An uncanny orange sunrise. He wanted to share these things with Catherine. Surprises at each corner, surprises with each light glimmer that painted these white walls.
Surprises that she could not possibly imagine.
He wanted to share this perpetual backdrop of ocean and sky with her. “Yes,” he said. “Catherine, one day soon.”
Taking a sip of coffee, he read the articles again. Catherine said she cared about the people who lived here, and he believed her. But what would she know about the overwhelming bond that he held with her? It was imperceptible to her now.
But soon it would not be.
When all the talking ended, when she had protested his actions and was stunned by their result, then and only then would she understand their bond.
He had never been bitter about his mother. Hated her and loved her, yes, but never bitter. She taught him some good lessons. How to deliver on a promise, how to be productive during the day, and how to feel so engulfed by the night that he felt he was thrown into the sea.
At times it was scary. He didn’t deny it.
But with each day, he set his heart and mind at developing his talent. With each minute he invested in making it real, the investment paid off. Each woman he killed felt better than the last, the prior one a fraction as fulfilling as her successor.
Laguna Beach was of course the perfect place for such fantasies. A community of upper-class gays, artists, and liberals, it seemed to personify the free-flowing easy mentality that was Berkeley in the sixties. This town was tucked just below Newport, but people here were not into Porsches and Beemers. One could just as easily appreciate a 1964 mint-condition Mustang with gleaming chrome trim, top down.
He fit in here perfectly. Fancied himself a mastermind at portraying what was expected. He appeared the liberal yuppie, carved from the ranks of men who named their kids “Sebastian” and “Tyler.”
He could not foresee himself ever leaving this place. La Blanca. Soon enough, Dr. Catherine Powers, his colleague, would share it with him.
EIGHTEEN
Endure, and preserve yourselves for better things.
—Virgil, The Aeneid
It was impossible. Dr. Catherine Powers handled Flight 411 from Orange County to Chicago’s O’Hare as well as could be expected, white-knuckling her way through. Her anxiety worsened as the plane descended. She could see no land down there, no horizon. A glimmer of lights like pin dots. Then only pitch-black nothingness. Turbulence over Texas was unbelievable. This plane seemed at the air currents’ mercy.
Cat broke down and ordered a double scotch. She didn’t care if it was nine o’clock at night. If it took a double to take the edge off this flight, then so be it. The scotch washed over her, the alcohol creeping through her veins, numbing every cell it came in contact with. It felt good.
Her mind wandered to thoughts she normally shunned—about her role at the FBI. In a business embroiled in blood and bodies, Cat could foresee the day she would leave it. Walk away. Despite the Behavioral Science Unit’s success, funding was being cut. The entire US government seemed to be “downsizing.” In California alone, major defense industry players like Boeing and Lockheed had taken huge cuts in spending programs thanks to Uncle Sam and the California budget crisis. Cat wondered what her future with the FBI would bring.
More importantly, she wondered about her future with Joey. In the last year, she had earned twice as much as she had the previous year but had spent a fraction of her time with him. Yet she loved the boy dearly. Wasn’t there some saying about absence making the heart grow fonder? Right now, she was sure that was true.
Mark, of course, was far less sentimental about her work. “You can’t be married to your work and be married to me,” he had told her when they separated. Now she knew that applied to Joey as well. “You can’t have your work and Joey too.” She could almost see the words pouring out of Mark’s mouth, although he had never spoken them.
It came from somewhere back long ago. The need for family, for roots. Maybe the relationship with her father. A sentimental fool, she did not see that what she wanted, she was tearing down. Solid ties with her son, with her family. She had never come near what Joey wanted her to be. Now in this flight’s loneliness, the scotch, she realized she didn’t have much of a place in Joey’s life. Maybe it would be worth it. After this experience.
Maybe that’s why she was getting out.
The plane landed safely at Chicago’s O’Hare. Summer’s heat sweltered. Humidity in the 90 percent range. She remembered Chicago in the summer. The heat hit her as she disembarked the plane. Cat wanted to strip down to nothing.
As she entered United’s expansive terminal, she heard her cell phone ringing at the bottom of her purse. She fumbled past lipstick, mints, a hairbrush for it. Finally, on the fifth ring…
“Dr. Catherine Powers.”
Detective McGregor’s agitated voice. “Doctor…Cat…is that you?” Static on the line.
“Yes.”
“We got another floater. This one looks like it might be Carrie Ann Bennett.” He tried to calm himself. She could hear his purposeful gasps for air. “From the looks of it, she’s been out there awhile.”
“I just arrived in Chicago,” she said slowly, deliberately, trying to disguise the slight slur to her speech.
“Can you get a flight back?”
“What?”
“Can you get a flight back?”
“What are you talking about? I left a standing order for the Irvine coroner to handle the autopsy.”
“Well, there’s a little problem with that…”
“What?”
“We can’t locate him.”
“You what?”
“We can’t find him. He appears to have skipped town.”
Cat slapped her forehead, gathering her thoughts. What else could go wrong?
“Okay. I’ll have to see if there’s a return flight tonight.” She glanced at the sports watch on her wrist. “It’s eleven-thirty now. I’ll have to catch a red-eye back.”
“I’ll tell the chief.”
“McGregor, has anyone touched the body?”
Cat had also left a standing order that anything resembling the Burning Man’s work was to be left where it was. No sheet covering it, no attempt at dignity. Nothing. Even if it was a floater.
“No, not that I’m aware.”
“Where did it wash up?”
“It’s near a place the locals call The Wedge in Newport Beach.”
Cat nodded, recalling the jettied harbor where waves doubled back on themselves, building speed and velocity. What resulted was a hammering force, compacted sand, riptides unlike she’d felt before. The surfers loved it. On a bad day, The Wedge could kill you.
“What condition is the body in?” She knew it was a stupid question as soon as it came out.
“Pretty battered, I’m afraid.”
“No one touch it till I get there. Find out who found it, but no one touch it.”
“Sure.”
Cat glanced up at the departure boards, found out the plane she had just come in on was leaving for LAX in an hour.
“Here’s the deal. I’ll be taking the same flight back to LA. It arrives at 3:35. Secure the scene, swing by the hotel for some sweats, and meet me at LAX.”
“Sure thing.” He could hear her sigh. “You all right, Cat?”
“Yeah. It’s just I’ve been doing a lot of thinking…”
“Thinking?”
“About this life. All we do is react. Waiting for bodies, waiting for our families to adjust to all this madness.” It was the scotch talking. She never shared herself like this.
McGregor knew what she was thinking. “It is madness, ain’t it?”
“Sure is.”
Bucking winds, Cat’s plane arrived ten minutes late. Clutching her overnight bag and medical bag, she did not worry about what she looked like. Though she was sure she looked like hell. Instead, she worried about Carrie Ann Bennett. What co
ndition was she in?
McGregor knew what she was thinking as soon as she got in the car.
“Long night, huh, doc?”
“Yeah.” Cat kept her eyes averted.
“You doing okay?” McGregor could see her fatigue.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You know, whatever it is, you can talk about it.”
“Yeah, I know.” She would not look at him.
“It’s hard, I know.” He spoke from experience. “I know this all can affect how you feel. Sometimes I feel it too. Like it’s all for nothing. Like for every one you catch, there’s a hundred more, all ten times worse, ten times more vicious. Sometimes I say what’s the use? Feel like chucking it.”
Her eyes met his in the dash board mirror.
“When you get like that, you’ve gotta take a deep breath and look at all the good. Kids like Carrie Ann Bennett, Nancy Marsh. Without us, they might never be found. Never receive any…” He stopped, swallowed hard. “Dignity.”
“I know.”
“Maybe you feel like you’re always chasing and it ain’t no good. But it is, Cat.” He took her hand and squeezed it, then let go. “It is.”
Cat smiled halfheartedly and pulled herself together. It had been a long night, with no sleep. It was just going to get longer. “So tell me the condition of the body.”
“It’s pretty bad. Worse than the last one. The surf beat her into the sand pretty good. She’s been floating for a long time. From what I heard, the people who found her weren’t even sure it was a body.”
“That’s common if she’s been out there any time. Any clothing, jewelry?”
“Nope, nothing like that. She’s clean. Naked.”
“What about the people who found her?”
“Older couple, in their sixties. Have a beach house nearby. Taking a midnight stroll. From what I hear, they couldn’t make out what it was at first. Figured a shark got hold of a big seal or something. The man went closer in to investigate.” McGregor cleared his throat. “He got within twenty feet, realized it was something awful, and called 911 from his cell phone. Paramedics and cops arrived in minutes. Cops advised against moving it, like you ordered, although the paramedics wanted to make sure it was dead. Crime scene techs kept everyone at bay, you know?”
“Yeah. I know. They didn’t touch it did they?”
“Naw. Chief got the call about a minute later.”
Cat listened as he continued filling her in.
“Scene’s been secured; we should be there soon.”
They passed over nearly deserted freeways, side streets, the ride taking about half what it normally took. Just turning off the freeway, Cat looked at him.
McGregor rocketed the car down Balboa. A mile ahead, she could see the luminescent glow of yellow and blue revolving cruiser lights. Her excitement rose.
As McGregor swung the car into a paved opening of palms, beach, and a police mob, Cat put her hand on his.
“Don’t tell anyone about our conversation earlier, will you?”
“You don’t have to worry. It’s between us, Catherine, and it’ll stay that way.”
“Thank you.”
Cat bent under the yellow crime scene banner, its letters twisting in the sea breeze. The air was heavy with the smell of salt and death. Above the horizon, daybreak.
The chief nodded to her, watching her emerge from McGregor’s car. She wondered why she felt a funny twinge when she saw him.
The older couple was sitting on a Medevac van’s bumper, the man’s arm around the woman’s shoulder. Her face was illuminated in the lights. From the look of it, she was crying. Paramedics packed up their gear, realizing they could do no good here. McGregor stood with his hands deep in his pockets for a while then walked over to where the older couple sat. Cat knew he would go over everything they had already told the authorities fifty times before. It would do no good. They hadn’t seen anything.
The only one who had seen anything was Carrie Ann Bennett.
Cat ducked into the back of McGregor’s car, which was parked in a dark spot. She quickly changed into sweats, thankful more morning light was now showing in the sky. Light would help her search for evidence.
Evidence was an ally. Wading into the water didn’t scare her. Not finding any evidence did.
Thankfully the waves this morning were calm enough for her journey. Only about a foot high. Cat wanted to be able to take a look at the body before anyone else did.
Here, there was no need for compassion, no use for decorum for the dead. The dead were dead. Any attempt to drag the body in, to bring it ashore, to shelter it from shocked eyes was useless to her because it all destroyed evidence. Without evidence, she would never catch him. Perhaps he knew that. Perhaps that was why he was now dumping into the ocean. It had a way of erasing everything, fingerprints, skin, hair, fibers, semen. Literally, the ocean did its job of washing the body clean. So often, moving a body onshore only made matters worse. What little trace evidence there might be below the fingertips was lost in the sand. What little epidermal skin was left was dragged onshore.
Cat wouldn’t let that happen to this girl. To Carrie Ann Bennett.
She wouldn’t let it happen to her evidence.
Couldn’t give the bastard the advantage.
As she waded into the water, her medical bag floating behind her on a makeshift raft, she thought of the girl. Right now Carrie Ann Bennett was only a number—number five in these killings.
Seagulls swooped, carried on the wind around her, their awk-awk cries resonant over the waves. She watched as a few brave birds dive-bombed the body. Waist-deep in water, Cat moved forward and back slightly with each wave, keeping her eyes focused on the floater, her bag trailing behind her wrist like a sport fisherman tied to a bowline. The Pacific’s water was clear and cool, as was the morning air on her cheeks.
Cat braced against a weak riptide every now and then, digging her feet into the sand for support.
Around her, this idyllic Newport Beach surf spread out in both directions, blue and aquamarine. Below water, Cat watched surfperch zip by between floating kelp clumps. Even with this current, this was a place of life. Above water too, the air was filled with gulls and the sun’s warmth. Twenty feet away, Carrie Ann Bennett floated in conspicuous contradiction to her surroundings. Bloated from internal gases, she appeared a bulbous mass. Arms, legs, intestines splayed out like a starfish, above the smooth blue horizon.
Cat wondered how something so horrible could exist in a place as full of life as this. Looking over her shoulder, she could see McGregor and the others watching her from shore, their bodies growing smaller with each step she took.
About ten feet from the body, she was thankful it hadn’t been moved. Removing the corpse from the water would have exposed it to air. The stench would have been unbearable. At least here Carrie Ann Bennett lay protected in a watery cocoon. Conceivably for that reason, the body did not smell that bad. And because of the Vick’s rub she had put under her nostrils before wading out.
Cat beat back one of the screeching seagulls overheard. Carrie Ann Bennett appeared inhuman. Her midsection had blown up to three times its normal size, skin glossy, several layers having sloughed away. Floating face-up, the girl’s grotesque, irregular features contradicted any notion that this was once a lovely young woman. Forehead, cheeks, chin appeared a doughy white mass, much like risen bread before it’s baked. Eyes gone from their sockets, a likely meal for crabs, fish, microbes.
Now Carrie Ann Bennett lay open to the elements, sun baking down on her. Arms and legs floated out to the side, each mushroomed in size. Attached to her left arm was what appeared to be a black serpent. For an instant, Cat was taken aback. Then she realized there were ropes, like black tentacles, leading off from her torso in three directions. With each soft wave, a whitish splotchy film that encased Carrie’s body gave way, a little more of it floating toward shore.
Staring down at the body, at that film, Cat remembered her first f
loater. In medical school, there was a saying that “one never forgets their first floater.” Cat had not.
In the small town of Key West, Florida, the ocean crystalline and calm much like this one, authorities had dragged a fifteen-year-old out of the salt marshes. Although they had not known it at the time, the boy’s body had floated back to where it belonged, to the shore. Cat remembered the ballooned appearance, the unbelievable stench, the way the hair had simply fallen away from the boy’s scalp. He was a victim of foul play. His friends dared him to walk outside the wooden pier’s protective guardrail. Drunk on booze, the boy lost his footing and fell fifty feet to his death in the middle of the night. Receding tides had taken him out to sea, then back in, where he had been impaled on sharp rocks offshore. During the night, his friends had dragged the body in and dumped it in the local salt-marsh mangroves, hoping no one would find it but the herons and gulls.
Cat had performed testing which showed the saline levels in the lungs and skin tissue were entirely different. Cause of death had been a broken neck. Local authorities, given this information, re-questioned the boy’s acquaintances on the night he disappeared. One of them cracked and told everything.
Disquieted, Cat remembered her exuberance for this job in those days. How she had tended to the boy as if he were still alive. Speaking to the body as she autopsied him, telling him what she was doing would cause him no pain. What happened to that person? Had death become so routine to her that she simply didn’t see people as people anymore? Just hunks of flesh that could be ripped apart by a lightning strike or a gunshot?
Sometimes she wondered how she would die. Would it be investigating one of these cases, or something as simple as a car accident? She had learned so much about medicine, but so little about human beings all these years. Life was a precious thing, but in all this, that conviction seemed to be slipping away from her.
A squawk from overhead brought her back. Carrie Ann Bennett rolled closer to Cat with each wave, bobbing on the ebb tide. Cat positioned herself in the water sideways to the incoming current so that she could float along with the girl’s body. From the looks of it, she had been floating a good ten to fourteen days. Ropes twisted around the wrists and left leg, two, maybe three times, tied down so tight it appeared the girl’s appendages had been noosed.
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