The Fifth to Die

by J. D. Barker

  He removed the flashlight from his gun and holstered the weapon.

  He stared at the remains of Libby McInley.

  32

  Poole

  Day 2 • 7:12 p.m.

  Poole stood perfectly still, his breath caught in the air before him, thin wisps of white curling about.

  The room felt so still.

  When you enter a room with at least one person already present, you know they are there. The human body somehow feels this person on an instinctual level. Your sense of caution, self-preservation, these things heighten. There is a subtle surge of adrenaline as the body takes in the sight and sound of this person, the body language and demeanor. Nearly instantaneously, the brains jumps to judgment—am I attracted to this person or repulsed? Indifferent or taken aback? Our body, our minds, come to all these conclusions in less time than it takes to blink an eye.

  If the person in the room is alive.

  When you enter a room occupied only by the dead, there is none of this. Without the soul, the body is just a husk, a shell, and somehow the mind knows that too. Different signals are sent: How did this person die? When did she die? Is whoever or whatever killed her still here? Could that something hurt me?

  Poole looked down at the body of Libby McInley, and he felt nothing but a profound sense of loss, one that caused his heart to ache.

  He stepped closer to the bed, the beam of his flashlight slipping over her body.

  Her fingers and toes had been removed. He found them lined up neatly on the nightstand, a pair of stained lobster shears beside them.

  Bishop had never done that before. He was escalating.

  Poole tried a lamp beside the bed. The bulb had been removed.

  With 4MK’s previous victims, the kill room always eluded them. He staged the bodies when he wanted them to be found. Not once had they learned where he actually killed them. SAIC Hurless suspected that he killed them in the tunnels beneath the city, but Poole always felt differently. Poole believed Bishop had a kill room, someplace secluded, meaningful to him, someplace he could work without disruption, someplace that could eat the screams before they escaped.

  Libby McInley died in immense pain. She died slowly. And she died here, alone.

  There was blood everywhere. The beam of Poole’s flashlight traced it up the walls behind the bed, across the sheets, to the green shag carpet beneath his feet. He shouldn’t be stepping here, not like this. He was most likely contaminating potential evidence, but something told him they wouldn’t find anything here—nothing useful, anyway. They’d only find whatever Bishop wanted them to find.

  Poole leaned in close to the body, his flashlight over her spoiled flesh, the tiny cuts.

  Razor blade.

  Each no more than a half inch. So many, her skin covered in dried blood.

  Poole removed his glove and reached out to her, his fingers brushing over her forearm.

  She was cold but not frozen. The heat had been turned off in the house long before she died—days, maybe a week earlier. She had died recently, within the past day or two.

  It was then that he saw something in the cuts. He hadn’t seen it at first, probably because of the direction he faced. He didn’t see it until he looked down at her arm from the head of the bed.

  Words.

  He had not just cut her with a razor blade. He had written upon her, her body a canvas under his brush. Tiny words, barely visible under the blood. The arms bled less tied to the bedposts. They were above her heart.

  You are evil—You are evil—YOU are evil—you

  The same phrase, over and over again, every inch of exposed skin.

  She had been alive when he did these things. The small pools of blood at each cut told him so. He started at her feet and worked his way up. He could tell that too from the amount of blood at each wound. She finally died somewhere near the rib cage. He continued beyond that point, but the cuts were swifter after.

  He hadn’t enjoyed it after she died. He needed to finish his work, though.

  This was violent, this was revenge.

  “Who was Franklin Kirby to you?” Poole asked aloud of both Libby McInley and Anson Bishop. Neither answered.

  Ten minutes later he retraced his steps back out of the house, back to his Jeep Cherokee. He climbed inside, started the engine, and placed a call to SAIC Hurless. He considered calling Detective Porter too but changed his mind. He wanted to see his face when he talked to him about this. He needed to understand exactly what Porter knew.

  33

  Porter

  Day 2 • 10:04 p.m.

  Detective Sam Porter arrived in New Orleans at a little after ten, following a two-hour layover in Dallas, the only flight he could book same day. While in Dallas, he attempted to eat at a McDonald’s in the terminal, but his stomach was a mess. He couldn’t keep anything down.

  From the New Orleans airport, Porter took a cab directly to the Orleans Parish Prison on Gravier Street. He told the driver to circle the prison until Porter spotted the chainlink-surrounded sidewalk and the sign from the photograph. There he asked the driver to stop and wait for him.

  Porter got out of the cab and crossed the street, sweating in his heavy coat even at this late hour. He had never been outside of Chicago during the winter. The difference in temperature this far south was amazing. The air was thick, humid, filled with the distant stench of a city that felt used, abused, and hosed down nightly.

  He approached a guard stationed near the gate. The man told him visiting hours started at nine and went until six, no exceptions. The warden would be in at seven. Take it up with him.

  The guard didn’t recognize the woman in the photograph, but he did recognize the guard walking in front of her. “That’s Vince Weidner. He’s on days, gets in at eight.”

  Porter thanked him and returned to the cab.

  “You got someone in there?” the driver asked, and Porter pulled the door closed.

  “Someone, yeah.”

  “I spent my share in that place, probably be in there now if my cousin hadn’t hooked me up with this gig. Tough to make a living around here. The jobs pay just this side of shit, and all the tourists drive up the real estate. A regular joe can’t afford to live in the city on what you get. Got to live in one of the outer parishes and commute. Or you got to find a way to augment your income.”

  “That how you ended up in there? Augmented income?”

  The driver let out a chuckle. “My other cousin taught me the fine art of pickpocketing. He can separate just about any man from his wallet.”

  “If he’s so good, how’d you get caught?”

  “Didn’t say I was good at it. I think Cousin Mic may have left out a step or two during training. I got nabbed on my first attempt. Had my fingers in some man’s back pocket, he grabbed my wrist and snapped it. I yelled so loud, three cops came over to see what all the ruckus was about. I shouldn’t have picked such a big son a bitch for my first mark, but I figured he wouldn’t feel much with all that bulk in the way. I was very wrong.”

  “How long did you get?”

  The driver let out a sigh. “Three long weeks and a day. Time served by the time I made it to trial. That was enough for me, though. I got no interest in seeing the inside of that place again, no sir. My butt is perfectly happy right here in this seat. Speaking of which, where are we heading?”

  Porter’s eyes were locked on the building. Beige stone, narrow windows. She was in there somewhere. “What can you tell me about the warden?”

  “Not a damn thing. I got in there and kept my head down, didn’t speak to damn near anybody. I did my few weeks in my lonesome, washed the stink off when I got out. I saw the warden for all of two minutes when I first came in off the bus, and he didn’t speak a word, just watched the guards drive the fresh cattle into their stalls,” the driver said. “Hard-looking man, that one. Comes with the job, I suppose.” He looked at Porter in the rearview mirror. “Probably none of my business, but what’s your friend i
n there for?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Reason I ask is the minimum-security prisoners are housed in the other building at the east wing. We get a lot of drunk and disorderly around Orleans—most of the rides I take out here are to pick someone up who had one or ten too many the night before in the Quarter and ended up getting hauled off for a sobering night in the tombs. The east wing is on the other side of the prison. This here side is for the hardcore criminals. The ones who need a little more than a one-night scare to get them right with God. You gotta go into the right building, or you’ll waste an hour getting to the front of the line before you find out you’re in the wrong place,” he explained.

  “She’s in this building.”

  “Oh, well, that’s too bad.”

  “Is there a hotel near here?” Porter asked.

  “Shit, no place you’d wanna stay. Why don’t we head back to the strip and get you something nice on Bourbon.”

  “I need someplace close.”

  The man drew in a long breath. “Well, we got the Traveler’s Best up the block, but I didn’t even let my cousin stay there, and that was after he got me busted.”

  “That’s fine,” Porter said.

  The driver rolled his eyes and slipped the car into gear. “Your vacation, spend it the way you like. Fair warning, though—you throw beads from your balcony at someone in that part of town, and they’re likely to empty a .22 on you.”

  The hotel was not in the best of neighborhoods. Only a few blocks from the prison, the squat pink building sat atop a parking garage, two stories of rooms beneath a large fluorescent sign that read TRAVELER’S BEST VALUE INN HOTEL—VACANCY. Half the lights were out, and two of the bulbs flickered from behind the dirty white plastic.

  The driver slipped the cab into Park at the side of the building. “You sure about this?”

  Porter was already halfway out the door. “They take cash, right?”

  “You could probably trade a pack of Luckys and a bottle of Ripple for a room in that place. I’m sure they welcome cash.”

  The meter read $51.23. Porter pulled three twenties from his wallet and handed them to the driver. “Keep it.”

  They quickly disappeared in the man’s shirt pocket. “I’m Hershel Chrisman, by the way. You need a ride anywhere, you give me a ring and I’ll be right over, even here.” He nodded at the hotel, handing Porter a business card with his phone number printed in big block letters. “Walk through the parking lot along that concrete wall. The office is on the other side of the elevator, opposite end of the building. You change your mind and decide you want a room at the Hilton on Bourbon, you give me a ring. You want to see the sights, you give me a ring. Been here all my life, I know this town inside and out.” He lowered his voice. “If you can’t spring your lady friend, I know a few places where you can find yourself a brand-new lady friend. Just give me a ring.”

  Porter nodded and slipped the card into his pants pocket. “Thanks for the ride, Hershel. Take care of yourself.”

  The cab pulled away, and he found himself standing there alone, the distant sound of sirens and loud voices drifting in from the dark.

  Porter followed the cinder-block wall through the parking garage, which reeked of rotting garbage, and found the office beyond the elevators. There was no door or friendly lobby, only a thick glass window stained and smeared with God knew what. A man in his late fifties, pudgy, with a balding gray head and black-rimmed glasses, watched Porter as he approached, first on a small computer monitor, then from the window.

  Porter stepped up to the glass. “I’d like a room, please.”

  The man licked at his cracked lips. There was something at the corner of his mouth. It looked like a crumb of Doritos, orange and moist. “I’ll need to see two forms of identification and a credit card.”

  Porter pulled out his wallet. “No ID. I’m paying cash.”

  The man shrugged. “Twenty-nine nighty-five per night, plus a hundred-dollar security deposit. We need to protect our valuables.”

  Porter fished five twenties out of his wallet and shoved them through the small slot at the bottom of the window. “That’s a hundred bucks. If I decide to stay longer than three nights, I’ll be back.”

  The manager scooped up the bills, hit the side of an ancient cash register with a balled-up fist to open the drawer, and slipped the bills inside. “What about the security deposit? Can’t have you walking off with our sheets or towels.”

  “I recently redecorated, so I’m all set. No need to worry. I won’t even touch the minibar.”

  The manager narrowed his eyes, studied Porter, then must have figured it wasn’t worth the fight. He slid a clipboard through the slot in the window. “Sign in, please.”

  Porter scribbled Bob Seger on the next available line and passed the clipboard back to him.

  The man studied the name, then pulled a key from a pegboard at his side and dropped it into the metal tray under the slot. “I’ve got you in our penthouse suite. It’s located on the east side of the building with a wonderful view of the city. Our continental breakfast can be found in the vending machines located at the end of each hall. Enjoy your stay.”

  Porter reached for the key, not one of those credit card keys but an actual key on a plastic ring, with 203 stamped on it in faded black letters. He dropped it into his pocket, picked up his bag. “Thanks.”

  The manager had returned to the security monitors. He waved a noncommittal hand at him, the fingertips orange from chip dust.

  Porter walked past the elevators to the stairs, followed them to the second floor, and located 203. If he had any neighbors, he couldn’t tell. All the windows appeared dark.

  He fumbled with the lock a bit to get the key to turn. When it did, he pushed the open, stepped inside, and flicked on the light.

  A queen-size bed stood at the center, with a scratched light-oak dresser on the opposite wall. There was a sign beside the television remote that read FREE HBO! but there was no television—only an empty space where one once sat, evidenced only by the scuff in the wood. A faded brown stain took up much of the floor. There was no discernible pattern to it. Someone had tried to scrub the green Berber with some kind of cleanser and only made it worse. A scratched desk and chair filled the far corner.

  The room had a bathroom, but Porter couldn’t bring himself to take a look. He’d build up to that. Instead, he dropped his bag onto the bed and crossed the room to the window. He pulled back the thick curtain. The lights of the prison were visible in the distance, thin, slotted windows lit up randomly at this late hour.

  34

  Clair

  Day 3 • 4:56 a.m.

  The phone rang.

  Clair’s eyes snapped open. The room was sideways. Her head was down on the cold metal of her desk, floating in a pool of her own drool.

  “Fuck me,” she muttered, glancing up at the clock. It would be light out soon. After the hospital, Nash had gone to the Davies house to supervise, and she had come back to the war room to work the boards.

  She reached for the phone and accepted the call. “Yeah?”

  “Detective Norton?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Lindsy Rolfes in the crime lab. I’ve been trying to reach you, but your voice mail is picking up.”

  “It does that when I sleep on the job,” Clair told her. “What’s up?”

  “I e-mailed our preliminary findings on the Davieses’ house to you and Detective Porter about twenty minutes ago. We found a concentrated dosage of lisinopril in the remaining coffee. There were also some scratches noted at the deadbolt on the door in the mudroom. They were inconsistent with marks made by a key or normal use,” Rolfes said.

  “So someone broke in?”

  “That is our conclusion. They picked the lock, came in through that door, and most likely poured a liquefied version of the drug into the water tank of the coffeemaker. Even if Davies filled the tank to the top, this dosage was so high it would not dilute to safe level
s.” She hesitated for a moment, her voice wavering. “I called the hospital to review the results of Randal Davies’s toxicology screen with his doctor, and I was told Randal Davies passed away at ten thirty-four. He suffered a severe stroke, and they weren’t able to bring him back.”

  Clair drew in a deep breath. The two girls, now their fathers.

  “There’s more,” Rolfes said from the other end of the line. “We positively identified the clothing Lili Davies was found in as belonging to Ella Reynolds. There were trace elements of skin tissue and hair from both girls in the material. We also found a small amount of vomit on the sleeve, which matched Lili Davies. I included those findings in my e-mail as well.”

  “Anything to indicate when the unsub was in the house?”

  “Nothing. We found no evidence that the unsub went beyond the kitchen, either. I get the impression he knew exactly what he had planned before entering, got in and out fast.”

  “Thanks for tracking me down. Let me know if you find anything else,” Clair told her.

  “Get some rest, Detective.”

  The call ended, and Clair set the phone down on her desk.

  She couldn’t rest, not now.

  Standing, she stretched and walked up to the whiteboards. Under LILI DAVIES she wrote—

  Found in Ella Reynolds’s clothing

  Drowned and resuscitated multiple times—salt water

  Then she added a column for Randal Davies, followed by:

  Doctor, John H. Stroger, Jr. Hospital

  Father to Lili Davies

  Wife = Grace Davies

  Overdosed—lisinopril (blood pressure medication)

  She looked at the list of assignments, crossed out the ones that were complete. Not much left. They needed another lead.