by Gregg Olsen
Grace drew a short breath. It was the last card that always got to her.
Who killed your sister?
The answer to that one was all incumbent upon her. It always had been. It was the reason she’d been born and it was the driving force behind everything she did. It was a curse, and yet it was also empowering. She needed to succeed where others had failed. At times she felt that her parents had created her for the purpose of hunting their prey, but that didn’t always bother her. She felt sorry for people born into the world without any kind of purpose whatsoever. What was the point of being on the planet, if not to do something right and good for someone else? All other options seemed hedonistic, selfish.
She flipped the little white card over.
Theodore Robert Bundy.
Grace was thirteen when it should have ended. She and her mother were watching TV nonstop, waiting for Ted to die. It was January 24, 1989. She remembered seeing on TV a man from Florida who was standing next to a hand-lettered sign that said FRY DAY IS TUESDAY and wearing a BURN, TED, BURN T-shirt, which he was selling (twenty dollars for two). He unflinchingly told a reporter that he didn’t think there was anything wrong with selling the shirts. After all, Bundy was a killer, and that certainly was far worse than making money off one.
Sissy O’Hare didn’t agree with the man and told Grace so. She didn’t agree with all the profiteering that came with Ted. The authors who insisted their books were about “educating” rather than making money, the movie people who wanted their films to “tell the true story” and ghoulish women who followed Ted like he was some kind of Pied Piper to hell. All of them sickened her. All of them. There was something so very wrong about those people who were making their livelihoods off someone who made a sport of killing young women.
“See that man selling T-shirts?” she asked Grace as they watched the pending execution unfold on TV.
Grace nodded her head, her eyes glued to her mother’s.
“He’s doing something evil and he doesn’t even know it. He doesn’t know about the pain behind what Bundy did. He doesn’t understand that turning Bundy’s execution into a carnival only celebrates what he did.”
Grace nodded.
“There is only one type of person with any honor in this, that’s the man—or woman—who carries a badge.”
Grace looked a little unsure.
“Police, honey. They are the only ones I want to see happy in a mess like this one. They are the ones I want to see smile because they put the bad guy right where he belongs.”
CHAPTER 15
In the second-floor offices at the Tacoma Police Department, Grace Alexander and Paul Bateman looked at the photographs of the three faces who’d commanded the attention of the homicide unit for the past few weeks. The first, though this had been unknown to Tacoma police, had been Kelsey Caldwell, seventeen. The second to go missing had been twenty-four-year-old Lisa Lancaster. The newest face put up on the wall, adjacent to the pictures of every member of the police department, belonged to Emma Rose. They were in the war room, the detective’s conference room. It was the place where cases were discussed, evidence was weighed, and theories were shared. Until the possibility of a third missing girl made its way to that room, there had not been a pattern. Two does not make a pattern. Two can be a coincidence. Random. Just one bad bit of bad luck after the other.
But three? Everyone knew that like in the old game tic-tac-toe, three in a row was significant. All three girls were similar in age, size, build. Their facial features were blandly pretty, their hair long and dark. On their own they might not have been noticed, but in a group of three everything that was common about them became remarkable.
“They guy’s obviously hung up on a type,” Detective Bateman said. Coming from him, the comment was almost funny. After his wife ditched him, he’d hooked up with a woman who looked so much like her a few people thought they’d gotten back together.
No one had used the “S” word yet. Calling something a serial killer case was the epitome of TV-style police chatter. But there they were. Three young women, girls really. Pretty maids all in a row.
“The newest girl has been missing for a little more than a day. Parents called it in after they found out that she didn’t get to work,” Grace said.
Paul nodded. “Yeah. Last seen at her job,” he said.
“Where does she work?” she asked.
“Starbucks. Lakewood Town Center.”
Grace went for her coat. “Good. I could use a cup of coffee.”
Just before they left, Paul picked up the phone. The call was brief. He locked his eyes on Grace’s.
“ME’s office. Tissue’s a match. It was Kelsey’s hand.”
Grace didn’t say anything. In her bones, she’d already known that.
Where were the rest of Kelsey’s remains? And, more important, who would have done that to her?
The Lakewood Towne Center Starbucks was like a lot of such places—loud with people talking, blenders buzzing, and a thick layer of the aroma of coffee permeating everything and everyone. The only thing of note was that one of its workers was missing and the staff that was behind the counter was jittery when the police detectives arrived. Not jittery in the overcaffeinated way that its patrons often were, but the kind of jittery that came from deep concern.
Emma Rose was dependable. If she wasn’t at work and she wasn’t at home, no one thought there could be a good outcome.
“When she was fifteen minutes late, I texted her,” Sylvia Devonshire told the detectives.
“Did she text back?” Grace said.
Paul added three packets of Splenda to his drink and stirred. Grace looked over at him and shook her head, but said nothing.
“Is it that unusual? I mean, fifteen minutes. That’s a tight leash you’ve got on your people.”
Sylvia shrugged. “It is what it is. You try making twenty drinks for some schmo’s office suck-up and you need everyone you can.” She looked up and smiled at one of the schmos in line. “Just a second. Aphrodite is making your drinks now.”
The man nodded impatiently, obviously indifferent to anyone’s needs but his own.
“See?” she said, this time in a low voice.
Paul stopped stirring. “Okay, so Emma is dependable and you were worried. Anything you can tell us about her last shift?”
Sylvia pretended to be busy and looked away.
“Sylvia, you’re thinking about something,” Grace said.
The young woman looked up. “I don’t know,” she said.
Grace leaned a little closer. “That means you know something.”
Sylvia wrapped her arms around her chest, trying in a very real way, though unconsciously so, to hold it all inside.
“Tell me,” Grace said.
“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“No one is in trouble but Emma Rose,” Paul said.
Grace looked over at her partner. “Look, he’s right. But Emma’s parents are very, very worried.”
“Is there something going on with Emma and her parents?” Paul asked.
Sylvia shook her head. “Oh no. Her parents were cool. They used to come in and sit over there.” She pointed to a pair of leather easy chairs. “You know, hang out before she got off and then they took her out for Thai.”
“That’s nice. But something is bothering you,” Grace said. “What are you thinking? We’ve got to find her.”
“I hate to bring it up.”
“What? Sylvia, what are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to cause trouble. He’s a nice kid.”
“Who? Who’s a nice kid?”
“Oliver. Oliver Angstrom. He was always talking about how hot Emma is and, you know, how he wanted to ask her out.”
“She’s a pretty girl,” Grace said. “I’m sure she got a lot of attention.”
“Right. Customers liked her, too.”
“We need you to focus now, okay? What about Oliver?”
Sylvia looked down at the counter. “He was going to ask her out. Finally. I knew she wouldn’t say yes, because, well, she’s so pretty and he’s so geeky. Sweet, but geeky. But not geeky and scary.”
Grace knew the difference. She’d once dated a geeky guy in high school. Smart, brainy, was sexy. Loving Star Wars too much, not so.
“I don’t know if Oliver asked her out or not, but I do know that they were together. They cleaned and closed.”
“Did you see Oliver today?”
An uneasy look came over Sylvia’s face. She shook her head. “No, I didn’t. No one did. He called in and used one of his floating holidays.”
“Was that unexpected?”
“Totally. If I’d gotten the call directly I would have told him no, but he called in the store’s voice mail and left a message before opening.”
Grace knew that approach. She’d done it a time or two herself. So had Paul. Always call in to the sergeant when you know he’s not at his desk.
Just then, another Starbucks worker made his way through from the back room. He was a thin, gawky teenager, with a faint black moustache struggling to survive on his upper lip. The goatee he’d tried cultivating was even less successful. He was carrying a small black purse.
“Talking about Emma?” he asked.
“Yes,” Grace said, looking at the teen with the purse.
“Lost and Found brought this over earlier today,” he said. “Emma’s purse. Said the maintenance crew turned it in and the guy at Lost and Found knew her name and picture ID so he brought it over here.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sylvia asked the young man, whose tag identified him as Tony G.
Grace took the purse. “Did they say where they found it?”
“Yeah. She must have dropped it by the bus stop. Found it over there,” he said, indicating a place outside the front of the coffee shop. “Want me to show you where it is?” He looked at Sylvia for permission and she reluctantly nodded.
Sylvia let out a quivering sigh. She was, apparently, all business. “We’re very, very short-staffed, Tony.”
“It’s all right. We’ll only keep him a minute. Then he can get back to his important work here.” Paul’s tone was condescending, more than it really needed to be. Sylvia had pretty thick skin, but she got the gist of what he was saying without words.
“Fine,” she said. She turned her attention to Grace. “Emma’s a sweet girl. I hope you find her soon.”
There was a slight chill in the air as the trio walked over to a section of the parking lot, in front of which sat a Plexiglas-enclosed bus shelter. With the exception of an elderly woman laden with shopping bags from several mall stores, the enclosure was empty.
“Here’s where she caught the bus,” Tony said.
“Thanks,” Paul said.
Grace nodded as she scanned the area. The Starbucks was in full view, not more than thirty yards away.
“You need anything else?” Tony asked. “Gotta get back.”
Grace smiled and nodded, and the young man backed away, his green apron disappearing around a swarm of parked cars.
“What are you so happy about?” Paul asked.
“Not happy,” Grace said. “Just glad.”
“Glad about what? And what’s the difference, by the way?”
Grace’s eyes traveled up a parking lot light standard. “We might have a witness.”
“Huh?” Paul squinted, but he needed his glasses to really see anything at any distance. “Some birds?”
Grace resisted the desire to roll her eyes. He would notice that for sure. “The video camera,” she said, extending her index finger in the direction of a small surveillance camera pivoted toward the bus stop. “Let’s see who monitors the feed.”
Where am I? Emma Rose looked around. She could barely move. Every inch of her body ached. She remembered that she’d been kidnapped, by some pervert no doubt. She tried to lift her head, but it was heavy like a bowling ball. Her eyes moved around the darkened room. In the corner she saw the shadowy figure of a man. He was just out of the beam of the reading lamp.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, almost editing her words to ask, What have you done to me?
Emma waited for an answer. Instead, she saw him flip the switch that powered the gooseneck reading lamp. The room was now completely black. She felt the air move around her and the door open and shut. Next, the sound of the dead bolt as it fell into place.
She reached down and touched herself. Her clothes were on. She wasn’t a virgin and she knew what it felt like after sex. She hadn’t been violated when she was unconscious.
A moment later, she fell asleep.
When she woke up, it was to the sound of the hatch and tray being opened. She went over to the tray. Lying on it were a brush and mirror. She went back to the light and looked at herself. Her hair had been washed and detangled. The bruising of her eyes had faded from a dark purple to an almost imperceptible yellow hue.
Her long hair. Shiny. Clean.
Her thoughts raced in a circle.
What was he doing to her? Why was he holding her? Why didn’t he speak to her? Who was he? Was it a stranger or one of those Starbucks customer creeps? The ones who always winked at her when she handed over their drinks?
CHAPTER 16
Grace drove past the First Methodist Church every week on her way to visit her cousin, Vonnie Joanna, or Vo-Jo as the family called her, in that part of Tacoma. The church was a little out of her way, not enough to make her think that her obsession was out of control, but enough to make her dismiss the route if she was in a hurry to VJ’s little house. Nine times out of ten on those drive-bys, it would enter Grace’s mind that the church had likely been the starting point of all the hurt that was to come. It was the axis of the evil. It was there that Johnnie Bundy had met Ted’s mother, Louise, at a church gathering for singles, mostly older ones, some with kids.
There were a lot of what-if games that Grace played when it came to her sister’s murder. This was one of the weaker ones. She wondered, if not for that meeting between Louise and Johnnie that day in 1951 would Louise have maybe left town? Ted would have gone with her. To California or Nevada. Somewhere far, far away. If Louise had not stayed in Tacoma, would things have been different enough in Ted’s life to stop him from doing all that he did? Or had any of the places or people that had made up the trajectory of his life mattered at all? Maybe he’d been evil at birth. Maybe there’d been no stopping him.
Grace looked over at the pretty, but plain, church as it filled the frame of her rearview mirror. She wondered almost out loud, If not for Louise meeting Johnnie Bundy, would I have ever been born at all?
With his parents upstairs rearranging the furniture for what had to be the fiftieth time that year, Oliver Angstrom set aside his latest video game and channel surfed in the basement rec room of the family’s home just south of Lakewood. His interest perked up a little when he landed on The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It wasn’t a comic or graphic novel come to life—those had been pretty lame lately anyway—but there were elements of the horror classic that stoked his imagination.
Oliver had cracked open the little basement window and smoked a little pot. He was feeling something right then, but he wasn’t sure if it was anger or anxiety. He’d asked Emma out the evening before. Finally. He hadn’t asked a girl out for more than two years, though he’d nearly stalked a few as he tried to find a way to overcome his nerdy nervousness. He’d read self-help books. He role-played in front of a mirror. He worked out. He shaved his chest. He did whatever he thought he could do to make himself more attractive. The one thing he couldn’t fix, however, was his essential geekiness. Being a comic fanboy, a computer nerd, or anything along those lines was fine if a guy wanted to attract the female equivalent. But that’s not what Oliver was after. He’d wanted to date Emma Rose from the first day she walked into Starbucks looking for a job. She had only wanted part-time work because her mother had been sick and s
he didn’t want to be away from her very long. He’d overheard Emma tell Devon that her mom loved Starbucks and that she wanted her to work there as a way to get out of the house a few hours a day.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Emma said, “I love coffee, too. But I’d rather be home with her. She’s pretty strong about me needing to get out and be with people my own age. So here I am.”
She’s so pretty, he’d thought. So sweet. She was also sexy in the way that some girls are when they don’t even know it. Oliver was hooked. He just didn’t know what to do about it.
And then that night he’d finally asked her. Finally. After all the practice. After telling almost everyone who worked there that he was interested in Emma, he did it. And it was a big, fat flop.
He balled up a fist and punched it into the cushion of the old sofa.
Dammit. Damn her! Why hadn’t she seen that he was special, so very special? Why hadn’t she said yes? He was Spiderman! She was his Mary Jane! He was Superman! She was his Lois Lane. He couldn’t remember the Green Lantern’s love interest. Emma was right. It had been a terrible movie.
She was always so right. Why hadn’t she seen that he was perfect for her?
He looked down to the coffee table, where he’d set the photo he’d taken from the employee bulletin board when Emma was recognized as barista of the month. She was so beautiful in her crisp white blouse and perfectly pressed green apron. So sweet. She was always nice to him, listening with keen interest to whatever it was that he’d finally summoned the courage to tell her about.
Boyfriend or not, Oliver Angstrom was utterly determined to make her fall in love with him. He’d do whatever it took. He would not, he told himself over and over, be denied. Batman needed his Catwoman. Oliver needed his Emma. He turned up the volume on the TV as his favorite part of the Texas Chainsaw reunion came onto the screen. The roar of the saw. The scream of the girl cowering in the basement of the abandoned house.