by Herron, Rita
“Ayla and I are going hiking. Do you want to come with us?”
Amelia saw Ayla’s hopeful smile, the innocence of a five-year-old glowing in her eyes.
Amelia had never been that innocent.
Sadie’s expression grew worried. “Amelia?”
“Yes, I’m coming,” Amelia said. “Just let me change.”
Sadie nodded, one hand on Ayla’s back as they closed the door. Sadie was so lucky. She’d married the man she loved, adopted his daughter, and now they were having a baby of their own.
She had a real family.
Amelia’s heart ached for that. For real love. For a man to hold her at night and whisper her name, and no one else’s.
For a baby of her own.
In fact, sometimes at night, she thought she heard a little one’s cry. Her own baby’s . . .
But that was impossible. She’d never had a child, and never would. She couldn’t have a real family. Not until she was whole again.
Not until the Commander was dead and gone forever.
Images of Six pushing her against the wall as he thrust inside her teased her mind. Six . . . should she tell Sadie and Jake about him? Draw that sketch for them?
Had Six killed those women? If so, and if she crossed him, would he turn his rage on her? If she told the police, would they arrest her as his accomplice?
She trembled so badly that she sank onto the bed. No . . . she couldn’t go back to prison. Couldn’t be locked up in that sanitarium again.
She quickly changed clothes, pulling on jeans, a sweater, and her hiking boots.
No, she wouldn’t say anything. She’d keep quiet and hope the police found him without her.
Chapter Seventeen
Rafe had to agree with Liz. Brian Castor didn’t look like a serial killer.
Then again, who did? Ted Bundy was handsome and volunteered at a suicide prevention line. Richard Angelo was a volunteer firefighter and Eagle Scout, but he’d killed twenty-five people. Karl Denke played the organ at his church and was loved by the community. Still, he’d murdered and cannibalized over thirty people.
The list went on and on.
Truitt certainly had the demeanor and the job to fit the profile, though. And if he was Ester’s child and had learned that he’d been part of the experiment, he certainly had motive to kill her.
Then again, there was Beaulah Hodge’s death. What if Truitt had had an accomplice? Could he and Castor be working together?
“Lieutenant,” Castor said, his gaze shooting to Liz and Rafe. “You asked to see me.”
Lieutenant Maddison flattened his hands on his desk. “Yes—Special Agents Hood and Lucas need to talk to you.”
Castor’s brows drew together beneath big square glasses. A tiny mole dotted the left corner of his mouth. His hands were long, the tip of his pinkie finger on his right hand missing, light hair dusting the tops of his hands. “I’m assuming it’s about forensics on the Banning and Hodge cases. Is there a problem?”
Intuitive, Rafe thought. “Yes. We need to discuss the Slaughter Creek experiments.”
Castor shut the door and claimed a seat, his interest obviously piqued. “You believe the two are related?”
Rafe nodded. “Evidence is pointing in that direction.”
“Mr. Castor,” Liz began. “We’d like to know more about your background before you joined CSI.”
Castor looked confused. “I don’t understand what my background has to do with this case.”
“Please,” Liz said. “It’s important.”
Castor glanced at Maddison, hoping for a way out, but Maddison simply gestured for him to answer.
“I grew up in Memphis,” Castor said. “Majored in premed in college, but got interested in forensics and law and switched directions.”
“Your family still live in Memphis?” Liz asked.
Castor crossed his leg over his knee. “Yes.” Alarm creased his face. “Why? Has something happened to my parents?”
“No,” Rafe said, rushing to quell the panic in the man’s voice. “They’re fine.”
Liz kept her voice level. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
Castor shook his head no. “I’m an only child.”
“Did your parents ever live in Slaughter Creek?” Rafe asked.
“Not that I know of.”
Rafe cleared his throat. “Do you remember visiting the town when you were young?”
Castor shook his head again.
“Were you ever hospitalized as a child?” Liz asked.
Castor blinked, a nervous twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I had a tonsillectomy when I was ten. Now what the hell does my tonsil surgery have to do with finding this killer?”
Liz exchanged a curious look with Rafe.
Even if Castor hadn’t received treatment at the sanitarium, the Commander could have used another facility. The other doctors involved could also have volunteered at another free clinic.
“Maybe nothing.”
“I thought you had the killer in custody.”
“We had to release our main suspect because there isn’t enough evidence to charge him,” Rafe said. “Besides, it’s possible he had an accomplice.”
Liz gestured toward his hand. “What happened to your finger?”
Castor looked down at his mangled appendage and then folded his fingers. “An accident. I was helping my father with an addition to the clinic when the saw slipped.”
“That must have hurt,” Liz commented.
Castor shrugged. “Lot of damn blood.”
Rafe measured his words, gauging Castor’s response. “Do you know if your parents ever had contact with Arthur Blackwood?”
Castor’s eyes flared with uncertainty. “Why would they? My mother’s a schoolteacher, and Dad’s a veterinarian.”
“But you were adopted?” Liz asked softly.
Castor’s jaw tightened, anger reddening his cheeks as he stood abruptly. “How do you know that?”
Lieutenant Maddison gestured toward the chair. “Sit down, Brian.”
“We’ve done some research,” Liz filled in.
Rafe indicated the file from the sanitarium. “We spoke with the director of Slaughter Creek Sanitarium. This file contains information about the experiments and what they did to the children.”
The mole at the corner of Castor’s mouth twitched, but he sank back into the chair. “What does that have to do with me?”
“See if any of it rings a bell.” Rafe shoved the folder into Castor’s hands.
Castor glanced at Liz, then back at Rafe and Maddison, before he opened the file. Shock widened his eyes as he skimmed the contents. His hand began to shake, and anger mingled with disbelief when he looked back up.
“Good God, you think I was one of the subjects?”
Liz silently studied Castor. The shock on his face looked genuine, but she would refrain from forming an opinion until she was more certain.
Some sociopaths were extremely convincing actors. She couldn’t afford to make a snap decision. Lives depended on her objectivity and professional skills.
“That’s what we want you to tell us,” Rafe said.
Castor raised his hands, as if the file had burned him. “Hell, no, I grew up in a good family.”
“The first victim of this serial killer, Ester Banning, gave up a baby around the time you were adopted by the Castors. That means that child might have motive to kill her.”
“That’s far-fetched.” Perspiration beaded on Castor’s brow. “And it’s not me. I love my parents.”
Liz raised a brow. “Did you receive treatment at the hospital or at a free clinic in Slaughter Creek?”
Castor jammed his hands into his pockets. “I already told you I didn’t.”
“Was your father
in the military?” Rafe asked.
“No. And if you’re suggesting that he worked with that monster, you’re way off. Dad helps animals. He would never hurt anyone, or condone what Blackwood did.”
Liz considered his vehemence. “How about male relatives? A cousin, maybe?”
“No. None.” He shifted impatiently. “Now you need to do more research. I can search for other Castors in Tennessee if you want.”
“Not a good idea,” Lieutenant Maddison said emphatically. “Under the circumstances, Brian, it’s best if you temporarily remove yourself from this case.”
Fury darkened Castor’s face. “You’re pulling me?”
“I’m just telling you to take a few days off,” Lieutenant Maddison said in a low voice. “I can’t believe this. One more thing before you go,” Maddison added, his voice softening. “We’ll need a DNA and blood sample.”
Castor balled his hands into fists. “Thanks for standing up for me, Lieutenant.”
“I am,” Maddison said. “But that means we have to do this by the book. The only way to clear you is to compare DNA and blood samples to the killer’s.”
Castor cursed again as he strode out. The door slammed behind him, his anger resounding as his feet pounded the hall.
“I’m sorry we upset your CSI,” Liz said. “But we had to ask those questions.”
“I understand.” Lieutenant Maddison tapped a few keys on his computer, hit print, and his printer spewed out a page. “Here’s Castor’s parents’ address and contact information. I suggest you speak to them and clear this matter up asap so the man can return to work.”
Rafe took the sheet of paper and stood, and he and Liz walked outside together. “Castor could have been part of the experiment and never known it,” Rafe suggested.
Liz considered his comment. “That’s true. But if he’s innocent, that means the experiment left him unscathed, not negatively affected, as it has all the others.”
“Maybe they perfected their training with him.” He paused. “Or he’s hiding it.”
Liz opened the car door and slid inside. Rafe did the same and started the SUV.
“Let’s have a chat with Brian’s parents,” she said. “If Brian worked with his father at the vet clinic, maybe his parents encouraged him to go into police work because of his interest in science.”
“You mean his interest in dissecting animals?”
Liz nodded. “Yes. Killing animals is a sign of sociopathic behavior and a precursor to becoming a serial killer.”
The drive to the Castors’ took almost two hours. Rafe called the deputy to check on Truitt, but there had been no signs of him going or coming during surveillance. Rafe ordered the deputy to check the house and call him back once he’d verified that Truitt was inside.
They stopped and picked up lunch, a hailstorm slowing them down as they drove.
On the off chance that there might possibly be another Brian Castor, Liz searched databases on her tablet for other Castors who lived in Tennessee with a son named Brian. “There’s one family who lives in Nashville, but their only son is deceased and his name was Joe. Another couple has twin boys, but they’re only five years old.”
“Anything else?”
“An elderly preacher in western Tennessee, but he has no children.”
Rafe turned up the defroster and wipers. “A dead end. Maybe we do have the right family.”
Older farmhouses and trailers dotted the mountains, but as they approached Memphis, traffic thickened, gas stations and other commercial buildings popping up. Two miles outside town, he spotted the vet practice, right next to the Castor’s house.
Hail battered the windshield as he parked. Liz tugged her coat around her before they got out.
The lights in the clinic were off, so Rafe parked at the house, noting that the place had recently been painted. A pickup truck and a red Toyota were parked to the right.
“This won’t be easy,” Liz said as they walked up to the house. “No parent wants to hear that the police suspect their son of being a serial killer.”
“If they hid what he is, they deserve to be confronted.”
Liz’s eyes darkened. “True.”
Mrs. Castor answered the door, tugging a bathrobe around her. “Yes?”
Rafe and Liz both flashed their badges. “I’m sorry if it’s late, ma’am, but we need to talk to you and your husband,” said Liz.
Panic flickered in the woman’s eyes. “Dear God, is something wrong? Did something happen to Brian?”
“No, ma’am, he’s fine,” Liz reassured her. “We just need to ask you and your husband some questions.”
“What about?”
Rafe put one foot inside the doorway to prevent her from closing it on them. “Please get Dr. Castor, and we’ll explain.”
Mrs. Castor fiddled with the edge of her robe, then gestured for them to follow her into a den. The room was cozy, with a fire roaring in the stone fireplace, a border collie sprawled on a braided rug in front of it. Cooking and pet care magazines mingled on the coffee table.
Dr. Castor sat in a chair with an open book, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked up in surprise when he saw them.
The couple appeared to be late forties, both fit. Photographs chronicling Brian’s youth decorated one wall above a table that held trophies he’d received from science club and chess tournaments.
A child’s teddy bear’s pride of place, right in the middle, indicated that it must have been much loved by its owner.
Liz paused and rubbed a hand over the bear, an odd expression darkening her face. The gesture struck Rafe as odd. He’d never pictured Liz with kids—or himself, for that matter.
But an image of her with a baby on her hip flitted through his mind, and his lungs squeezed. Had Liz ever thought about a family?
He stiffened, wondering where in the hell those thoughts had come from.
Although he enjoyed volunteering at the Boys’ Club, Rafe hadn’t ever considered having a kid of his own. His childhood certainly hadn’t prepared him for anything but the life he lived now.
Certainly not for a family, or a happily-ever-after with a woman.
Jumping from one dysfunctional house to another had helped make him tough. Knocked reality into his head early on. No one ever stayed around. People left. People died.
No use getting attached.
“What do you want?” Dr. Castor asked impatiently.
Rafe crossed his arms. “We need to know if either of you had any contact with Arthur Blackwood, or any knowledge of the experiments that took place in Slaughter Creek.”
Rafe’s phone buzzed: the deputy. He stepped from the room. “Yeah?”
A drawn-out sigh. “Hell, I looked all over the house and the slaughterhouse. Truitt is gone.”
Shit. “Find him,” Rafe said. “And when you do, get that damn DNA sample.”
If Truitt’s DNA matched Castor’s, they’d know they were related.
And that might help them prove whether the men were working together.
He paced the floor of his killing room, inhaling the acrid scent of blood and death from his other victims.
The scent intoxicated him, fueled his energy.
“Ahh, Ruth. . . . You do remember me, don’t you?”
The wrinkles around the heartless woman’s eyes sank deep into the grooves of her sagging face as she stared up at him. Her body was old now, lumpy and soft. Age spots splattered her skin like ants on a dirt mound, and her teeth had yellowed and blackened with snuff stains.
He remembered watching her pinch a bit of the foul-smelling tobacco and stuff it into her cheek. She’d leave it there, sucking and enjoying the juice until she had to spit. She always kept a spit can with her, a crude tin can that she covered with tinfoil.
Those black teeth had looked nasty when she
’d snarled at him, holding him down. But she had firm, strong hands. A man’s hands.
Steady hands that had taught him to whack up an animal without blinking an eye. And that tongue . . .
The tongue—a muscular hydrostat on the floor of the mouth of most vertebrates. The tongue manipulates food for mastication. Helps in language. The primary organ of taste. The upper part covered in papillae and taste buds. Eight muscles make up the tongue—intrinsic and extrinsic. Extrinsic ones are anchored to the bone.
The lingual artery, a branch of the carotid artery, sends blood to the tongue.
He would target the carotid artery. Watch the blood seep and spurt.
Yes, now it was her turn to suffer.
She made a disgusting sound in her throat, part laugh, part challenge, as if the evil had permeated her soul a long time ago, feeding her spirit like a sick beast.
“You do know who I am?” he asked again.
Her eyes flitted over him, eyes so dead with meanness that he realized she knew him but refused to admit it.
“You’re going to hell for what you did.” He slapped her face so hard she cried out.
“Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you hurt us?”
“I had orders,” she said, those blackened teeth snapping like a turtle’s beak. “If I hadn’t, they would have killed me.”
“You were scared?” he asked with a harsh laugh. “I don’t buy that, Ruth.”
“You were lost anyway,” she hissed. “No one wanted you. No one loved you. Even your own mother threw you away.”
He raised the scalpel and waved it in front of her.
In a last-ditch effort to save herself, she struggled with the ropes holding her down. “You’re a sick monster,” she spewed.
This time he grinned. “You should know. You created me.” He gripped her jaw and pried open her mouth. She tried to bite him, but he slammed his fist into her jaw. The bone cracked and she cried out in pain, her body jerking.
He grabbed a pair of pliers and shoved them into her mouth to keep it open, then jabbed the sharp tip of his scalpel into the skin around her tongue.
Blood spurted, washing down his hands like a river. He could bathe in her blood, though, and it still wouldn’t erase her horrible words.