by L. T. Vargus
“You were right.”
“About?”
“Shannon Mead was indoors when she died.”
He froze with his cup halfway between the table and his mouth, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He set the mug back on the table.
“How do you figure that?”
“I was thinking about what you said, about the larvae not being consistent with a body that’s been in the water since the time of death. And then I was drawing myself a bath and—”
She saw the realization ripple over his features.
“A bathtub!”
Darger nodded, grinning.
“I called the M.E. and asked him to test the sample they took from Shannon’s lungs. The old fart made me wait until morning, but he did it. It was municipal tap water.”
Fowles wiped a hand down the side of his face.
“Do you ever feel guilty for getting this giddy about a breakthrough in a case? It seems wrong, in a way.”
Darger shrugged and gulped at her cappuccino.
“It’s not exactly a barrel of laughs, this kind of work. I figure we have to squeeze a little joy from somewhere. Otherwise we’d probably all just kill ourselves after five years of slogging through the grimness.”
A sad smile touched the entomologist’s lips.
“I suppose you’re right. So what’s next on the agenda?”
“I’m supposed to meet with the locals this morning. Present my profile.”
His eyes sparkled with sudden interest.
“Would you mind an extra member in the audience?”
Darger sighed.
“I guess not.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t sound wild about the idea.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve always hated public speaking is all. Also, this place doesn’t have donuts.”
“Sorry? Donuts?”
Darger rubbed her forehead.
“Oh, it’s this stupid theory my partner has.” She shut her eyes and shook her head. “He always brings a metric fuck-ton of donuts to task force meetings. He’s got this whole philosophy about it and not just the part about the locals being friendlier after you’ve bribed them with food. He analyzes the flavor choices — what it means if you choose a jelly-filled over a chocolate sprinkle. How there’s an unspoken one-donut-per-person code that almost everyone respects.”
“I still don’t understand what the precise problem is.”
“I can’t find donuts. Nowhere in this whole town.”
“That seems odd. Every town has a donut shop.”
“Oh, they have one. Apparently it’s award-winning, too. But it’s closed for renovations.”
Leaning back in his chair, Fowles seemed to give her predicament serious thought. He tapped a bony finger against his chin.
“What about the grocery store?”
Darger’s eyes went wide.
“God, no. Loshak has a very strict policy against grocery store donuts. It would be blasphemous.”
She let her shoulders slump and gestured with a tic of the head toward a display case near the door of the cafe.
“I was hoping they’d have some here. But all they have are muffins. I can’t bring muffins to a task force meeting.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. They seem so… dainty and pretentious.”
Fowles laughed.
“I’m being serious.”
“I know. That’s why it’s funny,” he said, then made an attempt to suppress his amusement. “I think you’re going to have to decide between the pretentious muffins and the abhorrent grocery store donuts.”
Darger looked him dead in the eye.
“Muffins.”
Fowles wrapped his knuckles against the table.
“An excellent choice. Now, as for your fear of public speaking, I have a trick for that.”
Darger squinted at him suspiciously.
“I hope you’re not about to suggest I picture you in your underwear.”
“As if you weren’t already,” Fowles said.
Darger couldn’t hold back a snort. That settled it. He was definitely flirting with her now.
“In all seriousness, I took a course that required public speaking, and this really helped me. I used to get so nervous before speaking that I made sure to bring along a toothbrush so I could freshen up after my inevitable vomit session.”
“Yikes,” Darger said. She finished off her cappuccino with one final gulp. “OK, let’s hear it.”
“It’s pretty simple, really. You stop thinking about yourself as a speaker. Stop thinking about it having to do with you at all. You are merely a vessel for delivering information. You are here to present your profile… to move the information from Point A — your brain — to Point B — the brains of your audience. Focus on how to do that best, and you’ll forget about everything else.”
“That sounds… too easy.”
“It takes some practice to shut that voice off. The voice that keeps telling you to worry about whether you’re wearing the right shoes or what if you stumble over your words and sound like an idiot. But if you focus on the outcome, focus on explaining the material, everything else has a way of falling to the wayside.”
The chair scraped against the floor as Darger pushed away from the table. She tossed her empty cup into a nearby waste bin and then turned to face Fowles.
“I’ll try it. But if that fails, I might have to fall back on the picturing you naked thing.”
“A minute ago I was in my underwear.”
“I move fast, Fowles,” she said with a wink. “Try to keep up.”
Chapter 21
The Sandy Police Department was housed in a small, two-story building across the street from a Lutheran church. Inside, everything had a rustic-but-modern feel. Wood plank floors, a big stone fireplace in the waiting area, and bright natural light streaming in through the windows. It seemed more like a real estate office than a police department.
There was a young woman ensconced behind a front desk made of glass and granite. She took their names and asked them to have a seat. But before Darger and Fowles even reached the little cluster of chairs in the waiting room, an older man with an ample belly strode out of a back office and intercepted them.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Fowles,” he said with a nod, then thrust a chunky hand at Darger. “And you must be Ms. Darger. I’m Jeff Furbush, Chief of Police.”
The Chief’s grip, like pretty much every law enforcement officer Darger had ever encountered, was firm and steady.
“I was dubious about hiring an outside consultant agency. I’ll confess to that. But it’s already paying off. First with the evidence you found in the bushes at the Mead house. I’m a little embarrassed we missed that.”
He released her hand and took the default cop position of standing with his legs shoulder-width apart and his hands on either side of his belt. This not only kept the path to his sidearm open, it made him appear wider. Dominant body language — universal among mammals — probably subconscious in this case.
“Could have been anyone’s mistake. I only stumbled on it by accident, really.”
“Don’t be modest, now. I’m a firm believer in giving credit where it’s due. When it comes to testing the water from the Mead girl’s lungs… well, that just never would have crossed my mind. What made you think to do that?”
Darger was used to butting heads with the local law enforcement, so this level of praise came as a bit of surprise. She blinked a few times, almost suspicious. When the shock wore off, she angled a thumb at the entomologist.
“Actually, Fowles is the one that deserves all the acclaim. He’s the one that discovered the inconsistencies in the bug stuff. If not for that, I never would have considered the bathtub angle.”
Fowles shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck.
“It was a joint effort. I think we can share the credit.”
The Chief’s bushy eyebrows twitched like a pair of restless caterpillars.<
br />
“Well, I’ll tell you what. Without another lead, this sumbitch probably would have stalled out. The investigation, I mean. I don’t mind admitting to that.”
Furbush gestured at the bakery box in Darger’s hand.
“And who gets credit for these?”
Darger lifted the lid, revealing the twelve muffins.
“There’s blueberry and apple cinnamon.”
He licked his lips, eyes growing wide.
“I could lie and tell you that I’m watchin’ my figure, but….” Chief Furbush said and plucked a muffin from the box.
He took a bite and led the way to a small conference room located just beyond the front desk. Furbush paused and address the secretary through a mouthful of muffin crumbs.
“Marcy, could we get a fresh pot in the conference room?”
“Of course, Chief.”
Darger and Fowles found two empty seats in the conference room while Chief Furbush introduced his staff and updated the group on the two new breakthroughs: the trace evidence found outside Shannon Mead’s home and the water sample results from the M.E.’s office.
“Of course, we’d be nowhere without the keen eyes and bright minds of our two consultants,” Furbush said. “I say we give ‘em a round of applause.”
A smattering of clapping echoed around the room. Darger let her gaze wander over to Fowles, who winked. The warm welcome they were receiving was almost baffling to her. She wanted to take it at face value. To revel in feeling like an appreciated member of the team.
But the cynical part of her brain started to dissect the dynamic the same way Fowles might pick apart an insect he was studying. She wondered if the fact that she was here as a consultant and not as a Fed was part of it. In theory, Sandy PD was her employer — they’d hired her, through Prescott Consulting. And they could just as easily fire her if they didn’t approve of her work. They had control. So maybe it was still a pissing contest, with the balance of things just a little different than usual.
She glanced over at Fowles again, caught the lopsided smile playing on his lips. Or maybe she should forget about the power dynamics for a minute and just appreciate the camaraderie.
The scattered applause petered out, and Furbush suggested that Darger go over the profile.
She turned to Fowles and handed him a stack of printouts.
“Can you hand these out for me?”
She stood, tugging at her sleeves as she approached the head of the long conference table. Facing the group, she flashed on her first case with Loshak. She’d had to present her profile to the task force solo, and she’d done a fine job of trampling all over the toes of the locals. It was strange to be here without him. Left to navigate this case alone.
But that wasn’t right. Loshak wasn’t the one who’d left now, was he?
She cleared her throat and gestured at the entomologist, who was distributing the copies of her profile like she’d asked.
“Fowles is passing around hard copies of the profile, but if anyone wants a digital copy for your phone or computer, just let me know.”
Was it her imagination, or did her voice sound small and weak, with just the slightest waver to it? She had the urge to bring her hand to her mouth so she could chew her nails. Wouldn’t that make for a good intro to her profile.
Fowles caught her eye then and gave a little nod. She remembered the advice he’d given her earlier.
Focus on the profile. On delivering my information into their brains.
She’d spent the early hours of the morning refining it. Getting it right in her head. Organizing the pages of scrawled notes into a cohesive narrative. She could do this. She was prepared.
Darger took a deep breath and began.
“The probabilities suggest we’re looking for a white male ranging from 25 to 40 years old. Probably average to large in terms of build and in decent shape. Remember he’s got to be strong enough to hold the women down and athletic enough to carry or drag them to the dump sites. All of the victims have been petite women, under 5’4” and 120 lbs or less. He doesn’t have to be The Incredible Hulk, but he’s definitely no 98-pound weakling, either.”
Glancing up from her notes, she was glad to find all eyes locked on her, unblinking. Good. She hadn’t put anyone to sleep yet.
“Usually we paint these guys as loners. No friends. Probably not much interaction with family. I don’t think that’s quite right here. I think this might be a wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing kind of guy. He has maybe a handful of casual relationships. Probably not genuinely close, mind you. But he’ll be the guy that people will say, ‘Bob? A murderer? I never would have guessed! Sure, he was a little odd, but…’”
Darger waved her hand dismissively.
“The evidence and nature of these crimes all but scream two words to a profiler like me: obsession and chaos. We’re talking about an incredibly focused, driven, manic individual. A stalker. Someone who watches people and wants to incorporate them into his rich fantasy world, which is where he prefers to live and spend as much of his time as possible. And yet the murders themselves probably seem to come out of nowhere. Even the killer, I think, might be surprised at his actions. He doesn’t enter the situation with murder in mind. Something — some kind of external stimulus, probably — pushes him to it at some point. Like a switch getting flipped in his head. Something snaps, and he kills.”
She snapped her fingers.
“That’s not to suggest these crimes are random. Nor are they pure crimes of passion. Parts are planned. We have evidence he was stalking Shannon Mead. It’s likely he stalked the others as well, for weeks or even months. He has to be somewhat meticulous to get away with following these women, with watching them in their homes. And even the manner of killing proves forethought. If he’s killing them by drowning them in the bathtub, then he’s got to incapacitate them somehow. He’s got to fill up the tub. After he drowns them, he has to transport them to the dump site. There’s a ritual here.”
Darger frowned, thinking she was getting ahead of herself. She went back.
“But it starts with the watching. He follows them, fantasizes about them. And that satisfies him for a while. I doubt the fantasies are the violent sort. This is not a sexual sadist we’re dealing with. He probably imagines very tranquil, conventional scenes. Snuggling on the couch watching a movie together. Walking through the door when he gets home and her waiting to give him a peck on the cheek, with dinner ready on the table. He doesn’t think he wants to hurt them. Doesn’t fantasize about the killing in any direct way.”
Darger paused and took a sip of water. One of the patrolmen — he was Mantelbaum, if she remembered right — piped up with a question.
“So like… he thinks he’s in love with them?”
“Yes. He probably does.”
A look of disgust crossed his face. “What happened to asking a girl out for coffee?”
Darger shook her head.
“He’s too insecure for that. The rejection would be too painful. So he stalks. Follows. Watches. And he gets these girls enmeshed in the fantasy. Pretends they’re lovers. There’s a possibility that impotence, or a fear of impotence, or maybe just a fear of sex itself plays a role here. He might not envision them as lovers at all. His fantasies might be purely PG-rated.”
“Jesus.”
“We haven’t encountered piquerism on this case, but it reminds me of the phenomenon. In certain murders of women, the killer will insert objects into the victim’s body, primarily the vagina, breasts or anal cavity — the act is known as piquerism, which is French for ‘to prick.’ In some cases, like Andrei Chikatilo and Albert Fish, it presents as a sort of a fetishization of stabbing, a link between stabbing and sexual gratification.”
Her throat was getting dry now, and she stopped for a drink of water.
“But for another subset of these kinds of killers, particularly those who insert random objects into the victim’s vagina, their fear of asserting themselves runs so deep that they act it
out without grasping the sexual component at all. To them, the expression of violence is more infantile. An urge without meaning. They don’t consciously connect the penetration to the concept of rape or any kind of repressed sexual desire, and they achieve no sexual pleasure from the act. It’s almost like their brains disassociate from sex and act out these bizarre violent behaviors in place of any kind of normal sexual outlet.”
Everyone fell quiet for a beat after that. Finally, Fritz Kwan, the younger of the two detectives in the department, raised a hand. She recognized him from some of the witness interview videos.
“You said before that it’s like a light switch getting flipped on when he kills. What flips it?”
“Rejection would be my best guest, be it imagined or real. If the object of his fantasies rejects him, in real life or in his head, it breaks the reality he’s been crafting for himself.”
“And it pisses him off,” Detective Kwan said, his tone somewhere between a question and a statement.
“Yes. He gets angry, and the violence becomes a way to reassure himself of his power over the situation. It’s probable that he incapacitates them first. Knocks them out, probably by a blow to the head, considering none of the toxicology reports for the victims showed drugs or alcohol in the system.”
Darger crossed one arm under the other and rested her chin on her hand.
“If we ever get a chance to talk to this guy, I wouldn’t be surprised if he claims to not remember doing it. He’ll say he blacked out during that initial moment of violence. But the actual killing, the drowning of the women, he’ll remember that in great detail,” she said. “This murder by drowning… it is very personal. Very intimate.”
She let her eyelids fall closed for a beat, collecting her thoughts.
“It takes several minutes to drown someone. He could use a gun. Or a knife. There are a dozen different ways you could, for lack of a better phrase, get rid of someone. More quickly. More cleanly. He chooses to hold them down while they fight for their last breaths. And he’s chosen that method for a reason. He enjoys it.”
Glancing down at her notes, Darger continued.
“The fact that he’s chosen the river as a dump site suggests a comfort with water. He might be a fisherman or a boater. Maybe a swimmer. Someone outdoorsy. Probably goes hiking or camping in his spare time. A truck or SUV or maybe a van would make transporting the bodies more convenient.”