by Karen Rose
“Good thinking. Let’s compare them to the pictures from Lorraine Rush’s autopsy,” Steven said, “and let’s hope there’s something to compare. Also see if they can do any tests for ketamine on Rush’s tissue samples. Harry, I want you to focus on finding out where he got the ket.”
Harry wrote it in his notebook. “I’ll start with the vet supply houses and the local vet clinics.”
“Good. Sandra, see if any of your contacts on the street have heard about this.”
Sandra nodded. “I’ve already put out some feelers. I’ll see what I can drag in.”
Steven turned to Nancy who was busily taking notes of her own. “Nancy, what have you found in your database search?”
Nancy looked up and lifted her half-lensed glasses off the end of her nose. “I checked for perps charged with sexual assault crimes in a one-hundred-mile radius and popped up more names than we can run through in a month. I’ll see about doing a cross-ref with ketamine and perhaps we can narrow it a bit.”
Steven mentally ticked off the items he planned to cover in this meeting. “I’m going to work the connection between the two girls. I know they went to the same church. I want to know how well they knew one another and how our perp knew them. Finally, Meg, can you paint a picture of what kind of person we’re looking for?”
“It’s just a top of head sketch,” Meg cautioned. “We’re assuming he’s killed twice. At least. The savagery with which the first girl was brutalized before and after death indicates he’s angry. He probably doesn’t communicate well, probably holds his anger in. We’ll likely find he’s killed animals leading up to this. Most certainly he’s committed some lesser sexual crimes in the past, again working up to this. By not burying the Rush girl, it seems like he wanted her to be found. Media exposure will make him very satisfied.” She stopped and fixed her stare out the window. “I’m wondering how the ketamine factors in. Does he dope them up before he kills them? During? Does he use it to initially immobilize these girls while he’s kidnapping them or as an anesthesia to keep them from feeling anything while he’s killing them?”
“A considerate serial killer?” Sandra asked skeptically. “That would be one for the books.”
“Bundy volunteered at a suicide hotline,” Harry said thoughtfully.
“That’s not the same thing and you know it,” Sandra shot back. “These guys kill for the thrill of seeing another person in pain.”
“You mean our guy is abnormal? Perish the thought.” Harry recoiled in mock horror and Sandra glared.
Steven lifted his hand. “Boys and girls, please. What else, Meg?”
Meg glanced over her shoulder, then back out the window. “Sandra could very well be right. His use of ketamine could have nothing to do with its anesthetic effect. It could be he’s using it for the dream effect. That would indicate a curiosity about psychology or maybe even firsthand experience with some kind of therapy.”
“Or he could have a trigger-happy mouse finger,” Nancy said, her eyes on her laptop screen. “In the last few minutes I’ve come across six articles written by chem-heads espousing the awesome trips you can take into the ‘k-zone.’ Some of these are incredibly well written. It’s hard to believe such articulate people are stupid enough to do this drug.” She looked up and slid her glasses off her nose. “Sorry, Meg. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just surprised at the amount of information I was able to get so easily seeing as how I’d never heard of this stuff before.”
“It’s everywhere, Nancy,” Meg murmured. “That’s what makes it so scary.” Clearing her throat she went on. “I’m also wondering about the timing of this second abduction—it bothers me.”
“It’s too soon,” Sandra supplied.
“It is,” Meg agreed. “We found the Rush girl’s body five days ago and the autopsy showed she’d been dead less than a week. That’s less than two weeks between incidents. Early in their ‘career’ serial killers may go months or years between incidents. I don’t know. Maybe he’s done this before—many times that we don’t know about—and he’s now at the critical escalation point.”
Steven sat back in his chair. “But you don’t think so.” “No, not really. This feels more . . .” She tightened one side of her face, struggling for the words. “Immature,” she said finally. “Especially given the way he was shaken up by the dog yesterday morning. Leaving behind the hypo was . . . unprofessional at best.”
“An amateur,” Harry said wryly and Meg smiled.
“For lack of a better word, yes.” She shrugged wearily. “Summing up, if I had to guess his age I have to say he was younger and I’ll bet we find he’s well educated. He’s probably white, since serial killers tend not to cross ethnic lines. That’s all I can offer until I have more information.”
Steven closed his notebook and stood up. It wasn’t much. But it was the best they had at the moment. “Then let’s go get some more information.”
Saturday, October 1, 12:30 P.M.
Helen Barnett had been staring at the leather briefcase on her kitchen table for close to half an hour, debating whether she should unzip the front panel in the hope that Brad’s chemistry teacher had stored a phone number inside so she could return the briefcase.
Such a stuffed briefcase meant this teacher had brought home a lot of work that, Helen was willing to bet, a busy teacher would be needing to get to earlier than Sunday afternoon.
Jenna. Helen liked the sound of the name. It was pretty without being simpering. Helen knew by now that Steven hated simpering women. Unfortunately Helen wasn’t sure what kind of women Steven didn’t hate.
It just wasn’t natural for a young man Steven’s age, with half his life ahead of him, to insist on staying lonely. He was handsome, had a charming disposition when he wanted to, and rarely left his dirty socks on the floor. He didn’t snore, usually put the lid down, was financially comfortable, and had three beautiful sons—who needed a mother.
It wasn’t natural for those three boys to grow up without a mother when it was so unnecessary. Steven could have had his pick of pretty young things who would have adored his boys. Helen ought to know. She’d handpicked the pretty young things herself.
“But no,” she muttered, staring hard at the briefcase, annoyed she was so tempted to snoop. Snooping was what desperate people did. Desperate was what Helen Barnett had become.
She’d agreed to come and live with Steven four years ago when Melissa took such an untimely death, leaving her poor boys motherless. At the time, Helen was sure within a few years Steven would have remarried and she, Helen, would have been on her merry way, resuming the life she’d dropped without a second thought.
Now, four years later, Helen desperately wanted her old life back. She wanted to play canasta whenever the mood struck, every night if she wanted. Without having to get a baby-sitter. She wanted to go on cruises with her friends with a week’s notice. She wanted to go on a safari to Africa for a month. Maybe even get a gentleman friend of her own. A woman had needs, too, after all. But until Steven got a wife, none of that could happen. Nicky needed someone here all the time. He was just a baby, after all. And he’d been through so much. And Brad? God only knew what was wrong with that boy, but Helen knew sooner or later he’d come around. So Helen wanted Steven to get himself a wife. For the boys. For Steven. For her own sanity.
And this Jenna was the first woman Steven had even appeared to be interested in. Maybe if Helen asked this Jenna to dinner, gave them a chance to get to know each other better... And for that she’d need Jenna’s phone number. Which was likely in the briefcase.
“So are you going to open it or not?” a squeaky voice said behind her.
Helen gasped, her hand flying to cover her heart, which, her doctor assured her, was as strong as an ox. Slowly she turned to find Matt lounging against the microwave, an insolent grin on his face, looking just like Steven at thirteen. Brad looked like their mother, but Matt and Nicky were Steven all over again, red hair, freckles, and a smile to make
girls swoon. Matt’s hair had started to lighten to that strawberry blond color Helen so loved on Steven. In a few years the girls would be lining up outside Matt’s door. Hopefully by then the boys would have a real mother with a stick to beat off the undeserving girls. Only the best for her boys, the middle one of whom was a real sneak.
“How long have you been standing there?” Helen demanded, her eyes narrowing.
Matt just grinned wider. “Long enough. Yenta.”
Helen bit back a grin of her own. Insolent pup, using Fiddler against her at his age. “I am not matchmaking.” Not yet, she thought, and not without a phone number. “How did you know?”
Matt shrugged. “I was listening last night when you and Dad were talking about Brad.”
“Eavesdropping? Matthew Thatcher, I’m shocked,” Helen said, deadpan.
“It’s the best way to get information around here. Besides, how could I resist when you’re saying something bad about Mr. Perfect?”
Helen frowned. “I can’t believe you’re taking pleasure in whatever’s wrong with your brother,” she said severely. “I thought I raised you better than that.”
His face fell and he looked down at his feet. “Man, you know how to take all the fun out of life.” He looked up, ducking his head like the little boy he used to be, when, just yesterday? How had he grown so tall and so old . . . so fast? “Look, I’m not happy that Brad’s in trouble, but I am happy you’re not yelling at me for a change.”
She put on her imperious face. “News flash, Matthew. I’m a versatile woman, capable of multitasking. I can yell at two boys at the same time.”
“Now you tell me,” he mumbled, then she watched his expression slide from sullen to sly.
“What?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
Matt leaned forward. “I also heard Dad call Brad’s teacher by her first name last night. Very interesting. You want to know what she looks like?”
Helen bit her lip. The boy was incorrigible. Utterly. It was one of the things she loved most about him. “Your dad said she was sixty.”
Matt cracked out a laugh. “And you believed him?” Helen stiffened her back. “Of course not.” She tilted her head to one side and crossed her arms over her chest. “You have a picture?”
Matt pressed the lever on the microwave, popping open the door and exposing a bound book sitting on the glass turntable.
Helen glanced up to find his brown eyes dancing. “Brad’s yearbook?”
“I’m surprised at you, Aunt Bea. I thought you would have already thought of this yourself.”
“I’m old. Cut me some slack. And don’t call me Aunt Bea.” Helen reached for the book only to have Matt grab it first. She sighed. “What do you want?”
“Lemon meringue, apple, and pumpkin.” “And pumpkin?”
“She’s a looker. Aunt Bea.”
“Okay. And pumpkin. You’re going to get fat.”
“I am a thirteen-year-old growing boy. I won’t get fat. Oh, and I want ice cream with the apple pie. Vanilla.”
“You’re pushing me, boy. Give it.”
Matt handed over the yearbook. “Page forty-two.”
Helen flipped to the page and stopped short. “Oh, my goodness.”
Matt looked over her shoulder and let out a low wolf whistle. “Yeah, mama.”
Helen looked up and over her shoulder with a glare. “Matthew!”
He grinned. “Come on, Aunt Bea. I’m thirteen. If I didn’t drool a little you’d say I was sick and take me to Doc Theopolis for a shot.”
Helen considered and conceded. “Okay, you have a point. This time.” She dropped her eyes back down to the photo where a tall, black-haired woman and ten lab-coated teenagers held a test tube in each hand and beamed sunny smiles. “If she’s sixty, I want to know what she’s been cooking up in her lab to keep her face so smooth. She’s beautiful.”
“Great legs, too.”
“Matthew!”
“Oh, like I’m the first guy to say that. I’ll bet every one of those six guys in the science club joined for ‘academic stimulation.’” He punctuated the air.
“Matthew!” Helen choked on the laugh she tried to stifle. “Please. That is a picture I don’t need in my head. Okay, fine. She’s pretty and obviously very smart.”
“Probably too smart for Dad.”
“Probably,” Helen agreed. “But maybe she won’t figure that out until it’s too late.”
“So are you going to open the briefcase or not?”
Helen shook her head. “It’s an invasion of privacy. It would be wrong.” Matt shrugged nonchalantly, putting Helen on instant guard. “What do you have, young man?”
“A business card.” He grinned. “With her address and phone number.”
“Hand it over.”
Matt sulked. “I was going to hold out for turkey with trimmings.”
“If it’s good enough, I’ll throw in the turkey for free.”
“I love you, Aunt Bea.”
“Shut up, Matt.”
He grinned. “Check the back.”
Helen turned it over and read Jenna’s address and phone number. “She has good penmanship.”
“And great legs. Hey,” he added at her impatient sigh, “at least I stayed at her legs.”
“And this is supposed to please me? Don’t answer that. Where did you find this card? Or do I not want to hear the answer to that either?”
“In Dad’s suit pocket. I was looking for loose change to support my arcade habit.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, so I guess the ball’s in my court now.” “So you’ll call her and invite her for dinner?”
“Was my plan so transparent?”
“Predictable, at least.”
Helen looked up at him, suddenly suspicious. “Why are you helping me?”
Matt pulled a glossy brochure from his pocket. “I found this under the cushion on the couch. When I was looking for—”
“Loose change to support your arcade habit,” Helen finished and took the brochure from his hands. “Africa, the Dark Continent,” she read. “I was wondering where I’d left this.”
“And I overheard you talking to your friend Sylvia.”
“Quite the little spy, aren’t we?” Helen asked, not sure whether to be annoyed or repentant.
“I didn’t mean to,” he defended himself. “You were right here in the kitchen and I got hungry. I didn’t sneak or anything. Anyway, I heard you tell her you couldn’t go on the safari because no one could watch the kids for that long. I started to think about all the cool places you went before you came here and . . .” He let the thought trail off with an awkward shrug.
Repentant it would be. “You know I love you guys,” she said, relieved when he nodded.
“You just want to have fun. I can buy that.” He gently yanked a hank of her hair. “You know you’ll have to get a buzz cut when you go to Africa or the tsetse flies will make nests in your hair.”
“I’ll have to take my chances,” Helen returned dryly. “You want mashed potatoes or Stove Top with that turkey tomorrow?”
Matt’s eyes lit up. “Which is easier?”
“Which do you think?”
“Then you know which I want.” He took the yearbook and sauntered out of the kitchen.
Helen watched him go, wanting to swat his sauntering behind and marveling at his growing maturity at the same time. She’d done a good job raising these boys if she did say so herself. And Brad would come around. “Mashed potatoes, turkey, three pies, and repentance,” she said aloud to no one at all. “This Jenna better be worth the trouble.”
Saturday, October 1, 2:30 P.M.
Marvin Eggleston surged to his feet, pushing back from his kitchen table so hard the chair fell to the floor with a clatter that made his trembling wife jump in her chair. “So you’re telling me you are no closer to finding my daughter than you were two fucking days ago!” he exploded. He leaned on the table, balancing on the knuckles of his clenched fists, his face inches from S
teven’s. “What the hell have you been doing, sitting with your thumbs stuck up your asses?”
Steven smelled whiskey on the man’s breath and said nothing. Eggleston was a grieving father. Steven would have preferred to see the man sober, though, if for no other reason than to answer the questions he needed to ask. But everyone dealt with grief and terror differently. While Marvin Eggleston blustered, his petite wife sat quietly crying.
Anna Eggleston grabbed her husband’s arm, holding on for dear life. Her face was haggard, her eyes haunted. Beyond pale, her skin had a translucence, the look of being stretched too thin over her bones that came from forty-eight hours of constant fear and tears. Her voice shook when she spoke and Steven’s pity grew. “Marvin, please. Serena will hear you.” Steven was grateful Mrs. Eggleston’s mother had taken four-year-old Serena upstairs when he arrived. No child needed to see her parents so wildly grieving. More tears welled in Anna’s eyes and spilled to her cheeks, unchecked. “You’re not helping. Please, sit down.” She turned to Steven. “I’m sorry. It’s just that we’ve had no sleep.” She bowed her head, her shoulders shaking as a new wave of sobs took over. “We can’t sleep. He has my baby,” she whispered, her hand still clutching her husband’s arm.
Steven placed his hand over hers, feeling the chill of her skin. “It’s all right, Mrs. Eggleston. I truly understand. You don’t have to apologize to me.” He placed his other hand on Marvin’s arm, creating a circle, connecting them. “Mr. Eggleston, if I knew where your daughter was, believe me, she’d be with you right now. I know it doesn’t help, but we’re doing everything we can.”
Eggleston slumped, his chin dropping to his chest. “God, I can’t believe this,” he whispered. “I feel so damn helpless.” He looked up and in his eyes Steven recognized the desperate terror he himself felt when that bastard Winters held Nicky.
“Yesterday, the young one from your office . . .” Eggleston shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “The one that took the cast of Sammie’s footprint outside her window.”
“Agent Thompson?”
Eggleston nodded, not breaking eye contact. “Yes, he’s the one. He said it had happened to you. That someone had stolen your child out of his bed.”