Merciless

by Mary Burton

  “Your car? Why?”

  “The less people who see you now, the better. Let’s go.”

  Dixon grabbed his coat and tie and wobbled out the door to the dark sedan. He slid into the front seat, his nerves and body dancing with illness and adrenaline.

  He laid his head back against the soft seat. “Why do you like to kill so much?”

  “It’s a dark hobby, I’ll admit.”

  “How long have you been killing?”

  He shrugged. “I killed my first woman when I was sixteen.”

  “Shit.”

  The Other nodded, amazed by his own admission. “Something, isn’t it?”

  Dixon opened his eyes to say something else but felt the prick of a needle in the side of his neck. His head immediately spun. His gaze grew hazy.

  “You’re killing me,” he choked.

  “Never make a deal with the scorpion. They’ll sting you every time.”

  The call on the prostitute came in around midnight. The hotel owner had rented the room for five hours, and time had come up and customers were waiting. He’d found the woman and called the cops.

  Now Kier and Garrison stood by the body, staring down at the woman who lay on her stomach, blood pooling around her head.

  “Is she the one who left with Dixon?” Malcolm said.

  “Yeah.” The woman that answered was dressed like a hooker—tight pants, a tube top, and a gold belt—but she had a badge slung around her neck. Her name was Officer Julian. “Her name is Foxy. She’s been in town a couple of months. Not more than twenty years old.”

  Malcolm studied the body, noting the bruising around her throat and the bite mark on her shoulder. “The bruising and bites are classic Dixon.”

  “No doubt the medical examiner will find bruising on the inside of her legs and signs of very rough sex,” Garrison said.

  Julian’s bright red lips flattened. “The girls in the area were surprised to see him. They told Foxy not to go with him, but he was paying two hundred for an hour. She decided the money was worth it.”

  Foxy lay on her belly, her hands splayed out in front of her. One blue high heel was half off and the other wedged on tight. Her sack purse lay beside her.

  “Foxy’s neck was sliced with a sharp blade, and that is not like Dixon at all,” Malcolm said.

  “Killers evolve,” Garrison said.

  Thin silver bracelets jangled on Officer Julian’s arm as she moved her hand to her hips. “Maybe he didn’t want word getting back to the streets about this ‘date.’ He had enough trouble coaxing Foxy into his car.”

  “I’ll bet we find his DNA all over this room,” Malcolm said. “Killing her doesn’t make sense. Are there any cuts on her body?”

  The forensic tech continued to snap photos as he shook his head. “No cuts. Lots of bruises. Track marks. But no cuts.”

  “None of this feels right,” Malcolm said.

  Garrison nodded. “Dixon likes to hurt women, not kill them.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You think he’s working with someone else?”

  “It wouldn’t be a huge stretch. One killer is in it for the violence and sex, and the other is in it for the kill. Not the first time that’s happened.”

  “Where’s the motel manager?”

  “Outside,” Officer Julian said. “His name is Kline. Sammie Kline.”

  Malcolm and Garrison found the short, troll-like man hovering by one of the police cars. A bright red shirt covered a round belly. He held the remains of a cigarette between his thin lips.

  Malcolm held up his badge. “Sammie Kline. You manage this place?”

  The man sniffed. “I work the desk at nights.”

  “So everyone has got to go through you to get a room.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You see who rented room number twelve?”

  “It pays not to pay too close attention.”

  Garrison grinned. “It’s going to pay big dividends if you did pay attention.”

  Sammie sniffed, dropped his butt to the ground, and twisted his foot on it until it extinguished. “I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  Malcolm planted his hands on his hips. “Do us both a favor. Think hard about who rented room twelve.”

  He studied Malcolm, realizing that he’d come out farther ahead if he dug deep into his memory. “The chick’s name was Foxy. She paid cash and said she needed the room for a couple of hours. That’s longer than normal. Most girls don’t book the room for more than a half hour.”

  “Who was with her?”

  “He didn’t come inside, but I saw him. He’s not been in here in a long time, but I recognized him. It was Dixon. I remember his trial.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Positive.”

  “Anyone with him?”

  “Nope. He was alone.”

  Malcolm studied the parking lot. “Did he leave alone?”

  “I don’t know,” Sammie said.

  “Do you have security cameras?” Garrison said.

  “No one wants any record of any comings or goings. There’s a gas station a half block away. It might have picked up someone driving to the motel.”

  Malcolm shoved out a breath. “Time to start knocking on doors and figuring out who saw what.”

  “Right.”

  They spent the better part of the next hour doing just that. Getting people to answer had been difficult. Several times they’d had Sammie use his pass key to open doors. In the end, no one had seen Dixon leave. If anyone had seen them leave they’d long since left. “Let’s put Officer Julian to work. Let her ask around. One of the girls might have been working at the time and seen someone leave with Dixon.”

  “Will anyone talk?”

  “It’s in their best interest. Either Dixon or someone else had some very nasty, violent tastes.”

  Chapter 24

  Wednesday, October 12, 3 A.M.

  Court order in hand, Malcolm and Kier arrived at Dixon’s house ready to search for any signs of the doctor or the murder weapon. The small brick home was located in an upscale neighborhood. The home’s exterior was perfectly maintained. This time of year leaves fell daily, but there wasn’t a leaf or stick on Dixon’s lush green lawn, which looked so smooth in the moonlight. Whoever maintained the yard came several times a week.

  They rang the bell, and when no one answered, they pounded on the front door. “Dr. Dixon,” Malcolm shouted. “This is Alexandria Police. We have a warrant.”

  When the house remained stoically silent, Malcolm tried the front door. “Locked.”

  “No surprise.”

  “What about the garage door?” Garrison offered.

  They moved around the side of the house to the side door illuminated by a light. They peered inside and saw that Dixon’s car was not parked in the space. The door beside the garage was also locked.

  Malcolm found a small landscape rock by a flowerbed and broke the glass on the door. He reached between the shards and unlocked it. The detectives moved inside the house, flipped on the garage light, and made their way into the house.

  The garage, like the house, was neat and clean.

  Flipping on lights, they moved through a kitchen and den. All of the rooms were as neat and organized as the front yard, but unlike the exterior the interior was Spartan.

  By the looks, pictures had been stripped from some of the walls, and it seemed quite a few pieces of furniture were missing. Dixon had a taste for antiques. The only room that remained fully decorated and intact was a front parlor.

  “He wants the world to believe he’s doing fine, but he’s selling his precious antiques to pay the bills,” Malcolm said.

  They moved upstairs, taking their time to determine that the house was indeed empty. Dixon’s bedroom was furnished with just a mattress and box spring. The night-stands were cheap plastic pieces. The bureau looked like it was from a box store.

  Down the hallway, the first two rooms were stripped bare. “Sinclair is having a lo
ok at his financials as we speak.”

  “It still galls me that he’s walking the streets,” Garrison said.

  “Not for long.” They reached the back bedroom. Malcolm flipped on the light. “Shit.”

  The walls in the room were plastered with pictures of women. The pictures were arranged in groups, and all followed a progressive pattern.

  The first in a grouping showed the women smiling and seductive, clear participants in whatever was happening. But then the images changed. Smiles vanished and were replaced by looks of terror. Tear-streaked mascara ran down their faces. Some had bloodied lips. Others had bruises around their necks. But in each and every photo the women were alive.

  “The pictures appear to go back decades.” Garrison’s voice was tight with anger.

  Malcolm’s fury burned in the pit of his stomach. “He’s been at this for a long time.” He pointed to the wall. “Look, that’s Lulu Sweet on the far right. Other than Foxy, she must have been his most recent.” He let his gaze roam to the next woman. “Sierra Day.”

  The next two pictures were of two prostitutes who’d vanished this past summer. “We never found their bodies.”

  “No.”

  “And before them is Lulu again.” But she was a couple of years younger. She wore her hair short with spiky pink tips as she had during Dixon’s trial.

  “And before Lulu, the other three missing prostitutes.”

  “If these pictures are an accurate time line, it looks like he took a couple of years off between his trial and his next victim.”

  “The murder trial must have scared him enough to stop for a while.” Garrison studied the images that went back decades. Neither of them recognized any of the women.

  “It’s going to take legwork to find these women.”

  “Yeah.” Garrison’s gaze settled on the first image. “Shit. Look at the first one.”

  The picture was at least thirty years old, but he recognized the face. “Fay Willow. She was his first.”

  “Dixon was the boyfriend?” Garrison said.

  “He could have been. He would have been in his early twenties when she died.”

  “Fay’s roommate said the boyfriend made deliveries to the museum.”

  “A little digging will confirm his employment records.”

  Malcolm moved to a table on the far end of the room.

  It appeared to be a workstation where Dixon cropped and arranged his pictures. He glanced down, and instantly his blood turned to ice. “Garrison, look at this.”

  Garrison moved and studied the images of the woman. The pictures were snapped when she was selecting produce in the grocery store, walking in Old Town Alexandria, and standing on the steps of the courthouse. “His next victim.”

  Malcolm fisted his fingers. “Angie Carlson.”

  It was nearly four in the morning when Angie arrived at Dr. Dixon’s house after receiving a call from Kier. Kier’s normally abrupt tone had been sharp like a razor, cutting into her deep slumber. Curt and direct, he’d told her she had to come immediately. She pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. She pushed her feet into loafers.

  Police cars surrounded the home, their lights flashing in the darkness. The forensics van blocked half the neighborhood road.

  She found a place to park several houses down and walked toward the chaos. The front yard was roped off with yellow crime-scene tape. She moved toward a uniformed officer.

  “My name is Angie Carlson. I received a call from Detective Kier.” She moved to pull her driver’s license from her wallet to prove her identity.

  He held up his hand. “I know who you are.” He handed her a set of plastic gloves. “He’s on the second floor.”

  She ducked under the tape, pulling the gloves on as she moved across the yard. When she reached the front door another uniformed policeman greeted her and directed her up the stairs to the second floor. The house hummed with the snap of cameras, conversations, and officers moving around as they searched all the rooms.

  She found Malcolm in the back bedroom. He and Garrison leaned over a table of photos, and both seemed deep in thought.

  Her greeting died on her lips when she looked at the pictures on the wall. The women’s pain-filled eyes stared back at her, sending a haunting appeal for help. The sharp, crisp images were so vivid she could almost hear their cries. For a moment she thought she’d be ill.

  Dear God, she’d defended this monster. She’d used all her legal know-how to put him back on the streets.

  “Carlson.” Malcolm’s deep voice startled her from her thoughts.

  She squared her shoulders. “Detective.”

  “Interesting glimpse into your client’s mind, isn’t it?”

  “He’s no longer my client.” Her voice wasn’t as strong as she’d have liked.

  “But when he was, you did a bang-up job of defending him. You put him back on the streets.” Bitterness laced the words.

  Guilt mingled with anger. “I did my job very well, Detective. And if you’d done yours better we wouldn’t be here.”

  His jaw hardened.

  She tightened her hand around her purse strap. “Did you call me here to argue?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?” The grotesque images behind him taunted her. She didn’t want to see the damage Dixon had done.

  “Your client killed another woman.”

  He was baiting her, directing his anger at her. A part of her knew she deserved his ire. “He’s not my client.”

  Kier arched a brow as if he didn’t quite believe her. “I want to make damn sure you have no information about him that might help us.”

  “I’ve not spoken to him in over a week.”

  “He’s not contacted you in any way?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She leaned in so close she could smell his scent. “Call me a bitch. Call me a barracuda. Hell, call me the Queen of the Night. I don’t care. But do not call me a liar, Detective. I’ve gone out of my way to help you with this case.”

  He held his ground, maintaining the close proximity. He stared at her so hard; she suspected he was trying to read her thoughts. “There’s something else you need to see.”

  She didn’t want to see any more. She wanted to leave. She wanted to slip into a dark bar and drink wine until her mind was numb. “Show me.”

  He guided her across the room to the table. “Have a look.”

  She braced and glanced down. Immediately, her in-sides constricted. The images were all of her. “These are all recent. Taken in the last couple of months.” She didn’t dare touch the images. “I never once saw him.”

  “He may have taken the pictures himself or hired someone. But it’s clear he has a real obsession with you.”

  She moistened her lips, praying she didn’t get sick to her stomach now. “I was his next victim.”

  “I think so.”

  “You said he killed another woman?”

  “He cut her throat.”

  “Cut her throat? That doesn’t sound like Dixon.”

  “Why?”

  “Dixon is so fastidious. And he wouldn’t be so bold.”

  Malcolm considered her closely. “Why do you say that?”

  “He was truly terrified at the prospect of going to jail. He said many times that he’d never survive in prison. Killing a woman like this is messy, and his DNA would be all over the room. He’d be too easy to track after a killing like that.”

  “Maybe he got lost in the heat of the moment.”

  “Dixon? Doubtful. I never ever saw him once relinquish control. Control is critical for him. I just don’t believe he’d be so foolish.”

  She studied a photo taken of her entering King’s. Eva was at her side, and they were laughing. She remembered the spring day clearly. They’d gone shopping, and for the first time in a long time she felt as if they were sisters. To realize Dixon had been lurking and snapping pictures of that moment made her feel dirty.

  “I
want you to look at another picture.” His tone had lost some of the harder edges.

  Unshed tears burned her throat. Numbly she nodded and followed him to the end of the photos. She glanced up. “Who is this?”

  “Fay. We think she might have been his first.”

  “Was Dixon her boyfriend?”

  “He could have been. He would have been in his early twenties. She was twenty-nine when she died. Not an impossible arrangement.”

  “He killed her and stripped her bones?” She shook her head.

  “I don’t know. That’s why we’re searching for him.” He cupped his hand under her elbow and guided her away from the picture. “Could he be working with someone?”

  “A partner? I doubt it. He liked things done his way.”

  “Maybe he changed his mind?”

  She nodded. “What can I do to help you?”

  “Is there anyone whom he would have worked with?”

  “None that I know. He had no family that he ever told me about. Whatever friends or acquaintances he had before his trial abandoned him. I got the sense he was quite alone in the world.”

  “What was his social life like?”

  “I can’t speak for his recent activities, but in the past he was a patron of the arts.”

  “The theater.”

  “And the ballet and the art museums. He loved that world.”

  “Okay.” He tightened his jaw. “Call Eva. See if you can stay at King’s for a few days. Until we find Dixon or his possible partner you are not safe.”

  She didn’t want to surrender her life to scum like Dixon. But she had to be practical. “Sure.”

  Her agreement seemed to strip away some of his stress. “Good. I’ll have a uniform follow you to your office and then to King’s.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Angie, be very, very careful. For whatever reason, Dixon has not killed you, but he’s got something planned.”

  * * *

  Dixon’s head pounded. His mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. In a pitch-black room, he tried to pull his arm to his mouth but discovered it was tied above his head. Not only were his hands tied, but his feet were tied as well. “Hey!”

  Immediately, an overhead light clicked on, blinding him. Shutting his eyes, he turned his head. “What the hell is going on?”