“I just wasn’t sure, considering the recent memos to ensure information remains confidential and is only released once approved by the higher-ups.”
“I’m the lead detective, and I say it’s okay. Besides, Booker used to be one of us. You’re not working as an undercover reporter, are you?”
“Ha. That’ll be the day,” I replied, popping an eyebrow skyward.
“Up,” a man off to my left said.
Four men each carrying white metal poles hoisted an enormous canopy over our heads.
“And down,” the man said to the others. “Let’s tie off these three sides and create an opening facing north, opposite the direction the weather is rolling in from.”
In an instant, we were nearly enclosed, with interior lighting positioned in the corners of the tent. The cover from the elements came just in time. I heard the pitter-patter of occasional raindrops ping the plastic surface above our heads.
Dan cleared his throat. “So, the marks on her face. I’ll only know for certain once I get her back to the lab and conduct a complete autopsy. But by estimating the time of death and then assessing the amount of scar tissue on her face, I’d guess the damage was done prior to her death.”
“A sick bastard is behind this.” Paco’s voice was raspy.
“With the three scars running parallel to each other on each side of the face, I’m wondering if the perp was conducting some type of ritual,” I offered while scratching my goatee.
“I wondered the same. We’ll have to do some research and see if we can find a hit. It might help us narrow down the spectrum of sick bastards,” Bobby said, lifting an eye toward Paco.
I made a note for Alisa to jump on the same task.
“Do you have any initial thoughts on cause of death, realizing you can’t confirm anything until after the autopsy, of course?” I asked Dan, trying to be as respectful of his trade as I could.
“If I was a betting man—and I’m not one to throw down a wager even on a meaningless baseball game—I’d say it had something to do with the massive wound in her back, just left of center.”
My eyes surveyed the body again, looking for an exit wound.
“I don’t want to disrupt the body any more than we already have,” Dan said, leaning forward. “I couldn’t find an exit wound, but I’m eager to confirm how close it came to exiting through her chest.”
“High-caliber bullet, hollow point,” I suggested.
“At this stage, without any analysis on what I might find in the tissue and blood, I’d say she was killed by some type of three-pronged blade, serrated by the looks of the torn tissue. Whatever the weapon, the wound was deep. Massive blood loss. Appeared to have split a rib on the back side.”
“Damn,” Paco added, rubbing his face until his bushy eyebrows were askew.
“So you’re not thinking she could have injected some type of bad drug that killed her or at least maimed her so the perp could torture her and ultimately kill her with this blade?”
Dan chuckled twice. “Like I said, I can run theories by you all day long, but I can’t confirm anything until I—”
“Complete a full autopsy. We know,” Bobby said, slightly annoyed at Dan’s insistence on driving home his point. “But she’s got the puncture wounds on her arm. It’s possible drugs could have played a role?”
I thought Dan just gave Bobby a half-roll of his eyes. “Yes, it’s possible. Frankly, if I was at home and I’d already had my two Irish whiskeys, I’d be a lot more open with my theories.”
“I hear ya,” I said, nodding my head. “I can run to my friend’s bar and grab a bottle of Jameson.”
“Don’t let me stop you.” Dan cracked a smile. “But it’s not necessary. I’ve been around enough crime scenes to piece together a theory. Typically, I’m never a hundred percent right. But I’m also never a hundred percent wrong.”
“Spill it, Dan. You’re killing us,” Bobby said, gesturing with his hand.
“I think she had drugs injected into her body. Not sure if she did it or it was done by someone else. Angle of the puncture wounds is odd. But I think this torturing probably took place when she was at least partially sedated. The burns on her face are too perfect to think she was lucid when the perp did this to her. Same goes for the fingernails. But here’s the zinger: I think the wound in her back wasn’t planned, at least not specifically. I think she might have been running away. Every other injury was personal, directed right at her. The kill wound, though, is from the back. Just doesn’t jive with the other wounds.”
“Unless she was tortured and killed by two different people,” I said.
“That’s possible,” Dan said.
“I like how your mind works, Booker,” Bobby added.
I rose from my knees, feeling an urge to wash my hands, take a shower. I also knew Alisa would be waiting for my call. “I appreciate your candor.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
The four of us turned toward the canopy opening, the popping rhythm of raindrops overhead suddenly more pronounced. It was Bradford, wiping a wet film off the top of his hat.
“I’m assuming this wasn’t your partner’s sister?”
“Correct.”
“Glad to hear it, although the family of this poor girl will eventually have to be told the news. It’ll be the worst day of their lives,” he said staring at the body. Then he raised his sights back to me. “I did this as a favor. Don’t forget it, Booker.”
Bradford calling me out in front of the others was nothing less than him sticking out his chest just to show off his power.
“This is my crime scene, and I’m fine with him being here,” Bobby said, narrowing his eyes at Bradford.
“Bobby, perhaps you don’t know how to count stripes.”
The detective took a step beyond Dan, but I stepped around the body and put myself between him and Bradford to ensure a turf war didn’t erupt over my presence.
“We’re all on the same side, right?” I offered up.
“Asshole,” Bobby said, looking straight at the arrogant sergeant.
Bradford let out a smug pssh, reset his hat on his head, and left the tent.
“One more thing.” Dan directed our attention back to the motionless girl.
We gathered back around the body as he used a pen to point toward her left hand. Before he could speak, Bobby jumped in. “Glad you said something, Dan. This might be the most important piece of evidence that ties this Jane Doe to the other girl we found near this spot a few days ago.”
“Jade Rivers,” Paco said.
Bobby nodded. “Yeah, her. It’s a bit difficult to detect unless you’re looking for it, especially with the discoloration of her skin.”
I leaned as close as I could without falling onto the body.
“She’s got a blue ring tattooed on her left pinky. It looks like a crown,” Bobby said, holding a pen just a couple of inches from the hand.
I spotted the tattoo, and an icy patch formed on the back of my neck. “Wonder what that signifies?”
“Normally, we don’t pay a great deal of attention to tattoos. Kids these days have so many of them, and they get them for so many reasons, usually on a lark.”
“But this one stands out. Why?”
“The other girl, Jade, had the same tat on the same finger.”
Paco dipped his head. “A serial killer?”
“They were both dropped in the Trinity in some type of body bag. They both have the same blue ring tat. Coincidence?” Bobby said.
“I doubt it, but we need to let the evidence guide the investigation, starting with the ID of the vic. Then, we can see where her life might overlap Jade’s. Natalie’s too,” I said.
I left the scene and made two phone calls.
17
Placing a bare foot on the concrete floor, Natalie felt a rush of adrenaline zip through her body. The surface was slick and cold, yet her toes massaged the floor as if she were a cat who’d been declawed.
Tex an
d Tongue had controlled her every movement, seized every fiber of her being since she arrived in Hotel Hell. But they’d yet to tap into her veiled survival resolve. Shit, she didn’t know she had it until she woke out of her trance a few days earlier and found herself thinking that death was a better option than living—nothing more than a breathing pawn in the sickening, cruel games played by the unlikely partners.
The barrel-chested cowboy looked like a typical Texas hick, like many she knew growing up in Nacogdoches, where they dreamed of nothing more than raising a prized steer or pig. If only this roper were interested in showing off his prized pig. It was obvious he ranked second on the organizational chart in Hotel Hell. He did all the dirty work, from what Natalie could detect, both from the sounds emanating under her door and through the walls.
Tongue gave the orders, but he also seemed to know when he’d pushed Tex too far. Then he’d let go of the leash. That’s when Tex turned into one of those animals he should have raised. No, check that—an animal doesn’t mutter a bunch of gibberish about Satan, then offer to sacrifice a human being, or part of one. Tex’s methods of torture appeared to give him meaning in his life, which is why Natalie determined she had no other option but to stop fighting back. She had to give herself completely to the pair of misfits.
“You’ve been drinking again!”
A jolt of electricity zapped her chest. She froze, staring at the crack of the open door, a sliver of light seeping through, her mouth void of a single drop of liquid. An agitated Tongue rarely raised his voice, but this time he seemed angrier than ever.
Part of her knew she must lie back down in her cot, reattach the restraints, and resume her sedated, subservient position if she didn’t want to face another round of torture. Actually, if they realized she’d been putting on an act, they would surely kill her, inflicting pain slowly, methodically, until she would beg them to end her life—if she could even speak at that point.
“How many times have I told you that drunken sloths like you attain nothing in life? Tell me!”
She heard a mumbled response— “country drool” she used to call it back in her East Texas life. But Tex wasn’t some harmless drunk who couldn’t hold his six pack of beer. At his worst, he was a disturbed, satanic monster. Perhaps Tongue knew that about his mentally challenged sidekick and purposely fed his mind with a plethora of deranged axioms, knowing what they would produce. Maybe he sought a kinship to his life’s sadistic passion.
It just hit her. She recalled reading about a similar personality. An insane, violent man who somehow brainwashed a legion of followers to carry out his hideous acts of murder, frightening the entire country: Charles Manson.
Leaning back on her wobbly arms, Natalie, now coated with sweat, peeled her foot off the floor.
Suddenly, a clap of steps approached her doors, then a flap of clothing swished by the crack.
“I have urgent plans I must attend to. Do not let me down. Do you understand?”
She held her breath, waiting for a reply, praying Tongue wouldn’t notice her cracked door.
“Okay. Yes. I get it. I’ll be better. I won’t let you down,” Tex said in a groggy, slumbering tone.
“We have important plans. Exciting plans. You know that. Your work will not go unrewarded. You will have the opportunity to reap what you sow. I promise you that.”
A garbled, wicked chuckle filled up the chamber, then Tex coughed so hard she thought he might seize.
“Repulsive human being, repulsive behavior,” she heard Tongue say under his breath.
Division among the ranks?
“Tomorrow will be one of our landmark days, where we share the fruits of our labor with a chosen few. It will be special,” Tongue said, as if preaching from a pulpit. “I’m off.”
What she now believed was a cape swished by the door crack again, and then she heard the familiar clap of his shoes on the stairs, the clanging of steel locks and handles, and a massive door swing shut, reverberating off the ceiling and walls around her.
A few seconds clocked by, not a sound to be heard. She attempted to swallow, but her sandpaper tongue felt like it was clawing rivets into the back of her throat.
A low growl came from the hall, as if a rabid coyote had awakened to seek its prey. She ceased breathing, her senses on full alert wondering if Tex was heading for her room. Boots shuffled across the floor, then keys jingled like bells attached to a sleigh.
“Veronica,” Tex said in a voice that was meant to sound playful but instead made what little hair Natalie had on her arms stand straight up. He’d used the same inflection with her before. Too many times to count.
Was this Veronica’s first time, or had she experienced the macabre rituals with Tex in his previous visits? A tear bubbled in the corner of her eye, knowing what Veronica would soon be facing.
Wiping away her millionth tear in God knows how long, Natalie knew this could be her one chance to escape. Touching her foot to the floor, she listened intently, hearing the key turn, a bolt slide open, the squeak in the hinge of the door. A moment later, she heard another squeak. But the door didn’t shut. Depending on his selected ritual of torment, Natalie could have anywhere from five to thirty minutes to escape the chamber and run like hell, hoping she was somewhere close to civilization. For all she knew, she could be stranded in the middle of a desert or off the coast on a desolate island.
She shoved that thought into the back of her mind, joining thousands of others she’d be forced to relive someday. But not now. She had a life to save, dammit. Hers. Despite the profound scars, both psychological and physical, she wasn’t about to allow her last days on earth to be lived as somebody’s bitch slave.
Fuck them.
Setting both feet on the floor, she slowly shifted her weight to a standing position, her left arm still anchoring her balance. Her legs quaked. She wondered if this was how astronauts felt when they finally returned to the atmosphere and asked their legs to hold up against the pressure of gravity. It felt as if someone had strapped a fifty-pound weight to her back. But she knew why she could barely walk. She’d had little nutrition, and atrophy had reduced her muscle responsiveness to that of a toddler.
Shuffling a foot while still grasping the edge of the cot, her toes started cramping and curling up. She wanted to scream, but instead bit her lip until it bled. Leaning down she grabbed the ends of her toes and yanked them backward, hoping they’d be jarred back to life.
Finally, some relief, and she released a breath. Letting go of the cot, she held out her hands like a tightrope walker, her sights set on the door. Three steps, fours steps, five. She grabbed the metal frame of the door, then pulled herself upward, trying to remove at least a few pounds of weight off her legs. She looked down, the light in the hallway illuminating her trembling knees. Noticing her quiver and lack of meat on her bones, a tinge of doubt entered her mind.
Was she truly capable of pushing through her debilitating condition to not just walk like a two-year-old but also perform like an All-District athlete? She’d played youth soccer as a kid, and she knew she had tenacity in her body. A few were faster, others might have been stronger, but no one pushed her around without payback.
But this would take an Olympic effort, she knew.
Opening the door no more than a foot, she peeked her head into the hall for first time since she’d been there. Doors like hers lined both sides, an open area at the far end, where Tex must have been drinking. She saw moving images on a TV screen in the far corner, a tray sitting to the side of an old-time La-Z-Boy chair.
Every time Natalie had heard someone enter or leave Hotel Hell, they walked by her door then up the stairs. She turned in that direction and saw her nemesis—nine or ten steps, at a steep angle, leading up to a rusted, green metal door twice the size of the one to her room. Twisting her head in the other direction, she pondered if there was any small opening, even a vent, for her to slither through.
A step into the hall, and she craned her neck to the right t
o check Veronica’s door. It was nearly shut, only cracked enough to slide in a single finger—not that she would get near it. Just then, she heard Tex rambling.
“Ooh, Veronica, we’re going to have so much fun. It’s a night to celebrate, darlin’. Our last ritual together. Think about that. Everything we’ve experienced together. Almost brings a tear to my eye.”
He chuckled, then Natalie heard metal objects clanking off a tray. Squeezing her fist, she grappled with the notion of hearing another girl tortured when she was in a position to do something about it.
An idea popped into her head. Was there a way she could slip into Veronica’s room undetected, grab one the metal instruments from the tray—one of which was likely a type of scalpel—and slit Big Tex’s throat?
That thought stayed afloat for no more than a couple of seconds, about as long as it took her fist to lose its strength. She mouthed, “I’m so sorry,” to Veronica’s door.
Taking in a fortifying breath, she knew the goal of freedom couldn’t be just about saving herself. Veronica and every other girl clinging to life behind each of the doors motivated Natalie. For once in her life, it wasn’t all about her.
Licking her lips, she looked in both directions then zeroed in on the main exit. Maintaining visual contact with Veronica’s door, Natalie braced her back against the painted cinder block wall and shimmied toward the steep staircase. She attempted to raise her feet off the ground, trying to avoid any shuffling sounds.
Extending her arm against the pockmarked surface to ensure she kept her balance, threads of her loose-fitting, grimy T-shirt draped down her bony arm. Every inch she pulled away from the door, her pulse added a couple of extra beats. For what seemed like months, she’d longed to be anywhere but her room of torment. Now she viewed it as a refuge, if only because the creaks and smells, and yes, invasions of privacy, were entrenched into what she knew as familiar. Her world.
It was working, the brainwashing. They wanted her to feel beholden to them. They wanted her to feel a kinship, as if they were family whom she couldn’t leave behind. Images flashed across her line of sight—images of blood and body parts—and her heart fluttered in her chest.
BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6 Page 19