Born To Die

by Lisa Jackson

  “I’ll find out.”

  “I think this ‘sick bastard’ could be related to me,” Kacey said slowly, picking her words.

  “How so?” Alvarez asked.

  Kacey then, somewhat reluctantly, launched into a story about being the love child of her mother and one Gerald Johnson, a doctor who had invented a certain type of heart stent. She told of her findings that afternoon in Missoula, at Gerald’s place of work, summing up her impressions of him and his children, then dropped the bomb that Gerald Johnson as a medical student had been a sperm donor to a now-defunct clinic.

  Alvarez took a long moment, savoring the feeling of a case breaking wide open. “We were already on the sperm bank angle,” she told Kacey, surprising both her and Trace. “From Elle Alexander’s parents.” Quickly, she recapped what she’d learned, then gazed at Kacey seriously across the dark interior of the car. “But you have to cease and desist. Give me a statement back at the station, then disappear, hide out. At least until we determine if you’re a target and what the story is with Johnson and his kids.”

  “One of them is like me. Robert Lindley. His mother was another of Johnson’s mistresses. And another one of his children, a girl named Kathleen, died in her twenties in a skiing accident.”

  “Another accident,” Alvarez said.

  “You think she was a victim?” Trace asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “What about his other kids?” Kacey asked. “Kathleen died years ago. And Agatha, when she was eight. The rest of them, as far as I know, haven’t had any brushes with death.”

  “That’s just it. As far as you know. For now, though, you have to quit playing detective. It’s too dangerous.” Alvarez was adamant. “It’s our job. We’ll handle it from here.”

  “Jesus,” Pescoli muttered, stunned as she knelt on the snow near the corpse, a cross-country skier who had apparently slammed into the snag of a pine tree perched on the banks of the icy creek. Pescoli had been on her way to the Lambert house when she’d gotten the call.

  The dead skier was a woman with reddish hair, and though her face was mangled from her crash with the pine and blood had frozen over a shattered cheekbone and eye socket, Pescoli felt a shiver of dread run through her.

  The accident victim’s features, though discolored and frozen, were similar to those of Jocelyn Wallis, Elle Alexander, and even Shelly Bonaventure.

  “Son of a bitch,” she said as the body was photographed, then bagged and driven to the medical examiner’s van, which was parked in the lower lot, next to the red Honda, which was registered to Karalee Rierson, who lived ten miles east.

  What were the chances?

  She spent time talking to the couple who had found her, newly married twentysomethings who had been snowshoeing and happened upon the dead body. They’d nearly missed seeing her as she’d been half buried in snow, but the man had caught a glimpse of something red beneath the fresh snow and investigated.

  They had been terrified but, having cell phones with them, had called 9-1-1. Kayan Rule had taken the call and been dispatched to the scene. When he’d seen the victim, he, in turn, had phoned the station again, requesting a homicide detective. Pescoli had been the detective closest, and she’d driven her Jeep up to the lower lot and snowshoed in a quarter mile to the area where the victim had lost her life, in an apparent accident.

  The crime scene crew had arrived and was combing the area for trace evidence, but Pescoli figured they wouldn’t find much. The weapon of death was the tree; bloodstains on a particularly vicious eye-level snag were still visible.

  It could have been an accident, she supposed. A careless or startled skier, maybe. But Pescoli wasn’t buying it for a minute. She figured that the dead woman now on her way to the morgue would prove to be yet another victim of a killer who had a vendetta against the offspring of Donor 727, whoever the hell he was.

  No, the killer was even more precise in his intentions than that. So far, all the victims had been women. Elle Alexander’s brother, Bruce, was alive and well according to her parents.

  A mistake?

  Probably not.

  Now, as she snowshoed back to her Jeep and waited for the truck to come and tow Karalee Rierson’s little Honda, she flipped open her cell phone and called Alvarez. When her partner didn’t answer, Pescoli left a short message: “I think we’ve got another one.” Then watched as the frozen Honda, with snow piled over its hood and dirty icicles dangling like long, snaggy teeth along the wheel wells, was winched onto the flatbed.

  Another “accident.”

  Another dead woman.

  Probably related to good old 727.

  Whatever the hell that meant.

  CHAPTER 32

  Poisoned?

  She’d been poisoned, and she hadn’t even realized it? With Trace at her side, Kacey was seated on a folding chair in the interview room at the sheriff’s department while listening to Alvarez, from the other side of the small, battered table, describe finding arsenic in Jocelyn Wallis’s coffee grounds. Kacey thought of her own symptoms, how she’d never considered that there was a toxin running through her veins. She was a doctor, and she would have noticed if the symptoms had become violent, the pain more intense. Still ...

  It all made sense.

  Now.

  Already the interview was well into its second hour. Detective Alvarez, after warning them to stay out of the investigation, was now doing this by the book.

  Trace, though he tried to appear relaxed, was antsy, his jaw, beneath a darkening beard shadow, tight, his lips flat, his eyes serious. Twice during the conversation, he’d stepped outside of the room to call Tilly and get an update on his son. Though he didn’t really need to be here and Kacey had encouraged him to go home, he’d stayed.

  Alvarez had listened to Kacey’s theory about the dead women being related to Gerald Johnson twice so far, once at Kacey’s house, and a second time now. When her partner, Pescoli, arrived, Alvarez quickly brought her up to speed.

  “Gerald Johnson,” Pescoli repeated, shaking her head. “Think this is his work, too?” She offered up pictures that looked as if they had been taken digitally, then printed out. Kacey inwardly cringed as she looked at the graphic images, not so much from the woman’s injuries—she’d seen worse in medical school and her practice—but because of what she saw beyond the battered, bloody features. The victim’s hair, poking out of a blood-encrusted cap, was a deep red-brown, as close to Kacey’s own color as it could be, and the one eye that was open, pupil apparently fixed, was a green shade that wasn’t quite as blue as her own but was definitely in the color spectrum of all the victims.

  Had her face not been so battered, this woman, too, would have resembled Kacey enough as to have been her sister.

  Which, she thought sadly, was probably true.

  “You know her?” Alvarez asked.

  Kacey shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in my life.”

  “I was talking to him.” Alvarez hitched her chin toward Trace, her dark eyes holding his.

  His jaw was clamped shut, and irritation caused a muscle to work in his jaw. “No.” He slid the pictures back toward Pescoli, who was still standing near the table.

  Kacey asked, “Who is she?”

  Pescoli thought for a moment and said, “I guess we can tell you, considering the situation, but keep it to yourselves. Next of kin is being notified as we speak. Her name is Karalee Rierson. She’s local. A nurse. Divorced. A couple of times. No kids. Lived in Oregon for a while.” She paused a moment, as if thinking things over, then said, “She grew up in Helena.”

  “Dear God,” Kacey whispered, sick inside. Who was behind all these accidents? Why was he killing?

  “Dr. Lambert went to see Gerald Johnson today,” Alvarez said, then nodded to Kacey, who explained again about getting her mother to come up with the truth, then forcing herself on Gerald Johnson and his family.

  “Did you go to see Johnson and his clan to try and flush out the kil
ler?” Pescoli asked, her expression stern. She stood leaning against the far wall, below a camera mounted near the ceiling.

  “I actually went to meet them, show them the pictures, tell them what I knew. I wanted to see their expressions, especially Gerald’s, as he seems to be the link to all of this.” She felt cold inside again, just remembering his reaction and those of her half siblings. Though she didn’t really know them, she realized she would never be close to any of them, might, in fact, never see them again. Her curiosity was satisfied, though; as far as she was concerned, they weren’t part of her family. “Gerald was concerned when I showed him the pictures of the dead women, and even though I don’t think he wanted to, he owned up to the whole sperm donor thing, which bothered most of his kids.”

  “I’d say,” Pescoli muttered.

  “From now on, stay away from them,” Alvarez advised.

  Trace asked, “You think they’re dangerous?”

  “I think it’s police business.” Pescoli was firm. “Not that we don’t appreciate the fact that you found out who our sperm donor is. We only had a number.”

  They discussed the meeting with the Johnson clan, and then Kacey told the detectives about Gloria Sanders-O’Malley, the instructor at Fit Forever. “She looks like the rest of us, and she was born in Helena.”

  “I’ve seen her at the gym,” Alvarez said, her expression growing tense. “She does resemble the others.”

  “For the love of God, how many victims and potential victims are we talking about?” Pescoli broke in. “This is nuts!” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Go on.”

  “Once I figured out there were more people like me, those with Gerald Johnson as a father, I went to meet him, see what he was like. I wasn’t sure I’d meet his kids, but once Clarissa barged into his office and figured out who I was, they called a family meeting.”

  “You should have come here first,” Pescoli said.

  “What would I have come with? Some half-baked theory about people who looked like me getting killed off? A few days ago I didn’t even know that Stanley Collins wasn’t my biological father.” The newfound anger and sense of betrayal that had been with her ever since her mother’s confession still burned bright.

  “You know of any other potential victims?” Alvarez asked.

  “I have a friend looking through state files. I’m not going to give up their name,” she said, instinctively covering for Riza. “And I believe, from what I’ve learned, that there may have been others already killed.... It’s as if the guy started out years ago working in a wide circle, then slowly tightened it, until he’s now concentrating here, in this corner of Montana. From as far away as Detroit to all along the West Coast, Seattle and San Francisco, women have been having accidents. I haven’t had time to look into them all, but I’ve got names and addresses and dates of death.” Reaching into her purse, she found a manila envelope that contained the information from Riza. She slid it across the table toward Alvarez, but she didn’t take her fingers off the end of the envelope closest to her.

  Alvarez frowned and placed her fingers on the other side of the envelope. Inside the envelope were copies without any information about Riza or the state offices from which they came, but it would be a simple enough matter for the police, if they were so inclined, to figure out where they had come from, and a simple search into Kacey’s background and her schooling would connect her to Riza. She had to come clean. “A friend of mine risked their job for this. You have to promise me that they won’t get into any kind of trouble. None.”

  “This is a sheriff’s department investigation,” Pescoli reminded everyone in the room.

  Kacey held fast to the envelope. “Women are dying. As far as I know, no men have been killed, which is really odd, since Gerald Johnson has fathered a number of males, too.”

  “No one will lose their job or get into serious trouble,” Alvarez promised, and Kacey let go of the envelope.

  “I’m going to have someone get right on this,” Pescoli said and left the room quickly.

  Alvarez continued the interview. When she asked if Kacey had ever felt stalked or if things were strange, Kacey was reminded again of the attack in Seattle and mentioned it. Then she remembered the accident and Grace Perchant’s warning. “This is probably nothing,” she said, “but I was in an accident, or almost an accident. Less than a fender bender. The roads were icy and another car lost control, I had to swerve to miss it, and when I did, I slid into the other lane. A big truck, going the opposite direction, clipped my bumper. It seemed like on purpose. Even though it was obviously my fault, the other driver took off, rather than stop and swap insurance information.”

  Alvarez, who was taking notes, asked, “You didn’t get a look at the driver?”

  “Just a quick glimpse, but other than seeing it was a man with dark hair, no.” Kacey shook her head and, out of her peripheral vision, saw Trace tense, the muscles in his neck tighten. “For the most part, his face was averted. I had the impression I’d seen him before, but ... I couldn’t place him. He did look like some of Gerald Johnson’s sons I met today, but I might be pushing that.”

  Alvarez asked, “Do you know the make or model of the truck?”

  “I was too busy trying to stay on the road. It was big, probably domestic—Chevy or Ford, I think—but I’m not sure. What I did notice was that it had a huge bumper guard of some kind on it, looked like it was steel, but painted black, and even though I didn’t get a good look at the plates, I had a feeling that they weren’t from Montana. One of the numbers was either a three or an eight. Or, maybe it was a B? The back plate was really dirty, and there wasn’t time to get a second look. It all happened in just a few seconds.”

  “Any chance there was some paint transfer? From his vehicle to yours?” Alvarez asked, suddenly more interested.

  “Maybe . . . I saw black marks and a bit of a dent on my bumper.”

  “We’d like to keep your car. Try and get at some of those black marks, see if they’re paint.” Alvarez was all business. “Is there anything else you remember?”

  “Not really ... oh, but, there was a witness,” Kacey said. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

  Because it was random. You didn’t really think the accident was connected to anything else. The driver hadn’t intentionally tried to run you down, she thought. Now, though ...

  “Grace Perchant, she was out walking her dog, the one that’s part wolf.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  Grace’s warning ran like blood through Kacey’s brain: You should never speak to him. He is evil. He means you harm. She’d tried to dismiss the pale woman’s message, but it had stuck with her, invaded her dreams.

  “She told me not to try and chase him down, that the driver was ‘evil.’ When I asked her who he was, she couldn’t come up with a name, just that he meant me harm.”

  “Sounds like Grace,” Alvarez said. “We’ll check it out.”

  Fishing in her purse, Kacey came up with her key ring, then removed the key to her Ford and handed it to Alvarez. “I’ll need the car back soon.”

  “Tomorrow,” Alvarez promised, scooting back her chair, indicating the interview was finally over. “And I’ll get hold of Grace Perchant.”

  Trace had listened to most of the interview without saying too much, but as the discussion had worn on, he’d become more and more concerned for Kacey’s safety. After learning that she had possibly been poisoned and then viewing Pescoli’s gruesome pictures of Karalee Rierson, the most recent accident victim, he’d made up his mind.

  As he held the glass door open for her, then followed her outside, he said, “You’re coming to my place.”

  “Oh, I am?” Outside the snow was thick now, still falling, a wind blowing off the mountains. Night had fallen in earnest while they were in the police station. Streetlights glowed, offering a thin blue light to the powdery landscape.

  “You’re sure as hell not going home alone. Dog or no dog.”

 
“Yeah?” she asked, but even in the semidarkness, he saw that she was teasing, her eyes a deeper green. Turning the collar of her coat against the wind, she followed a trail of footprints along a footpath leading past a flagpole, where chains rattled and the flags had already been taken down for the night. As Trace jogged to catch up with her, he noticed snowflakes settling onto her shoulders, sparkling like glitter in the dark strands of her hair.

  “I don’t like what’s going on,” he said seriously.

  “Me, neither.”

  “So, no arguments?”

  She studied him for a second. “None from me, but we have to pick up my dog and a few things, and then, in the morning, I’m going to need a way to get to work.”

  “I think I can handle it. My neighbors, Tilly and Ed Zukov, are watching over things at my place until I get back.”

  During Trace’s last conversation Tilly had assured him that Ed had taken care of the horses and cattle and she was already frying chicken. Trace had heard the sizzle of the meat cooking and the blare of the television, as Ed was more than a little hard of hearing. Satisfied that his son was safe and feeling well enough to ask Tilly to bake him brownies, Trace had relaxed a little.

  But his sense of ease had been short-lived as the interview had worn on.

  He didn’t know who was behind the “accidents” of the women who’d died, but the fact that Kacey looked like a target was enough to convince him that she shouldn’t be alone. Someone had gotten into her house without forced entry, had possibly poisoned her, was privy to her private conversations, and knew when she was alone.

  Trace’s back muscles tightened just at the thought of someone listening in.

  Was it possible that the person behind the surveillance equipment was the killer?

  You bet. In Trace’s mind there was no question. None whatsoever. He unlocked the truck, waited as she climbed into the cab, then closed the door.

  She smiled at him through the passenger window, and he felt that now familiar little tug on his heart that he felt whenever he was around her. In another time and place he might think he was falling in love. Right here, right now, he couldn’t even go there. Not while women who looked like her were dying.