to do with this?
“Tell me what?”
“I’m with Prescott Consulting.”
And the first thing Darger thought but didn’t say out loud, thankfully, was, No, I’m with Prescott Consulting.
He filled in the rest for her, in case she was too slow, which at the moment it seemed like she most definitely was.
“We’re going to be working together.”
* * *
To Fowles’ credit, he seemed to take a hint and left Darger alone with the scene soon after dropping his Prescott bomb, but not before Darger had a chance to ask when he’d been assigned the case.
“Two weeks ago,” he said.
Meaning that Dr. Prescott would have known Fowles was here already and certainly could have told Darger she’d be working with someone. Had she sent Darger in blind intentionally or had it simply been a detail she’d overlooked?
The more Darger considered it, the more she was certain that Margaret Prescott was not the type of woman that overlooked much of anything.
“More mind games courtesy of Professor Prescott,” Darger grumbled to herself.
It occurred to her that perhaps her prospective boss had heard rumors that Violet Darger wasn’t always the best at playing well with others.
Shooing a bug away from her face, she tried to refocus her attention on the scene. Annoying as this little plot twist may be, she couldn’t let her emotions distract her.
Time to get to work.
She studied the terrain, trying to imagine the killer dragging a victim out here. If she were still alive — and drowning as the cause of death would seem to suggest that — she must have been incapacitated somehow. Bound, certainly, if not unconscious. It would be hell either way. Carrying that dead weight through this dense forest would be no small feat. The killer would almost have to be a large man, strong. Even if the girl had walked back here on her own two feet, the killer would need to be able to overpower her during a struggle, if she tried to run or fight. And then there was the part where he had to hold her down as the water filled her lungs.
Strong. And brutal.
Darger suddenly flashed to her own nightmare memory — the feeling of water invading her body, sucked into the places where it didn’t belong. For a moment, she swore she could feel Clegg’s knees grinding into her back as he tried to drown her.
Goose bumps spread over her arms, and she put a hand out to steady herself against a tree.
Years had passed since that first case with the BAU, when a serial killer named James Joseph Clegg had almost added Darger to his list of victims. But he hadn’t. She’d won in the end. It had been pure, dumb luck, but Darger was alive, and Clegg was dead.
She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath in.
Focus on the task at hand. Not the past. The here and now.
The smell of rotting leaves and a vaguely fishy odor from the river seemed to envelop her. Maybe it was her imagination, but the scent had been cleaner back at the park.
She exhaled and opened her eyes, feeling a little more grounded in the present.
OK. Back to work.
Dead leaves crinkled and crunched as she stepped closer to the edge of the riverbank and peered across the water. Nothing but more trees. It was a very isolated space, which made perfect sense for a dumping ground. Less sense for a kill site, if only because it took so much damn effort to get out here. It was planned, then. At least somewhat. The killer knew this place. Knew that parking in one of the small lots along the river during the off-hours — at night, most likely — would carry little risk of being seen. Knew he could walk into this stretch of woods and commit his dark deed.
A local then. Not surprising considering the three victims had all been from the area. That suggested a certain comfort with the place. It also meant it was more likely that he had some kind of personal connection to the victims. The three women themselves had little in common apart from their gender — a school teacher, an accountant, and a high school sophomore, ranging in age from 15 to 43.
So where to start? The killer’s connection to any of these women could be the smallest thing. He might have walked his dog in front of Shannon Mead’s house for all they knew, crossed paths with Maribeth Holtz at a grocery store, gone to the same church as Holly Green. It could be anything, or so it seemed.
The shimmering of the mirror-like surface of the water caught Darger’s eye, drew her gaze straight down. She stared at her wavering reflection and wondered if Shannon Mead had glimpsed the fear in her own eyes before her head was shoved under the current.
Again Darger flashed back to her own near-drowning experience, felt the cold, dark waters shroud her face, blocking out the light and sound of the world.
Her heart started beating harder and faster. A frightened thing trying to crawl up into her throat.
She remembered the burning in her lungs. The sound of her pulse booming in her head like a bass drum. The panic of knowing she was about to die, the animal urge to fight with all she had to try to prevent it.
She gasped and pulled herself out of the memory. The light of day returned, as did the chirping of the birds and the soothing babble of the water.
Gazing around at the lopsided rectangle outlined by the yellow tape, she decided she’d seen enough.
Ferns swished against her thighs as she picked her way back through the dense foliage. Her boot came down on a twig, breaking it in two. It sounded like a bone snapping.
A break in the trees ahead signaled to Darger that the parking lot lay just beyond. Pushing through the fronds of a fat fir tree, she found herself back on solid, paved ground.
The sky was overcast, but the light here in the open was so much brighter than under the canop
y, Darger couldn’t help squinting. Through the slits of her eyes, she noticed she wasn’t alone. Dr. Fowles was sitting on the rotting picnic table. She hoped he wasn’t waiting around for her.
But as she approached her rental, his long legs unfolded, and he got to his feet.
“You’re still here,” Darger said.
It wasn’t exactly a question. More of a challenge. Just because Prescott had sent them both out here, Darger didn’t see why that meant they had to play tag-along with one another.
“See anything interesting back there?” he asked.
She glanced back at the wall of dense foliage before answering.
“A shit load of trees.”
He laughed, Adam’s apple bobbing.
Where Margaret Prescott’s laugh had been the harsh bark of a jackal, Fowles’ was an unrestrained, loose sound from deep in his chest. Relaxed. Pleasant.
At last Darger found herself warming up to him a little. It wasn’t really his fault if Dr. Prescott was playing mind games with them, after all.
“What’d you get?” Darger asked.
“Hm?”
She pointed at the top of the vial that barely protruded from his shirt pocket.
“Oh! Calliphoridae.” Dr. Fowles pulled the glass tube out and held it out so Darger might get a closer look. “Lucilia sericata, to be specific. Third instar.”
He rotated the vial between his thumb and index finger as he spoke. Something small and white wriggled within its transparent prison.
It was a maggot.
A shudder ran through Darger, and she recoiled instinctively, letting out a quiet grunt of disgust.
Fowles grinned.
“Not a fan of insects, I take it?”
“Not the creepy, crawly, squirming types. No,” Darger said, with perhaps too much conviction considering this was his bread and butter. “Sorry. Butterflies are OK.”
The corners of his mouth quirked into a smile, one side a little more than the other. It made him seem rakish, a little mischievous.
“Well now that we’re on the topic of maggots, I don’t suppose you’re hungry?”
Chapter 4
The inside of Fowles’ car was a hodgepodge of clutter. Not necessarily dirty — there were no fast food wrappers or stray French fries that Darger could see. But there were vials and baggies and kits for collecting specimens. At least five bottles of water in various states of emptiness. An unopened box of disposable plastic food containers with lids. Three-ring binders. A flashlight. Two rolls of paper towels. A sweatshirt and a clean pair of socks rolled into a ball. Scissors. A package of batteries. And books — textbooks and paperback novels and spiral-bound sketchbooks.
Darger picked up one of the sketchpads and opened it. She was stunned at what she found inside: pages and pages of perfectly rendered insects. Some were done in full ink and watercolor, others just quick pencil sketches.
“Wow. These are great.”
“Oh. Just a little hobby.”
“Just?”
He shrugged.
“It was what got me interested in bugs, actually. I had one of the old Audubon field guides for insects when I was a boy, and I would spend hours paging through it. Copying the drawings. Or trying to. When I got older, I thought I might go to school for art, but my practical side won out. I don’t think I would have fared well in modern art schools, only drawing bugs all the time.”
Darger smiled, admiring the work on the pages as she flipped past them.
“Why bugs?”
“What do you mean?”
“What makes a guy decide to devote his life to—” she pointed at black and white beetle rendered in pencil “—that?”
“Are you kidding? They’re fascinating! Such diversity. Did you know there are 1200 species of blow fly in the world? Eighty in America. Then there’s Drosophilae, fruit flies. To witness the evolution of a species in a matter of days… I mean, if that doesn’t excite you, what does?”
Chuckling at his enthusiasm, Darger let the sketchbook fall closed.
“You don’t have to share if you don’t want to,” Fowles said, “but I would be interested in hearing what you got from the crime scene.”
“Got?” Darger repeated and set the sketchbook back where she’d found it.
“You know. Observations. Feelings. Insights.”
Darger shrugged, a little surprised. The science geeks tended to look down on their profiling associates. Profilers relied heavily on intuition — something that was not easily taught in the classroom or replicated in a lab. And thus, the scientific circles of law enforcement often treated profilers as professional guessers, at best. At worst, they considered them snake-oil salesmen.
But sharing her thoughts with Fowles couldn’t hurt. Sometimes talking things out led to a surprise revelation.
“Well the water angle is probably the most obvious,” she started.
“What about it?”
“From a symbolic standpoint, I mean. Carl Jung considered water to be the most common representation for the subconscious.”
The trees outside her window whizzed by in a blur of green as she spoke.
“Jung? Isn’t he a little outdated at this point?”
She tried not to smirk at that. She’d been expecting it, really. It was a classic Science Geek response.
“All human behavior has a subtext, a second meaning beneath the surface of the action — that’s pretty much the heart of human psychology, past and present. Jung's central concept was individuation — essentially each individual’s development of their sense of self, and I’m certainly mindful of that as I examine criminal behavior. If there's one thing all serial killers have in common, it's a crisis of identity. Anyway, you’re a biologist. What’s the one thing every known organism requires for survival?”
Fowles nodded. “Water.”
“So it’s something of a paradox, the fact that we can drown in one of the things we need most to live.”
“You think the killer is trying to be ironic?”
“Not on purpose. I doubt he’s even aware of it. But I do think there are always reasons behind behavior. Sometimes those reasons are based on instinct. Old animal urges. Subconscious connections being made without our knowing it. Water has an elemental power. It’s just as capable of dealing death as it is of giving life. A flash flood or tsunami is equally as destructive as any volcano or earthquake.”
The tires hummed and bumped over the asphalt.
“Water also represents change. It has an almost limitless ability to shift, flow, or alter its shape to fit whatever holds it. I think many ritual murders are an ill-fated attempt at transformation, one way or another.”
A line formed between the doctor’s eyebrows.
“What kind of transformation?”
Darger shook her head.
“Hard to say at this point. It usually has to do with gaining control. Powerless to powerful. Weak to strong. Submissive to dominating.”
She let her thoughts snowball, talking through them out loud.
“Think of the commitment it takes to drown someone. A bullet kills instantly, and you can do it from a distance. Just move a single finger, pull the trigger. Easy. Mechanical. The killer is detached from the physical act. Drowning, though, would prolong the violent act, and the killer has to be physically close to the victim. It’s very personal.”
A huge semi hauling a load of raw lumber whooshed past, jostling the car with a burst of wind turbulence. Darger barely noticed.
“I mean, just imagine what it would feel like. You drag a living person to the water. And you push her down, face-first over the edge of the riverbank. She’s struggling now, trying to fight. You climb onto her back to hold her under, and all the while, she’s writhing and jerking, fighting desperately to pull her head above the water. Every muscle of her body hell-bent on survival. You’d have to hold her there for three or four minutes… it would require an almost loving embrace. You would possess not only ultimate power over the
life of another being, but an intimate closeness in that same moment. The frenzied movements of the victim probably arouse you, the death struggle becoming something like a sex act.”
She realized the car had come to a stop somewhere in there. They were in the city, parked on the street in front of a yoga studio. A couple strolled past on the sidewalk, walking a pair of enormous Great Danes.
This happened often when she got in the zone with a profile. She lost herself in it, and the outside world ceased to exist.
Her eyelids fluttered rapidly as she crawled out of her daze. She turned, found Fowles staring at her.
His forehead was riddled with a series of creases.
"You've got obscenities like that taking up space in your head, and you find bugs off-putting?"
Darger laughed. “To each his or her own, I guess.”
Chapter 5
Darger climbed out of the car and followed Fowles down the sidewalk, trying to figure out where they were headed. There was a restaurant beside the yoga studio they’d parked in front of, and judging by the decor Darger spied through the windows, it was a higher-end place. The tables in the outdoor courtyard were packed with diners, and they all looked to be upper middle class professionals to Darger: doctors, lawyers, academics. Most were probably in their late 20s or early 30s and stylish, but not in an ostentatious way. Darger wasn’t sure she’d fit in, but Fowles and his retro horn-rimmed specs would be right at home.
When they came to the door of the place, though, Fowles kept walking. Darger’s focus flitted ahead. Just beyond the next intersection, a rustic wooden sign for a diner caught her eye. Maybe Fowles was thinking of something a little more folksy. Food to fit the thick swaths of forest they’d just returned from. Bacon and eggs. Pancakes hot off the griddle. Rib-sticking, lumberjack fare.
But instead of proceeding through the crosswalk, Fowles took a hard right turn. Another hundred yards down the sidewalk, he finally came to a stop. Darger didn’t understand, at first. There was nothing here. Just a big parking lot.
Then she noticed the line of people queuing in front of a white truck. Darger studied the red lettering on the side of the vehicle and finally understood. It was a food truck.