Dillon smiled as if Nick was his star pupil. “Exactly. Notice he washed her before he killed her. Before he put her in the garbage bags.”
“Some sort of ritual for him?” Carina suggested. “Maybe he thinks sex is dirty and therefore needs to be washed away?”
“That’s a good analysis,” Dillon said, “and I think it’s partially true. He grew up in a house where sex was considered dirty or forbidden or otherwise unhealthy. Puberty is a dangerous time for sociopaths. Hormones, unhealthy fantasies, and no outlet. Either they have no one to talk to about their feelings and how to deal with anger and their sexuality, or their fantasies have been reinforced through sexual abuse or indifference or observation.”
“So it’s the parent’s fault,” Will said derisively.
“No, I’m just saying it’s one factor. Put it all together. You have a child with sociopathic tendencies—and researchers have shown that you can see these tendencies as young as the age of four.”
“Four?” Carina couldn’t imagine being able to pinpoint a killer as a toddler.
“Remember, Cara, not all sociopaths kill. They are identified through lack of empathy, ease of lying, lack of remorse for bad behavior, among other things. But they don’t all grow up to become serial killers. I believe other factors, environment in particular, twists these kids. An abusive mother or father, usually a one-parent household or a stepparent in the picture. Not always, of course—if we knew the formula that created monsters we could put an end to them.”
Dillon continued. “You asked for my professional opinion, and based on what we know about the victim and the manner of her death, I believe that the secondary reason he cleaned her body was because of a deep-grained feeling that sex is dirty. It could have been developed by a mother who punished him for wet dreams, or something more sinister.”
“Secondary?” Carina asked.
Nick was the one who spoke. “He washed her body to get rid of evidence.”
No one said anything for a long minute. “You’re not suggesting that he’s a cop or someone with forensic knowledge?” Carina asked.
“Everyone these days is a forensic expert,” Nick said. “Look at the popularity of crime shows on television. I recently read a report about a killer who disposed of a body by feeding it to his neighbor’s pigs. Why? Because he saw it on television.”
“And the husband who put his dead wife in a drum of lye and buried it in the backyard,” Dillon added.
“Today’s criminals know what we look for, and they are doing everything they can to cover their tracks,” Nick said. “It makes our job a hell of a lot more difficult.”
“So who are we looking for?” Carina finally asked. “You said he was immature, but he has the where-withal to clean up after himself.”
Dillon explained. “Immature in that he’s not a seasoned, practiced killer. He will get more proficient.”
“He’s going to do it again,” she said flatly.
Dillon and Nick both nodded. “How old do you think he is?” Nick asked Dillon.
“Under thirty. There’re no definitive studies on the subject, but there’s evidence that most serial killers begin killing in their twenties. Killing is the first end point in a series of escalations, usually started during puberty, and sometimes younger, with bedwetting, killing animals, and setting fires. It sounds cliché, but studies have shown that these three acts are identifiable in known serial killers.”
“If he’s under thirty, he may be new to this,” Carina said.
“Exactly. Angie may be his first, or he may have another under his belt. Or perhaps a failed attempt.”
Dillon said. “He also has a strong sense of survival. He’s abnormally neat in appearance and environment. His house will be immaculate. He’ll have no tolerance for dirt. You won’t see him working in construction, for example, because he can’t stand the thought of getting that dirty. He most likely lives alone. He may date, but he can’t maintain a long-term relationship. He’ll appear safe, innocuous, pleasant, polite. He will not seem like a threat, but he has a vicious temper. He has it under control, but when it gets away from him he can’t easily regain control. Very likely a student or a college dropout. Above-average intelligence, but an underachiever. He won’t take criticism well, probably because he’s so involved in his fantasies that he doesn’t pay enough attention to anything that he doesn’t think is important.”
Nick interrupted and tapped the coroner’s report. “Dr. Kincaid, what do you make of the subdermal bruising on her torso? The coroner indicated that the marks came minutes before death.”
“You noticed that, too? What’s your guess?”
Nick shifted uneasily in his chair. “I hope I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. He laid on top of her while she died.”
Dillon nodded soberly. “I concur.”
Carina stared at the ceiling, anger and frustration building. They had more to go on, but with every comment Dillon and Nick shared, her suspect seemed less and less guilty. “God, why would he do that?”
“It’s part of the fantasy. He wanted to feel her life fade away.”
They parted company with Dillon on the street. He left in a black Lexus, and Nick walked with Carina and Will to the police station. He surmised that their silence was because of the intense, disturbing conversation they’d had at the restaurant, not because they were still uneasy around him as a relative of a suspect.
“I have a proposition,” he said.
Carina stopped outside the main doors of the station and leaned against the base of a statue. Nick couldn’t help but notice her lips. A hint of shiny gloss highlighted full, kissable lips. The rest of her long, lean body and her probing eyes said cop, stand back, but her lips spoke loud and clear: kiss me.
Her brow furrowed. Nick realized he’d been staring at her lips a beat too long. “What?” she prompted.
“I’ll bring Steve down to the police station, with a lawyer present, and you ask him anything. I’ll make sure he answers. I think with the right questions maybe he has some answers we need to find this killer.”
“We?”
“I want to be part of your investigation.”
“Why? Let’s say we clear your brother. He won’t need you here, you can go back to your own job.”
Returning to Montana was the last thing Nick wanted to do. He wasn’t ready to make the decision that would change his life, no matter what choice he made.
But more than his personal problems, Angie had gotten to him. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. “I went to Angie’s journal,” he said tightly, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice. “I read between the lines. She was crying out for help and none of her friends knew or understood. I just—I want to find her killer. She deserves justice, and you know as well as I do that once the press figures out what’s going on, they’ll destroy this girl’s reputation. She doesn’t deserve that, and her grieving family doesn’t deserve it.”
“And if your brother says something you don’t like?”
“I’ve already answered that,” he said, angry. “My credentials are solid.”
He stared at Carina, trying to read her mind. She stared back, her face blank as she considered his suggestion. Without taking her eyes from his, she asked her partner, “Will, do you have a problem with it?”
“No.”
She nodded curtly. “You’re in. But we play by my rules.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nick said, surprised that he was relieved that it hadn’t been more difficult. He smiled. “My mama told me women are always right.”
Carina watched, surprised into silence, as Nick followed Will up the stairs. Women are always right?
After the intense meeting with Dillon, and Nick’s sharp analysis—he’d certainly impressed Dillon, not an easy feat—she knew the easygoing country sheriff act was just that, an act. Nick Thomas wasn’t an ordinary country cop. In fact, he was extraordinary. There was far more depth to Nick Thomas than he wanted anyone to see.
> Good thing Carina liked digging.
FOURTEEN
AS SOON AS HE ARRIVED BACK at his brother’s apartment, Nick confronted Steve. “You lied to me.”
Steve frowned, rubbed his chin. “I’ve never lied to you, Nick.”
“Bullshit.” Nick had been harboring anger for the entire drive back from the police station. Partly because of the unnerving information he’d learned about Angie’s torture and death, and partly because his brother wasn’t the man he’d always believed him to be.
“You lied to me about Angie being the only college girl you dated.”
“I think you have it wrong.” But Steve averted his eyes. Lying.
Nick sat down. This wasn’t going like he had planned. He tried to remain as calm as possible. “Steve, sit down. Please.”
Steve stiffly sat in the chair across from Nick. Nick saw the lines framing his brother’s eyes, his tanned skin looking dry and leathery. Too much fun in the sun. Steve still had a full head of hair, but it was starting to recede at the temple, a few silvery strands mixed into the sandy blond.
“Steve, I want to help you. That’s why you asked me to come down here.”
“Not to accuse me of lying.”
“It’s not an accusation, Steve. You did lie to me. You said Angie Vance was the only girl at the college you had a relationship with. I know for a fact that you also slept with Jodi Carmichael.”
Steve shifted uncomfortably. “It was just once. Twice. I know I should have said no, but she’d just broken up with her boyfriend and I was consoling her and one thing led to another…”
Nick glanced around Steve’s apartment, unable to look him in the eye. The medals, newspapers, commendations. Once upon a time Steve had been a hero, on top of the world. After being injured, what had happened to him?
“You haven’t grown up,” Nick said, surprising himself when he heard his voice. He hadn’t meant to voice his fear. Fear that his brother was spiraling down into a fantasy life that only existed in his mind.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about you, Steve.” He waved at the walls. “You’re living in the past. You’re still savoring the best part of your life, a part that ended fifteen years ago. You were a hero—you still are a hero. But an older hero. You haven’t lived since you’ve returned to the States. You haven’t done anything with your life except wish you were still twenty-one years old. And that’s what you’ve been acting like.”
“How would you know? You don’t know me.”
“You’re wrong, Steve. I know who you were, and I know who you are now. But you’re not the same brother who left Montana twenty years ago.”
“Everyone changes.”
“True. They usually grow up.”
“The Butcher really did a number on you, didn’t he?” The abrupt change of subject startled Nick. He hadn’t expected Steve to attack, and he was speechless.
“That’s why you’re ready to believe the worst of me,” Steve continued, standing, pointing a finger at Nick. “You’re the one with a problem. Just because you lost the only woman you ever loved doesn’t mean I can’t find someone to love.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Nick rose, slowly, his anger rising. His own past relationships had nothing to do with his brother’s current situation.
But Steve was on a roll. “That’s what this is about. You’re ticked off because I have meaningful relationships with women who care about me.”
“Meaningful? How many of these meaningful relationships have you had in just the last six months?”
Steve continued as if Nick hadn’t spoken. “And you’re still pining after the woman who got away. Who’s pathetic here, Nick? I have what I want, do you?”
Deep down Nick knew Steve had changed the subject to avoid talking about himself. Going on the attack was a standard ploy to keep the attention off him, but Steve’s question startled Nick and he couldn’t help but think about what he’d gained, and what he’d lost, after the Butcher investigation.
He pushed those thoughts aside. “Steve, you lied to me and you lied to the police. How can I trust you?”
“Maybe you never trusted me.”
“Don’t twist this around, Steve.”
“I can’t believe this,” Steve said, avoiding the conversation once again.
Nick had just about had it with his brother. “Just tell me you didn’t kill Angie.”
Steve jerked his head back, staring wide-eyed at Nick. “You sound like you think I did it.”
“I don’t think you killed her, but I want you to look me in the eye and tell me the truth for once. Did you have anything to do with Angie’s death?” Nick didn’t believe his brother was guilty, especially after Dr. Kincaid’s analysis, but Steve had goaded him, and Nick had reacted.
He also wanted to hear it from Steve’s mouth, without excuses, without lies.
Steve started pacing. “You think…you think I could do something so cruel? That I would rape a woman?”
“You lied to the police about what time you were at the Sand Shack on Friday night.”
“I forgot.” Again, he was lying.
“Dammit, Steve!” He took two steps across the room and spun his brother to face him. He held him by the shoulders, forced him to look in his eyes. “How can I help you if you keep lying to me?”
“Whose side are you on?” Steve asked through clenched teeth.
“I want to be on yours. But do you know how bad it looks to the police if you lie to them?”
“It’s not important.”
“Hell yes it is!” Nick released Steve. “I think you should get a lawyer and talk to the police. Tell them everything—everything—about your relationship with Angie, why you broke up, when you knew about her journal, how much time you spent there, what you know about deleted comments…”
“Deleted comments?”
“Yes. Everything. If you cooperate, maybe we can catch her killer.”
“Cooperate! I’ve been cooperating from day one.”
“You’ve been lying through your teeth so that you look like the hero you used to be, not the man you are today.”
Nick wanted to take the words back. The shock, the hurt, on Steve’s face hit Nick in the gut.
They stared at each other in silence. “I’ll talk to them. Tomorrow morning. Set it up.” Steve turned and walked toward his bedroom. Looking over his shoulder he said, “You might want to find another place to stay. My couch isn’t very comfortable.”
He slammed his bedroom door.
That certainly hadn’t gone as Nick planned.
As he packed up his laptop, Nick realized Steve didn’t think of himself as a thirty-eight-year-old man. He held close to the image that he was a young, twenty-one-year-old war hero who fit in at college. And in some ways he did, because he certainly acted like an irresponsible, immature kid. Dating college-aged girls was Steve’s way of holding on to the illusion that he was young. Since he’d given up his own college years to the military, this was Steve’s way of changing the past.
But fifteen years was a long time to grow up.
How could Nick help Steve see that he was living a lie? Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe it would take a severe jolt to his ego to make him realize that he didn’t fit with the college crowd, that he needed to grow up, get a job, do something other than go to school for the rest of his life.
Nick just didn’t know how he could help.
As he walked out the door, Nick felt a deep chill penetrate his bones, and not from the late-afternoon breeze.
Steve had never answered his question about whether or not he’d killed Angie.
FIFTEEN
WILL DROPPED THE PHONE in the cradle and turned to Carina. “Masterson just got back to town. His neighbor called.”
“Let’s go.” Carina shoved her notes in the drawer and jumped up.
They were heading out the door when Nick Thomas walked in, looking a little worse for wear
. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
He didn’t answer her question. “I set up the meeting. Steve will give a formal statement tomorrow morning and answer any questions.”
“You didn’t have to come all the way back downtown,” said Carina. “You could have called.”
“I didn’t have a choice. My brother kicked me out of his apartment. Know a decent hotel in the area?”
There was more to it than that, but Nick was a man of few words and Carina didn’t press.
Will spoke up. “Why don’t you ride with us? Masterson just got home. I’d sure like to know what he’s been doing since Friday night.”
“I appreciate it.”
The afternoon commute had just started and it took them thirty minutes to get out to the San Diego coastal community of La Jolla. Masterson lived in a small, poorly maintained house near the campus, about a mile from Steve, though he wasn’t a student.
“Easier to sell drugs if you’re close to the buyers,” Will mumbled.
Carina filled Nick in on Masterson’s criminal history as they approached his door. “He seemed to have skipped town with a girl Sunday night. Considering he’s Angie’s last-known boyfriend, his behavior raises serious questions.”
Carina fidgeted as Masterson took his sweet time answering the door. Will acted his usual casual self, though looks were deceptive: his hand was only inches from his gun. And Nick looked all cop, standing tall, face blank, a Stetson on his head. Must be part of the uniform in Montana.
She’d never realized a cop in a hat could look so sexy. She needed to get out of the city more.
Carina shook the errant thought from her mind and focused on the door.
Will rapped again. “Doug Masterson, Detectives Hooper and Kincaid with the San Diego Police Department.”
Finally, they heard a chain sliding open and Doug Masterson stood in the doorway, shirtless and in jeans, reeking of cigarette smoke. He was tall and lanky, with long blond hair and a deep dimple in his chin. He smiled when he saw Carina, sizing her up from head to toe, lingering too long at her breasts.
Jerk.
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