Tainted Mind

by Schultz, Tamsen

  He gave the door a soft knock to let her know he was there, then stepped inside. Vivienne's head swung up on his entry, but other than that, nothing about her moved. He paused several feet away from her and tried to read her expression.

  “I'm not going to like what you've found today, am I?”

  She pursed her lips. “I don't know that I've actually found anything.”

  He glanced at a box that looked to be filled with evidence bags, slides, and other objects. “Um, it looks like you found a lot,” he countered.

  “I collected a lot of things, but I don't have the equipment here to know if what I collected will tell us anything or is meaningful in any way,” she clarified.

  Ian's eyes lingered for a moment on the box before he turned them back to Vivienne and spoke again. “Granger will be by later tonight to pick up the samples and drive them to the lab in Albany.” Ian watched as she nodded. Her own gaze turned to the box and then back to the bones. “But that's not what's bothering you, is it?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “It's too early to be bothered by much of anything other than the fact this woman was murdered.”

  “Vivienne,” he said, trying out her first name. “Something's on your mind. I can see it in your expression, in your body language. And it has nothing to do with the evidence that may or may not be in that box.”

  She gave him a ghost of a smile. “I think you're a better cop than you think you are.”

  “I think, after all the time I spent doing the things I did, I got pretty good at reading people,” he responded, careful not to show how close to the target she'd come in her assessment of him and his own self-doubt.

  “Fair enough,” she conceded. Again, her gaze swung back to the bones.

  “Vivienne.”

  She sighed. “You're not going to like it and it's all speculation anyway.”

  He stepped forward, saying nothing, but coming close enough to examine the body himself.

  “You see these marks here and here,” she said, pointing to the marks she'd noticed the first time she had viewed the body. There were two on each wrist, two on one ankle, and three on the other.

  “Shackles, you said.”

  She nodded. “But these kinds of shackles aren't something you would use for an impulse kill.”

  “So the perpetrator planned the attack.”

  “In all likelihood, yes.”

  “But that's not what's bothering you.”

  She shook her head. “He—and while it could be a she, it's more likely to be he so I'm going to use that pronoun—he not only planned the attack but prepared for it. It's pretty safe to say this young woman wasn't local, so he probably either lured her here or brought her here himself.”

  Ian was following her so far. “Which means he might be local.”

  “Maybe, but he could be a weekender. He could also be someone who has access to facilities up here. But he is someone who is, at the very least, familiar with the area.”

  “And that's what bothers you?”

  Vivienne frowned and shook her head again. “No, what bothers me is that I don't think this was his first kill.”

  CHAPTER 6

  IAN BLINKED AND TRIED TO TAKE IN what he was hearing. “You think we might have a serial killer? Here? In Windsor?”

  “That's not what I said,” Vivienne jumped in.

  His mind was racing and he couldn't get past his first reaction: impossible. But still, he forced himself to stop the objections. Studying the woman in front of him, he took a deep breath.

  “Okay, tell me what you think and why,” he said. While he may know his town, he had no problem acknowledging that she knew a hell of a lot more about this sort of thing than he did.

  She eyed him for a long moment before deciding to speak. “In my opinion, this kill wasn't personal, not in the sense he was going after this specific woman. He was definitely going after someone, but I doubt it was her.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We've already established that this kill wasn't an impulse kill. It was planned. Which means it was either personal to the victim—something he planned for her—or it was the kill itself that was personal, personal to him.”

  “And?”

  Vivienne glanced down at the body and he saw the sadness in her eyes, grief for their unknown victim. She sighed. “When a kill is personal to the victim, the whole process is personal. He would have planned everything out, from his initial contact to the way she was killed to the disposal of her body.”

  Ian shifted, moved a little closer and examined the body again. “But the disposal couldn't have been planned. Or at least not for long. No one could have known that the storm that washed away that part of the road was going to be as strong as it was or that that specific section would wash away when it did,” he said.

  “How long did it take to fix?”

  “I looked into that this morning. Because it was such a big washout, the crews went to work the next day. It took a few more days to clean up and get everything back in order, but the time between when it washed away and when the road was repaved was only six days. Could that have been enough time to plan and execute the killing and dispose of the body?”

  Shaking her head, she spoke. “Unlikely. With the setup he probably had—finding a location and setting it up with the shackles and whatever else he might have had, not to mention finding the victim and taking her—it would likely take more than six days.”

  “So then he just took advantage of a situation to dispose of her and that means the kill wasn't about her at all but was just a kill for the sake of killing?”

  “A kill for his own personal gratification,” Vivienne clarified. He could see the subtle difference she was pointing out, but killing for gratification was so far outside of his reality, he had a hard time accepting that difference.

  “And because the kill provides him some personal gratification,” Ian all but choked on the word, “and it isn't specific to this victim…” His voice trailed off, unwilling to finish what he was saying.

  “And because his method is so advanced,” she added.

  “You think he's done this before, to other women.”

  She gave a grim nod. Her reasoning made sense, but he still wasn't ready to admit to the possibility of a serial killer in Windsor. “Isn't there some component of sex in most serial kills?” he asked, remembering her comment about a potential sexual assault.

  “Not always, but it is common. And sexual gratification can be a big part of a kill. Not sex in the way we normally think of sex, but gratification can come in many ways, whether an actual rape or ejaculation occurs or not.”

  “There is nothing normal about sexual gratification and killing,” he commented.

  “On that we agree, but we're not serial killers, are we? So my initial comments still stand. I do think she was sexually assaulted. Based on my findings today, I believe the actual cause of death is strangulation. But given the fact she was chained down, I do think there was a sexual component that manifested itself physically with the victim.”

  That he could understand. It wasn't too far-fetched to imagine that a young, beautiful woman chained down was also sexually assaulted. In fact he would have found it hard to believe otherwise. But that was still a far cry from having a serial killer on the loose.

  “I get that. But what makes you think this isn't his first kill? You said his method was advanced, but what does that mean?”

  “Think about the psychology of it. Or,” Vivienne paused, tilting her head in thought. “Do you hunt?”

  He nodded.

  “It's a horrible analogy, I know. But hunting people isn't unlike hunting animals. How clean was your first kill?” Ian was thankful she didn't seem to want to wait for his answer. “I bet it wasn't as efficient as it was after five hunting seasons. With each hunt, you gain insight into what works and what doesn't. If you're organized, and I'd bet my life we're dealing with an organized killer here, rather than a disorganized one, you
'll become more methodical over time. The kill is still the kill, but part of the rush comes in how expertly you execute the plan.”

  Everything in him rejected what she was saying. But in rapid fire, Ian's mind flashed through his first few hunting seasons, then sped forward to his first few missions as a Ranger. During his early years, the rush came in just being successful—being able to check the box and get out alive. But by the time he left, he rarely deemed a mission a success unless everything about it went according to plan. Getting the target wasn't enough.

  “It's a kill that took time and planning. It's not personal to this victim. And the execution and dump itself was very successful. What does that tell you?” she challenged him.

  Ian wanted to argue. He wanted to point out that maybe it was a fluke. But he couldn't. He wanted to point out that they didn't have any more bodies, but that would be too much like tempting the fates. He wanted to argue that she must have missed something. But everything she'd said pointed to one thing. A killer that not only knew what to do and how to do it, but one that had experienced it, probably multiple times.

  “Fuck,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

  “I could be all wrong, you know,” Vivienne offered.

  “But you don't think you are?”

  She shook her head.

  “So, what now?” he asked.

  “Now we run the pertinent points through the similar crimes database and see if anything pops,” she answered.

  “If it's someone local doing this, don't you think we would have had a least one missing person from this area? Because we haven't had any missing persons reported in the county that fit her profile.”

  “First off, it could be anyone. Just because he happened to dump a body here once does not mean he lives here or is even from here. Maybe he rented a house here one season? Maybe he's a truck driver and comes through the area a lot, has friends here. All we know right now is that we have one body. And, as for the profile of the victim, we'll run that through the database too. We only have one body, so we can't really come up with a victim profile. Serial killers usually have at least one victim that is different from the rest. I don't think that's the case now, but if she was his, we may find it harder to connect her with other similar crimes.”

  “Right, isn't that what they call the stresser? The person who triggers the killing?”

  “A stresser can be any number of things. It can be a person, but it can also be an event. If it's an event, usually the first kill will be a reaction to that event.”

  “But if it's a person?”

  “Then the one different victim may come at any time during their career. But like I said, I don't think she is the first, nor do I think she is the trigger. This murder was too well planned to be a first, and the disposal of the body was too unceremonious for it to be symbolic to the killer. And if she was the trigger, it would be symbolic.”

  “So, the bad news is he's probably killed people before her, but the good news is she may be similar enough to the other victims that we might be able to come up with some hits in the database.”

  “We can hope.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”

  CHAPTER 7

  VIVI AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, groggy and hungry. Neither she nor Ian had had much of an appetite after their conversation in the morgue, so they'd come back to The Tavern, had a drink, talked a little about next steps, and then she'd gone to bed. Only to be haunted by images and dreams that kept her up most of the night.

  Shaking the remaining darkness from her mind, Vivi crawled out of bed. Within a few minutes she found herself standing in the lobby of The Tavern in her running clothes wondering which way to go. When she wasn't working, she preferred to eat before a run, but given everything that was going on and how new this situation was to Ian and his whole department, she knew that if she took the time to eat first, something would come up with the case and she would never make it out for a run. And at this point, she needed to burn off some anxiety with exercise more than she needed to linger over breakfast.

  “Going for a run?” Rob asked, emerging from the back office, rifling through a stack of mail.

  Vivi gave a nod. “I was also thinking about stopping at Frank's Café on my way back for breakfast. Thoughts?”

  He glanced up, a half smile playing on his lips. “You're thinking of going to Frank's?”

  “Uh, yeah, is there a problem?”

  A beat passed before he answered. “No, no problem. Just don't bring your cell in and you'll be fine.”

  She gave him a questioning look, but he waved her off. She didn't carry her cell when she ran anyway, so she let it go. Starting out through town, she ran past Frank's Café and the bakery. A few folks were out and about and those that were seemed to be headed into the café. Comforted by that, figuring it couldn't be all that bad if people were going there, Vivi turned her attention back to the rest of Main Street.

  Passing by the quilt shop, something nagged at her. She didn't stop but let her mind wander, hoping she might pick up the thread. Another fifteen minutes into the run, it came to her. It was such a crazy idea that she was tempted to reject it outright. But even though she wanted to, she knew she wouldn't.

  The quilt shop wasn't open yet and wouldn't be until ten, so Vivi continued her run, heading through the north part of town. She waved at Officer Granger as she passed the police station and headed onto a narrow road that took her west of town. Twenty minutes down the picturesque lane, dotted with farmhouses and fields, she turned back. Slowing to a walk as she hit the roundabout by the police station, she caught her breath and walked the last few blocks to Frank's Café.

  By the time she reached the café, her breathing was more or less back to normal. As she took her time finishing her cooldown out front, she watched a number of people walk through Frank's doors. All of them carried disposable coffee cups as they left. And judging by the numbers, Vivi guessed Frank must have good coffee—the thought almost made her head spin.

  Following a group of three older men, Vivi entered the café and stood in line. She eyed the case of gelato to her right as she listened to what people before her ordered. And, while the food orders were varied, she noted that everyone ordered a mocha.

  Taking her cue, she did the same when her turn came.

  “Anything else?” the man behind the counter asked. She didn't know if he was Frank, but she guessed he probably was—no one would hire such a gruff man as a hospitality employee.

  “Uh, an egg and bagel sandwich, please?”

  “What kind of bagel?”

  “What kind do you have?”

  He sighed, looked at her without raising his head, and pointed to the sign behind him.

  “Plain, please?”

  “Anything else?”

  “No?” Everything she said came out sounding like a question. Nice. Frank—assuming it was Frank—reduced her to a self-conscious teenager. In an effort to take back some pride as he rang up her order, she asked, in a very assertive voice, if his gelato was good.

  His finger froze over the keys of his cash register and he looked at her, raising his head this time. His eyes narrowed. “Did you just ask me if my gelato was good?”

  She wished she hadn't but couldn't stop herself from nodding. He planted his hands on his hips and drew himself up.

  “That's about the dumbest thing anyone has ever asked me. What do you think I'm going to say?”

  Vivi blinked in surprise. She was pretty sure no one had ever said anything like that to her before. But on reflection, she had to admit he was right.

  “How much?” she asked, with a nod to the register. He looked at her for a moment longer before giving an audible sniff and turning back to his machine. Two minutes later she was standing off to the side waiting for her order.

  “Don't take it personally, dear,” the woman beside her offered. “Frank takes a little getting used to.” Vivi thought he might take a lot of getting
used to, but she smiled at the woman.

  “You!” Frank's voice bellowed. Vivi jumped, feeling inexplicably guilty.

  “You know you're not allowed back in here!” he continued, pointing an accusatory finger at an older woman standing halfway in the door. Without a word, the woman dropped her gaze and left.

  When the door closed, Vivi turned to the woman beside her again, hoping for some sort of explanation.

  “She was in here a week ago and suggested that Frank had used day-old bread for her sandwich. She's not allowed back for another week. I'd feel bad for her, but honestly, you'd think she would know better. Her husband was banned last year for answering his cell in the middle of his order. He hasn't been back since,” she added.

  “Does Frank have any redeeming qualities?” Vivi asked, wondering why people would take such abuse.

  “Oh, he's not that bad. Once you know his rules. And the food, well, you'll see.” Vivi opted to withhold judgment. It would have to be one hell of an egg and bagel sandwich to bring her back here.

  And, unfortunately, it was. As she sat out on the patio at The Tavern, she decided that whatever Frank did with his eggs and bagels must be magic. Even living in Boston, with the enormous Jewish population, she had never in her life tasted such a good bagel. Or egg. There was something in it, or on it, that made it taste, well, heavenly.

  Vivi sighed in resignation. She'd have to figure out what the rest of his rules were. She had a feeling she'd be going back a time or two in the days to come.

  A couple of hours later she was showered and heading back into town, to the quilt shop. Officer Granger was running the evidence she'd collected the night before to the state lab in Albany where they would run the tests. In return, a van was being sent down from Albany to collect the skeleton from the hospital in the early afternoon. The head of the lab was a former student of hers so she knew her evidence would be made a priority, but still, she wanted to give him and his team at least a day to process things without her starting to look over his shoulder. Which left her with a day to do nothing. Except maybe, just maybe, track down a lead.