The Seventh Victim

by Mary Burton

  What Raines had done was of no interest to him now. “My doctor is top notch.”

  A cynical smile curved the edge of full lips. “This doctor might be good, and she might think she’s different and smarter than the rest, but she’s not. I’ve seen more doctors than I can count, and I’ve talked to countless cops. I suffered a concussion during the attack and don’t have memories to share; otherwise I’d have shared them years ago.”

  A dozen questions condensed to one. “What’s the last image you do remember before the attack?”

  She slowly shook her head from side to side. “I don’t want to answer your questions. Now get off my property, Sergeant Beck.”

  The abrasive clip in her voice thinned his patience. Deliberately, he kept his voice even and precise. “I came all this way to see you.”

  “You’ve wasted a trip, Sergeant Beck.”

  He managed a smile that didn’t feel the least bit friendly. “This visit was a courtesy because I did not want to put you out, ma’am. But I have come here for answers.”

  Her hand tightened around the gun barrel. “You have come to the wrong place. I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

  “I could detain you and drive you into Austin, where we could have a more formal chat.”

  “Cops . . . so predictable,” she muttered as she rubbed her temple with her fingertips. “You’ve no cause to take me anywhere.”

  “Ma’am, you are a material witness in an active murder case, and I have every right to take you into Austin.”

  “I don’t remember.” She sounded weary.

  “Appears to me you haven’t even tried that hard.”

  She tipped her head back as if struggling for patience and control. “If I had any detail I would tell you. I really would. But I don’t.”

  “It’s in this morning’s paper.”

  “I haven’t had the chance to read it.”

  “Then I suppose you haven’t read about the woman in San Antonio?”

  “The paper never said how she died.” And at his questioning look she added, “I do read the papers, Sergeant.”

  The Austin paper and television stations had spent several days covering the unknown San Antonio body, trailing the story through the discovery and the identification. When the leads had run dry, the articles had stopped. “We don’t know how she died, but believe she was dressed in white.” He rested his hands on his belt, the heavy leather creaking. “She’d been exposed to the elements. Sun and animals took most of her away.”

  Tension flattened her lips. “There was no mention of any of that in the paper.”

  “That was deliberate on the part of the local police. They don’t want to show their cards until they have to.”

  The pink he’d seen in her cheeks when she’d come out of the woods had faded. “The first woman’s name was Lou Ellen Fisk. Mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “What about Gretchen Hart? She’s the one that died yesterday morning.”

  “No.”

  Her clipped, almost defiant answers shortened his temper to breaking. She wanted to stay out of this game. Wanted him to walk away. Not happening. “You remember having that man’s hands around your neck? Remember what it’s like to have your wind slowly cut off?”

  Her eyes widened. Fear and then anger shot back. “Is that supposed to shock a memory from me? Or make me go rushing to your doctor? Because if it is you’ll have to do better than that.”

  “I got two dead women and I expect a little help from you.”

  She sighed her frustration. “All I remember is waking up in a hospital room. My throat burned, and I could barely talk. I remember my face and neck were bruised and my eyes were so bloodshot it was hard to see my pupils when I looked in the mirror. The doctors said the Strangler just about crushed my windpipe. My voice is still hoarse today because of the attack.”

  Imagining her face battered and bruised cooled the fire in his belly. “Any idea how you got away?”

  “I was told someone passed by and saw what was happening. I must have blacked out by then, but I’m told the guy and his girlfriend called the cops and my attacker ran away.”

  “Where were you attacked?”

  “If you’ve spoken to Mike Raines then you have more details than me.” Impatience nipped at each word.

  When he had a spare moment he’d read the Raines files cover to cover. “I want to hear what you have to say, ma’am.” His tone remained cool, even.

  “There’d been a party, and I’d had too many drinks. I took a cab to my apartment, and I remember putting my key in the lock. And then my next memory starts in the hospital.”

  “The other Seattle victims were killed by the highway.”

  “It was in all the papers at the time. All women, including me, were thinking twice before heading out on Route 10. It never occurred to me that he’d be in my apartment building.”

  He dug into his own memories of the crime. “The other victims had police records.”

  She rubbed the side of her neck with her hand. “And I did not. Yes, I know. Some of the cops were certain I was lying and went to great lengths to dig into my past. In the end, they found out what I told them they’d find: one speeding ticket, which I got when I was sixteen. What I know is in Detective Raines’s files.”

  “Except who attacked you. That detail is locked in your head, Ms. Church.”

  She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “The key is gone, sir. There is no way to reach the memories. Now I need to ask you to leave. I’ve got to be in town in less than an hour.”

  “You have a show opening, don’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Photographs?”

  “Yes.”

  He dropped the shells in his jacket pocket and pulled out a couple of Polaroids taken of the body at yesterday’s crime scene. “They look like this?”

  She took the pictures and glanced at crime scene images of Gretchen Hart. Immediately, her face paled and she swayed before she handed him back the images. “You’re full of nasty questions and tricks.”

  He suffered no remorse. “Thought if you could see firsthand what I’m dealing with you might be more open to helping me.”

  “Get off my land, Ranger. I have no more to say to you.”

  He slowly tucked the pictures back in his breast pocket. “I’ll leave for now, Ms. Church, but you are gonna see me again. That I do promise you.”

  Gripping the shotgun by the stock, she turned toward the house, her dog following.

  As she reached for the front door, he said, “If the Seattle Strangler is active again, don’t you find it a bit odd that he’d take up his work only twenty or thirty miles from where his last victim lives? I don’t know about you, but I’ve never put much stock in coincidence.”

  She turned partway toward him, unwittingly giving him a view of her slim neck. “You’re assuming it is the Seattle Strangler. I am not.”

  Tension rippled through his body. “It’s a solid assumption.”

  She hesitated as if a blast of frigid air cut up her spine and then vanished with her dog into her house.

  Lara Church wasn’t the timid artsy type he’d expected. She had steel running down her spine. Getting her help wouldn’t be as easy as he’d hoped. But in the end he would get it.

  Raines had been on Texas soil not more than four hours, and he already hated the heat and the dry dust. He blotted a handkerchief on the back of his neck as he pulled up in front of the hotel. He’d been working a surveillance gig in Washington for five days straight. The case, a woman cheating on her husband, had been a lucrative gig. Ferreting out adultery paid the light bill, but it didn’t offer the same rush of police work.

  Raines glanced at his watch. It would take Beck several hours to check his story out, and to track down Lara Church. That would give him time to scrounge up a gun dealer open to a cash sale, and find a criminal attorney willing to defend. Sleep would have to come
later.

  He crossed the parking lot quickly, hating the heat beating down on his back and head. He pushed through the front glass doors and moved to the front desk. A twentysomething girl wearing a maroon vest, white shirt, and black skirt smiled up at him. “Welcome.”

  The genuine energy behind the word softened his mood. “Thanks. Hoping you got a room to spare.”

  “We sure do. How long will you be staying?”

  “Can’t say, but at least a week.” He fished out his wallet and credit card.

  She tapped in information into her computer keyboard, swiped his credit card, before handing over the card and a room key. “I’ve got a nice room facing the pool. Top floor. Quiet.”

  His slid his credit card into his wallet. “I appreciate that.”

  “And we offer breakfast every morning from six to nine. It’s good, hearty fare.”

  He smiled. “Stick to my ribs, as you Texans say?”

  A faint blush rose in her cheeks. “That’s right, sir. So where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Seattle, Washington.”

  “And what brings you to Austin?”

  “Just thought I’d have a look around.”

  “Well, we’ve got any kind of brochure you’d ever need on the rack by the elevators. Lots to see in town.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Well, if you don’t mind a bit of a drive, the Alamo is a sight to see. It’s down in San Antonio. Though if you’re driving down I-35 don’t go during rush hour. There’s always a backup.”

  He winked. “I’ll be sure to grab some brochures.”

  After collecting pamphlets he’d never read, he made his way to the elevators. Less than a minute later he’d stepped off the elevator and found his room. It was neat, tidy, and efficient. Not fancy, but it would serve his needs well. He moved to the curtains and pushed them back. As promised, his room overlooked the pool, which now hosted a young couple with two small children splashing around the shallow end.

  Seeing the kids tugged at the knots in his back. He thought about his own wife and daughter. God, but he missed them.

  Raines flipped open his phone, checked messages, and played a message from his wife.

  “Hey, baby, happy birthday.” From the background his daughter’s giggling rose up like a blooming flower. She started to sing “Happy Birthday” and his wife, laughing, joined in. He closed his eyes and listened as they danced through the song. “We miss you,” they said. “Come home soon.”

  He closed the phone and pressed it to his temple. He should be with them. Only an insane man would fly across the country and chase a killer that no one else remembered but him. But if anyone understood his need to catch this guy, it was his wife, Susan. She understood he’d always be a cop and that being a cop was more than a job.

  “It’s not your nature to give up,” she’d said so often. “It’s why I married you, after all.”

  He checked his watch and subtracted two hours. Susan would be getting Tara off to school now. She’d be rushed. Distracted. Tara would be sitting at the kitchen table nibbling on her toast and taking far too long to eat. He smiled. Now wasn’t the best time to call.

  He’d give anything to be there.

  “I’ll catch this guy, Susan. I’ll catch him and then it will be over just like I promised.”

  Chapter 6

  Tuesday, May 21, 9:45 AM

  Lara sat on the stone hearth next to the cold fireplace and buried her face in her hands. Her heart drummed so loudly she was certain it would crack through her ribs.

  She’d told Beck she read the papers. What she hadn’t told him was that these last seven years she read the local papers from cover to cover searching for signs that the Strangler had resurfaced. She’d read about dozens of murdered women over the years, and each time she’d paused to pray for the soul wrenched from this earth.

  She closed her eyes and whispered, “Lou Ellen and Gretchen, God bless you.”

  After several moments of silence, Lincoln nuzzled her hand with his nose and looked up at her as if he was worried. She summoned a smile and scratched him between his ears. “It’s okay, boy. I’m just fine. Only a little rattled by that guy.”

  That guy was a Texas Ranger. She didn’t know a lot about Texas or even being Texan, but she’d gleaned enough to know that the Texas Rangers tackled some of the nastiest and toughest cases in the state. They weren’t people to go against. The fact that Sergeant Beck had shown up on her land suggested that this case, and especially that Ranger, weren’t going away.

  Even without the hat and the badge, Beck would have put her on edge. A six-foot-six frame coupled with broad shoulders and a lean, muscled body intimidated without a single word spoken. Cutting ice green eyes combined with steel under his Texas drawl had had her struggling not to lock herself inside her cabin.

  She shoved out a breath and straightened. Just because two women had been murdered within thirty miles of her didn’t mean the Strangler had returned. Those two women, like most, probably had known their attackers. She’d read all the statistics. Random acts of violence, as she’d suffered, were indeed rare. Most women were killed by men they knew or, worse, loved.

  The man who’d attacked her was not in Texas because the odds that he had come to Austin were astronomical.

  Beck’s extremely male appraisal had her smoothing nervous hands over her jeans. Worse still, a deep, deep part of her had been intrigued and pleased.

  There’d been a time when she’d loved the scent and feel of a man. Confident and self-assured, she’d never been afraid to ask a man to dance or to join her for a cup of coffee. But for the last seven years, she walked wide circles around males. And most who showed interest were easily dissuaded by anger, sarcasm, and humor. Her shields. God, she wanted to love, wanted to be held, but behind each new man lurked the fear that he was her attacker.

  The lingering unknowns and lost memories no longer sent her into hiding as they had after the attack. These days they drove her to her camera.

  Though she needed to finalize details for her gallery opening, the need to create overrode practicalities.

  Lara’s upcoming show, Mark of Death, featured murder scenes from around the country that she’d photographed with her one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old bellows camera. Since only a handful of people knew about her attack, many considered such subject matter odd and more than a little quirky in one so young. But it didn’t take a shrink for her to know why she took the pictures she took. In each new image she searched for the spark that would trigger her memory.

  “Come on, Lincoln, let’s get our lunches packed so we can hit the trail and shoot some pictures before class this afternoon.” She thought about yesterday’s murder scene. As it was only twenty-four hours old, the cops would still have it roped off. She’d not get close for days.

  But the first crime scene that Beck had mentioned was well over a month old. That scene would be open now. She made herself a cup of coffee and toast and headed to her computer.

  Lincoln followed and lay down at her side, keeping a careful eye on her toast, just in case crumbs should fall to the floor. Since he was a small puppy she’d never been able to eat in front of the dog without sharing. He’d had her number since day one. She tossed a piece of buttered bread his way, grabbed her reading glasses, and searched San Antonio, Woman’s body found, April.

  She got a hit almost immediately. The woman Beck had mentioned had been in her twenties. She’d worked in a bar and, according to the articles, been liked by friends. She’d been a student. She’d been months shy of graduation.

  The murder scene was off I-35 north of San Antonio. The articles did not mention that she’d been wearing a white dress or that she’d had a penny in her hand. But then the Seattle cops had not released many details at first. They’d been guarded about giving specifics until the fourth victim had been discovered. That’s when they’d mentioned the white dress. There was no label in those dresses, but the hope ha
d been that someone might come forward with a description of the man who’d commissioned the dresses. But the tips, from what the media had reported, had led nowhere. The fifth and sixth victims had been wearing the same dress and when she’d been found, she’d been wearing the same dress.

  She ran her hands over her arms, remembering the feel of the dress’s cotton sleeve. She couldn’t recall wearing the dress during the attack, but one of the shrinks had convinced her to put on the dress, hoping she’d remember. The dress had smelled of sweat and the backside of it had been stained with grass. She’d stood in the doctor’s office for over an hour willing her brain to release one single detail that would help catch this killer. Nothing had come that day or the next or the next.

  Inwardly, she’d begun to crumble under police questions and the constant talk in the media about The Unidentified Victim. Who was she? How had she crossed paths with the killer? One reporter had offered a bounty to anyone who could identify her.

  Fear of discovery coupled with not knowing her attacker had simmered to boiling until finally she’d fled Seattle.

  She’d not had a plan when she’d left the West Coast. All she’d wanted was to get away. And so she’d bounced around aimlessly for months, working odd jobs that kept her gas tank filled and food in her belly. She’d been aimless. Lost. And about nine months after Seattle she’d wandered into a pawnshop and spotted a digital camera. On a whim she had spent what little savings she’d had and bought the camera. That precise day she’d started snapping pictures and almost immediately a sense of peace had eased the tension gripping her body. The world made a little more sense when she saw it through the lens of a camera.

  Her subject matter had been varied and scattered until she’d read an article in the Baltimore paper about a murder scene. A woman had been stabbed near the Inner Harbor. Pulled by forces she could not articulate, she’d gone to the murder scene and started snapping pictures. Later when she loaded the images onto her computer, she’d studied them so carefully, hoping to see just one element that would explain the violence that had claimed a woman’s life.