by Lisa Gardner
He rattled off the number. Melanie looked sharply at David, who had gone perfectly still.
“Shit,” he said after a moment, belatedly scribbling down the phone number. “What the hell is this all about?”
“He said you requested the file.”
“Well, no kidding. But first Houston tells me the file is unavailable, now I have Quantico calling me at home to follow up on my request in less than twenty-four hours. Why does everyone suddenly care so much about a closed case file? And, especially, why Quincy?”
Melanie looked at him blankly. “Would you like to translate for those of us who are merely personally at risk and not the trained professional?”
David shook his head. He still looked confused. Actually, he appeared nervous. He finally walked into the kitchen, grabbed a bag of frozen carrots, and slapped it onto his lower back. “You haven't heard the name? He was involved in the Jim Beckett case last fall.”
“The serial killer who escaped from Walpole?” Melanie had heard of that case. There was probably no one in New England who hadn't locked their doors and windows when the former police officer and killer of ten women had broken out of Walpole. In his brief time of freedom, Beckett had managed to cut a broad, violent swath. She didn't even remember how many people he had killed in the end. It had been a lot.
“Quincy did the original profile,” David muttered. “Served as the FBI consultant when the case team reassembled and was instrumental in plotting strategy. Beckett murdered an FBI agent, you know. There was some question about her role at the time, but Quincy stated she died in the line of duty, and if Quincy says she died in the line of duty, then trust me, all the bureaucrats have her listed as dying in the line of duty. After helping catch Beckett, he's violent crimes official expert du jour and about as politically untouchable as one gets in the Bureau. Basically, God himself just called about Meagan Stokes.”
FIFTEEN
W HY WOULD THIS expert call about Meagan?”
“There's only one way to find out.” David held up the number.
Melanie faltered. Her chin was up, her shoulders square. Some part of her wanted to be strong enough. This was her family, and she would do anything for her family. She owed it to them.
The rest of her was feeling bruised and battered. She wanted the truth, but she feared it just as much. The truth did not always set you free. Sometimes it bound you to dark, bloody deeds and cost you the people you loved.
“Why don't you go into the bedroom,” David suggested. “You can rest while I handle the phone call.”
“No. I'm ready.”
“You've had a long day.”
“It's my family, David. I want to.”
He was quiet for a moment, then he shrugged. But his look was different. More understanding, she thought, and that undid her a little. Heaven help her, but if David Riggs turned kind now, she would most likely fall apart.
He turned away before the moment became something neither one of them was prepared to handle.
He set up the speakerphone on the dining room table and they both took a seat. Though it was after hours, they got Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy on the first try.
“This is Special Agent David Riggs returning your call.” David hit a button on his phone base. “Just so you know, you're on speakerphone and Melanie Stokes is also in the room.”
“Good evening, Ms. Stokes,” Quincy said politely, then added to David, “Why is she part of this call?”
“I'm in the middle of a case that concerns her,” David said tersely, “and it was for her that I requested information on Meagan Stokes. Why are you involved? Isn't this a closed case?”
“Yes. Thus, I was equally surprised to find a field agent from Boston requesting this information. According to your file, you work with white collar crimes.”
David tensed and Melanie got the distinct impression she was in the middle of a pissing war where information would be doled out only in hard-to-earn pellets. As the junior agent, David got to go first.
“My complete involvement in the case isn't something I want to discuss right now,” he said curtly. “But to get the ball rolling, Melanie Stokes is Harper and Patricia Stokes's adopted daughter. Two nights ago a reporter named Larry Digger—”
“The Dallas Daily reporter?”
“That's the one. He showed up and alleged that Ms. Stokes was the daughter of Russell Lee Holmes. Yesterday she found a shrine at the foot of her bed. It contained one red wooden pony, presumably Meagan Stokes's toy, a scrap of blue fabric presumably from Meagan Stokes's dress, and forty-four gardenia-scented candles spelling out the name Meagan. Then today Larry Digger was shot and killed. Now, why do you have the Meagan Stokes file?”
“Forty-four candles?” Quincy murmured. Melanie could hear scratching sounds as he made notes. “Confirmation on the toy and fabric scrap?”
“At the lab now. Brian Stokes, the brother, has made an initial ID.”
“Interesting. I don't see any mention of the police ever finding the red wooden pony or the blue dress. On the other hand, many items from the other victims were recovered from Holmes's cabin.”
“Why do you have the file?”
“Down, Agent,” Quincy said lightly, earning a fresh scowl from David. “I'm sorry if I sounded too intense on the message, but I just started researching Russell Lee Holmes as part of an internal project to develop our intellectual capital—”
“What's that?” Melanie whispered to David.
“He's researching Russell Lee Holmes to add his profile to the violent crimes database of information,” David translated. “The Beckett case must have been something else, because the Bureau usually encourages internal projects only when they decide an agent's one wick short of meltdown.”
“The more you deal in death, Agent,” Quincy said quietly, “the more you learn the value of stopping and smelling the roses.”
It sounded to Melanie as if the older agent spoke less out of wisdom and more out of regret. She began to like Supervisory Special Agent Quincy.
He said, “Special Agent Riggs is correct. In the violent crimes division, we maintain an entire database of information we've gathered from murderers, rapists, all the people you wouldn't want to invite over to your mother's for dinner. It is by analyzing and comparing these cases, these offenders, that we have been able to come up with the common traits and behavior characteristics we use to profile.
“As part of my project, I proposed that we go back and analyze famous historic cases. Last month I turned to Russell Lee Holmes. Imagine my surprise when halfway through this process I received a call about one of the files.
“Do you know much about the Meagan Stokes case, Ms. Stokes?” Quincy asked.
“It's not something my family talks about.”
“Do you have any theories as to why Larry Digger approached you?”
“I was found in the hospital when I was nine. I don't have any memory of where I came from. That makes me an easy target.”
“We've covered this ground,” David said impatiently. “There are some reasons to believe Larry Digger's allegations. That's not why I requested the Meagan Stokes file.”
“Then why did you request the file?”
“Because I'm not blind, deaf, and dumb,” David snapped. “Because I can read between the lines, and just as you've probably concluded in the last few weeks, there are a lot of reasons to doubt that Russell Lee Holmes killed Meagan Stokes.”
Even though she'd heard this theory once before, Melanie still found it jarring. Hundreds of miles away, however, Quincy did not seem startled.
“Very good, Agent. I have spent two weeks trying to figure out what to do. After all, there is no statute of limitations on homicide, and I am almost one hundred percent certain that Russell Lee Holmes did not kill Meagan Stokes.”
“He was innocent?” Melanie asked.
“I would not say he was innocent,” Quincy calmly corrected her. “I believe he did kill six young children.
I doubt, however, that he kidnapped and murdered Meagan Stokes.”
“Russell Lee Holmes was never tried for Meagan Stokes,” David reviewed. “He was convicted of killing six other children, and confessed to Meagan's murder only later, after he'd been found guilty. He made that confession to Larry Digger.”
“Why do you believe he made the confession?” Quincy asked David like a teacher quizzing a student.
“Because he was already sentenced to death. What was one murder more?”
“Hold on,” Melanie protested. “Even if it didn't cost him anything, why would Russell Lee Holmes do someone a favor by confessing? He's not exactly a nice guy.”
“I don't think he did it for nothing,” David said, and for the first time, he wouldn't meet her eye. “I think he may have been given an offer he couldn't refuse.”
She didn't understand. They had just had this conversation. Why hadn't he said this then? What new warped theory was cooking in that head of his?
“I think,” David said slowly, “we just figured out why your parents may have knowingly adopted the child of a murderer. He covers their sin.”
Melanie stopped breathing. She had the strange sensation that David's apartment was tilting and she was plunging headlong into the abyss.
“Melanie?” David asked quietly. She managed to turn her head. He was looking at her with genuine concern. It turned his eyes gold. Both gentleness and anger brought out the gold. Why had she never realized that before?
She suddenly wanted him to hold her, to feel those arms around her again the way he'd done the first night, when he had carried her away from Larry Digger, and the scent of Old Spice had made her feel safe.
Melanie looked down. She worked hard at getting the next breath, then the one after that. Slowly the knot eased from her chest, the pressure easing slightly.
“Why don't we take this one step at a time,” Quincy said reasonably. “You've drawn some interesting conclusions, Agent Riggs, but you're new at this and don't have all the information yet. Ms. Stokes, are you certain you want to be part of this discussion?”
“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “Yes.”
Quincy began almost gently.
“In 1969, when Russell Lee Holmes kidnapped his first child, Howard Teten was just beginning to outline the techniques we call profiling. Without a framework for approaching such crimes, the local police and FBI handled the Russell Lee Holmes case merely as a murder investigation. They focused on how the crimes were committed, the modus operandi, instead of why the crimes were being committed—what need was driving the killer's behavior. This is an important distinction, Ms. Stokes, for a serial killer's MO can change over time. Maybe he switches from binding to drugging victims, but a killer's need, control and domination of women, will not change. This is called the killer's ‘signature.' It will be the same at every single killing, from the first to the thirtieth, even if everything else about the crime seems different.
“In 1969, however, the police did not understand this principle of a killer's ‘signature.' They mistakenly attributed a murder to Russell Lee Holmes based on a superficial MO, since they lacked the tools to analyze deeper, more significant issues of his pathology.
“Russell Lee Holmes hated poor white children. Are we clear on that?”
David nodded. Melanie managed a small yes.
Quincy continued. “Russell Lee Holmes never advanced beyond the fourth grade and was illiterate. He held a slew of menial jobs, was known for his nasty temper, and his last job review simply stated: ‘He likes to spit.' Most likely Russell Lee Holmes hated poor white children because a very deep, very real part of Russell Lee Holmes hated himself. And he acted upon this hatred pathologically, picking out small, vulnerable girls and boys because in the most elemental way, he was trying to destroy his own roots. Russell Lee Holmes did not suffer from a conscience. He did, however, possess a great deal of rage.
“Now, as an illiterate, unskilled man, Holmes could not exercise his rage in a sophisticated manner. The six murders were clearly blitzkrieg attacks. Holmes entered poor areas, which were undoubtedly familiar to him and in which he undoubtedly blended in, and simply snatched whatever child was easiest. Later, the police identified the shack he used to perform the worst of his crimes.”
“It was out in the woods, wasn't it?” Melanie whispered. “Single room. Tightly constructed, not even a draft. The windows are dusty though, I can't see out. And cracked halfway across. I watched the spider walk along that crack.”
“Ms. Stokes,” Quincy said carefully. “I happen to have pictures of the shack in front of me, full-color crime photos. I'm not sure what you are describing, but Russell Lee Holmes's shack had no windows. It was a simple, handmade structure, and I assure you, it had plenty of drafts. Several of the floorboards even came up. Beneath them was where the police found his stash of ‘trophies.'”
Melanie stilled. “It's not . . . I'm not picturing Russell Lee Holmes's shack?”
“Absolutely not.”
She looked at David. “Then maybe, maybe I wasn't there. Maybe I'm not—”
“Or Russell Lee Holmes kept Meagan someplace else.”
“Or Russell Lee Holmes was not involved,” Quincy said.
“Then why would I be in the room, seeing Meagan?” Melanie addressed David.
“I don't know. Maybe Meagan was kept in a different location, and for some reason you were also held there.”
“Ms. Stokes,” Quincy said, “when you say you can picture Meagan Stokes, what exactly do you mean?”
Melanie couldn't bring herself to answer. She looked to David for assistance.
“She's recently started to remember things. That's one of the reasons we believe Larry Digger may have been telling the truth. Melanie seems to have some memories of being shut up in a one-room cabin with Meagan Stokes.”
“What else do you recall?”
“That's all.”
“But you've just started remembering, correct? Think of the images that must be in your mind. There are so many things we could learn from you, particularly about the Meagan Stokes case. Would you be willing to come here? I know some expert hypnotists who could work with you.”
Melanie almost laughed. “Oh, yes, everyone seems quite fascinated by the ‘potential' of my mind.” Her lips twisted. “Except me, of course.”
“Hypnotism, Ms. Stokes. In a controlled environment. I promise we'll take good care of you—”
“No, thank you.”
“Ms. Stokes—”
“I said no thank you! For God's sake, it all happened twenty-five years ago, and I do not want to remember dying children!”
Quincy was silent, probably disappointed.
“Of course,” he said at last. “Then let's review what we know based upon the police notes. So Russell Lee Holmes hated poor white children. He kidnapped them, he tortured them in his private cabin, and when he was done, he strangled them with his bare hands, another symbol of someone performing a deeply personal act of violence. He disposed of the bodies randomly, dumping them naked in ditches, drainpipes, and open fields. Again this fulfilled his need to denigrate the children, to cast them aside as proverbial rag dolls not worthy even of protection from the elements.
“In short, in every act he performed, he revealed his hatred of youth, poverty, and weakness. He revealed his hatred for himself. And then we get to the Meagan Stokes file.”
“She wasn't poor,” David said. “There was a ransom demand. And her body was buried in a forest, not dumped. It was decapitated.”
“She was in the nanny's car,” Melanie murmured, “parked in front of the nanny's mother's house. I thought that was considered a poor neighborhood.”
“It was a lower income neighborhood,” Quincy said carefully, “but I would still categorize it as up from Holmes's usual hunting grounds. And then, the victim profile doesn't fit. Meagan was well dressed, well groomed. She sat in a nice car and played with an imported toy. She was bright and well spoken. If Holme
s was acting out a primarily self-destructive act, there should've been nothing about Meagan Stokes to trigger his blood lust. There should've been nothing about her that would've reminded himself of him.”
“Maybe it was revenge,” Melanie said. “The other children he hated because they were like him. He killed Meagan because she was above him.”
“Possible, Ms. Stokes, but not probable. That is a distinct change in motivation, and it's rare to see a change in a serial killer's pathology. Now, in some cases, a killer may snatch a different type of victim because the desired target is not available. He prefers young, twenty-something blond women, but when the blood lust got too high, the killer ‘settled' for a thirty-something brunette. But in that case the killer's need, hurting women, was not that particular and thus it was still fulfilled. For other killers, however, the victim profile is intrinsically tied with their signature. They don't want to just hurt women. They need to hurt ‘loose' women, so the killer would never substitute a mother of three for a prostitute, even if the mother of three was more convenient. That crime wouldn't fulfill their need. For these men, finding the right target is like falling in love. They describe spending weeks, months, years, looking for the ‘right one.' They start with the physical—in Holmes's case, young, undersized, dirty, and poor. And then they simply see her. The one who moves something in their chests. The one who makes their palms perspire. And they know—this one will be their target.
“Russell Lee Holmes falls into this group of men, and looking at the victim profile, I am not convinced there was anything about clean, vibrant, upper-class Meagan Stokes to evoke blood lust in Russell Lee Holmes. To put it colloquially, she was not his type.”
“There are all the other factors,” David interjected, looking at Melanie. “Such as how did an illiterate man fashion a ransom note?”
“Excellent point, Agent,” Quincy said approvingly. “I have a copy of the ransom note in front of me. As the police argued in 1972, it is a very crude note with the words cut out of newspapers and the grammar incorrect. It was hand-delivered to the hospital where Harper Stokes worked, which was clever but simple. All of this fit their image of Russell Lee Holmes. However, if you break the note down, that argument does not hold. The words are too precisely placed for an uneducated, angry young man. There is no glue leaking from the edges, indicating a great deal of precision. Finally, there are no prints, no postmark, not even saliva used to seal the envelope. Whoever created this note was patient, intelligent, and very savvy about police procedure. None of that fits with what we know about Russell Lee Holmes.”