“Nothing personal, Professor, but we haven’t had great luck working with the feds in the past.”
“I’m not a fed anymore. I’m part of the department now.”
“Right, right, our special consultant. I heard Beth Sturgis earlier.”
“Jimmy,” Dave Childers said.
“No offense meant, man. I just remember our consultant doing a lot of running around on his own the last time. Generally, we found out what was going on after the fact.”
“I’ll try to share more,” Jack said. “Things were pretty crazy back then.”
“Of course they were. Unfortunately, that TV movie made us look like a bunch of idiots. You know, poor dumb Keystone Cops wouldn’t recognize a clue if they tripped over it.”
Jack looked down at his feet for a moment. “I didn’t have much to do with that movie, and I apologize if it came out that way. I promise it wasn’t due to anything I said.”
“Artistic license, right?”
“Knock it off, Jimmy,” Pappas said.
“I’m only saying what everyone thinks.”
Jack held Spruell’s eye for a moment and nodded slowly, then said, “I think I’ll get my coffee another time. Good seeing you both again.”
He was partway to the door when Spruell asked, “Hey, whatever happened to that partner of yours? I heard she got cut up pretty bad.”
As soon as the words were out, the atmosphere in the room changed. Everyone felt it. Jack stopped and turned around, the smile fading from his face.
“She died, Detective,” he said and started walking toward Spruell.
Pappas immediately stepped between them. “I ain’t gonna tell you again, Jimmy. That’s enough.”
*
When Jack was gone, Spruell shook his head and muttered, “Fuckin’ showboater.”
“You’re a goddamn idiot, Spruell. You know that?” Pappas said and followed Jack out.
With the smirk still on his face, Spruell turned to his partner for support. The older detective shook his head.
“What?” Spruell asked.
“Jack Kale’s no showboater, Jimmy.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, it’s right. Pappas probably just saved you a trip to the hospital. Kale would have taken your head off.”
Chapter 25
The Soul Eater sat in a cafe reading the Atlanta Journal over his morning coffee. Because the deaths had occurred out of town, the story had been relegated to page three. That was disappointing. In time, he’d merit page one. It was simply a matter of being patient. And if there was one thing he prided himself on, it was his patience.
His cup was nearly empty when the waitress glided over to refresh it. Doubtful she recognized him. That was one of his strengths. Ordinary was good. The ability to blend in, to disappear into the public flotsam, was priceless. Most of his victims never knew he was there until it was too late.
He had done his homework. The woman he’d been observing, Donna Christine Camp, was forty-three, divorced, and the mother of two children presently living with their father in Tampa, Florida. Very sad. Her apartment was three blocks away from the cafe, which allowed her to walk to work. That fit nicely into his plans. She looked five years older than her Facebook photo and wore too much makeup. As a rule, he didn’t care for excess makeup on women. Tattoos were worse. Why do women do that?
He watched Ms. Camp out of the corner of his eye as she moved to another table, wondering how she would look wrapped in white linen bandages. She gave a customer a perfunctory smile. Clearly, she didn’t like her job. After further reflection, he decided the makeup made her look cheap. Makeup needed to be applied carefully, exotically.
He’d been up all night studying the diary. Brilliant. It was as if Albert was speaking directly to him from the grave. His own museum. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? He couldn’t wait until he and Ms. Camp got together.
*
Thanks to Lieutenant Fancher, who had apparently spoken to the deputy chief, the conference room they’d been using was converted into a command center and temporary office for Jack. All things considered, he’d have been happier working out of his home. Ironically, his own words came back to haunt him. You can’t run an investigation from the sidelines.
Beth Sturgis stopped in the doorway and watched as Jack turned a complete circle in his desk chair. She was carrying a copy of the murder book.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Two times,” he said, making one final rotation. “That’s the best I can manage. My chair at school can do three.”
Beth started to respond but changed her mind. She put the book on his desk and left, shaking her head. Jack shrugged and picked up the loose-leaf notebook and began to study it. That he could do so dispassionately was slightly surprising. All his instincts told him it was only a matter of time before the killer struck again. There had been no ransom demands, so this one got his kicks from the death itself and possibly from watching the cops fumble around for clues. If a generalization could be made about serial killers, they tended to operate on their own timetable. Howard Pell did, and if the copycat was following him, there was a good chance he might use a similar pattern.
He went through the book slowly trying to find a unique signature in the new killer’s method but saw nothing that stood out. Like Pell, the only common threads were the crimes had been committed underground and two of the victims had a missing finger.
What confused him were the clues being left behind. Pell had done so with the intent of misleading the police. But he’d also left other clues inadvertently, which proved to be his undoing. So they were dealing with a mimic, but Jack had a feeling this killer was different. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was at work beneath the surface. Unfortunately, at this stage, he had no idea what that could be. Whatever perverse logic was operating inside the killer’s head, he needed to understand it quickly.
Beth returned with photos of the victims and put them up on the whiteboard. On one side she started a list of what they knew about the killer, which was precious little. She stood there concentrating on it, absently chewing on the end of a pencil. There was another stuck in her hair.
Probably forgot she put it there, Jack thought.
Since his speech earlier, much of the tension building between them had eased. He continued to watch her, forgetting that women have a kind of built-in radar about such things. Beth chose that moment to turn around and caught him staring.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was just . . . ah, studying—”
“My legs?”
“Well, close enough,” he said.
Her response was a raised eyebrow. Thankfully, she didn’t take offense or get angry. In fact, she smiled, and this time there was no frost in it.
“I appreciate what you did earlier,” she said.
Jack nodded. “I meant it.”
“I know you did.”
“You were doing fine without my help.”
“I appreciate that,” Beth said. “Were you like that with your partner?”
“Some,” Jack answered, stiffening slightly. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Okay,” Beth said. “Didn’t mean to intrude. I heard you had some words earlier with Jimmy Spruell.”
“It was nothing.”
“Do I need to talk to him?”
“Not at all,” Jack said. “I’m a big boy and I can fight my own battles. It’s over.”
That seemed to satisfy her. Beth then informed him, “I’m going to Mayfield later to interview Howard Pell. Would you like to tag along?”
“You can handle it. I’d be a distraction.”
There was a pause before she asked, “To Pell or me?”
This time it was Jack’s turn to be surprised. Was there was another meaning behind her words?
When he didn’t respond, Beth said, “I’ll let you know how it turns out,” and stood up.
“One word of advice,�
� Jack said. “Don’t discuss your personal life with him no matter how hard Pell pushes.”
*
There was something different about the parking lot. Donna Camp couldn’t put her finger on it. Her apartment was only a few blocks away. Though the neighborhood wasn’t the greatest, she felt safe enough. In her purse was a compact canister of pepper spray attached to a keychain she’d bought for self-defense. She gave it a few more seconds of thought then pushed it away. There were more pressing things on her mind.
After a quick stop to change, it was off to Georgia State for her evening class and hopefully a better life. Things were finally beginning to look up. It was spring and she loved this time of year. Every day it would stay light a little longer. Soon the dogwoods and azaleas would be out, along with the flowering crab trees she thought were so beautiful. She missed her garden and the home she’d been forced to sell after the divorce. For the time being, she took pleasure in the world coming back to life again. So would she. With some hard work she’d get everything back and send for her kids. Yes, things were definitely looking better. It was just a matter of time.
Only a few cars remained in the parking lot. At the far end, sitting by itself near the exit, was a white van. She’d seen it several times before and decided it belonged to a customer, though she didn’t know which one.
She noted the lot’s security light was out and made a mental note to mention it to the manager, who’d probably tell her it wasn’t his job. Donna scanned the immediate area and decided she was just being silly. Nevertheless, she opened her purse and made sure the pepper spray was within easy reach.
Across the street, three teenage boys bopped along listening to whatever was playing on their iPods, pants hanging below their butts and baseball caps on sideways—not exactly slaves to fashion.
Thank God her boys hadn’t gone through that phase.
Near a hole in the fence, a cat silently watched as she passed. The smell of ethnic cooking drifted through an open window in a nearby building and made its way to the asphalt below. What little color the street possessed came from the graffiti on the walls. Working a double shift at the cafe was hard, but there were bills to pay and promises to keep.
“And miles to go before I sleep,” she whispered to herself.
The bearded man who stepped out from in front of the van startled her. He was tall, well-dressed, and seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see him.
“Excuse me,” he said, swallowing. “I hope I didn’t frighten you.”
“I think we frightened each other,” Donna said.
“My apologies. Can you tell me if this is Butler Street? I’ve gotten a little turned around.”
“Butler is two blocks west,” Donna said, pointing back toward the cafe.
As soon as she turned, a sudden movement caught the corner of her eye. Her hand immediately went to the pepper spray in her purse. Too late. A blinding pain shot through her body. She tried to scream, but nothing came out.
The tall man caught her as she fell and pulled her back to the van. She was dimly aware her hands and feet were being bound. As hard as she tried to struggle, it was no use. She was paralyzed. Panic set in. My God, no. This can’t be happening.
A piece of tape was placed over her mouth, followed by a stinging sensation in her thigh. Consciousness slipped further and further away. The last thing she remembered was looking up at the dark security light and the graffiti.
Chapter 26
A uniformed patrolman’s appearance in the doorway interrupted the balance of Jack and Beth’s conversation. He had just been telling her he wasn’t convinced the killer was a complete Pell imitator. The officer was holding an old-fashioned satchel similar to what carpetbaggers used to carry after the Civil War. Jack noticed the blue latex glove on his hand immediately.
The officer said, “Lieutenant, this was found at the Atlanta Historical Society. I thought I’d better bring it to you.”
It took Jack a moment to process that the man was speaking to him. The newly acquired and largely honorary rank he’d been given hadn’t sunk in yet.
“Why me?”
“It has your name on it, sir.”
Jack and Beth exchanged puzzled glances. He pushed away from his desk, donned a pair of latex gloves himself, and took the bag from the cop.
“Anything ticking inside?” Jack asked.
The cop smiled. “No, sir. The bomb squad was called out first. Sergeant Mahan gave it the once-over and said it’s clean.”
“That’s a relief. You say it was just sitting out in the open?”
“More or less. It was in a flower bed near the entrance. I checked with the staff to see if anyone saw who put it there.”
“I take it no one did.”
“No, sir. Probably placed there last night after the museum closed according to the gift shop lady. She was one of the last to leave and was sure she’d have noticed it.”
Jack read the nametag on the cop’s chest: “C. Harrison.”
“Good work, Harrison. What’s the C stand for?”
“Corey.”
“Have a seat, Corey. Maybe we can figure out why someone’s leaving me presents.”
Inside the satchel was a woman’s shoe, a blouse, a bolt cutter, and a bag of dirt.
Jack asked, “Is this everything?”
“Far as I know,” Harrison said. “The soil was my idea—at least partially.”
“Oh?”
“I noticed a footprint in the flower bed right near where the satchel was sitting. The dirt was a different color, so I figured maybe it belonged to whoever put it there. I scooped some out and bagged it, then taped off the area in case you wanted to see it for yourself.”
“Excellent,” Jack said. “What did you mean, it was partially your idea?”
“I attended one of your lectures a few years ago. I guess some of it stuck.”
Grabbing a metal tray off a workbench that had been brought in for him, Jack emptied the contents out, then put on a pair of magnifying goggles and used a slender probe to separate some of the particles mixed in with the sample.
“You’re right,” he said. “The color and content are clearly different. If I had to guess, I’d say this red stuff is brick dust of some sort. Maybe Ben Furman can pin it down.”
“What do bolt cutters have to do with brick dust?” Harrison asked.
“Hard to say at this point,” Jack said. He considered the question further, then turned to Beth. “Would you hand me that lock you brought back from the lake? I have an idea.”
She did and then removed the woman’s blouse from the satchel and began examining it while Jack continued what he was doing. After thirty seconds or so, he announced, “It matches.”
“What does?” Harrison asked.
“See here,” Jack said, taking off his goggles and handing them to the patrolman. He then pointed to a small nick in the blade.
“Okay,” Harrison said.
“Now look here,” Jack said, pushing the lock toward him.
“Got it,” Harrison said. “This bolt cutter snapped the lock. But why leave it for you?”
“Because he’s sending a message that he has another woman,” Jack said.
“Sick bastard,” Harrison said. “What are you—?”
“There are two messages,” Beth said, without looking up from the blouse.
Both men turned to her. She continued, “The first is obvious. He definitely wants us to know he’s snatched someone else. The second is more subtle—he’s not talking to us, Jack. He’s talking to you.”
Jack frowned but chose not to reply.
“The bag has your name on it. If you don’t find this new woman in time, he’s saying it’ll be your fault if she dies. Sick, I know, but I’d bet anything I’m right.”
Jack took a deep breath and asked Harrison, “Would you mind taking this over to Ben Furman at the crime lab? Tell him I need it analyzed ASAP.”
“Sure thing, Lieutenant.”
“Hold on,” Beth said. “Jack, take a look at this and tell me what you think?”
Jack and Harrison crossed the room to where Beth was working. She turned the collar of the blouse up and was peering at a small bit of fiber.
“I think I found one of your outliers,” Beth said.
“Maybe so,” Jack said. Taking a pair of tweezers, he removed the material and placed it in a plastic bag. He handed it to Harrison and added, “Have Ben scope this and let us know the composition.”
The officer shook hands with both of them and left the room, passing Dan Pappas on the way in with a half salute.
“What’s up?” the detective asked.
“Nothing good,” Beth said. “The killer left a package for Jack last night. He’s taken another woman.”
“Whaddya mean he left a package for Jack?”
“That uniform you just passed found a satchel with a woman’s shoe and blouse and a bolt cutter sitting in a flower bed this morning at the Historical Society. It had Jack’s name on it.”
Pappas blinked And looked at Jack, who lifted his shoulders.
“Sonofabitch,” Pappas said.
“There was also a soil sample the cop picked up,” Beth said. “We sent it over to the lab.”
When she was through filling him in on the other details, Pappas said, “I’ll make your morning complete. On the ride in, I was listening to the radio. The murders are all over the news.”
“And the hits just keep on coming,” Jack muttered.
“The talk show guy was saying the Scarecrow’s returned. Guess no one told him Pell is still locked up in Mayfield.”
“So much for keeping this under wraps,” Beth said. “Have we issued a statement?”
“Chief Ritson went on the air and said the murders are most likely the work of a deranged copycat.”
“That’s it?” Beth asked.
“No, he also said the department is being proactive and brought in Professor Jackson Kale to work with us because he’s familiar with the original case and the psychology of the criminal mind.”
Beth glanced at Jack, who didn’t appear particularly surprised. There was a wry smile on his face. She felt herself growing angry at the tactics being used. First rule of thumb—cover your ass. From the expression on Pappas’s face, she didn’t need to voice her opinion.
Once Shadows Fall: A Thriller (A Jack Kale and Beth Sturgis Thriller) Page 11