The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  “But Erin wasn’t dead when she was stabbed,” Sherlock said.

  “No, but there was a lot of it in her system, more than in yours, Ruth. From what you told us about how terrifying it was for you in that cave chamber, how you were imagining God knows what coming after you, I hate to think what Erin Bushnell went through.”

  Ruth let out a long breath. “So I guess I didn’t just go crazy. But how does anyone get ahold of a gas like this?”

  Dix shrugged. “The ME said chemicals like this are available from pharmaceutical companies and on the Internet. Apparently they have some legitimate uses for research. It’s unusual enough to warrant looking into but it’s unlikely the BZ is from a nice, clean local source that would identify our killer.”

  Savich nodded. “Since you got a lower dose than Erin, Ruth, you probably got the residue from the gas he used on her. Maybe he came back later to check on his handiwork and found you, freaked out, maybe unconscious. Maybe he bashed you on the head or he found you already injured, and hauled you out of there.”

  “But why not simply kill me and leave me in there with Erin?”

  Savich said slowly, “Because that was her tomb, Ruth, not yours. All hers.”

  “That would be really sick, Dillon.”

  “Yes,” he said, “it would be.”

  Sherlock sat forward, her teacup balanced on her knee. “So you think this tomb idea has something to do with his embalming her?”

  Dix said, “Dr. Himple said he didn’t actually embalm her. He said it was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. I’ll try to explain this correctly.” Dix pulled a sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket, perused it for a moment. “Okay, when a funeral home embalms a body, they make small incisions in the carotid artery and the jugular vein, thread a tube into the carotid to pump in the embalming fluid, and drain the blood out through the jugular vein. It takes about three gallons of embalming fluid to thoroughly disinfect and preserve a body. They also put fluid in the body cavities, a mixture of formaldehyde, methanol, ethanol, and other solvents.

  “The thing is, our murderer didn’t do a thorough job of it. He made the small incisions in her carotid and jugular, pumped in about a gallon of embalming fluid, let a bit of blood drain out the jugular vein, then called it a day.”

  Sherlock said slowly, staring into the fireplace, “So he either didn’t know how to do the procedure correctly or it was some kind of ritual, enough to give him the taste of the process, to give him the satisfaction.”

  Savich nodded. “Yes, and he posed her. He may have considered it part of a ceremony, probably done with a good deal of gravity on his part, almost reverence. He may have wanted to preserve the body for a while before he buried it somewhere.”

  Dix said, “I don’t like the sound of that. A ritual? I was thinking this guy may have done this before, but I was hoping you’d disagree.”

  “We don’t know for sure, Dix, but it’s got all the ear-marks,” Ruth said. “Did Dr. Himple tell you if the incision sites were sutured?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But he did mention that the stab wound in her chest had no blood on it; it had been swabbed clean.”

  “Part of the ritual then,” Ruth said. “He did a thorough job. So, Dix, are there any funeral homes in Maestro?”

  “Of course. Tommy Oppenheimer is director of Peaceful Field Funeral Home, on Broadmoor Street. He’s my deputy Penny’s husband, a good guy, a bit high-strung, overprotective of Penny, but okay. I’ll ask him if he’s had anyone asking questions about embalming, or if he’s heard anyone in his business mention any strange employees they might have now or recently fired.”

  Sherlock said, “If I were you, I’d tell Dr. Himple to threaten all his techs with pain and dismemberment if any of them open their mouths about finding embalming fluids in her.”

  Dix shook his head. “Unbelievable, the loony actually performed an embalming rite on her. That is something her parents will never find out about.”

  Sherlock said, “You should go personally and speak to the techs, Dix. That might keep it under wraps longer, particularly if you guilt them about the parents finding out, and what it would do to them. Dillon will get MAX on the embalming process, and find out if this MO has ever appeared before.”

  Dix stretched his back, crossed his legs at the ankles. “When I left New York, I thought I’d left the crazies behind. Was I wrong, or what? If Ruth hadn’t gone into Winkel’s Cave treasure hunting on that particular day, Erin Bushnell would have simply disappeared forever. No one would have had a clue what happened to her—did she pick up and leave with no word for anyone, or run off with some guy no one ever saw, or—did someone take her away?” He stopped dead, looked down at the floor, his hands frozen in fists on his thighs. Ruth saw he was pale, markedly so. There was something very wrong here. Then she knew. “Dix, what happened to your wife Christie?”

  Dix didn’t answer for the longest time, didn’t move, didn’t look at any of them. Finally, he looked up at Ruth standing beside him. “My wife—Christie—she disappeared nearly three years ago.”

  “And you don’t know what happened to her, do you?”

  He shook his head. “She was simply gone one day, like Erin Bushnell would have been if you hadn’t happened along. We conducted a huge criminal investigation, did everything humanly possible—I even hired a private detective I’d heard about out of Chicago—but no one ever found a single clue, a single lead, nothing. For nearly three years.”

  He looked up then at Savich and Sherlock. “From the minute Ruth found Erin Bushnell, I’ve been asking myself if this was what happened to Christie.”

  Savich cleared his throat and glanced briefly at his wife. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to live with that uncertainty, the pain of not knowing. It’s got to have been really rough for you and your boys. But you’ve done a remarkable job with them. And I’ll tell you the truth: I’d be thinking along the same lines as you if it were Sherlock. But the fact is, I think it’s highly unlikely that Christie’s disappearance had anything to do with Erin Bushnell’s murder.”

  Ruth felt tears burn her throat and swallowed them. She smiled at him. “Dix, did I ever tell you how very grateful I am that they dumped me in your woods? Hey, I never would have met your boys otherwise and had the opportunity to bleach the blue out of your boxers.”

  There was quiet laughter. Ruth thought it felt very good.

  As he helped Sherlock on with her jacket, Savich said, “We have a very unbalanced individual here, guys, but someone functioning normally enough to send those two men here to the house after you. It would behoove all of us to be very careful, you in particular, Ruth. He’s tried to kill you once, and he may try again.”

  “What would be his reason now?” Ruth asked. “We found his cave, we found Erin, and I’ve told you everything I know. Why would he mess with an FBI agent now?”

  Dix said, “Savich is right. You’re being logical, Ruth. I doubt we can say the same thing about someone who pumped embalming fluid into Erin’s body. Fact is, we can’t be sure about anything he might do.”

  “That’s a cheery thought,” Ruth said.

  Dix said, “Savich, what are the chances of your profilers at Quantico taking a shot at this?”

  “I’ll call Steve in the morning.”

  After Savich and Sherlock left, Dix walked Ruth to Rob’s bedroom. He paused by the closed door of Rafe’s room to listen. “It’s too quiet,” he said. “Usually I can hear at least one of them snoring.”

  She lightly laid her hand on his arm. “I am very, very sorry about Christie. You believe she’s dead, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I know she is. There is no way Christie would leave me and the boys. Not willingly. Someone took her, someone killed her. I just don’t know who.”

  There was nothing she could say, and so Ruth simply pressed against him, held him for a very long time.

  When she finally stepped back, she kept her hand on his arm for a moment. “You
don’t think there’s any danger from me staying here tonight, do you?”

  He heard the hint of fear in her voice and shook his head. “I’m thinking you could kick your way out of a bar fight, Special Agent. But I’m not about to take any more chances with you or the boys. I’ve got my deputies on a rotating schedule. They’ll be checking the house every hour, not to worry.”

  She nodded. “I need to pick up some clothes tomorrow, Dix. Rob needs his stuff back.”

  “No problem,” Dix said, and turned away. He paused, turned back. “You okay, Ruth?”

  “Sure, I’m fine. Are you okay, Dix?”

  He said nothing, merely nodded.

  When he lay in his bed, Dix listened to the familiar sounds of the night and wondered what was happening to his peaceful town. And he thought of Christie. He’d never before spoken of her as he had tonight. Somehow he felt comforted, a bit freer of the numbing pain, a bit more open to life again. He still had Christie’s photo on his desk at work, taken with his boys only a month before she vanished. He looked at her every day, and every day he wondered what had happened to her.

  CHAPTER 16

  MAESTRO, VIRGINIA

  TUESDAY MORNING

  IT WAS TEN-THIRTY Tuesday morning before the four of them met for a late breakfast at Maurie’s Diner on Main Street. Savich sipped tea, set down his cup. “MAX found us instances of stabbing and gassing, of course, even embalming, by a parade of psychopaths you don’t want to know about, but never all together, at least that we know about. I make that caveat because if not for Ruth, we might never have found Erin Bushnell.”

  “You don’t sound surprised,” Dix said as he spread butter on wheat toast.

  Savich shook his head. “I’ve learned that the killers among us have limitless imagination.”

  Ruth laid down her fork, leaned her chin on her laced fingers. “And that’s the whole point. It’s his own special deal, his way of making himself unique, his own creation.”

  Savich said, “I agree, Ruth. It’s usually a script the killer must follow to the letter if he’s to consider his act a success. He didn’t want his handiwork discovered, that isn’t what he’s about, what he’s after. It’s the process—that’s what’s important to him.”

  “More tea, Special Agent?”

  Savich smiled up at Glenna, the waitress. “Yes, thank you.” When she’d left, looking over her shoulder at him several times, Savich asked Dix, “Did you meet with the techs at the morgue this morning?”

  “Yep. I threatened them with whatever I could think of.” He shrugged. “They all agreed, but who knows? None of my deputies know a thing about it, either. Only the four of us, Dr. Himple, and the three techs. I also called Dr. Crocker at Loudoun County Community Hospital.” Dix’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, said, “Sheriff Noble here.”

  His expression lightened as he listened, and then darkened, and his hand fisted on the tabletop. He looked very angry. “Is this your idea of good news, bad news, Emory?” He listened for quite a while, the three agents sensing the deputy calling was trying to calm his boss. He looked ready to eat nails when he flipped off his cell phone.

  Ruth said, “Well?”

  “My deputies found your Beemer in the shed behind Walt McGuffey’s house, Ruth. Remember the house we passed on the way to Lone Tree Hill? And I saw that the snow didn’t look like it had been disturbed at all, and called to have my people check on Walt?” He paused, and there was such a look of helpless rage on his face that Ruth laid her hand on his arm.

  “What happened, Dix? What’s the bad news?”

  “They didn’t stop by until this morning. Walt was dead, probably since Friday. Murdered, more than likely by the same monster who murdered Erin and tried to murder you. He hid your Beemer in the shed.”

  “How was Mr. McGuffey killed, Sheriff?”

  Dix got ahold of himself at the sound of Savich’s voice. “Stabbed through the heart with one of his own kitchen knives.”

  Sherlock said, “Walt wasn’t part of his ritual. It was expediency, nothing more than that. Maybe the old man saw something he shouldn’t have.”

  Dix nodded. “Maybe he needed very badly to hide Ruth’s car in a hurry, and simply dispatched Walt quickly because he was in the way. Maybe we’ll find something in the car.”

  Dix dropped a twenty alongside Savich’s money on the table. He helped Ruth on with Rob’s old leather jacket. She said, “I’m really sorry about this, Dix. This Walt McGuffey, have you known him for a long time?”

  He nodded. “As long as I’ve lived here. Walt was eighty-seven years old, bragged about it, lived here all his life. Chappy told me he used to be the finest furniture maker in the state, liked to build with bird’s-eye maple the best. His wife, Martha, died in the seventies, cancer, I believe. Christie used to invite him over for Thanksgiving dinner, and—well, I’ve had him over myself for the past two years.”

  Since Maurie’s was across the street from the sheriff’s office, Dix walked right over, ready to ream out Emory for waiting so long to get out to McGuffey’s place.

  Penny Oppenheimer was sitting behind the information desk, a large bandage wrapped around her head. Dix was surprised to see her at work. She was supposed to rest for the next few days.

  Before he could say a word, Penny said, “The reason Emory didn’t send deputies out to the old McGuffey place sooner, Sheriff, is because we’ve all been working overtime guarding your house and working on the three deaths we already had, not to mention the downed power lines from the storm. Emory’s also been dealing with the hundreds of calls we’ve had from people asking about all this, not to mention fending off the press, and three DUIs, all of them teenagers.”

  “The press?”

  “Yes, sir. Milton has been bugging us every five minutes for updates, said it’s the public’s right to know and he wants up-to-date details for his deadline on Wednesday.”

  Dix snorted, said to the three of them, “Milton Bean owns and operates the Maestro Daily Telegraph. He’s seventy-four, hacks nonstop because he smokes cigars. He hasn’t had a byline in fifteen years.”

  Penny said helpfully, “He swears he’s writing one right this instant, if only our office would cooperate—”

  “I’m surprised the real press hasn’t arrived yet. Then you’ll really have your hands full. Where is Emory?”

  “In the men’s room, I think,” Penny said. “On top of everything else, he was talking about diarrhea. He’s really sorry, Sheriff, feels really bad.”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna make him feel a lot worse.”

  Ruth grinned. “But you, Penny, did a great job breaking all this to the sheriff. Everyone knew he wouldn’t get mad at a poor deputy whose head is all bandaged up from risking her life for him.” She added to Dix, “You’ve got a pretty smart staff here, Dix.”

  Dix asked abruptly, “How is your head, Penny? Maybe you should still be home. Did Emory get you in here to keep me from kicking his butt?”

  Penny shook her head. “Believe me, I want to be here. At home Tommy makes me lie on the sofa and watch TV. I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m only doing desk duty—taking calls, that’s all, answering questions if anyone comes in, I promise. Hey, everyone’s really upset about this. Walt was a neat old guy.”

  “He sure was,” Dix said, and stomped away to his office.

  Sherlock said to Deputy Penny Oppenheimer as she walked by her desk, “Nice touch, that lovely huge bandage. No man could withstand that. No man would have even thought of it.”

  “Thank you,” Penny said. “I figured I had to do something or the sheriff would kick in Emory’s kneecaps. Hey, he doesn’t seem to mind you guys being here. I guess you’re not trying to tromp him under your big Federal shoes.”

  “An occasional toe nudge is all,” Sherlock said. She nodded at the large room through a glass partition behind Penny, where half a dozen deputies were trying to look busy, but naturally were focused on the three interlopers. And Ruth in particular,
who was dressed in Rob’s jeans, a flannel shirt, and an old leather jacket. She followed Dillon into the sheriff’s office.

  “Nice office,” Sherlock said.

  Ruth was surprised, truth be told. Covering an entire wall was a photographic pictorial of Virginia, from the old town in Alexandria to the sweeping white paddocks of horse country. There was a large black-and-white print of the fog-shrouded mountains and color blowups of incredible green valleys, wildly beautiful in the middle of summer with thick pines, maples, and oaks. They were framed in black like the photo on his desk of a woman and two boys. It must be Christie, she thought. She saw he was looking at her and smiled. “She’s lovely, Dix.”

  “Thank you.” Dix tucked some papers in his pocket he’d pulled out of his desk drawer. “Okay, let’s go out to Walt’s place.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after Dix had spoken to four of his deputies who had marked off the perimeter of the McGuffey property from sightseers, they stepped into Walt McGuffey’s 1940s bungalow that looked like it hadn’t been updated since it was built. The furniture, though, was amazing. Walt had kept his best pieces, all of bird’s-eye maple and exquisitely made—a sofa, a table, six chairs, several side tables. The unfortunate 1970s burnt-orange shag carpet, however, didn’t enhance the setting. Dr. Himple was there with the forensic team from Loudoun, the county seat. The forensic folks looked tired. Dr. Himple stretched as he stood up, and nodded in their direction, but his eyes were on Dix. “I’m really sorry, Dix. Walt died easily, if it makes any difference. The knife killed him fast; he probably hardly felt it. There aren’t any defensive wounds. He probably didn’t even see it coming. But that’s preliminary, you understand. I’ll do an autopsy immediately and let you know.”

  Savich said, “So Mr. McGuffey knew his murderer—he let him in, welcomed him.”

  Dr. Himple nodded. “Yes, I would say so.”

  Sherlock said, “Mr. McGuffey probably invited him into the kitchen, say for a cup of coffee. The murderer knew he was going to kill the old man, probably looked around for a weapon, saw the knife on the counter, and used it.”