THE BURNING MAN
THE
BURNING
MAN
SOLANGE RITCHIE
New York
THE BURNING MAN
© 2016 SOLANGE RITCHIE.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Control Number:
2014921241
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CONTENTS
Cover
Title
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel is dedicated to my husband, Steve, as well as my mother, Guylaine, and father, Paul, who taught me to never surrender and never quit. I want to say thank you to W. Terry Whalin, who took the time to listen to my pitch and took a chance on a never published author. And finally, a big thank you to Angie Kiesling at SplitSeed and fiction publisher for Morgan James Publishing, for her great editing work.
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramps.
Guns are lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
—Dorothy Parker, “Resume” in Enough Rope
ONE
Easy is the descent to Avernus, for the door to the underworld lies open both day and night.But to retrace your steps and return to the breezes above— that’s the task, that’s the toil.
—Virgil, The Aeneid
Jesus, what the hell is it?” Pete Langley recoiled.
“It’s the damn tooth fairy,” Stone Kilroy said, snapping his bubble gum between his back molars.
Pete stumbled forward, then back, his hand glued to his nose, trying to prevent the stench from consuming what little good air there was left in his lungs. One step forward.
“Don’t go any farther,” Stone grunted, slapping Pete broadside on the back of his head.
“Sorry.” Pete shrugged. “I didn’t mean to screw things up.”
Stone rolled his eyes, wondered if he’d ever teach this rookie how to deal with a crime scene. This was a crime scene. That much was unmistakable. Stone sighed, leaned heavily against the door jamb. Dreading what was inside.
A putrid stench permeated Pete’s nostrils as soon as he thrust his body weight against the door—as real and ominous as the blackness inside. It seemed to take on a life of its own, swirling around him, engulfing him. Pete had only smelled stink like this once before, but he remembered it.
And froze in fear.
Stone Kilroy recognized the stench too, although to him it was more familiar. The smell of death. This case would haunt him, like the others had.
Stone shoved Pete. “Get outta the way. If we only had more time,” he grumbled under his breath. This was the third one of these he had seen in a month—slender, slashed, mid-twenties. When he’d seen the first one, her eyes were dry, wide open to the heavens.
She too had been shredded. Shredded—it was the only way he knew how to describe what he saw, he decided, after he’d seen the second body.
One step farther. The smell intensified, making Stone’s eyes water. That same terrible foreboding. He knew what the smell meant, just didn’t want to deal with it. Didn’t want to find her like this.
Burnt flesh illuminated under his flashlight.
“Damn.”
The Orange County Sheriff’s Office had been cooperating with the Irvine Police Department to locate Consuelo Vargas. Now they had. From the looks of it, someone had made Consuelo’s death personal. Real personal.
“Jesus…” His words trailed off, eyes adjusting to the fading twilight.
Stone had a report of lights in this abandoned shed near Trabuco Creek a few days ago. At first he’d thought nothing of it; some kids out in the bush, smoking grass.
In the meantime, the Orange County Sheriff’s Office covered the area around Irvine’s crop fields, where Consuelo worked. Turned up nothing. After repeated efforts canvassing Santa Ana’s Fourth Street, nothing. A search effort that fanned out from Anaheim to Oceanside had led to this—a rundown shack on the edge of a near dried-up riverbed.
Stone checked his gut instinct, breathed heavily in the direction of the body now, his flashlight beam dancing off shadows and flesh.
“Don’t look real, does it?” Pete questioned from behind, voice shaky, his Alabama drawl more pronounced from nerves. Stone heard the boy’s boot meet the wooden floor with a hollow thud.
Stone wheeled round. “Don’t” was the only word he could get out between clenched teeth. “This is a crime scene…”
Pete stopped everything, even breathing for a second. Then backed up.
All day long, Stone thought of Consuelo Vargas, wishing he would find her, now reluctant he had. His men had searched for two days, plastering the woman’s face all over the county.
“Connie,” as she was known to her family and friends, had been a person, with kids and a future. In this August heat, no one seemed to notice or care. Stone wiped sweat from his brow. His search had turned up nothing but more questions, leading to pent-up frustration and explosive nerves. At least now that frustration would be over.
People in this community of million-dollar homes had faith in the system, a false sense of security. Co
nsuelo Vargas would shatter that. People here wouldn’t sleep for weeks.
Stone’s gut wrenched. He wasn’t sure it was a woman.
His flashlight raced across the body, the acrid smell of acid eating at his lungs. It was awful. Stone longed for a blanket of clean air, sunlight, freshness.
Pete continued speechless, backing away from the corpse, as if putting distance between him and the body would make a bit of difference.
Stone knew it wouldn’t. Like the two women before. He thought how Consuelo Vargas’s face would become a nightly, non-mortal visitor, its dark features constantly shifting, changing. Like all the others, her mouth would open in the dream, but nothing would emerge except the screams of a woman being eaten alive by acid. Just like the others.
Pete and Stone exchanged nervous glances. Stone took another step. His hand instinctively went for his weapon, forefinger twitching there. With each step, he pulled his chest up, stomach tight, as if visibly bracing himself.
Consuelo’s body cast strange shadows. Shivers jittered in Stone’s belly, gooseflesh threatened to overtake his arms and legs. A deafening buzz clipped his ears. Consuelo’s presence, the presence of death, hit him like a dense force. It was not easy to look at her. As he did so, the room seemed to swallow him up; the evil wrenched him to his bones.
An irrational response, he told himself.
He could not say what he saw was a body, much less a woman. Yet twenty-three years on the force told him that it was her. In the darkness, he could make out what seemed to be the back of her head, auburn shoulder-length hair knotted, lying partly on her side, her torso twisted at the waist, her lower extremities spread wide, posed. His stomach turned as he registered the savagery—so hacked and burned that her skin appeared translucent, white on red, veins showing through like a roadmap. Caustic fumes lingered. His senses told him there should be more skin, but about half of her was cut—hundreds of tiny cuts, each a comrade to the other, friends acting together to drain her life. At first Stone Kilroy thought that was the only thing wrong. But when he got down on his knees, looking closer, he understood the stinging fumes. Immediately he drew out his handkerchief, covering his mouth and nose tight. She had not just been cut but burned. Burned all over.
Instinct took over. He felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed, running the flashlight the full length of her, praying he would find no further indignity. Satisfied there was nothing else, he turned the light back to her head. Stone put one hand on her shoulder, to turn her to him. As he did so, her hair pulled right out of its follicles, a clump of it clenched in his fingers. Yes, it was Consuelo Vargas. Her face altered, spoiled, her body tortured, but it was her. He recognized her almond-shaped eyes, happy eyes, imagined the kind of playful smile that children flocked to.
Suddenly one of her eyes fluttered slightly. She groaned.
“Sweet Jesus, Pete, she’s alive,” shouted Stone. “Get a goddamned doctor, she’s alive!”
He watched from a wooded switchback, reverse throttling his mind to his adventures with Consuelo Vargas. Watching the cops bringing the body out, feeling certain he had power over them. He could take any of them if he wanted. He could do anything with them he wanted. Here in the woods, anywhere, as a matter of fact, he could do as he pleased. Feeling magical, all-powerful.
He was the giver of life. He looked at his hands, awed by their capabilities.
Over the sound of sirens, he dwelled on his dark and powerful presence for some time, remaining invisible. When they brought Consuelo out, he imagined he was there with her, alongside the gurney, calmly giving orders to the EMS paramedics. Commanding the team of lesser men to orchestrate life.
Even from this distance he could still see the desire etched on Consuelo’s face.
By now they would have washed her down with copious amounts of water, to dilute the syrupy, colorless sulfuric acid he had used. At an 80 percent concentration, there was little time. The acid had done its work. So far, from what he could see, the EMT team had done fine work, administering an intubation tube, treating for hypovolemic shock, the subclavian line placed. Consuelo was doing fine.
Muscles bunched in his jaw as the EMT team rolled the gurney over the rocky uneven terrain, visibly jostling the woman. He could almost feel the IV needle pulling at her vein. The pain.
“Come on, boys, watch the patient,” he whispered, angrily.
One of the techs loaded Consuelo into the back of the ambulance, while the other barked vitals ahead to the hospital.
He could hear the whump, whump of the Life Flight chopper blades before he could see it. As the bird dipped over a ridge and moved closer, he made out a handful of locals gathering on the roadside, necks craning, wondering what all the excitement was about.
A mock grin played over his clean-cut jowls. “Yes, yes, come to see my work.” He held up his hands, this time in front of his face, marveling at them.
In the distance a flight surgeon leaned out the bubble window as dirt and leaves swirled in a halo, creating a beige veil around the road. He could see twelve figures, uniformed and plainclothes cops most likely, and the mass of onlookers covering their eyes.
He watched with rapt attention as they finished loading his patient, knowing full well they would find her alive, knowing what she would say.
It was unrelenting hell, the waves of nausea and nerves that washed over her. The flight from Quantico, Virginia, to John Wayne International Airport in Orange County had been like a roller coaster ride, complete with ups and downs that played havoc with her stomach.
Catherine Powers’s equilibrium seemed to shift violently sideways as the plane veered to the left, its right wing tipping down so she could see the Western seaboard still blanketed in what she guessed was fog and, further inland, smog. She grasped the sides of her seat. Descending at 25,000 feet, couldn’t this pilot avoid the air pockets that had plagued the flight?
Still, it was good at least to feel something. Living the life she had been for so long was hell. For the past six years, Catherine’s life had been devoid of emotion, or so it seemed to those around her. She wore an external armor that few could penetrate. In her line of work, as the FBI’s forensic pathologist working closely with the Behavioral Sciences Unit, it was her duty to remain detached. Catherine, or Cat, as she liked to be called, dealt with the most evil of criminal minds, hunting down not men but animals capable of the most atrocious evil. At present, the Behavioral Sciences Unit had over a hundred active cases, but she had been assigned to this one—the FBI had given it top priority.
Cat had read the case files, watched the reporter’s renditions of the killer’s MO on the local channel’s tapes. Somehow the story appeared unreal. No, it wasn’t the story, it was Cat’s defense mechanism getting stronger, making her more detached.
Sometimes she wondered if the feeling was inevitable, if that necessary indifference was what drove cops to retire early, to drink and do drugs. Nowadays she felt herself moving in that direction, having one too many glasses of wine. Sometimes, alone in her hotel room, a scotch.
She knew she was walking a fine line. In this case, she could not afford a screw-up.
Thinking back to the news footage, it was foolish that the newscasters characterized killers as evil, irrational. She knew the types she hunted were highly rational in their own minds, many times planning a crime for months down to the smallest detail. Then they waited and watched for the perfect victim, enjoyed watching police fumble, reveling in the chaos that they so masterfully created. Cat resented the misperception that these people were irrational because it demeaned what she did—made it seem easy to put the pieces of the puzzle together. She knew it was not.
Unlike most people, like the press, Cat did not respond with outrage to cases. Instead, she was controlled, objective, learning what she could from fibers, blood, semen.
Only now, she felt that objectivity slipping away.
At Quantico, she built a reputation on being the best of the best. Keen, quick, intel
ligent; she decided she wasn’t going to let that all crumble. Her mind wandered back to Virginia, to Joey; she had to hold up for him—for her six-year-old. She remembered running her fingers through his blond hair as he flashed her a quick smile.
“Take good care of him, Mark,” she had said, leaving the child with her ex-husband at his home in Washington. She knelt to Joey, eye-to-eye with him. “Mommy will be back as soon as she can. I’ll call you to see how you’re doing, okay?”
“I’ll miss you, Mommy,” Joey whimpered, teary eyed.
“I’ll miss you too, but we’ll be together again soon.”
She had mouthed “I love you” as she stepped into the waiting taxi, Joey holding Mark’s hand tight, chin quivering.
She had not looked back in the cab. Could not afford to, because she too was crying. Now she wished she had looked back. Wished she hadn’t been assigned to this case.
She laughed to herself, thinking how easy it would have been to refuse this assignment. But she hadn’t, couldn’t. Maybe because this case would answer questions, not just about the killer, but about herself.
Cat Powers stared out the window, thinking of the string of brutal murders in South Orange County, between Fullerton and Irvine, that had left the local authorities baffled. The killer seemed capable of leaving his victims in such a state that it shook up homicide detectives with twenty years on the force when they got their first sight of the remains. At least that’s what she had read in stories pulled from the LA Times. At the same time, the killer seemed capable of disappearing, taunting the local cops with his chosen method of death. The only clues he left were gashes, not deep penetrating wounds, but multiple small incisions about an inch into the skin.
And what about the use of acid? Preliminary testing had shown that he used sulfuric acid. Not commercial-grade sulfuric acid that contained 98 percent H2SO4, but the fuming sulfuric acid, commonly called Oleum, which was up to 80 percent pure.
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