by Dale Mayer
This killer's victims were always young, beautiful women that were either happily married or in strong, committed relationships. All had been raped. And that's where the similarities ended. Some women were strangled in their beds, some stabbed in their living rooms, others tortured for hours. Portland was the geographical center of the most recent attacks.
The police had an old DNA sample that had degraded over the years and a couple of hairs from very early cases – and no one to check them against. This asshole had started his career before the labs became so sophisticated. He'd adapted and learned well. To date, they had no fingerprints and no hits on any databases.
That's why Brandt had trouble convincing his boss that they had a serial killer. Hence his job, pulling together everything he could find to get the backing for the task force to hunt down this asshole.
A knock sounded on the door. "Move it, Brandt. We've got another one."
CHAPTER THREE
11:27 am
Sam sat in her dilapidated Nissan truck at the stop light. Who was that man she'd mowed down in the hallway? It might have been a fleeting contact, but he'd left a hell of an impression. Strong, determined, surprised and even concerned. Sam wrapped her arms around her chest tightly. Not likely.
A honk from behind catapulted her forward. She drove down Main Street before pulling into the almost empty parking lot at the vet's office, her insides finally unfurling and relaxing after the tough morning. The animals always helped. It's not that she didn't like people, because she did. But the foster home mill hadn't given her much opportunity to understand close relationships.
Whenever she'd tried to get close to another child, either they or she'd ended up shipped out within a few months. Sam had grown up watching the various dynamics around her in bewilderment. From loving kindness, to sibling fighting, to lovers breaking up and making up, everyone appeared to understand some secret rules to making relationships work.
Everyone but her.
She'd tried several relationships, even had several short-lived affairs. In the last few years, they'd been nonexistent.
Sam locked her car and walked through the rear door of the vet hospital – her kind of place. She had a kinship with animals. They'd become her saving grace in an increasingly dismal and lonely world. She stashed her purse in the furthest back cupboard, peeled off her sweater, and tossed it on top. Then she tucked in her t-shirt and got to work.
Moving through the cages, Sam grinned at Casper, a tabby cat who'd lost his leg in a car accident. "Hey buddy, how're you doing?" She opened the door and reached inside. Instantly, the cat's heavy guttural engine kicked in. She pulled the big softy out of the cage, careful for his new stump. The bandage had stayed dry at least. That had to be a good sign. She gave him a quick cuddle. "Okay, Casper, back you go. I'll get you fresh water. And how about a clean blanket?"
Sam bustled about taking comfort in the mundane and in the service of others – animal others. She hummed along until she came to the last cage. Inside, a heavily bandaged German shepherd glared at her. She halted at the hideous warning growl.
She stretched out a hand to snag the chart hanging from the front of the cage.
The growls increased in volume.
Sam stepped back to give the injured animal more space. She'd intruded in his comfort zone, something she could respect. Bending to his level, she spoke in a soft voice. Without his trust, taking care of him wouldn't be pleasant for either of them. And this guy looked like he'd seen the worst humanity had to offer.
The growl deepened, but stayed low key – a warning without heat.
Sam could respect that, too. She sat cross-legged at the edge of his space and continued to talk to him until he calmed down.
"Hey, Sam. I didn't hear you come in." Lucy, the gregarious vet assistant's voice boomed throughout the furthest corners of the room, giving Sam no opportunity to ignore it. She hunched her shoulders at the intrusion, keeping her eyes locked on the dog.
"I came in the back," she called out in a low voice.
The dog stared at her.
Sam shifted slightly and narrowed her gaze. The shepherd's gaze followed every movement. She grimaced. Strange, but she could almost sense his interest.
"There you are. What are you doing sitting on the bare floor like that? You're going to catch a cold." Lucy's voice sounded behind Sam's shoulder.
Sam jerked then twisted around to greet the large older woman, and for a startling moment saw another Lucy instead – Sam's murdered best friend Lucy, from a decade ago. The long familiar brown hair appeared braided off to one side, with her sweet smile spread across her face. The image was old and faded and yet still heart wrenchingly clear.
Pangs of guilt wiggled in Sam's belly. The dog's low growl tore through the image. Sam shook herself, concentrating on the office manager and not her old friend. "Hi, Lucy."
The older woman fisted her hands on ample hips. "Come on out front and have a warm cup of tea."
Sam glanced at the dog. His black gaze locked on the two women.
Lucy reached down a beefy hand to help Sam get to her feet. Sam winced. This morning's vision had left her stiff and sore. Her police disaster had left her aching.
With slow careful movements, Sam brushed off her clothes and hung the chart back on the dog's crate.
"Jesus girl, you're freezing. Lord, this child can't even take care of herself, let alone no animals."
Sam shook her head at Lucy's habit of directing comments to the almighty above. Still, she had a point. Cold, Sam's constant companion, had settled deeper in her bones. She found herself propelled to the front offices and the small cozy lunchroom. There, a hearty nudge pushed her to the closest chair. Within minutes, a hot cup of strong tea with a gentle serving of cream arrived before her.
Lucy, with a second cup of tea, took the chair opposite Sam.
Unable – and unwilling – to stop them, Sam confronted memories of the other Lucy. That Lucy had loved her tea too. The two of them had shared many cups. During one such moment, Sam had broken her own rule and had trusted her enough to tell her about her 'gift.' Poor Lucy. She'd thought it had been so cool. Then one night after drinking too many B52s, she'd told everyone, once again making Sam an oddity – an outsider. And reminding Sam of a sad truth – even friends couldn't be trusted. A lesson she hadn't forgotten since. Her friend had died an ugly death. And Sam hadn't been able to help her. More guilt.
Sam sighed.
"Heavy thoughts," said Lucy gently. "Care to share?"
Sam's mouth kicked up at the corners. "Nothing worth sharing," she murmured.
Lucy leaned back with an unsurprised nod. "Just so you know I'm always here if you ever want to talk." After a moment, she continued in a bright cheerful voice. "Here, try one." A plate of cookies appeared beside the hot mug.
"Thanks." And Sam meant it. Choosing a peanut butter cookie, she bit into it. She closed her eyes, a tiny moan escaping. In the darkness, the rich, buttery peanut taste filled her mouth. Delicate yet robust and sooo good.
"Not bad, huh?"
Sam nodded, wasting no time in popping the rest of the morsel into her mouth. Lucy nudged the plate closer. Sam grinned, and snatched up a second cookie. Lucy gave her a fat smile of pleasure.
Her mouth full, Sam considered the woman beside her. This Lucy gave from the heart, freely offering acceptance and reserving judgment. Sam understood the value of the gift. At the same time, all that emotion made her nervous
"Thanks for the tea and cookies." She took her cup to the sink.
"What do you think of our new patient?"
"The German shepherd." Sam spun around. "What happened to him?"
Lucy rose and brought her cup to the sink. "Sarah found him." Lucy turned around, "You remember my daughter, Sarah? She works at the seniors' facility..." Without waiting for a response, she continued talking. "She called in to say a resident had found the dog injured in the parking lot. Dr. Walcott drove over and picked him up."
&nb
sp; Sam watched as Lucy turned on the hot water and dribbled a little dish soap over the cup in her hand. Sarah, she vaguely remembered was activity coordinator at a home between here and Portland.
Lucy gazed at Sam. "He was in tough shape. And since he woke up after surgery, well..." She placed the clean cup upside down on the drying rack. "He won't let any of us near him unless he's sedated."
Sam chewed on her bottom lip. "Is he eating? Drinking?"
"Through his IV," Lucy said with a small grim smile. "We'll see what he's like when it comes time to check his wounds. Don't get too attached. His prognosis isn't good."
Already halfway through the doorway leading to the back of the hospital, Sam stilled and glanced back, seeing only concern in the other woman's eyes. Resolutely, Sam headed back her charges.
The shepherd's low growl warned her halfway.
"It's okay, boy. It's just me. I'll be taking care of you. Give you food, fresh water, and friendship. The things that help us get along in life." Although she kept her voice quiet, warm, and even toned, the growl remained the same.
She couldn't blame him.
He might be able to get along without friendships, but she wanted them. Except for her friendship with Lucy, she'd never had that elusive relationship that others took for granted.
Sam approached the dog's cage with care. According to his chart, he'd had surgery to repair internal bleeding and to set a shattered leg. On top of that, he'd suffered several broken ribs, a dislocated collarbone and was missing a huge patch of skin on both hindquarters. Written in red and circled were the words: aggressive and dangerous. The growling stopped.
Sam squatted down to stare into his eyes. The dog should have a name. He didn't give a damn. But a name gave the dog a presence, an existence...an identity.
"How about..." she thought for a long moment. "I know, how about we call you Major?"
The dog exploded into snarls and hideous barking, his ears flattened, and absolute hate filled his eyes.
"Jesus!" Sam skittered to the far corner of the room – her hand to her chest – sure her heart would break free of its rib cage.
"Is everything okay back here?"
Sam turned in surprise to see one of the vets standing behind her, frowning. "Sorry," she yelled over the din of the other animals that had picked up the shepherd's fear. She waited for the animals to calm down before continuing. "I'd thought of a brilliant name for the shepherd, but from his reaction, I think he hates it."
The vet walked over and bent down to assess his patient. "It could have been your tone of voice or the inflection in the way you said the name. He'd been abused, even before this accident." After a thoughtful pause, he added, "I'm not sure, but it might have been kinder to have put him down."
"No." Sam stared at him in horror. "Don't say that. He'll come around." At his doubtful look, she continued, "I know he will. Give him a chance."
That she seemed to be asking the vet to give her a chance hung heavy in the room, yet she didn't think he understood that.
He stared at her, shrewdness, and wisdom in his eyes.
Then again, maybe she'd misjudged him. She shifted, uneasy under the intense gaze.
"We'll see. We'll have lots of opportunity to assess his progress as he recuperates."
Sam had to be satisfied with that. She knew the dog was worth saving and so, damn it, was she. Her salvation and that of the dog's were tied together in some unfathomable way. She could sense it. She'd fight tooth and nail to keep him safe.
In so doing, maybe she could save herself.
***
11:45 am
The Bastard had been busy.
Brandt grimly surveyed the room. The woman lay sprawled across the bed, killed by multiple stab wounds if the massive blood loss was anything to go by. Any number of perps could have done this, but Brandt knew the scene would be clean. Squeaky clean, just like every other one he blamed on this asshole.
And the woman would have drugs in her bloodstream, just enough so she wouldn't have been able to struggle – at least not much. A signature obvious from the more recent cases. Brandt frowned. This case would move to the head of Brandt's list. Ammunition for a task force to put this asshole behind bars.
His fists clenched and unclenched. Christ, he wanted to kill the Bastard himself.
Blood spattered the walls, carpet, the trashed bedding…a few drops even going so far as to hit the ceiling. A large pool of black blood had congealed on the floor beside the night table. This woman hadn't been murdered – she'd been butchered. She had to have been in a drugged sleep at the time of the attack. The only signs of struggle were on the bed, and not many of them, at that.
She also had long brown hair with a hint of a curl in it at the ends. Or would have had if the stands weren't flattened by the weight of the dried blood. The bedding was some kind of ruffled rose paisley thing. Two points to Samantha Blair. Deep crown moldings on the ceiling gave her a third.
"Brandt, the young man who called this in is waiting out back."
Adam was the youngest member of the team, with only six months’ experience behind him. Always pale, today his red hair and freckles stood out more than ever, giving his face a clownish appearance. He tried to look anywhere but at the body on the bed. "Kevin said you can take the lead. He'll be here soon."
Another test. Fine with him.
"Then, let's go have a talk with the guy out back." Brandt headed outside of the brick house to question the waiting man. Tall, slim, and overwrought, the mid-twenties man sat on the brick step, his hair was brush-cut and his head bent into his folded arms. His blue shirt was soaked with tears and his shoulders heaved and shuddered even as Brandt watched.
Brandt waited to give the young man a moment. "Jason Dean?"
The younger man snapped to his feet, nodding in between the tears. "Yes, that's me. Is...is she being taken away now?" He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, like a young child.
Brandt glanced back inside the small dwelling swollen with law enforcement and CSI. "Soon. The coroner isn't quite done yet."
The man's face paled even further, and his bottom lip trembled. He took several deep, bracing breaths and nodded.
With gentle coaxing, Brandt managed to get the whole story out of him.
They both worked for the same company and had been going out for close to a year now. They'd gone out for dinner and drinks last night before returning to her place. He'd stayed for several hours, leaving around one-thirty in the morning. When she hadn't shown up at work, he'd called several times and then had slipped over to check on her.
After finishing with Jason, Brandt walked back inside to wait. Within minutes, Kevin arrived with the other two homicide detectives on the team, Daniel and Seth. Brandt paced back and forth in the hallway, chewing on the information in his mind while he filled them in on what he knew.
"It's him, isn't it? The one you're always talking about?" Daniel, the second youngest member on the team asked, a frown wrapped around his forehead. He tucked his thumb into his pant pockets. Daniel’s paunch matched his wife's five-months-pregnant belly – a fact the team teased him about mercilessly.
Each team member in the East Precinct pulled long hours. Brandt respected that. He wasn't here to rock the boat. But any cases that could be the Bastard's, he wanted in on. Simple. And so far, nothing. Except more bodies.
Grimly, Brandt watched as the gurney was wheeled into the bedroom.
"Chances are good it's him. Toxicology should confirm it." Brandt leaned against the bedroom wall and tried to assess the scene – a difficult task with his emotions still unsettled. He'd have to wait for the tests to come back to know for sure.
She'd been deliberately arranged with her legs splayed wide apart, her arms wide and above her head. Open display, mocking and degrading her for maximum humiliation. Another similarity between the killer's victims, posed…yet not always in the same way.
Irrational rage from a rational mind.
"Okay, we're ready
to move the body." One of the CSI team spoke to them.
Brandt nodded. "Thanks. How's the scene? Are you going to be able to get much?"
The investigator shook his head. "Not much. The scene is clean. We might find something when we run our tests, but I'm not counting on it."
"Her name was Mandy Saxon," said Brandt abruptly. Her purse sat on the kitchen table, unopened and undisturbed, along with a briefcase of work she'd brought home. She'd been an accountant, a thirty-year-old junior member of a successful firm here in Portland, with her whole life ahead of her.