“What?”
“I’m guessin’ which case you’re gonna tell me you have something on.”
“No, not Bradley Thomas. This is from September, it’s—”
“Terry McDonald.”
“No, Detective Truitt,” Leah said, losing patience. “If you’d just let me get to the point. It’s about the Jane Doe you found in the abandoned mine.”
“Oh, that one.” His voice lost all its excitement. “I didn’t find it. A bunch of sixth graders on a field trip found it, and boy how I wish it had been me instead. That one still gives me nightmares and it’s been what? Two months?”
“Two and a half.”
“Two and a half. Wow, how time flies when you’re tryin’ to get those stitches out of your mind. What sort of lead do you have for me, Detective . . . ?” He trailed off, obviously forgetting her name.
“Teal. I’m from the Alvin Police Department.”
“Alvin. That in Alabama?”
Leah rolled her eyes. “Yes, not far from Satsuma.”
“Okay, I think I know where. I drive down to Mobile a lot. Probably pass right by you.”
“Yep, you probably do.” Leah was getting frustrated that they still hadn’t started discussing Mercy Jo Carpenter.
“So, how can you help me, Detective Teal?”
“We found a body in one of our lakes pretty much matching the body of your Jane Doe you discovered in the abandoned mine.”
“In what way?”
“In every way,” Leah said. “I only saw the front page of your September twenty-fourth issue of the Times today, but it’s uncanny how similar the bodies were. Right down to the stitching of the eyes. Even the patterns matched. I’m willing to bet the thread type is even the same.”
“Yeah? How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much are you willing to bet?”
“It was a figure of speech, Detective Truitt.”
“Oh. Well, tell me some things about your Jane Doe that you can’t tell from our picture.”
“First off,” Leah said, wishing she had made herself a cup of coffee before taking this call, “ours isn’t a Jane Doe. Her name is Mercy Jo Carpenter. We found her washed up in Willet Lake, but the medical examiner figures she was killed somewhere else and dumped in the lake afterward. The body was probably found within twenty-four hours of being killed.”
“Our medical examiner said the same thing about our Jane Doe,” Detective Truitt said. “What else?”
“Was she fully clothed?”
“I guess,” Truitt said. “She was wearing a red top that looked more like a bra with a leather jacket halfway zipped up and ripped blue jeans. She had on Reeboks that looked like they’d seen better days. Judging by her clothes and makeup, I guessed she worked for a living.”
“Worked?”
“The streets. Graysville may be small, but being a hooker is the one job that will bring in cash anywhere. Was yours a prostitute?”
“Hard to know. She was dressed more business casual in a man’s shirt and a skirt that came down to her midthighs. Was there any sign the killer sexually assaulted yours?” Leah asked.
“None. That was one of our biggest surprises,” Truitt said.
“Ours too. Especially since her shirt wasn’t done up properly. Tell me, did you find a cross on her anywhere? In a pocket? Around her neck? Tucked into a sock, maybe?”
“Now, how did you know that? We kept that out of the papers. It was in the left pocket of her leather jacket.”
“Yep, ours was in the top shirt pocket.”
“So, you thinkin’ we got ourselves a serial, and the cross is his signature?”
“It’s startin’ to feel that way to me,” Leah said. “I assume for you the case has gone cold.”
Detective Truitt’s entire demeanor completely changed and Leah immediately regretted saying what she just said.
“No goddamn way the case has gone cold,” Truitt said. “Just because it’s taken a while to solve, I plan on solvin’ it. Don’t think you’re gonna ride in here on your white horse and scoop up all the glory.”
“Sorry,” Leah said, backing down, “that came out wrong. I meant, I’m assumin’ you ran out of leads? Otherwise, you’d be the one callin’ me ’bout the serial killer connection, rather than me callin’ you?”
“We still have some leads,” said Truitt. Leah could tell that was a lie.
Leah looked out at the backyard where two cardinals ducked in and out of the bare branches of her cherry trees, following each other in flight. “I think we should share what we got,” she said. “Besides, I think there’s a good chance the killer lives in Alvin.”
“Why’s that?”
“The soil content under her nails. It is quite unique and matches the soil and clay found in the northern valley just outside the limits of our town. I’m assumin’ y’all tried to match soil samples and whatnot and didn’t get any hits?”
There was a long pause. A yellow butterfly with black spots fluttered outside the kitchen window. “You’re right,” he finally said, “we didn’t.”
“I think the first body got dumped outside of Birmingham because the killer was scared if we’d found it too close to home we’d close in on him. Now that he’s killed twice, though, his confidence is increasing. He’s becoming cocky. What did he write on the chest?”
“Your victim had that, too?”
“Yep, waterproof Magic Marker. It said, ‘Justice Is Blind in the Eyes of the Lord.’ I’m assumin’ yours said the same?”
“Actually, no. Our Jane Doe said, ‘A Thorn Among the Lilies.’”
“Ah, a biblical quote. Old Testament. Kinda.”
“Yeah, we found it. Song of Solomon 2:2, only inverted from the original text. The King James Version has it as: ‘As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.’”
“Interestin’,” Leah said. “Wonder why the change? He’s obviously tryin’ to tell us somethin’.”
“You think it’s a message to us? As in the police, us?”
“I most certainly do. Who else would he be sendin’ it to? He’s taunting us. Or he wants to get caught. But he’s too organized to want to be caught. I think our suspect has a chip on his shoulder when it comes to cops.”
“Hmmm. Okay, how ’bout this? How ’bout we work this case together? I share my evidence with you, and you give me copies of everythin’ you have?”
Leah quickly thought over the offer. It wouldn’t hurt anything. She’d get flak from Ethan about it, but nothing she couldn’t handle. “Okay, I can do that,” she said. “When can we meet in person?”
“Well, you’re actually in luck. I have to be in Mobile tomorrow at three. I can stop in for lunch on my way, and we can go over things then. Sound good?”
“Sounds great. That will give me time to convince my superior I’m doin’ the right thing,” Leah said.
“I have a trick for that,” Truitt told her.
“What’s that?”
“Just don’t tell ’em.”
“Yeah, but you ain’t in an office with only two other people. Tough to keep secrets.”
“Alvin. You sure it’s in Alabama?”
“I’ll draw you a map and fax it to you,” Leah said with a sigh.
“Sounds good. See you tomorrow. Oh, wait. One last thing. Where do you want to meet?”
“Um, how about at the station?”
“Sounds exquisitely borin’. I’ll be there for lunch, remember?”
“Oh, okay. And technically tomorrow’s my day off, so—”
“Perfect! I suggest we go out for Texas barbecue somewhere. I’m sure you have a place in that town that serves up Texas barbecue, don’t you?”
“Yes, we do. It’s on Main Street, and it’s called Vera’s Old West Bar & Grill. It’s at about the fifteen hundred block somewhere.”
“I’ll find it,” he said. “I have a nose for grilled steak. So if I leave here at say, ten o’clock I should be there b
y just after twelve.”
“You can’t possibly make it from Birmingham to Alvin in two hours,” Leah said.
“I’ll be using the siren. That’s what it’s for. And speed zones aren’t for officers of the law, for us they’re just suggestions. You did say you were close to Satsuma, right?”
“Right.”
“See you around twelve-fifteen, maybe twelve-thirty.”
Wondering what she’d gotten herself into, Leah hung up the receiver and took another look at the picture in her lap. It was uncanny how similar the two victims looked. And the eyes. They were so . . . she couldn’t even think of the word.
So desperate.
CHAPTER 18
I waited a while after my mother got off the phone before approaching her with my question. I had just gotten home from playing at Dewey’s for a change (a suggestion from my mother), when I came in to find her sitting in the kitchen, going over some files. I needed to ask her the question that had been running through my head while I overheard her talking with that detective from Birmingham. “Mom, can I ask you somethin’?”
She looked up. “Certainly.” She motioned to the chair beside her. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
I pulled out the chair and climbed on top. I started to think about how to start my conversation, but I couldn’t come up with anything good.
“So,” she said, “tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Well, I was wonderin’ . . . Mom, what’s a serial killer?”
She hesitated and I saw her swallow. “Now, who told you about serial killers?”
“Nobody, that’s why I’m askin’.”
“Well, someone must’ve mentioned them for you to even know the term.”
“I overheard you talkin’ to that officer from Birmingham on the telephone earlier on. And you was talkin’ ’bout a serial killer and I ain’t never heard of one, so I thought I’d ask.”
My mother took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The setting sun shining through the kitchen window went behind a cloud, making everything slightly darker. The world felt a bit gray for an instant.
“Well,” my mother said, “serial killers are murderers who kill more than one person. Actually, technically, I think it has to be three or more, but that doesn’t matter. One, two, three, ten, it’s all horrible. Their victims are generally people they don’t know, but the killers usually follow some sort of pattern.”
“What do you mean they follow a pattern?”
“Well, one might only kill college girls with black hair and wearing dresses who he manages to encounter alone on the street. Things like that.”
I thought this over. “The other night when you were talkin’ to Officer Jackson, you mentioned ‘rituals.’ What are rituals?”
My mother let out another very audible sigh. “Are you sure you’re ready for a conversation like this?”
I nodded. “Yes, I’m old for my age. You always tell me that, remember?”
“Okay, well, some serial killers will always murder their victims all the same way. Say they use a gun and shoot them. They might shoot them all in the heart. That becomes their tag or their trademark.”
“But they can be more complicated in the way they kill them, right?”
“Much more complicated. And much more horrible. And I’m afraid if I went any further with this conversation you would be havin’ nightmares.”
“What sort of pattern does the case you’re workin’ now have?”
I could tell my mother was considering whether or not to answer this question. Finally, she gave me an answer, but I was pretty sure she left a lot out. “Well, without goin’ into the gruesome details, this killer knows how to sew, and either drives or has access to a Chevy or Ford pickup truck.”
“How do you know all that?”
“This is what I do, honey. I’m paid to figure things out.”
“So do you think serial killers are people who, when they’re not out killin’, still follow patterns in their lives?”
She thought about this, staring up at the ceiling. “That’s a very good question, Abe. One I hadn’t thought of before. Let me consider it a while and I’ll get back to you.”
I smiled. I was always happy when I managed to come up with good questions. I was even happier when I happened to come up with good answers, but that happened less often.
“So, Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a serial killer livin’ in Alvin?”
“Oh, we don’t know that for sure, honey. Right now we’re just speculatin’.”
“What do you base your speculatin’ on?”
“The fact that we’ve discovered two murders, both with the same distinguishin’ features that contain elements that point to them happenin’ here. Serial killers are habitual. They usually can’t control themselves. I am talking to a detective from Birmingham ’bout it tomorrow. I’ll know more then.”
“These distinguishin’ features. Is that part of their pattern?”
She smiled. “I suppose it is, yes.”
The first thing I did with my new information about serial killers was go over to Dewey’s and fill him in. I figured, if there’s a serial killer in Alvin, and all serial killers follow patterns, me and him should be able to figure out who it is just by watching people. We were good at watching people, and finding the ones who followed patterns every day should be easy.
“So,” Dewey said when I finished explaining, “anyone we see who, say, does their dishes every morning after breakfast, then goes for a jog, then has lunch, then watches TV every day before supper is probably out killin’ folk at regular intervals?”
“I don’t reckon everyone who follows patterns kill folk, but I think it’s an indication that they might,” I said.
“So you reckon we should ride around town and start documentin’ who’s doin’ the same thing every day at the same time?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Those are the unstable people we have to be careful of. Once we’ve got a list of maybe twenty potential suspects, I can present it to my mom. I’m sure she’ll be super happy when I do.”
“You know, my ma follows a pattern pretty much,” Dewey said. “She even has certain days she does laundry and certain days and times she vacuums. Think she might be out slaughtering folk?”
“She very well could be, Dewey. This whole serial killer thing is so new to me that I don’t know who we can trust, if anyone. I’d suggest you start documentin’ her behavior, just in case.”
“I’ll definitely do that. What ’bout your mom?”
“What ’bout her?”
“Does she follow patterns? Should we be documentin’ her?”
“Dewey,” I said, “she’s the one tryin’ to catch the serial killer. She ain’t the killer.”
“But how do we know? She might have the best disguise of anyone.”
I thought this over. “Actually, she doesn’t really follow any patterns. All her days are different on account of all the different crimes she’s constantly tryin’ to solve.”
“Oh.”
“All right, I suggest we head out tomorrow after school on our bikes and start documenting what we see. Main Street will be a good place to start. In the meantime, make sure you keep tabs on your ma. I don’t want to see her get shot or anythin’ in some kind of police standoff.”
“No, that wouldn’t be very good. I also wouldn’t wanna find out she’d been killin’ people. Would make her seem not as nice a ma as she does now.”
“Yeah, I s’pose that’s true. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And with that, I rode back home, my brain quickly switching through all the people I knew in town. Most of them did follow some sort of pattern every day. I knew this already without having to go document it. Especially the ranchers. Their days rarely changed. And the more I thought about that, the more convinced I became that one of the ranchers was most likely the serial killer. But then there was Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow, who I know I wrongly ac
cused once, but this time was different. He completely lived his life by a pattern: going into his shop at the same time every evening, leaving it the same time every morning, sleepin’ during the day, grocery shopping Saturday mornings. Problem was, if I accused Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow again, my mother would not only not take me seriously; she’d likely get really angry about it.
No, I was sort of stuck when it came to him. I decided not to put him on our list, but to keep a close eye on him just the same. Besides, odds were it was a rancher. There were more of them than just the one Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow, and they ran through just as many patterns in their life as he did.
Me and Dewey needed a way to prove who it was. But how?
CHAPTER 19
Leah sat in Ethan Montgomery’s office cradling a steaming cup of coffee and waiting for Ethan to get off the phone. He’d waved her in when she knocked on the door, and she closed it shut behind her. Montgomery’s office was plush, with a lot of wood. It had a big window looking out front with wooden blinds he kept open. Beyond that window was a fig tree that was currently being checked out by a hummingbird.
The room also had windows looking into the main room with wooden blinds he usually kept shut. Even the door had a window on it with blinds. Those were shut, too.
His desk was a hulk of a thing, taking up probably a quarter of the room. Leah often wondered how the movers ever got it in here. Ethan continued chatting while sipping his coffee. He leaned back and his chair groaned and creaked, something it had been doing for as long as Leah could remember. She wished to hell he’d either buy a new one or oil this one.
An avid sports fan, Ethan had a television hanging from the top corner of the room opposite his desk. Below it was a side-loading VHS VCR. The other side of the room was taken up by bookcases stuffed with law books.
Leah liked the smell in this room. It had that musty old smell of wood and books that reminded her of how her father’s study used to smell before he got cancer.
The ceiling was tiled, and in the center was a big wooden fan that turned so slowly Leah doubted it accomplished much of anything, summer or winter. In fact, it was always on, summer and winter, just slowly turning away the years.
A Thorn Among the Lilies Page 9