Being a substitute teacher, Jason didn’t qualify for any of the half-dozen parking spots by the front door. No, he had to park all the way at the back of the lot beside the office staff and the handful of other substitutes.
He didn’t care all that much, anyway. It gave him something to gripe and complain about when there was nothing else to gripe and complain about. Not that he liked to gripe and complain, but sometimes you had to let it all out. No use allowing it to build up inside. Not that it ever did.
Jason liked to arrive early for no good reason. He just did. He usually parked along the back row and was inside the school before anyone else, but today, as he gazed toward the back of the lot, he saw another vehicle in his favorite spot, right underneath an overhanging oak, stealing all the shade.
It also appeared someone had dumped a bag of garbage on the lot not far from the back fence. People had a habit of doing that sometimes. He would drag it over to the utility door on his walk to the school and dump it into the chute. If he didn’t do it, nobody else would. He didn’t mind.
The only thing was, as he drove closer, it started not to look like a bag of garbage at all, but rather had the shape of a human body. As he bumped along in his ten-year-old Honda, he leaned forward and peered through the windshield. His eyes grew wider and wider, finally bulging almost as large as his gaping mouth when he drew closer to the object.
He touched the brakes hard, his mouth still open, his breathing stopped, and he stared in disbelief.
He shook his head, threw the car in park, and swung from the vehicle. He approached the body slowly, glancing around several times at nothing in particular, and finally stopped five feet from the bloody spectacle.
He breathed now, a lot of breaths, rapid and shallow ones. His throat felt constricted, but he couldn’t turn his eyes away from the horrendous sight on the asphalt in front of him.
It was a woman, he was pretty sure of that. At least, it had long dark hair and high heels. Well, one high heel. The other one was missing, the remaining one only halfway on the stockinged foot. The dark hair had streaks and patches of red in it, and Jason knew it wasn’t professionally done like a lot of women seemed to be doing these days. Nope. Those streaks were blood, and it wasn’t just in her hair, but all over her clothes and the surrounding pavement.
The face was nose-down to the asphalt, the long, bloody hair fanning in all directions. One arm and both legs were twisted in awkward positions, perhaps snapped in more than one place.
Jason hadn’t seen such a bloody mess since he was twelve years old and used to blow the crap out of groundhogs and rabbits with his father’s old shotgun.
But what caught Jason’s bulging eyes was a strange pattern of blood by the woman’s right hand. To him, it looked like she’d tried to use a finger to write something in her own blood. He moved around the mangled body, crouched down, and cocked his head.
Yeah, it was writing. It was a scrawl to be sure, but what else could you expect from someone in her condition? The scrawl said, “Adam Thor,” but the “r” trailed off like she had taken her last breath before she finished it.
Adam Thor. Strange name—if indeed it was a name. What else could it be? Had to be a name. Maybe it was her killer’s name. Jason had heard about people doing that kind of thing before. The dying person’s last message.
He stood, moved back a couple of feet, and stared at the horrifying mess. It seemed to him the only way something like this could’ve happened was by getting run over by a vehicle. Perhaps a couple of times; it was hard to tell. It was overkill, that was for sure.
It was either a case of road rage, or parking lot rage in this case, or somebody had wanted this person dead. Or both. Either way, it was like nothing Jason had ever seen before, and he glanced uneasily around again.
He scratched his head, wondering if the vehicle parked in his spot had something to do with this whole nasty affair. He looked down at the body. It wasn’t going anywhere real soon; he might as well take a look at the car.
Even before he reached the vehicle, he could see the mangled passenger-side door. It had more than likely been rammed by the same vehicle that had run over the poor woman over there. He went to the side door and stopped. The window was broken out and glass lay all over the ground and inside the car.
He’d better not get too close or touch anything. The cops wouldn’t take too kindly to anyone messing up the crime scene. He knew that much.
He hoped he hadn’t trampled on any of the blood around the body. He checked the bottoms of his shoes. Nope. It seemed to be all right.
He strode back to the mess on the ground, stared at the body a moment longer, and then figured it was probably time to call the cops.
Chapter 4
Tuesday, 8:43 a.m.
ADAM THORBURN sat on the edge of his bed, dropped his head back, and yawned. Another sleepless night was past. He hated not being able to sleep and wished he could pop a pill and pass out for the night.
But his mother had been firm about that. He was on enough medication as it was, and a sleeping pill, along with his antipsychotic medications, could cause a bad reaction.
He hated the term antipsychotic. It made it sound like he was psychotic, but he wasn’t. He was schizophrenic—a huge difference. But he hated being schizophrenic too. At only twenty-three years old, he would have to put up with it for a good long time. The doctor said he’d have it for the rest of his life.
Adam yawned again, brushed back his bristling dark hair with one hand, and stood. He was supposed to be at work by nine but would never make it. He was tired of pushing supermarket carts around, anyway. Not that he was lazy. Far from it. He just didn’t see any future in it, and frankly, didn’t see much of a future for himself at all.
He hated walking to work, too. It only took twenty minutes or so, but it was an annoyance. He’d had a driver’s license and an old beat-up Ford when he was younger, but they’d taken his license away years ago. They said it wasn’t safe for him to drive.
But his mother insisted he work at whatever job he could land, and he complied—most of the time. She said they needed the money. Her skimpy paycheck barely paid for the basic necessities, and his medication was a drain on the family budget.
Not that it was much of a family. Just him and his mother. His father had been dead for almost a year now. He’d usually gotten along pretty well with his father, but when the old man had been drunk, his father had had some awful arguments with his mother. Seemed like they were at each other’s throats a lot of the time.
Adam pulled on his jeans, yesterday’s socks, and a faded t-shirt. His shirts barely fit anymore. The paunch he’d developed made sure of that. He wasn’t really fat, but he’d put on an extra twenty pounds or so lately, and it was showing in his face as well.
He didn’t care all that much about how he looked anymore. Mostly, he hung around all day, worked at the supermarket for a while, and wasted the rest of the time. He had no friends. He hoped to find a girlfriend someday, but that was almost laughable. What girl would want to hang around with a schizo? Maybe another schizo. Adam laughed aloud. What a great combination that would be. They could have little schizo babies. What fun.
The thing that irked him most about other people was they thought he was mentally challenged—retarded, they called him. But he had an above-average IQ, wasn’t all that bad looking despite the extra weight, and could usually carry on an intelligent conversation. If he was antisocial, it was because they made him that way. It affected his schoolwork to such a degree, he’d dropped out to get away from the bullies and the so-called normal people who shunned him.
To make things worse, he’d been having more and more blackouts lately. There were periods of time when he had no idea what went on or where he had been. His mother had said it would pass. She insisted that the family was going through a rough time, and it affected him in strange ways. He sure hoped she was right.
Dr. Zalora wasn’t much help either. He said pretty much t
he same thing as his mother—“The death of his father caused him additional problems. It’ll get easier in time, and the periods of blackouts will vanish. Take the medication and you’ll do fine,” was all the doctor had said.
“Adam.” It was his mother calling from downstairs.
He opened the bedroom door. “Be down in a minute,” he called.
Adam went into the bathroom in the hallway, splashed some water on his face, and wiped it dry, taking a last look at himself in the mirror. He ran a comb through his hair. It didn’t do anything; his hair was too short.
When he went downstairs, his mother was waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting forward at the kitchen table, her arms resting on top, her fingers woven together. He stopped short at her unsmiling face.
“Sit down,” she said. Her eyes were angry, her voice stern. Something was up.
Adam sat at the other end of the table and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “What’s going on?”
She spoke in an accusing voice. “Where’d you go last night?”
Adam frowned, thinking hard. “I didn’t go anywhere. I watched TV while you were gone, then I went to bed.”
“Did you have another blackout?” she asked, her tone unchanged.
“I … I don’t think so. I don’t always remember when I do.”
She sighed and sat back, her eyes drilling into his, her lips in a firm line.
“Is everything all right?” Adam asked.
His mother shook her head. “You smashed up my car,” she said. “I shouldn’t have left the keys lying around, but I never thought—”
Adam interrupted. “Are you saying I took your car out?”
She sighed again. “I’m afraid you did. I had a few beers last night with Mabel and got home late. I didn’t see the damage when I got back, but this morning, there it was.” She shrugged. “The front is smashed up.”
Adam took a sharp breath and held it. He must have had another blackout. Sometimes he did crazy things during the blackouts, and now he’d smashed up his mother’s car.
He let out his breath slowly. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, sinking his head into his hands.
His mother said nothing.
He raised his head and gave her a hopeful look. “Does it still run?”
“I guess it does,” she said. “You drove it home again. But it looks like the bumper and one fender is smashed.”
He pleaded with his eyes. “I’m really sorry.”
She picked at her nail polish, scraping some remnants from a thumb. She brushed the scrapings aside and looked at Adam. “I guess it’s not your fault.”
He hesitated, then said, “My blackouts are happening more often.” He sat back and closed his eyes a moment, taking a deep breath. “I feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes.”
“Are you taking your meds?” she asked.
He nodded. “Always.”
“All right,” she said and stood. “Take a hammer to the fender. See if you can fix it up a bit. It should be okay.” She held up a finger. “But don’t drive it anywhere.”
“I won’t.”
“Are you not going to work today?”
He shrugged. “I don’t feel up to it. I might go in later. They won’t fire me. It’s too hard to find anyone else to do my lousy job.”
She leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms. “Get my car fixed up right away,” she said. “I need to go out later. And I can drive you to work if you want to go.”
He nodded, avoiding her gaze as she looked at him. Finally, her slippers padded across the floor as she left the kitchen, leaving him alone at the table.
He was worried. He would have to go outside and check out the car. He hoped he hadn’t run into another vehicle. That wouldn’t be good, but what worried him most was his blackout spells. He didn’t hear the voices in his head very often anymore. At least not lately, and he was glad of that. They told him to do some pretty crazy things, and told him some whopping lies, but now it looked like things might’ve taken a turn for the worse in a different way.
And it frightened him.
Chapter 5
Tuesday, 9:04 a.m.
DETECTIVE HANK CORNING steered his Chevy into the Richmond North High School parking lot, waved at an officer controlling access to the area, and was directed toward the rear of the lot. He didn’t need to be guided in the right direction. Even from the street, he could see the line-up of police cars parked alongside the forensic van and the ME’s vehicle. An ambulance was backed in, its lights still flashing. Other officers kept cars and curious onlookers from the immediate area.
Groups of students, scheduled to be in class, gathered at random places, their curious eyes straining to see the events taking place along the back row of the school parking lot.
It had been a peaceful weekend, giving Hank a chance to catch up on some much-needed sleep and spend quality time with his uncomplaining girlfriend, Amelia. Even yesterday, for a Monday, it was quiet around the precinct, and he had been able to get some paperwork cleaned up. His usually overloaded desk looked organized again.
But at forty years old, and after almost twenty years on the job, he knew peace was short-lived, sparse, and apt to be disrupted at a moment’s notice.
It wasn’t so much that his peace was disturbed. He was used to that. But what he never got used to was murder, the killing of another human being. As long as ruthless killers preyed on others, his job would never be done.
He pulled up beside an orange cone, one of many cordoning off a large section, and swung from the vehicle. Detective Simon King, Hank’s sometime partner, had just arrived in his own car.
King strode over to Hank. “I hear this one’s a real mess.”
Hank frowned at the other detective, narrowed his deep brown eyes, and disregarded the comment.
King looked like he had just crawled out of bed and slept in his clothes. Hank was pretty sure King wore the same tattered jeans every day with a fresh shirt on occasion. The three days’ worth of beard on his face didn’t help his look.
The two cops walked over to where a body lay in a tangled heap on the asphalt. Hank stopped a few feet short, a grim look on his face. He sighed deeply and glanced around the lot. Evidence markers were set up in several spots, and a photographer was snapping pictures. CSI would do a thorough job of documenting the scene, their task already well underway.
Lead crime scene investigator Rod Jameson stood nearby, a clipboard in his hand, watching his men as they expertly went about their tasks. The gangling investigator stretched up a couple inches above Hank’s six-foot stature, and he nodded his thin head in greeting as the detectives approached.
Hank nodded back and turned his gaze to the body. He’d seen some gruesome murders in the past, slit throats, drownings, hangings, and shootings, but none came close to the horrendous sight in front of him now.
He averted his eyes, took another deep breath, and turned back. The body was mangled almost beyond recognition. There was blood everywhere; most of what the body had once held was puddled and splashed about, much of it soaked into the tattered remnants of clothing that clung to the victim.
A tiny woman, with a frame somewhere between perfect and pudgy, was crouched down doing a preliminary examination of the body, inspecting an arm seemingly broken in several places. It was Medical Examiner Nancy Pietek. She abstained from her normal friendly greeting and glanced up at Hank, a grim look on her usually cheerful round face.
Hank nodded hello, his attention immediately drawn to a series of letters on the pavement apparently written in the victim’s own blood. He leaned over and looked closer. “Adam Thor.” He took out his cell phone and snapped a close-up of the message.
He crouched down beside Nancy as she brushed aside a crimson-stained strand of dark hair from the victim’s face and gazed at the remains of the body resting on the hard asphalt.
“I think the manner of death is obvious,” she said. “The victim was run over by a vehicle at least tw
ice, making the cause of death severe blunt force and crush injuries.”
Hank nodded. “And the time of death?”
“Can’t be certain, Hank, but I’d say ten to twelve hours ago. Maybe slightly more. I’ll know better after a thorough examination.”
“Any ID?” Hank asked.
“Rod has that info,” Nancy said. “I believe they found the woman’s handbag.”
Hank stood and went over to where King was talking to Rod Jameson. With his unusual hollow voice, the investigator was saying something about a tire track and he repeated it for Hank’s benefit, motioning toward an evidence cone several feet away. “Tire track there, Hank. Made from blood.”
Hank went over to the cone and examined the distinct crimson track. He turned back. “You have an ID, Rod?”
Jameson handed Hank an envelope. “Here’s her driver’s license. Name’s Nina White. Apparently, she’s the school counselor here.” He pointed toward the vehicle parked along the back fence. “That vehicle’s registered in her name. Found the ownership papers inside.”
Hank glanced briefly toward the vehicle, then asked, “Any witnesses?”
Jameson consulted his clipboard. “No witnesses have come forward, but the guy who found the body this morning is waiting with one of the officers.” He motioned with a long arm toward the group of cruisers parked fifty feet away. “His name’s Jason Puttwater.”
Hank glanced to where Jameson indicated, then said, “I’ll take a look at the vehicle first.” He strode toward the fence, King following.
Hank took note of the broken passenger-side window. He avoided the glass on the ground and leaned over to look inside. No keys in the ignition. He stepped back and examined the mangled door. It appeared to have been rammed by another vehicle, likely the one that had killed Nina White. He snapped a picture of some flecks of paint clinging to the door. Black flecks on a white car.
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