Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel)

by Herron, Rita

  The figure was tall, broad-shouldered—a man’s physique. Keeping his face averted from the camera, he padded so softly that only a slight footfall sounded.

  The senator didn’t respond at all, as if he hadn’t heard the man enter.

  Without a word, the man slipped a Glock from inside his scrub suit, gripped the back of the chair, and walked around to face the senator. For a millimeter of a second the senator stared his killer in the eye.

  Rafe searched for a flicker of surprise, of fear, for recognition. But the senator simply blinked as if he’d been expecting his attacker. Slowly the killer lifted the weapon, placed the barrel point in the middle of the man’s forehead, and fired. The silencer kept the weapon from making a loud noise.

  Rafe gripped the chair edge as blood and brain matter splattered everywhere.

  It soaked the killer’s scrub suit, but the mess didn’t faze him. Keeping his face averted again, he backed toward the door and eased out.

  Because of the angle of the cameras, Rafe lost sight of him for a fraction of an instant as he ducked into the hallway, but picked him back up as he neared the stairwell.

  Looking again at the time stamp on the video feed, Rafe realized that the killer had struck during mealtime to take advantage of the fact that most of the staff would be busy, and the food carts would drown out noise.

  Unfortunately there were no cameras in the stairwell, but Rafe caught sight of the killer again as he darted out a side exit door, setting the alarm off.

  Frustrated, Rafe knotted his hands into fists. The tapes gave him nothing. Not once had he seen the unsub’s face.

  Judging from the killer’s size and build, and the cold, calculating ease with which he took the senator’s life, the man could have been the Commander.

  Or a hired gun.

  His phone buzzed to announce the arrival of a text: Meet me at the car asap. I have a lead.

  Rafe turned to the security guard. “I need a copy of this tape to send to the lab. Maybe they can work their magic and tell us more. Can you page Mazie for me?”

  The guard tapped a few keys on the computer, then shook his head. “Says here she left early.”

  Rafe gritted his teeth. “Can you give her a message to call me asap?”

  The unsub was targeting nurses who’d participated in the experiments. Mazie might be one of them.

  Liz met Rafe at his SUV, anxious to show him the file. It provided no new information, but at least it contained the list of subjects, confirming that there had only been seven in Slaughter Creek.

  Rafe was waiting in the parking lot when she reached his SUV.

  “Did you see anything on the tapes?” Liz asked.

  He lifted his sunglasses. “Not much. He wore full scrubs and kept his face averted.”

  “Maybe a scar or defining feature?”

  “No, but I’m sending the tapes to the lab. Maybe they can find something.”

  “You think the Commander shot the senator?” she asked as they settled into the car and fastened their seat belts.

  “Either him or a hired gun.” Rafe rubbed a hand across his chin. “The senator appeared to be catatonic. Killer walked right in, stared him in the face, and the senator didn’t even react. In fact, he looked up at him but didn’t seem surprised.”

  “He was expecting someone to silence him.”

  Rafe nodded. “There’s something else,” he said. “I wanted to talk to Mazie, the head nurse, but she went home early.”

  “You think she killed the senator?”

  “No. The body frame of the killer looked like a man’s. But apparently Mazie has worked here for twenty years—right back to when the experiments were going on.”

  Liz swallowed hard. “Which means the unsub might be after her. And if he’s not, the Commander might want to silence her.”

  “Exactly.”

  Liz pushed the folder toward Rafe. “Mr. Loggins gave me this file. It lists the subjects of the experiment and the treatments and procedures used on them.”

  “Jesus.” Rafe’s face lit with excitement as he skimmed it. “Finally some documentation.”

  “I’m not sure it’ll help much if the subjects are dead, but maybe Amelia’s doctor can use the information in her treatment.” After all, she was redeemable. Seven had committed too many heinous murders to ever be released or be whole again.

  And Six? If he was the Dissector, slicing and dicing women, he needed prison time as well as a psychiatrist.

  They had to talk to Castor now to see what his story was, and whether he had an alibi for the time of the murders.

  Anticipation fueled Rafe as he drove toward the crime lab. He considered calling Lieutenant Maddison and giving him a heads-up, but surprising Castor would be more valuable.

  “We need all the background we can get on Castor,” he said.

  Liz retrieved her tablet from her purse, clicked on it, and frowned. “Damn, we must be in a dead zone, no cell service.”

  Rafe glanced back at the sanitarium as he wove down the long drive. Live oaks dripping with Spanish moss dotted the background, adding to the eerie feel of the hospital.

  He braked, shifting gears as he wove down the mountain, the sharp ridges jutting out over the canyon below. Liz kept trying to get a signal on her tablet, finally managing to connect as they turned onto the main highway leading to the lab. She wanted to find out everything she could about Castor before they questioned him, so she accessed the TBI personnel database and ran a search.

  “Brian Castor grew up in Memphis, graduated from college with a degree in premed, then decided to study to become a crime-scene investigator.”

  “Premed would supply him with knowledge of the human anatomy. Any other background information?”

  “No prior arrests or record. And nothing in his file about emotional disorders or problems in school.”

  “He would never have made CSI if he had.”

  “But most serial killers, especially sociopaths, exhibit violence as children. Killing animals is a common red flag.”

  “What about his family?”

  “It says here they live in Memphis. If we don’t get what we want from him, we’ll pay them a visit.”

  Rafe parked, and they hurried to the crime lab door.

  “Good work, Liz.”

  “Let’s just hope the lead pans out.”

  They entered the county police building and headed toward the lab. Rafe handed the tapes he’d brought from the hospital to the tech team to analyze, and then they walked to Lieutenant Maddison’s office.

  Rafe knocked, but the door stood ajar, and Maddison was on the phone, so they waited in the threshold until he waved them in.

  “Any news on that DNA from Truitt?” Rafe asked.

  “Not yet,” Maddison said. “The lab is backed up. And we have another problem. The sample scraping beneath Truitt’s fingernails was lost, so we have to collect another one.”

  Rafe’s fists clenched. “How did it get lost?”

  “Lab incompetence, but we’ll take care of it. One tech has already been fired.”

  “You need to make this a priority,” Rafe said.

  Maddison grunted. “Every case is a priority.”

  Liz explained the reason for their visit, and Lieutenant Maddison’s brows flew up in question. “You think one of my men is the Dissector?”

  “Ester Banning gave a child up for adoption. Castor’s last name shows up in an adoption file at the same time, so he could be her son,” Rafe explained.

  “And you think he killed her because she gave him away?”

  “It’s possible that when she did, he wound up in the experiment,” Liz said. “That’s why we need to question him.”

  “Do you mean he could be Six?”

  Rafe nodded. “He also has a background in premed, his fa
ther was a vet, and he worked both crime scenes.”

  Maddison’s face darkened. “So you suspect he insinuated himself into the investigation to cover his tracks. But technically he was already working here before the murders.”

  “He could have planned ahead,” said Liz.

  “At any rate, we need to question him,” Rafe added. “Even if he isn’t our unsub, if he was part of those experiments he could provide valuable information about the participants, hospital staff who assisted, and leaders. He might even know where the Commander is.”

  Lieutenant Maddison raked a hand through his hair. “All right—let me call him in.”

  He punched a button on his desk and requested that the CSI come to his office.

  “I see your logic,” Lieutenant Maddison said. “But I know Brian, and I don’t think he killed those women. He’s a little strange, obsessive about cleanliness and meticulous in details, but he always seems so controlled.”

  Liz’s expression softened. “True sociopaths can fool the people around them.”

  A knock sounded at the door, and Rafe opened it to let Castor in. Liz had seen him at the crime scenes, but hadn’t paid much attention to him.

  And that might be exactly how Castor had wanted it. Another trait of sociopaths—they had an uncanny way of blending in and not being noticed.

  Now she noted details. He had a medium build, brown hair combed neatly to the side, an angular face, and eyes . . . eyes that looked right through her when he met her gaze.

  Eyes that made her wonder if he’d cold-bloodedly amputated a woman’s hands and cut out Beaulah Hodge’s eyes.

  Nick took the call from the secretary of defense before he entered the prison. “Yes, Secretary Mallard, I’m doing everything possible to find my father.”

  “Keep me posted. I don’t have to tell you that we need to have him back in custody. Your father had classified information that he could be selling to a foreign government as we speak.”

  No pressure there. “Believe me, no one wants him locked back up more than my brother and I do.” Their families and loved ones would never be safe until Arthur Blackwood was dead.

  “Keep me posted, Blackwood.”

  Nick agreed, then headed to the door to go through Security

  When he finally got to talk to the warden, he was antsy for information.

  “Which medical personnel treated the Commander?”

  “The physician only worked at the prison for a week. Apparently he was filling in, since we’ve been short.”

  Uh-huh. “Where is he now?”

  “He disappeared the same day the Commander broke out of prison.”

  “So this so-called physician might not have been a doctor at all.”

  “Listen, Agent Blackwood, we do the best we can here.”

  Which was shit, Nick thought.

  The rest of his visit went the same. There was no record that the doctor was registered in Tennessee. The clinic nurse gave a description, although Nick guessed that the man might have altered his appearance, as he had his name.

  They should have the man’s prints on file, but when Nick analyzed them, they matched a dead man’s prints, meaning the man had stolen them. Maybe from the morgue.

  Finally Nick picked up one tidbit of useful information. The Commander had developed a following using a website to share ideas and support.

  He left the prison, more frustrated than before he entered, found a coffee shop with Wi-Fi, and booted up his laptop, anxious to find out more about that damned website.

  Five minutes later he was looking at the site, shocked at the depraved individuals who actually proclaimed his father a genius. Some objected to the cover-up, but others, more militant, believed that when the project took place, during the Cold War, desperate measures had been needed. According to them, the United States had to protect itself and keep up with other countries by strategizing and researching biochemical warfare.

  Most of the people who’d posted hadn’t used their real names, so he phoned the Tech department and asked for assistance.

  If one of these nutcases had helped the Commander escape, they had to find him. He—or she—might be able to tell them the Commander’s whereabouts and intentions.

  He paced Amelia’s room, furious she hadn’t come home the night before.

  Where the hell was she? Off with her sister?

  Or was there another man?

  No . . . Amelia was his. She had been for years. Nothing would stop him from being with her.

  Not the police or the Commander.

  Not even her twin. Sadie would try to destroy him if she learned they were meeting.

  Anger churning in his gut, he drove to the address he had for Ruth Rodgers.

  Dark clouds hovered above, and snowflakes swirled in the frigid air. He sat in his car watching and waiting for the bitch to leave the office where she picked up her disability check.

  Imagine the old biddy being disabled. She’d fallen on a job and broken a hip lifting a patient, supposedly. More likely she’d slipped while beating one.

  He hoped the injury was painful, that she suffered every time she moved.

  Ruth was revered as a model of loving-kindness. A foremother of Jesus. A matriarch in the Calendar of Saints of the Lutheran Church. A promoter of well-being.

  At least, that was Ruth in the Bible—not the Ruthless Ruth who’d tormented him when he was small.

  Ruth with the bitter tongue. With the vile mouth and cold, listless eyes. With the evil smile, like a viper ready to strike.

  Ruth, who told him he was an animal right before she strapped him to the chair. Then the Commander showed him pictures of mauled animals, videos of dissections and surgeries and . . . slaughterhouses.

  All the time they’d monitored his physical responses.

  “Learn to love the pain,” Ruth had whispered in his ear. “Pain brings pleasure.”

  “Watch the animal scream for help,” the Commander said in his monotone. “Doesn’t your blood burn hot, just watching a live creature squirm and writhe as the blood seeps from its body?”

  Yes, it had. Shame had filled him, but over and over, they’d made him watch the same violent killings. Heads being severed. Knives slicing open chest cavities so organs spilled out. Axes chopping off body parts until the animal’s blood emptied itself onto the ground.

  Eventually the shame had dissipated, and a craving had been born. He’d needed to see the blood. Had begged for more.

  Then his training had turned to humans. Anatomy lessons. Postmortem dissections.

  He’d been infatuated with the tongue. Maybe because he’d seen Ruth’s flit in and out of her mouth as she lashed her ugly words at him. Her berating comments, verbal abuse.

  The phrase bite your tongue slid into his mind so many times that he’d imagined her biting it until blood dripped down her chin and it hung like a limp piece of tissue, flapping up and down as she tried to speak.

  A laugh gurgled in his throat at the realization that his wish would finally be granted.

  He followed her to her trailer in the mobile home park outside Slaughter Creek. The trailer looked run-down, the porch that had been added sagging and rotting, the sides splattered with mud and stains from the last winter storm.

  Images of the dissections he’d watched as a kid, the mutilations and killings, flashed behind his eyes, and anticipation heated his blood again.

  She pulled her rambling old Oldsmobile into her drive and climbed out, batting at the chickens in her yard to make them scatter as she hobbled toward her front door. That bum hip would make it so much easier for him to subdue her.

  Other phrases about tongues bombarded him. Cat got your tongue. Tongue-tied.

  Tongues could bring pleasure when they tasted food. They could give pleasure with kind words.

  Or whe
n that tongue worked a man’s cock.

  But her tongue gave nothing but pain.

  He pulled past the trailer, veered down a dirt road, and parked. Tugging a ball cap low on his head, he jammed the scalpel into his pocket and slipped into the woods to wait.

  Amelia lifted the knife and traced it along the inside of her thigh. Press the tip of the blade, and she could watch the blood flow, watch her pain dissipate as the crimson tide trickled down her leg onto the floor.

  It’s a sin to do that to yourself, Rachel said. What would God say?

  What would Sadie say? another voice whispered in her head.

  Amelia recognized that last voice as her own. Amelia’s voice—the one that grew stronger every day.

  She was still fighting with Rachel, the religious zealot who’d invaded her soul. Or maybe Rachel was her conscience, reminding her of the difference between right and wrong. Maybe Rachel had come to save her from herself.

  Amelia threw the knife against the wall, then picked up her paints and began to paint Rachel. Rachel with the fire and brimstone speeches. Rachel with the antisex attitude and the tendency to tell Amelia she was bad.

  “I’m not bad,” Amelia said, desperate to quiet the ugly voice. “I just want to be normal. To be loved.”

  She drew Rachel’s silhouette in charcoal, coloring in her jet-black hair, her gaunt cheekbones, the way her upper lip curled when she ranted about religion.

  God was supposed to be good and loving. But all Rachel talked about was ugliness and punishment. All she did was batter Amelia with judgment.

  Amelia’s self-preservation instincts kicked in, and she grabbed the knife and tore into the canvas, ripping the nasty-looking face and shredding the canvas into pieces.

  Rachel was trying to destroy her. Take over.

  Amelia had to fight her, just as she’d fought the others.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Sadie appeared with Ayla. Amelia quickly covered the canvas and turned to her sister, her heart thumping erratically. Had Sadie seen the darkness on the canvas?