Mortal Crimes 2

by Various Authors

  The ME had gone through all the wounds with her, Laura charting them on a legal pad: three rounds, nine projectiles each, sixteen of twenty-seven shots accounted for.

  The killer had shot through the front of the tent first, from approximately fifteen feet away. Laura marked the shots this way:

  1-1—took off male victim’s right big toe

  1-2—shatters right shin

  1-3—tears right calf

  1-4—goes through right heel into floor of the tent

  She added the other five shots that had not hit Dan, but penetrated the tent floor:

  1-5—hole to the right

  1-6—ditto

  1-7—hole to the left

  1-8—ditto

  1-9—ditto

  She rearranged Ken and Barbie, pushing them over onto their sides, nudging them up against the line representing the right edge of the tent. Turned the contact paper one quarter turn clockwise. Now the couple was horizontal to her, and she was in the shoes of the killer.

  She logged the rounds Dan and Kellee had received this time:

  2-1—severs female victim’s carotid

  2-2—breaks female’s right collarbone

  2-3—female–chest below collarbone

  2-4—male, below right nipple, destroys heart

  2-5—through his forearm and into female victim

  2-6—into her Adam’s apple

  2-7—through her right arm, passes alongside bone, into his right rib cage, breaks rib, travels back and embeds in male’s spine

  2-8—below her right nipple 2 inches toward midline

  2-9—back of male’s right hand, into her chest cavity, lacerating her aorta

  According to the ME, all nine shots stayed inside the bodies.

  This was the killing shot. Dan Yates’s heart destroyed, Kellee’s carotid severed.

  Kellee’s aorta lacerated.

  Buckshot lodged in Dan’s spine.

  Buckshot lodged in Kellee’s throat.

  Once again, she moved the paper. This time she was facing the tops of the victims’ heads.

  She filled in the last round:

  3-1—into the ground to the right of Dan Yates

  3-2—ditto

  3-3—ditto

  3-4—ditto

  3-5—ditto

  3-6—ditto

  All of these shots missed the victims, penetrating the floor of the tent and the ground. Laura had recovered all of them.

  Shots 3-7 to 3-9 were grouped, within the radius of a tennis ball, and all hit Dan Yates in the back of the head.

  3-7—rode the curve of the brainpan and back into the brainstem

  3-8—shattered the back of the skull

  3-9—also penetrated the back of the skull

  With the shots 3-8 and 3-9, there was a large outshoot—lots of blood and brain matter spraying the floor and sides of the tent.

  She stared at her diagram, the list of shots.

  The numbers on the sheet of paper looked cold, clinical, but the effects of the damage piled up. It spread out like a poisonous lake in her stomach, a flat hard pain. The salad felt like crumpled paper, all rough edges.

  Amazing what guns could do. She’d been to so many scenes where someone had shot in anger, before they had a chance to think, to realize what they were doing. Homicide detectives actually liked these cases because they were easy solves.

  Laura hated them. She hated seeing ordinary people, people who thought of themselves as good, suddenly confronting an evil in themselves they could not previously imagine. Coming face-to-face with the kind of damage they could do, there was inevitably deep shock. Shock and anguish. A decent person up until then, now desperately wishing he could call the bullet back.

  People who would have to build, in their minds, a whole new house for their souls.

  That was not the case here. The message she got from this guy was he didn’t care.

  He didn’t care, but then again, he did.

  He didn’t care enough to look inside the tent, but he cared enough to make sure they were dead. That was where the overkill came in.

  He had walked all the way around the tent and shot into three sides. This struck her as deliberate, methodical. But there was a rage component, too.

  Thinking about it, looking at the damage, Laura was sure he had known them.

  The room was airless. Laura got up and opened the door. A cool breeze slipped in, eddying around her bare ankles, and she thought of Frank Entwistle. No sign of him tonight, even though he might have made himself useful, brainstorming with her as he did in the old days whenever she had a case that bothered her. Even though he was TPD retired, and she was a detective with the state police—rival agencies—Frank had always been her mentor. But these days, Frank Entwistle appeared where and when he wanted to, and there was no way Laura could conjure him up. The man who boasted that he was related to Peg Entwistle, the young starlet from the 1930s who committed suicide by jumping off the H on the Hollywood sign, liked to make dramatic flourishes of his own.

  Laura sat back down and stared at the outline of the tent, the two dolls, pretty and blond like their human counterparts.

  If it was true that he knew them, the most obvious motive was jealousy.

  Which brought her back to Jamie Cottle.

  She knew that sometimes love—and rejection—could grow in a person’s mind until it was bigger than anything else.

  The people she’d talked to thought Jamie was incapable of violence, that he was shy and quiet, unable to even tell Kellee how he felt. But they couldn’t see inside his head.

  There was something that bothered her, though. How did the killer know where to find them? Dan and Kellee had run off to Vegas on a lark. Would this person, the killer, follow them all the way to Vegas and then to the Cataract Lake campground? If that were true, he’d have to pick them up in Flagstaff.

  She stared at the circle, trying to empty her mind, create a vacuum for a fresh thought to come in, but all she saw was the dumb circle.

  The circle bothered her.

  She’d tried to draw a perfect round circle, but it hadn’t turned out that way. It bulged out on one side. Laura had never had a steady hand for that kind of work. She sketched well, but drawing a straight or curved line—it must not fit in with her personality.

  She felt the urge to touch it up, make it more even.

  Thinking: You wouldn’t find a perfect circle in nature.

  She sat still for a moment, frozen in place by the thought. Then she grabbed her fanny pack, gun, and flashlight and headed out to her car.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Megumi Taylor awoke to an empty bed. Outside she could hear the patter of the sprinkler on the lush ground cover near the cabin. Usually that was a soothing sound. But there was something big behind the sound of the sprinklers, something outsized and bloated whose shape she sensed, but could not articulate.

  It took a few minutes for her mind to catch up with the pain inside. When it did, she felt as if she had suddenly stepped on a shard of glass, it was so sharp and piercing.

  The sharpness was followed by a dull void. The feeling that there was no future.

  She knew that was not true. She had Jack. Jack was her life. But she also understood that their marriage, as she knew it, was over. They were no longer three. They were no longer whole. Whatever happened now, it would not be what it was.

  Megumi thought she had prepared for that long ago, but now she understood you could never really prepare. As she couldn’t with her father and then her mother. There was no preparation for the ghost pain of someone you love who is no longer there.

  Jack being gone from the bed was nothing new. She knew he had a secret life, friends he corresponded with on e-mail, talked to on the phone. She also knew it had nothing to do with her. She knew it was not another woman. Jack was not made that way.

  Her girlfriends—if she had any left—would have scoffed at that. Would have told her that she had her head in the sand. Those wer
e the kind of girlfriends she had when she lived in San Francisco—skeptical women. Always looking for the con behind every kind man’s act.

  No, Jack loved her. But he needed something else, something that belonged to the silence late at night. It was his restless nature. He needed to move around in his skin; he needed to reach out to other friends. He used to have a HAM radio. Now he had the Internet.

  Silly woman, her friends would say. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

  Through the crack in the door, she saw the light on, as she had seen it countless times over the years of their marriage. She heard his voice, muted, on the phone. The clock said 1:15.

  Tonight she wanted to go and see if he was all right. She knew that would break the unspoken bargain between them, but it was something she needed to do.

  She sat up on the bed, her bare toes touching the rag rug carpet on the polished pine floor.

  Feeling the cool air insinuate itself through her nightgown, caress the back of her calves. She rose, walked across the gleaming floor, and pushed the door open. It creaked.

  He was sitting in the living room, under the old-fashioned hurricane lamp, talking on the phone. His back hunched over the phone, but she saw him stiffen slightly.

  She said nothing. He knew she was here, and he did not require her comfort. Sometimes being a wife was lonely.

  She walked back into the bedroom. Stood at the window, looking out at the parking area, the flower border, all leached of color, the arc of silver water jetting across the grounds.

  As she looked out, the light around her grew.

  He stood in the lighted doorway.

  A tall silhouette, his arms hanging useless at his side. For a moment she felt a hard fear rip through her heart—there was an alien quality to the way he just stood there.

  He said, “Megumi.”

  His voice alien, too.

  Then he fell to his knees, his hands clutched to his face, and broke into hoarse sobs that came from his depth.

  She ran to him, embarrassed and scared at the same time. His wife, the one he turned to, always. She held his hot wet face against her breasts, saying soothing things, some of them in her almost-forgotten language.

  He clutched at her and poured out his soul.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Laura thought: This is stupid.

  But she was here now, slowing down for the turn into the Cataract Lake campground. She’d learned long ago to go with her instincts, even if they seemed unreasonable.

  To the right she saw headlights on the lane leading out of the campground, bouncing off the trees—a car coming out. The gate to the lake was still closed, but the lane ran a couple hundred feet to that point.

  She pulled onto the verge just before the campground entrance to let the car come out. A small car, white. Young man at the wheel, a flash of concern in his wide eyes as the car jounced past her and turned left on Country Club Drive. Laura glanced in her side mirror, trying to see the license plate, but it was too dark.

  Her heart rate already going double-time.

  She made a U-turn and followed the car, which turned on Cataract Road going east. Followed him along the railroad tracks, under the freeway overpass, recording her impressions. The white car was the kind kids who didn’t have a lot of money drove. It had a T decal on the back window and no hubcaps. Cheap but made to look kid-cool. Possibly souped-up. She radioed in the license plate and got her answer: The car belonged to Jamie Cottle.

  Small world.

  She followed him toward town. A car pulled off a farm road in front of her, slowing her down, but on this flat terrain, she could track the white car’s taillights as it turned onto Seventh Street and headed toward the main part of town.

  As she turned on Seventh, the taillights seemed to blink out. She sped up, almost drove right past him. The car was parked under the elm at Shade Tree Mechanics, the kid sitting on the hood.

  Laura pulled in so that the car and the kid were in her headlights. She remained inside, assessing the situation. Kid leaning back, cross-legged on the car hood, hands behind him and palms flat on the car. Looking at her.

  She stepped out of the car, her right hand close to the Sig Sauer in the paddle holster on her hip. “Police,” she said. “Let me see your hands.”

  He shifted forward, raised his hands up high.

  Using her left hand, Laura played her flashlight over him. Kid was tall and sinewy, a thin face bisected by the dark bang of hair falling down over thick brows, the hair parted at the side. He wore a jacket over jeans. Diamond stud in one ear. She couldn’t see his expression, but he had cooperated with her immediately.

  “Are you Jamie Cottle?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Laura identified herself as a DPS officer. “Get down off the car, turn your back to me, and put your hands behind your head. Clasp your fingers together.”

  He didn’t argue. He slid to his feet, turned so his crotch was up against the side of the little car, hands behind his head. Back stretched, an attitude of patient waiting.

  “Do you mind if I search you?”

  “I guess not.”

  She patted him down, asked him if he had anything in his pockets that might hurt her. “No, ma’am.”

  Nothing except a wallet and a couple of sticks of gum. When she was done she asked him to face her.

  “Are you aware that Cataract Lake is a crime scene?”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  A fraction of a pause before he said, “Mourning.”

  “Mourning.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She looked at his face. Pale, stoic. His eyes holding hers. “Can I move now?”

  “Yes.”

  Before she could react, he had the car door open, and was sitting in the bucket seat, one long, jeaned leg stretched out as he reached for something.

  Laura withdrew her weapon and assumed a shooter’s stance, her gun locked in both hands and aimed into the car’s interior. Every sense was heightened; the scrape of his sneaker on the asphalt, the light falling on his neck as he leaned for the floorboard of the passenger side.

  “Let me see your hands.”

  He didn’t react as quickly as he should have. Laura tensed, ready. He could have a knife or gun under the seat.

  Jamie Cottle straightened in the seat, his hand coming up. “I have to show you this,” he was saying.

  Holding a sheaf of paper.

  He saw the gun leveled at him, and his eyes widened. “Shit.”

  Laura returned the Sig Sauer to her holster.

  “Oh, man.” He swallowed. “I just wanted to show you this.”

  “Go ahead and step out of the car.”

  He did as he was told. Watching her, his expression unreadable. She held out her hand and he gave her several sheets of paper, stapled. Apricot-yellow in the sodium arc streetlight above. Printouts from internet sites—news pieces.

  She’d not seen these particular articles, but she knew what they were about.

  One of the headlines: Arizona DPS Detective Nabs Serial Killer.

  Kid looking at her. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “What you did—that took a lot of guts. I admire you.”

  What game was he playing? “Why do you have these?”

  He brushed at the bang on his forehead. “When I heard there was DPS here, I recognized your name. I looked it up. I knew what you did in Tucson, how you caught that guy.” He flicked his eyes from the printouts to her face. “How are you doing? Do you have any suspects?”

  She ignored that. “What were you doing at Cataract Lake?”

  “I told you, I was mourning. I went to be at the place where Kellee’s soul last left this earth.” He brushed at his hair again, which had flopped back in place over one eye. “Isn’t that what you would do? If it was you?”

  This kid knew how to frame the debate. Laura a
dmired his quickness, but it only added to her distrust. “Could you tell me what you were doing Friday night?”

  He touched his chest. “Me? You think I would hurt Kellee?” He walked around in a circle, slapped his thigh, looked at the sky. “I can’t believe that.” He came toward her, his shoulders hunched, and Laura’s hand tensed again as she stepped back to give herself room to draw the gun if she had to. This was what police work did to you. It made you think about killing or being killed several times a day.

  “I would never hurt her!” Cottle was saying. “How can you think that? I would never, ever, harm a hair on her head!”

  Turning away from her, walking some more, hands in his pockets. “No way would I do that to Kellee. How could you think that? I love her!”

  She consciously softened her tone. “Granted, you love her. But she’s dead and I need to know what you were doing on the night she was killed. To eliminate you as a suspect, if nothing else. You understand that, don’t you? I bet you know the statistics. How women are most often killed by their lovers.”

  “I was not her lover. Get that straight. We never, ever were lovers.” His eyes holding hers again. Dark pinpoints in his head, but she could see something wild and untethered behind them. The tip of her thumb hooked over the belt holding her holster, just in case.

  “What are you going to do, shoot me?”

  “Just tell me where you were. How hard is that?”

  “I was doing my laundry, okay? While somebody was out there shooting the woman I love—” He stopped. Shook his head.

  It looked like real grief to her.