Portrait of Vengeance

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “Robert?” Beth asked.

  “Just when I think he’s out of my life, in the past, forgiven, and I’m moving on, he does something horrible.”

  “Would it help to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “In that case, what next, Miss Marple?” Beth asked.

  “Did you get those pushpins I asked you to buy?”

  “Yes. In that sack.” She pointed.

  “Excellent. Do you have a map of the Pacific Northwest in your car?”

  “Of course. I’ll go get it.”

  She opened the door just as a technician was about to knock. “Oh, hi, I just need to get your fingerprints,” the woman said. “Big dog.” She patted Winston.

  “You can start with me while Beth gets something from the car.”

  I shifted the foam board off the dresser so we could use that surface. Winston sauntered over and rested his head on the dresser to observe our moves. Beth returned just as we finished up, and I washed my hands while she was printed. Still drying my hands, I entered my room from the bathroom.

  Beth was talking to the technician. “No, I’m sure it was the episode involving the Gig Harbor killer where he uses his—”

  I stopped dead. “You are not talking about some crime show—”

  “Of course.” The technician finished Beth’s last finger. “But it was the one with the superhero victim, Beth. Don’t you remember?” She picked up her kit, waved, and left.

  Beth had placed several maps on the bed, and I mounted the one I wanted while she washed up. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Phil Cicero, the outfitter I hired, will be here in a few hours.”

  “Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re still planning on going to the plane crash?”

  “Employed or not, I’m going to see this through to the end.”

  “You’re sure you don’t have tunnel vision on this?” Beth asked.

  “This is about my life.” I picked up the sketchpad and turned to the drawing I’d done of Jacob as a child. “But if I’m wrong, the worst that could happen is I find Jacob.”

  “And if you’re right, we might find Beatrice.”

  “If I’m right”—I turned the drawing toward her—“then this is a portrait of vengeance.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SETTLING IN AN ANTIQUE WINGBACK CHAIR, I OPENED my sketchpad. “Here’s a thought I had. Lapwai is near Lewiston. And Kamiah, of course. And Lacey is near Olympia.”

  “Right,” Beth said. “Profound. What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to write down all the places I can remember living while with Holly. Once I’ve given you those locations, could you look up similar events, murders, child abductions?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then we’ll visualize it by posting it on the foam board.”

  “That sounds great. But how would Jacob know all the places you lived? Why would he care?”

  “The sketchbooks I had growing up. Holly kept them, but someone destroyed the drawings.”

  “Either Holly or Jacob.” Beth sat on the sofa.

  “Right. But I remembered I always dated the drawings and put where we lived. Jacob would have seen the sketchbooks. As to why he would care—I’m working on that.”

  It didn’t take me long. After handing the list of towns and cities to Beth, I returned to my sketchbook notes on the knowns and unknowns. What was I missing? We worked in silence for a while, with only the clicking of Beth’s fingers on the keyboard and the muted conversation of the police dusting the game room.

  “There!”

  I jerked at Beth’s voice in the quiet room. “There what?”

  The answer came from her portable printer clacking through several pages. “I think I have the information you need to profile Jacob as the serial killer we’re looking for.”

  “But you’re not a criminal profiler.”

  Beth sniffed. “Neither are you, but you do it all the time.” Beth opened a textbook she’d brought from my place. “Did you know the term serial killer was first used by Robert Ressler, a profiler in the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI?”

  “Yes. I met him once.”

  “Noooo!” Her eyes grew round. “I’m such a votarist.”

  “Someone who plays a votar? Like a guitarist plays a guitar? Get it? Huh?”

  “I see your warped sense of humor is intact. A votarist is someone who is devoted to something. Word of the day from last week.” She stood, picked up the printouts, then handed me a stack. “The top page is a summary. What I could find on the individual cases are underneath in chronological order.” She then crossed to the foam board and held up the first sheet. A photo of a child.

  I closed my eyes. “No. No photos. No names.”

  “Why?”

  “Names and photographs of the children are meant to personalize the cases.” I looked at her. “They’re designed not only to give clues to victimology but to remind those working on the crimes what’s at stake. And what’s been lost. But those names and faces become seared into your mind. They will change you. Haunt your dreams. Disturb your days. Prey upon your soul.”

  “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

  I grunted. “We know what’s been lost and what’s at stake. Leave the names and photos off.”

  “Okay, I won’t put the photographs up.” She placed the printed-out photo on the dresser, then paged through and found a second image. She glanced at me, then pulled more photos from her stack, spreading them out on the surface. “Gwen, you need to see something.”

  I stood and walked over. My mouth dropped. Seven children were lined up. They could have all been brothers and sisters. And they all looked like my sketch of Jacob. “We know how he chose his victims. Holly would have said ‘save the child,’ meaning she believed she ‘saved me,’ but Jacob would have believed he was the child who needed saving. So he chose children who resembled himself.” I gathered the images together and turned them facedown.

  “You’re right about not looking at them.” Beth turned to the foam board. “Staring at their little faces would make me want to cry.”

  I gave her a hug.

  She took a deep breath. “Anyway, I started with the body found Wednesday outside of Lapwai. The child was abducted in Lacey, which is next to Olympia, Washington, one of the towns you lived in. The problem here is the parents are still alive.”

  “Maybe Jacob had a learning curve with the murders.” I sat at the table. “Attach the information to the board and put a pushpin in the location. Put a different color pin into the town where I lived. Do you have Post-it notes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Write the date of the abduction on that.”

  She did as I asked, placing a green and a red pin on the map, then adding a round, light-green Post-it note.

  I grinned. “No purple, lavender, lilac, or violet pushpins?”

  “I asked. They didn’t have plum, amethyst, heliotrope, or violaceous either. I’d have to special order. And it would take a week—”

  I tried not to smile. “You actually asked about special ordering—”

  “Never mind.” She sniffed. “The red stands for possible cases. The green for where you lived. Get it? Green for Greene?”

  “Right. Um . . . the round Post-it notes?”

  “I kept with the red-and-green Christmas theme. Round is like a Christmas bulb. I had lavender notes, but the colors clashed.”

  “Of course they did.”

  She pinned the case information on the board, then stepped back to admire it. “Wait, I saw this on television.” She raced from the room, returning quickly with a ball of purple yarn. “Don’t say a word. I can switch colors later. This is the best I can do.” Wrapping one end of yarn around the pin holding the sheet of paper, she connected it to the red pin in the small town in Washington. “We wouldn’t have even known about this first murder if the body hadn’t shown up.”

  I did some mental calcul
ations. “Holly would have been institutionalized three years before that event. Jacob would have been twenty when this part started.”

  “What do you mean, ‘this part’?”

  “Serial killers don’t just wake up one morning and start their killing spree. I’m sure if we looked carefully enough, we’d find Jacob starting fires, then abusing animals, then on to being a peeping Tom before carrying out his fantasy of abduction and murder.”

  “According to your textbook,” Beth said, “Jacob’s been able to go on so long not just because the crimes were committed in different states, but also because of something called nomothetic. That’s a false theory where the crimes are too narrowly investigated.”

  “Right. A homicide, rape, arson all may have the same motive, which is separate from the behavior. A rape may lead to homicide to protect the identity of the perpetrator. A homicide may have sexual aspects.”

  “Why did you have me research it if you already knew that?”

  “I needed a reminder.”

  Beth sighed. “The next place you lived was Boise, Idaho. No abductions, no murders fitting the template. The nearest I could come was a fire in Caldwell that killed a family.”

  “Caldwell is less than thirty miles from Boise. Was there a child involved?”

  “Yes,” Beth said reluctantly. “Interestingly enough, same age, Native American, and body not recovered from the fire.”

  “So a second case.”

  “I marked it as inconclusive.”

  “Record it anyway. That’s too many points of similarity.”

  Beth attached the paper under the state of Idaho and looped the yarn to connect the pin and paper.

  Someone tapped on the door. I answered.

  “We’re done processing the room.” A crime-scene technician smiled. “Watch the fingerprint powder. Gets on everything.”

  “Thank you.” I left the door open but made no effort to shift to the game room. “For now let’s stay in here. We’ll listen for Eric and Lila to return.”

  Beth nodded and looked at her notes. “So, the next place you lived is Ellensburg.” She applied a red and a green pin, then ran the yarn to the case notes on the side of the map. “I found a single mom, a student at Central Washington University, murdered and her daughter taken.”

  I put a check next to the case on the summary she’d given me. “The case matches.”

  “Age and race, yes, but once again, not exactly. A single parent, shot, not hacked with an ax—”

  “Splitting hairs, if you pardon the expression. I see The Dalles is next. That’s the one Andi Tubbs mentioned. Jacob was born there.”

  A door opened and closed somewhere in the house. Winston stood, but I caught his collar before he could investigate. Shortly Lila and a bandaged Eric appeared in the game room.

  “What a mess.” Lila glanced around at the tossed papers, fingerprint smudges, and rearranged furniture.

  “How’s the head, Eric?” Beth asked.

  “Five stitches and a headache.” Eric touched a bandage on the side of his head. “The doctor said I was lucky. No concussion. What did the police say?”

  “We just spoke to a patrol officer,” I said. “He thought it might be teenagers.”

  Eric nodded. “We’ll get this cleaned up later.”

  “We’ll do it,” Beth said. “You should just go lie down.”

  “I might just do that.” Eric smiled slightly. “I was planning on making baklava tomorrow, and we’d hoped you both could join us for dinner.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” I asked.

  He waved his hand. “I’m not letting a gang of vandalizing teenagers interrupt my life.”

  “We’d love to, I mean . . .” Beth glanced at me and I nodded. “Well then, yes, we’d love to dine with you both. I tried making baklava once. It takes forever.”

  “It does, but it’s worth it.” He took Lila’s arm and the two of them left.

  I released Winston’s collar and shut the door.

  Beth cocked her head at me. “I noticed you didn’t tell him it wasn’t teens who attacked him but rather a serial killer bent on murdering you.”

  “Mmm.” I leaned against the door. “He has enough to deal with. What is it you say?”

  “Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  BETH TURNED HER ATTENTION TO THE MAP. “The Dalles, Oregon, is on the Columbia River. This was the nearest match to the present murders of the Sinopas. Both parents killed and a child taken. Same age, part Native American. But once again the weapon was a gun, not an ax.”

  “Jacob is twenty-seven by now.” I sat in the wingback chair. “You do remember the difference between modus operandi and signature?”

  “Of course. Modus operandi are actions taken during a crime and can change. Signature is why—the underlying motive or, in many cases, the fantasy that he is carrying out.”

  “Right. The signature is staying the same—a ‘rescue’ of a child.” I made quote marks in the air. “The child being him, and the murder of one or both parents—substitute Holly. We have four possible abductions at this point, all the same age and race. The next place I lived was Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. I see you found a case in Post Falls, just a few miles away.”

  Beth put a green pin in the North Idaho town and a red pin next to it. More yarn led to the case notes. “A single father stabbed, badly hurt but not killed. He was from the Coeur d’Alene tribe. Child taken. The last one, not counting Beatrice, was from Frenchtown, Montana. It was ruled a murder-suicide, but the child is missing. You lived in Missoula, within a few miles.” She placed the last of the pushpins and case notes on the foam board.

  “Counting Beatrice, seven children over as many years.”

  “Don’t you think law enforcement would see the pattern?”

  “Every murder crosses state lines, so local agencies might not see a pattern. But federal law requires missing children to be reported to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Most of the children are runaways. About ten percent are family abductions, and about one percent are stranger abductions.”

  “Four-year-olds don’t usually run away.” Beth finished writing the dates on the Post-it notes, then took a seat on the sofa.

  “No, but the police might think a family member has the child. There are more than four hundred thousand reports of missing children every year.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I’ve done reconstructions and age progressions for some of them.”

  We silently contemplated the need for reconstructions and age progressions on children. Beth typed on her computer a bit more, then printed out a sheet, which she posted on the board. She stood back and stared at it. I joined her. The only sound came from the sleeping Winston, who pursued dream cats with muffled barking and twitching feet.

  Once more I scanned the dates on the list. “We can definitely consider the Caldwell fire as one of his. The cooling-off period is about the same.”

  Beth reddened. “Cooling off?”

  “Not just the time to plan, act out, and relive the experience. Some serial killers can have a normal life where they completely mask their homicidal instincts. Or they can be giving clues that no one understands.”

  “That’s frightening.”

  “Yes.”

  Lacey, WA 2009 Child taken

  Body found in Lapwai

  Jacob 20

  Caldwell, ID 2011 Fire, parents killed

  child?

  Ellensburg CWU, WA 2012 Mom murdered, child missing

  The Dalles, OR 2014 Parents shot, child taken

  Post Falls, ID 2015 Father stabbed, child missing

  Frenchtown, MT 2015 Couple murdered (murder suicide), child missing

  Lapwai 2016 Sinopas

  Another knock broke the silence. This time Winston moved to the door and stood at alert. I checked my watch, got up, grabbed the dog, and opened the door.

  A ta
ll, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man with a mustache and goatee took a step back when he saw Winston. “Whoa, a polar bear?”

  “This is Winston.” I kept my grip on his collar to keep him from launching at the man’s crotch. “And you must be Phil Cicero.”

  Phil offered his hand, then glanced behind him at the chaos of the game room. “A bit of excitement?”

  “You could say that. Let’s move into the parlor where we have more room.”

  Phil led the way through the game room and across the hall, then politely waited for us to sit before sitting down. Even seated he was a big man, easily six foot four or taller. He wore pressed khaki slacks, a matching safari-style shirt, brown hiking boots, and carried a leather messenger bag. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a detailed map.

  “I’m Beth, by the way.”

  Winston followed us and flopped onto the floor next to my chair.

  “Ma’am.” He looked at me. “Dan Kus gave me the coordinates of the plane crash.” He’d marked a spot on the map with a yellow highlighter. “You know, a helicopter would get you there a lot easier.”

  “How much would that cost?” I asked.

  He told me, then gave me his fee. Both were steep, but the helicopter was impossibly high. “Um, I’m good with you as the guide.”

  “Okay then, two questions. Can you ride a horse?”

  I grinned as I thought of my last horseback ride. “Yeah, but I prefer daylight with a saddle and at a relatively calm speed.”

  Phil frowned. “You’ll have a saddle. You’ll also do a lot of walking. What condition are you in?” He reached over and grabbed my thigh.

  I leaped to my feet. “What are you doing?” Winston lunged for Phil’s hand. I caught the dog before he could chomp the man.

  Phil had the decency to turn red. “I’m sorry. Just checking your muscle tone. I’m used to taking men out hunting.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “This will be one long day, unless you want to spend the night in the wilderness.”

  Still feeling his hand on my leg, I said, “A long day is good.”

  “I’ll meet you at oh-four hundred. Take Highway 12 to Lowell. It’s about two hours from Lewiston. Park here.” He handed me a card for a hotel and rafting company. “I’ll pick you up and trailer the horses up the Selway Road to about here.” He pointed. “We can take an old logging road for a few miles on horseback, some back-country riding, then walk in. It’s only a couple of miles, but the terrain is steep.”