Total Victim Theory

by Ian Ballard

  It's not long till we've left the fumes and bustle of the city behind and are miles out in the desert. I tune out the radio chatter and look out at the nighttime terrain. The moonlight brightens the sands more than you'd expect, casting it in a porcelain white that seems to bleed its own phosphorescent glow. You could drive without headlights if you had to. And this isn't like the sand on a beach. It's a denser, sturdier make, more tightly packed, like dirt. Your feet don’t sink down in it when you walk, and you can drive over it just like you would a road, as long as you've got your sand tires.

  I can make out miles of the desolate landscape with its rocks and ripples and gradually rolling hills. Occasionally, a lone cactus will show itself, like a lanky giant with arms outstretched in a pose of theatrical menace.

  Silva mentioned earlier that the bodies were out really deep, so I imagine we have a ways to go. It's a wonder he knows the desert well enough to find his way back to the spot at night. I hear him sign off with the other detective he's been speaking to. Then he sets the CB back in its cradle and switches off the scanner. For a while he says nothing. His face looks sullen, as if his features were weighed down by all he's seen today.

  Leaving his right hand on the steering wheel, he lights a cigarette, and a floating red ring appears in the darkness. He puffs periodically and ashes out the cracked window. Through the gap, the night air shrilly whistles.

  “You said there were six of them down there?” I ask, hoping to be filled in on more of the facts prior to our arrival.

  At first I think he hasn't heard me. But finally he turns and looks at me. “Yeah, six. Minus the heads, of course. As usual, he's holding on to those.”

  “That's a lot of bodies for him,” I say. “Who are they?”

  “All Hispanic males between forty-five and fifty-six years old.”

  “That's a bit out of his age range, isn't it?”

  Silva nods. “Before today his oldest was twenty-seven.”

  “That's another big change. Are we one hundred percent sure it's him?”

  “It's him. The cutting and the binding are all the same.”

  “It couldn't be a copycat?”

  “Not unless it was a copycat who had access to the police file. Some of the similarities are things the press doesn't know about.”

  “It's strange,” I say. “You don't see these guys change their MOs very often.”

  “Maybe he heard you joined the case and wanted to do something special to welcome you on.”

  “That's a nice gesture, but he really shouldn't have.”

  I expect to find a morbid grin on Silva's face, as befits such banter. But instead he looks quite grave. “There's something else too, Jake.” The cigarette lighter in the console pops out with a ping and Silva lights another smoke.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  Silva blows the smoke out the window and turns to face me. “There's a body missing.” He speaks in the somber tone one might use to tell a ghost story.

  I'm not prone to goosebumps, but just now I feel a few crop up. “What do you mean?”

  “The old man who stumbled on the scene this morning is from a village five or six miles away. After he found the bodies, he left them behind and hiked back home so he could get a hold of the police.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned him on the phone.”

  “He told the police about the six bodies in the dune. But he also said there was a woman. A white woman all the way up beyond the dune's ridge. She was alive when he got there, and he was with her when she died. You can tell when someone's confused or making things up, and this guy wasn't. He even described her missing feet and the yellow rope tied around her ankles.” Silva takes another puff of the cigarette. “He described it all down to a T. But guess what? When we finally got there—no white woman to be found.”

  For a moment neither of us speaks. Silva's pronouncement seems to linger in the air, like an unpleasant odor I'm forced to breathe in.

  “We're sure the guy's not confused?” I ask. “I mean, if the victims were all in a similar condition, he could have just mixed up.”

  “He wasn't confused,” Silva says. “There are marks in the sand. Trails the woman left, just the way the old man described them . . . and if that doesn't convince you, we also found a pair of dainty white feet at the scene that are short an owner.”

  I feel my face wrinkle into a perplexed expression. “Then what are the possibilities?”

  “After the villager left the bodies, it was three hours before the first responders showed up. So, the way I figure it, either this woman had a little juice left in her and she crawled off—”

  “But wouldn't she have left another trail?” I interject.

  Silva rolls his eyes. “I'm being facetious, Jake. She didn't crawl anywhere. Somebody, and I'll let you guess who that was, came back and took her.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter, incredulously. “Why would he do that?”

  “Couldn't tell you,” Silva says. “But the villager also thinks he might have seen someone at the dune.”

  “Meaning the perpetrator?”

  “It's possible.”

  “Was he able to give a description?”

  “Not at all. The person was too far away and our first eyewitness after ten years has cataracts the size of mothballs.”

  “Damn,” I say. “That’s bad luck.”

  Out the window, it's sand and darkness as far as I can see. Feels like we're a million miles from everything now. “How much farther out is it, anyway?” I ask.

  “Still got a ways to go,” Silva says, as he fumbles with the dial on the radio. He eventually finds a signal and some scratchy Ranchero ballad is playing.

  It sounds old and far away. As if the sounds had leaked to us from another universe, a world lived in black and white. As I listen, I turn and look back at the lights of Juárez glittering in the distance.

  I’ve known Silva about six months now, and it's because of him that the Bureau got the chance to work on this one. It’s not a routine thing for the two sides to put their heads together on a case. It took some finesse on his part to make the production happen—what we’re calling a joint task force.

  I first met him at a seminar on border crime I teach twice a year. It’s open to law enforcement personnel of any persuasion, north or south of the border. Silva had seen a taped version of one of my lectures, found it germane to his own work, and called me to find out when the course was offered next. He mentioned working for the Juárez PD and we started talking shop. Before we knew it, an hour and a half had gotten away from us. His job as an investigator in Juárez deals with much of the same subject matter as my own, but is, in many ways, its mirror image. It was fascinating, hearing how things worked, and often didn’t work, on the other side of the fence.

  Silva enrolled in my course the following month, and we met face to face in Nogales, Arizona, where a small conference on border crime was being held. The conference had a fairly poor turnout, probably owing to the low profile venue, with only thirteen attendees. A full day was devoted to serial murder in border regions, and during the group discussion, Silva mentioned that he'd worked personally on the Ropes investigation. From then on, the brooding detective from Juárez had my full attention, as I tried to ferret out any information I could on the case.

  Ropes was the quintessential border predator. The worthy poster child for the festering city that was his hunting ground. But for me, he was also the embodiment of those wicked energies that had long swished about beneath the surface of my imagination—drawing me to them in the outside world and haunting me within.

  After the seminar, Silva and I grabbed drinks and discussed the case in more depth. I was completely engrossed by the things he told me, and it was that night we came up with the idea of a collaborative effort—of adding the Bureau’s hefty profiling and forensic resources to the Juárez PD’s tireless apprehension efforts. Within a month, Silva had introduced me to the appropriate contacts in Juárez to make the joint tas
k force happen. Within six months it was up and running with Silva and me serving as the liaisons from our respective camps.

  It may be that the more unpalatable the work, the stronger the camaraderie. From day one, Silva and I had a good rapport, one that budded over the course of the task force’s development into a fledgling friendship. My soul usually only cracks its seal with the passage of eons or the prying of a crowbar, but in six months, Silva has wriggled out of me most of my juicier secrets. By now he knows me pretty well, and it’s my hope that the trust and respect lie on both sides of the table.

  Something pokes me. I turn and Silva's nudging me with his elbow. “There it is, right up ahead. At least, that's the edge of it.”

  I try to follow where his finger's pointing. “The edge of what?” I ask.

  “It's called the Neruda Dune. It's basically a giant bowl. A meteor made it.”

  “They were all down in there—the bodies?”

  “Yeah, near the bottom, for the most part.”

  Gradually, I'm able to make out the circular arc of the dune’s southern rim. Five or six more police vehicles, mostly Land Cruisers, are parked along the edge. However, I can't see any people. They must all be down inside.

  Within a minute or two, Silva parks the Land Cruiser alongside the other vehicles and we step out into the cool desert air. We’re about fifty yards from the dune’s edge, but what’s inside remains completely hidden from view.

  Overhead, dozens of murky shapes drift in circles beneath the starry sky. Birds, I soon realize.

  “Come on,” Silva says.

  I follow him and we tread across the final stretch of flat, rocky sand that separates us from the extreme verge.

  Almost there. Only a few seconds more. I feel a pang of trepidation or maybe it's exhilaration, shimmying through my insides. With all the time spent setting up the task force and with over a hundred days logged on the case, there's been a lot of buildup to this moment. And not just any Ropes' crime scene, but his magnum opus to boot.

  And yet all the while, my mind keeps returning to that missing woman. I keep picturing the scene where the villager discovered her. Thinking about what became of her and what all the killer's strange take-back move might mean. But all this just heightens the palpable sense of menace that's forming in my mind. It's like a perfect storm. The aura's almost intoxicating. And you can feel the mystery permeate you to the teeth and bones and soul—and as it does, you shiver.

  I take a breath and hold it in my lungs, trying to savor the moment. Because what we're about to see and discover can only happen once. One day, sooner than you'd think, this guy will be behind bars and he'll seem like nothing but a sap in a disheveled mug shot. But right now, the awe he fills us with, the terror of his open-endedness and his power, as strange as it is to say, may be the closest we ever get to God.

  I peer over and as if to greet me, a current of wind wafts out of the immense abyss that gapes before me. I blink as a few grains of sand catch me in the eyes.

  8

  Colorado

  “How did you know about the glasses?” I repeat, my voice low and rattled. My mask of composure, gone.

  “Just an educated guess,” Chris says, nonchalantly.

  “How would you have guessed that?”

  He’s not just a harmless disembodied voice now. He’s a real person, who could be anywhere. Who could be right outside the window. Or hiding in my closet or under the bed.

  “You’d be amazed at the things you can learn from a police scanner,” he says.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “All day the Boulder cops were discussing the evidence at the scene. They talked all about the note I left and the rope I used to tie Jessica’s wrists. They went on and on about a couple of hairs they found in the bathroom sink. But no one ever mentioned the glasses. The only thing I could think of is that you kept them, as crazy as that sounded.”

  “You heard all that stuff over the police radio?” I ask. I have no idea whether to believe him or not. Anything he says could be a lie. I keep imagining him standing out in the back yard. Next to a shed or the woodpile, like a killer in a slasher movie. Feels like he's watching me right now. Peering in that little crack at the edge of the window. His eyes touching me from somewhere out in the darkness. Walking across my skin like spider legs.

  I should run over to the police. Check to make sure everything's okay. That they're getting the trace and that the house is safe.

  But he’d know from my voice if I went for the cops. Somehow he'd be able to tell and he'd hang up. They might lose their chance to get him, if they're zeroing in on him now.

  The police are right outside my door. I'm safe. Just got to keep him on the line. Just got to keep this up for a few more minutes. That might be all they need to get him.

  “What else did you find out from the police radio?” I ask.

  He gives a little laugh. “You don't have to worry about that. They would never relay sensitive information, like a witness's whereabouts, over a police scanner—”

  Suddenly, there’s a note of anger in my voice. “Where are you?” I demand.

  “But there are plenty of other ways for a resourceful guy to find things out. The Internet, the Yellow Pages. Even a roommate with a big mouth could have told me where your closest relative lives.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. Can't breathe. Finally, I bring the phone back to my mouth. “Why would Jessica have talked about me?” My voice no more than a whisper.

  “We had eight hours to kill before the sun came up. We talked about all kinds of stuff. She even told me about that one really bad thing that happened to you.”

  Losing it now. “You’re full of shit!” Almost shouting. “Jessica didn’t know anything about that!”

  The line's silent, except for the sound of my panting.

  Finally, he speaks. “Jessica may not have known . . . but now I do. Call it a lucky guess. Something in your eyes said damaged goods.”

  Tears well up in my eyes. My hands shake violently.

  “I think you and I have a lot more in common than you want to admit, Nicole,” he says.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I whisper.

  He makes a little snickering noise. “I know you’re wearing Snoopy pajamas.”

  I hit the red button on my phone and end the call. Hyperventilating.

  I turn and run to the bedroom door, stubbing my toe on Betsy's bureau. I see my terrified face streak by in the mirror.

  What if something’s happened? What if he’s done something to Aunt Pat or the police?

  I fling the bedroom door open and burst out into the hall. My heart feels like it's going to explode.

  Oh God, there’s no one by the front door. They should be there, the police, but they're not.

  “Officer Devlin!” I cry, tears streaming down my face. “Aunt Pat!”

  A moment later, a door opens upstairs. “Nicole?” It's my aunt's alarmed voice. “What is it, Nicole?”

  “Where are the police?” I yell up at her.

  My aunt ties the sash of her bathrobe as she rushes down the stairs. A second later, the front door opens and Officer Devlin’s imposing frame comes into view. Behind him stands the shorter Officer Sanchez, his head just visible over Devlin's shoulder.

  Devlin sees me and a worried look gathers on his face. “What is it, kiddo?” he asks.

  “Where were you?” I ask, gasping for breath.

  “We were just out front, having a smoke.”

  9

  Mexico

  Silva's beside me as the dune comes into view.

  A feeling that's part awe, part nausea spreads through me as I take it all in.

  The dimensions are staggering. The massive crater yawning before me must be a half mile across. The sides slope down to form a vast bowl that bottoms out hundreds of yards below. In the pale gray moonlight, it looks lunar, otherworldly.

  Down near the center, I see the bodie
s. They’re tiny from up here. Each encircled by an oval of light, courtesy of a police flood lamp. They're naked brown islands inset in a sea of sand. The lines of the buttocks and the absence of heads are the only discernible features at this distance.

  I count them.

  There are six, as there should be. They're scattered about, mostly toward the bottom and seemingly at random, as if they'd been flung outward by a bomb that exploded in the middle. Four of them are within twenty or thirty yards of the center, but two are farther up along the sides. They all face out and away from the middle, like they were fleeing—which, I suppose, in a sense, they were. Despite the similar direction of movement, the postures of their bodies and limbs are very different. Some are curled up as tight as dead bugs, some are flat on their stomachs, while one has his arms stretched out, one forward, one back, as if performing a freestyle swimming stroke.

  I notice that at the very bottom of the dune there's a small slumped mound of material, also ringed in a circle of light. From here, it's just an indistinct, disordered blur. Like a heap of laundry or trash. “What's all that stuff?” I ask Silva.

  “Personal belongings. We're still sifting through it, matching articles up with bodies,” Silva explains.

  “He dumped them all at the bottom?” I ask.

  “Yeah, they started near that pile and drug themselves around for a while.”

  “Was decapitation the cause of death?”

  “No. We had a medical examiner out here already. The muscle tissue in the neck wasn't contracted which tells us the heads came off post postmortem—which is consistent with what we’ve seen him do before.”

  “So what did they die of?”

  “Blood loss and dehydration.”

  I wince, doing my best not to picture too vividly what all these people went through. “What was the time frame for all that . . . dragging?”

  “We think he dropped them off sometime after sunset. By sunrise they would have all been dead.”

  “So he stuck around and waited them out?” I ask.