by Rita Herron
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to think of his dead wife. There was no way in hell he’d desecrate her name or his unborn child’s by taking a shrink to bed.
HE STUDIED the newspaper photo, his blood sizzling with excitement. Finally he was receiving the attention he deserved. The honor. The respect.
The crime-scene photos didn’t reveal the details, though. Didn’t show the way he’d left the girl posed for the world to see her ugliness. Didn’t show the care he’d taken when he’d made love to her first. The way he’d satisfied her before giving himself release. The way he’d kissed her before he’d left her.
And there was Dr. Jenny Madden bending over the body.
The article said the cops had asked for her help.
Laughter bubbled in his chest. They needed a psychiatrist’s help to find him. As if that would do any good.
And Dr. Madden…they had no idea they’d played right into his hands. He’d wanted her to notice him, to know he was watching her. That one day he would have her, too.
But not yet.
Because Jenny was sweet. Not like the whores who offered themselves to men in bars. Not like the ones who teased him, then turned away like he wasn’t worth their time of day.
But he had found the perfect way to show them that he was the master. Already his body twitched for another.
He could almost feel the satiny softness of her panties as he ripped them down her legs. Feel her insides quiver as he entered her. Hear her cry of pleasure when she came.
Hear her scream as he tied the black lace underwear around her neck and choked the life from her.
Chapter Five
Raul paced his kitchen, unable to sleep. He had notes about the three girls’ histories on a corkboard above his desk and the files strewn across it. He’d reviewed the interviews with the first two victims’ families and friends, searching for a connection, but had found nothing. No common churches, organizations, groups, chat room visits. They didn’t frequent the same stores and neither had complained about boyfriends or ex-lovers hassling them.
Had they been chosen at random? Or was he missing something?
He scrubbed a hand over his face, weary and irritated that he still had Jenny Madden on his mind. Dammit, the woman had infuriated him. She knew about his wife. Had checked into him, for God’s sake.
Pain knifed through him. He didn’t want her knowing. Didn’t want her looking at him with pity or sympathy, or as a pet project that she thought she could save by having him sprawl on her couch and pour out his heart. Pouring out his heart would not bring his wife or child back.
Nothing would.
The emptiness inside him churned with agony, and he cursed. He wouldn’t be caught off guard again. If she knew all about him, he’d find out everything he could about her. After all he was a cop. Maybe Jenny Madden had some secrets in her closet.
Like her brother for one…
Did that little bastard have a record?
Determined to arm himself with the ammunition to protect himself, he entered Jenny Madden’s name. He searched the databases for records on her and her brother but found nothing incriminating on Jenny. Not even a damn parking ticket.
Although Bailey Madden popped up with a rap sheet. He’d been arrested for illegal gambling, had a DUI and a misdemeanor drug charge.
Raul drummed his fingers on the desk. Odds were that he was gambling again, desperate for money and that he’d hit his sister up to bail his sorry ass out of trouble.
He hoped Jenny had meant it when she said that if he got rough again, she’d call the police.
He searched further and discovered Jenny had graduated from premed from UGA, then attended Emory Medical College in Atlanta. She had published several papers on sexual deviants, had also studied dissociative identity disorder, and at one time had run a program for young girls with eating disorders. She frequently spoke to women’s support groups for abused and displaced women returning to the workforce. Begrudgingly, admiration for her kicked in. His youngest sister had been involved with an abusive man once, and it had taken a family intervention and counseling to convince her to leave.
Jenny had also worked at a private counseling service for two years, but had moved to Savannah to assume the position at the Coastal Island Research Park, CIRP, because she had transferred her mother there for treatment.
He frowned, his interest piqued, and he dug deeper, the personal information he uncovered in a small piece about Jenny for a local press disturbing him on an elemental level. Apparently, her mother suffered manic depression and had slipped into a nearly catatonic state, although there were no details as to the cause.
Was that the reason Jenny had studied medicine, specifically psychiatrics and mental disorders?
BETWEEN THE INSUFFERABLE HEAT, nightmares of the Savannah Strangler sliding a pair of silk panties around her neck, and the image of Raul Cortez’s pain-filled eyes haunting her, Jenny barely slept all night. Groggy and exhausted the next morning, she showered and washed her hair, then toweled off. By the time she slugged down a cup of coffee and dressed, the doorbell was ringing.
She raced toward it, knowing she had only a few minutes before her first appointment at the hospital.
Ralph Martin, the forty-something carpenter she’d hired for the renovations, stood at the door. As usual, he wore a baseball cap tugged over a high forehead, and his wavy gray-blond hair was shaggy and pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He’d already repaired the roof, restained the molding in the dining area, painted the upstairs and was ready to start on the lower level. Once the work was complete, she planned to install a security system.
He shuffled in, leaning heavily on his uninjured leg. Sympathy for the man welled in her chest. She hadn’t asked what had happened, although he’d claimed it was an old war injury.
“Morning, ma’am.”
“Good morning.” She lifted her hair off her neck and clipped it into a twist. “The air-conditioning is on the blink. Can you take a look at it?”
He nodded and went to his truck for a flashlight and tools, and she grabbed her purse and laptop. Ten minutes later at CIRP, she checked in with her receptionist.
“Good heavens, did you see this?” Renee gestured toward the paper. “There was another murder yesterday.”
Jenny paused by Renee’s desk and glanced down at the headline. The Savannah Strangler Strikes Again.
Her heart clenched as she remembered the horror of the crime scene. “Yes, as a matter of fact, the police called me in to work up a profile. They’ll probably be back. Please remember to be discreet about our patients.”
Renee gaped up at her. “Dr. Madden, I’m not a gossip.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that,” Jenny said softly. “It’s just that the police might be feeling desperate and may push for information on my patients.”
“Oh, I see.” Renee smiled, her hurt feelings soothed. “Of course I’ll refrain from comment.”
Jenny thanked her, grabbed a cup of coffee, went into her office and reviewed her schedule. A few minutes later the group filed in. She arranged the chairs in a circle and greeted each of her patients, offering coffee or water as they took seats. As she expected, though, some of the members looked nervous while others openly checked out the individuals.
“I’d like to welcome you and remind you that anything discussed in this group is held in the strictest of confidence.” She reiterated that they had signed contracts not to discuss each other’s problems or personal issues with outsiders.
“I understand opening up in a group is difficult, but over time we’ll learn to trust each other and offer support.” She laid down a few ground rules regarding the safety contract they had signed stating they wouldn’t harm themselves or anyone else. If so, she had to warn that person. She also reminded them of boundaries, to respect each other’s personal space, that touching another member was allowed only if the person gave permission. “Each of you is here to explore your individual
problems—”
“You mean our addictions,” Kylie Wells said with a grin.
Jenny smiled in return. “Yes. But we’re not here to criticize or belittle others. And there is to be no sexual contact with each other outside the group.”
“Why not?” Carl Huggins asked.
“Because that would defeat the purpose. We’re here to talk, nothing more. If you have relations with one another, then it breaks the trust of the group.”
The two women nodded although Carl still didn’t look convinced. And Stan Leys, a heavyset balding guy, kept staring at her shoes. He had a foot fetish.
“Why don’t we start by getting to know each other? Tell us your name, your likes, anything you want to share about yourself.”
The group shifted slightly, sharing a nervous look, then Kylie spoke up again. The girl wasn’t shy.
“I’m Kylie Wells, and I like sex.” Another toothy grin and she tossed her long black hair over her shoulder. Although attractive, Jenny sensed that underneath, Kylie suffered from low self-esteem. “I like sex. A lot of it.” She crossed her legs. “I’m a nymphomaniac.”
“I like sex, too,” the curvaceous redhead, Annika, said. “Especially in public.” She ran her long fingers over her pencil skirt seductively. “I like to be watched.”
Will Cane cleared his throat. “I’d like to watch you sometime.”
Jenny gave him a stern look. “Please remember the ground rules.”
“What’s wrong with liking to be watched?” Annika arched a brow. “Don’t you have fantasies, Dr. Madden?”
“There’s nothing wrong with having sexual fantasies, even playing some of them out, within reason of course.” She tried to gentle her voice. “But we can’t allow those obsessions to destroy our relationships with others, threaten our jobs or endanger ourselves or others. We need to ask ourselves if we’re trying to fill a void with meaningless encounters or experiences when there’s a more deep-seated issue at hand.”
“I feel pretty damn happy when I’m having sex, and looking at naked women,” Will said.
“Sex can definitely spike your endorphins. But, Will, your obsession is jeopardizing your job. You have to learn boundaries, set limits, control your actions.” She turned to the member who hadn’t spoken yet. “Now let’s move on. Carl, would you like to share?”
Carl narrowed ice-green eyes, eyes that sparkled with invitation. “I like bondage.” He removed a silk scarf from his pocket. “And my conquests must wear satin and silk.”
“I like satin and silk,” Annika said softly. “That doesn’t seem like a problem at all.”
Jenny arched a brow. “Carl, why don’t you tell them the rest?”
Carl smiled, revealing even white teeth set in his tanned face. He was attractive and he knew it, but could be devious, too. “I like to take prisoners,” he said. “Keep my women locked up for days. I force them to walk around in nothing but satin panties all day, to be ready for sex at my beck and call.”
Kylie was practically panting and the other men leaned forward, obviously turned on, as well. “What happens if they refuse you?” Kylie asked.
“I punish them.” Carl wound the scarf tightly around his fist. “Punish them so they know never to disobey me again.”
Jenny stared at his hands, the way he flexed the scarf. His obsession with satin and silk.
Could Carl be the Savannah Strangler?
RAUL TACKED PHOTOS of all the victims on the whiteboard, then listed details about each girl below it, still searching for a connection. But nothing jumped out, except that all the women were in their twenties. All pretty.
All dead at the hands of the same man.
According to Jenny Madden, the killer was also in his twenties. Probably attractive enough to convince the girls to go with him.
Unless he’d drugged them with an injection or by spiking a drink.
He pulled up the autopsy reports and studied them. Due to the nature of the crime, the M.E. had specifically checked for date rape drugs—Rohypnol, GHB or Ketamine Hydro-chlorine. Rohypnol had been found in Judy’s body, which would explain why she had put up very little fight, although not in the first two victims. But that didn’t mean the killer hadn’t used it—it was only detectable within seventy-two hours after being used, and those two victims had been dead longer than that when their bodies had been discovered.
The killer must have taken the girls to a remote location since so far no one had reported anything suspicious on the designated dates. He’d obviously used a condom so they hadn’t found fluids for tracing. And according to the report, he had bathed them after sex. Traces of bleach had been discovered on their skin—he’d wanted to destroy any evidence he might have left.
Then he’d carried them to the woods and left them exposed.
But he’d covered his tracks so they had only a partial footprint which looked as if it had come from a man’s boot.
Forensics had turned up very little except for a splinter beneath Dodie Tinsley’s fingernails. They were analyzing it now. Maybe it would eventually lead to something, but it was a needle in a haystack.
Dammit. Someone had to have seen or heard something.
He’d beat down the streets until he found a clue.
Securing his weapon in his shoulder holster, he tugged on his jacket and headed outside to his car. Traffic was fairly light for tourist season, and he made it to River Street in record time. Sightseers mingled with the locals, strolling along the river, pushing baby strollers and walking dogs.
He entered a gift shop selling homemade taffy and souvenirs and showed the photos of each victim to the clerk and owner but neither recognized them.
He continued combing the shops and restaurants, talking to owners and waitstaff. Two people recognized Judy Benson from the newspaper article, but not in person. Finally he entered the pub where Judy had been last seen at happy hour.
A girl with blond streaks in her spiked black hair asked for his order, but he declined. Her face blanched white when he showed her the photo.
“I did see her that night,” she said. “Aaron over there waited on her.”
Aaron was the bartender with the lizard tattoo and the nose ring. Midmorning the bar was fairly empty, only a couple of truckers eating burgers and having a beer. Raul slapped Judy’s picture on the bar.
“You waited on this woman the night she died?”
The young guy’s gaze skated to the photo, and he sloshed beer over the mug he had just filled as he set it on the bar. “Yeah. So. I wait on a lot of people.”
Defensive jerk. “What do you remember about her?”
Aaron shrugged bony shoulders. “She was hot. Ordered a cosmo.”
Raul nodded. “How many?”
Another shrug. “A couple.”
Raul’s jaw snapped tight. “Did you spike her drink?”
Aaron took a step back. “Her drink was spiked? The paper didn’t mention that.”
“Did you do it?”
“No. Hell no. I could get fired for that.”
“How did she pay? Was she buying her own drinks?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Listen,” Raul growled. “It may not seem important, but anything you can tell us might help.”
“She paid cash for the first drink, but a man sprang for the second.”
Now they were onto something. “What did he look like?”
Aaron scrubbed the spilled beer with a drying cloth. “Light hair. Short, maybe military cut.”
What if he was a soldier on leave? Maybe from one of the naval ships? He might be here today, gone tomorrow before they discovered his identity.
“Did he give you cash or a card?”
“A card I think.”
“Dig through and see if you can find it.”
Aaron nodded. “I’ll have to ask the manager to pull up last week’s receipts.”
“I’ll wait.”
“He’s not here right now,” Aaron said. “Doesn’t come in
until four, then closes.”
Raul silently cursed. “All right. Ask him to find it, then give me a call.” He tossed down his business card. “Keep an eye out for him again. If he comes in, let me know.”
“Sure.”
“Oh, and you could watch out for guys spiking girls’ drinks.”
The bartender fidgeted. “Look, man, I can’t keep my eye on every customer all the time.”
Raul glared at him. “Maybe not, but try. If this girl’s drink hadn’t been spiked, she might not have left with this murderer. Then she’d still be alive.”
He strode out and walked to his car, but his cell phone rang as he climbed in.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he connected the call. “Cortez.”
“Hey,” his partner said. “I ran a check on the databases for similar cases to the Strangler, and for escaped mental patients, parolees, prior crimes involving sex offenders in the area.”
“Yeah, any hits?”
“Two. Guy named Clyde Anson. History of sexual abuse and violence. Court ordered him to seek therapy.”
“And the second?”
“Jamal Rakely. Strangled his wife after sex, but got off on an insanity plea.”
Raul’s mind raced. “They both live in Savannah.”
“Yeah, and get this. Both are enrolled in treatment programs through CIRP.”
“Don’t tell me that Dr. Madden is their psychiatrist?”
“How’d you guess?”
Raul clenched his jaw. He’d confront Jenny and find out what she knew about the men. They might have two viable suspects now.
JENNY MASSAGED her temple as the group filed out. Getting them to admit that they had a problem was a start. Understanding the difference between normal behavior and addiction would take time.
She filed the tape of the session, along with her notes, then pulled the file on her next patient, Clyde Anson, when Renee buzzed her.
“Dr. Madden, Detective Cortez is here to see you.”
Jenny sighed and checked her watch. “Send him in.”