by Virna DePaul
“Shh. That’s right. That’s perfect,” Bowers whispered.
Bowers smoothed back the woman’s damp hair, then finished the most complicated part of the procedure. Afterward, he rewashed and dried the woman’s body, applied a moisturizing cream to her face then used his palette of cosmetics to camouflage her pale features. He smoothed on a very light pink lipstick, pleased with the realistic, translucent color called Baby’s Breath. Next, he removed the eye caps and dabbed brown shadow on the eyelids for depth. Then a darker red along the cheeks, chin and knuckles to depict flowing blood. Finally, baby oil in the hair.
Bowers placed the clothing he’d selected on the woman’s body, then stood back and studied his work. He shifted the arms that were crossed against the woman’s chest back to her sides. Then he smoothed a stray hair down against her temple.
Finally satisfied, he picked up a scalpel.
Very slowly and very carefully, Bowers sliced off the woman’s eyelids, then put them in a small box with the rest of his collection.
Over the next few hours, he completed his remaining tasks. He took some final pictures. Next, he wheeled the woman’s body to her final resting place, but not before he pulled several teeth, and hair fibers from her and set them aside. Later, he’d send the ashes along with the photos, teeth and hair to the police. As he cleaned up his workroom, he actually giggled as he imagined the police scrambling to find her.
Ever since he was a kid, he’d loved planning scavenger hunts, giving the participants just enough challenging clues to make their task possible but by no means easy. With the cops, he’d virtually draw them a map so they could identify her, but that was because finding the victims wasn’t the game. Finding him was. Of course, no one had ever been smart enough to do that. No one ever would.
After looking around and making sure things had been tidied up to the best of his ability, Bowers climbed the stairs that would take him from his basement to his elegant living quarters just blocks from the Golden Gate Bridge. He loved the juxtaposition of his different lives. How the upper floors of his home depicted his wealth and success, while the lower part evidenced his darker, private side. It never ceased to amaze him how the first so easily disguised the second. As if people truly didn’t think they could coexist. Humming, he gathered his things, then double-checked his calendar on his smartphone.
His next appointment was at eleven. His patients rarely expressed appropriate gratitude for what Bowers did for them, but they certainly paid him well. Nonetheless, while he enjoyed the money he made, the perfection of Bowers’s work was reward enough. Bowers took ugly things and made them beautiful again, just as he did with his girls.
Others might fail to acknowledge his mastery at first, but not for long. Bowers always opened their eyes to it eventually. All it took was strategy, time and discipline.
That, and a steady hand with a scalpel, of course.
CHAPTER THREE
THE SMALL ONES ALMOST always ran.
They figured they had the advantage when it came to speed, but few of them knew cops were trained to go the distance. It might take them a while to catch up, but they almost always did.
In this case, it also helped that Carrie was even smaller than the perp she was chasing, and, because she wore plain clothes, she wasn’t hindered by a fourteen-pound belt loaded with a patrol officer’s accoutrements. Instead, all she carried was her gun, which was securely holstered.
After all, despite what they showed on television, it wouldn’t be smart to wave around a gun while chasing down a suspect. Especially not on a Friday night when the empty street might suddenly fill with people who’d just finished a movie, a late dinner or drinks at the local bar. A bar like McGill’s. The bar where she’d left Jase and his date, Regina, despite the fact he’d wanted to kiss Carrie again. She’d turned him down and what had she gotten instead? A run-in with a petty thief. A fast one.
She pushed forward in a burst of adrenaline, wondering what the guy she’d caught burglarizing a local hardware store had on his rap sheet that was worth evading the police. The speed with which he’d bolted, when she’d only stopped to ask him a few investigatory questions, told her he probably wasn’t a stranger to the justice system.
She was starting to gain on him when he veered toward a run-down-looking house off of Post Street and barreled inside the front door. Staying outside, Carrie immediately established cover, drew her weapon and called out, “Don’t make things worse. Come out with your hands up.”
“Fuck off, bitch!”
But the guy’s words were slightly drowned out by the sound of approaching sirens.
“You hear that?” she shouted. “San Francisco P.D.’s on the way. Come out now.”
He didn’t immediately respond. To her surprise, less than a minute later, he walked out of the house, a gun held out in front of him.
He’d been in shadows when he’d started running, and for the first time she got a clear view of his face. He was just a kid. Surprise made her hesitate for a moment before she took a step closer, her own gun braced in front of her. “Put down your—”
He caught sight of her and aimed.
Danger! Protect yourself. Shoot to kill.
Her mind screamed at her to pull the trigger, but she didn’t.
For one second, she hesitated to shoot him.
He readjusted his aim.
“Drop—” she screamed.
He fired his gun a second before she did.
Fire slammed into her leg, immediately making it buckle. She dropped to the ground. Then he was on her, hitting her and kicking her, knocking her weapon away. What followed was a blur of pain. Most of all, however, she was shocked. Stunned.
She’d missed him. How? She never missed. But she’d been surprised by his appearance....
He looked young. So young. How had he become so ruthless? So strong?
But despite the pain and her muddled thoughts, she continued to fight. To claw. To do her own damage. Until she managed to get to her weapon. Just as he raised his own and pointed it at her again.
Another gunshot.
Her attacker collapsed on her, crushing the breath from her body before she pushed him off and scrambled away.
She stared as a puddle of crimson immediately oozed out from beneath him.
For a second, relief made her dizzy.
Then relief turned into horror.
His still body twitched. Moved. Sat up.
He looked at her.
Raised his gun and pointed it straight between her eyes.
Grinned. And fired.
* * *
CARRIE WOKE AND SAT UP in bed. Her heart thudded in her chest, and her body was soaked with sweat. Her gaze skittered around her, searching for signs of danger. She saw only her grandmother’s antique dresser. Various watercolors. Framed photos on her nightstand.
The familiar sights did little to calm her.
Panic wound through her, gaining speed and strength until it felt like a tornado. Black dots flashed in front of her, spinning around until they blurred together, making her feel dizzy.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing, on repeating the self-talk she and Lana, a member of DOJ’s Behavioral Sciences and Psychiatric Liaison Unit, had been working on.
She was safe. She was okay. It had just been a dream. She was okay.
When that didn’t work, she imagined herself blowing into a balloon. Filling it up with her pain. Until it floated away. Until she was empty.
Finally, her heartbeat returned to normal. She leaned back, pulled the blankets closer to her chin and stared out at the dark sky.
As sleep continued to elude her, Carrie threw off the blankets, suddenly feeling suffocated and trapped. She threw out her limbs, stretching the length and width of the mattress to counter the feeling.
Accepting that her chance for sleep had passed, she got out of bed and went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. As she waited for it to brew, she leaned back against the counter a
nd crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing her hands over the chilled flesh that was prickled with goose bumps. She wished she could crawl back into bed and hide under the warm covers, but she couldn’t.
She looked at her refrigerator door and the piece of paper she’d placed there. A child’s drawing, one made years ago by Kevin Porter and one his grandmother had mailed her, along with a note cursing Carrie to hell for killing the woman’s precious grandson. She should have logged it into evidence. Instead, she looked at it each morning and each night before she went to bed.
Carrie closed her eyes and rubbed her hands over her face. No wonder she had nightmares. God, she was twisted.
She’d had no choice but to shoot Kevin Porter. She knew that. He’d already shot her once, had continued to assault her, and he’d still had his gun. But in the end, she’d taken a life. The life of a sixteen-year-old boy who’d been jacked up on drugs. One whose grandmother swore was a good kid who’d just happened to get involved with the wrong crowd at school.
She didn’t keep his picture to torture herself but to remind herself that pain was often part of the job. Anyone could be a rapist or killer or other type of dangerous criminal.
Anyone.
Male or female. Old or young. Ugly or good-looking. Sometimes the ones she had to stop were just like Kevin Porter. Sometimes they had goodness in them, too. Sometimes they could have taken another path or were victims themselves. But it didn’t matter. When they turned dangerous, she had to stop them in order to protect others. And, yes, to protect herself.
That’s why she kept the picture.
To remind herself why she did what she did. And so she wouldn’t be surprised, wouldn’t hesitate to fire her gun again, simply because a perp didn’t look the way she thought he would.
If guilt was a by-product, there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Because guilt, too, was just another part of the job. And thankfully, after being gone for almost a month, she’d finally been cleared to return to SIG. Mac, SIG’s lead special agent, had worked hard to get her back in rotation. He’d worked twice as hard to get her the assignment she’d requested. He’d questioned whether the case would be too stressful given that she’d just be returning to work, but ultimately he’d supported her, and she’d always be grateful to him for that.
She’d missed the team—Jase, in particular, though she refused to let her thoughts linger on him. Mostly, however, she’d missed the work. The challenge. Sitting at home recuperating was enough to make her want to scream with frustration. At least when she was working, she wasn’t haunted by memories, both distant and recent, incapable of moving past them.
Having the job be challenging would be the least of her worries now. No wonder she was having bad dreams and doubts about her ability to perform. With the “welcome back” assignment that had prompted her to seek an early return in the first place, she could only hope she’d rise to the occasion.
She’d been passed over several times for serial-killer assignments and had been chomping at the bit for one. She had no illusions about how stressful they could be. How tough. But she wanted to prove once and for all, just in case there was any doubt, that she could handle any case the DOJ threw at her. Now, thanks to Mac, she had her chance.
She’d assured him she was fine, physically and emotionally. That she needed the rigors of an assignment like this one to get back into the game. Only she couldn’t deny that things had changed since she’d shot Kevin Porter. She had changed. And she wasn’t sure what to do about it.
Despite knowing Porter was armed, despite knowing it could mean her life, she’d hesitated to shoot him. And when she had finally shot, she’d missed. Granted, she hadn’t missed the second time around, but that did little to reassure her.
It figured that it was only when she was at her least confident and most shaken up that the brass finally gave her the lead on a serial-killer case. They probably viewed the assignment as a damn medal of valor, not only a reward for her impressive closure record over the past year but a consolation prize for getting wounded on the job and having to make her first kill. She didn’t want to get a choice assignment based on pity, but it didn’t matter. It was hers.
So what if she’d hesitated to shoot a teenager? Even when she’d been on SWAT, she’d never actually shot to kill before. Her hesitation had been natural. Understandable. But she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. This was her chance to prove herself and move closer toward a management position with DOJ.
She loved being a special agent. Loved working the streets. As a female, however, she’d never have significant power there, no matter how good a cop she was. As upper management, on the other hand, she’d be able to wield the kind of power that would make a real difference when it came to making people safe. And somehow, being a powerful woman in a political position wasn’t viewed as negatively as being a powerful woman on the streets. Who knew? Maybe she’d finally get some respect, as well as some downtime to concentrate on other things.
Like a personal life.
She snorted and walked into the dining room, where files were spread out across the surface. A personal life? Maybe someday, but right now she needed to focus on the job.
She’d started going over the files last night and had exactly one more day to get up to speed before she had to report to Commander Stevens and tell him her thoughts. Only once she’d proven her familiarity with the case and detailed her game plan would Stevens fully sign off on the assignment.
She glanced at the clock. It was barely eight in the morning. She had plenty of time to continue her research. But Mac had asked her to stop by McGill’s Bar at around 6:00 p.m. He and his girlfriend, Natalie Jones, had up and eloped, and although Carrie had once had a crush on the intense SIG agent, she was genuinely happy for them. Didn’t mean she wanted to celebrate their marriage in a bar, however. Especially the same bar where she’d last seen Jase Tyler and where he’d propositioned her despite the fact that his date was inside. Work would be the perfect excuse to bow out.
Except she’d feel like a coward. Even more than she already did.
It wasn’t only the Porter shooting that had her second-guessing her gumption. Over the past year, she’d lost some of the passion for the job that had always fueled her. She’d started to become weighed down by the knowledge that no matter how hard she tried, there was always another victim waiting in the wings for justice. More and more it seemed the good guys were losing the battle. To make matters worse, she’d been distracted by more personal concerns, simultaneously running from her developing feeling for Jase and resenting that she even had to.
Would she let him kiss her, he’d asked her at McGill’s. She’d wanted so badly to say yes, but there’d been too many reasons to say no.
Number one: they worked together.
Number two: Jase was a player. Even if she could compete with the women he dated, which she couldn’t, she wasn’t sure, once she’d actually had him, how she’d handle it when he chose to walk away.
Number three: she really couldn’t believe that he wanted her for her, and not because of the challenge she presented or because he wanted to bring her down a peg or two. So she’d been the one to walk away instead. Ten minutes later, she’d caught Kevin Porter right in the middle of a B and E.
Full circle, she thought. Her back-to-back encounters with Jase and Porter telegraphed one thing—she might hesitate, wish for things to be different, but in the end she could never reconcile being a soft, desirable female with being a tough, ambitious cop. She had to pick. She’d always had to pick.
And since she was so much better at being a cop than a woman? Well, that’s what she’d continue to focus on.
Shaking her head and blowing her hair off her face, she sat down at her dining-room table. Then the work took over. Hours went by. She took a short break to do her PT exercises and grab a bite to eat, and then she recommenced her review of The Embalmer’s most recent murder.
The victim, Cheryl Anderson, had
been found two days ago, but only after her killer had mailed the SFPD several gruesome pictures of her being embalmed—while still alive. He’d also left directions to a warehouse on Mission Street where police would find Anderson’s ashes along with trace DNA sufficient to confirm her identity. The responding SFPD officers had processed the scene and entered the murderer’s M.O. into the criminal database that could be accessed by all California law-enforcement agencies. It had taken only a few hours for SFPD to connect Anderson’s murder with the murders of two women that had occurred over a year ago in Fresno, six months apart. The older cases hadn’t been solved and had been well on their way to becoming cold. Importantly, the specifics of the murders had been kept out of the press, just like Anderson’s had.
Now, with the Anderson murder, San Francisco appeared to have a serial killer on its hands. No other jurisdictions had reported murders committed in the same manner, which meant the killer was acting thoughtfully. Methodically. Taking his time picking out his victims and planning everything to the last detail to ensure his continued success and freedom, even as he tempted the police with evidence of his crime.
If he kept to his routine, which serial killers usually did, that meant they had some time to find him. And Carrie was almost certain the killer was a man. For one thing, serial killers were almost always men. But more specifically, the way The Embalmer had applied makeup to his victims’ faces, as depicted in the photos, had a decided air of inexperience about it—like a kid playing with his mother’s cosmetics, experimenting with colors and shadows. It might sound strange to a man, but chances were another woman would have used the enhancements more effectively, even on a corpse. Even Carrie, who rarely wore makeup and wasn’t a girly girl by any stretch of the imagination, knew the basics. The Embalmer’s heavy hand with lip liner and blush screamed “male” to her.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to posit that theory to Stevens, however. It would only serve to remind him that she was, in fact, female, and that was something she strenuously avoided where work was concerned. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as if she had many other leads to report. It wasn’t a reflection of her skill, simply what the evidence failed to show.