by Kylie Brant
“We don’t have to talk, sugar.” He squeezed her breast roughly, and the pain made her catch her breath. Sent excitement humming through her veins. Yeah, these guys would do just fine.
A fight broke out at the pool table in back of them. The bartender leaped over the bar with a club and waded into the fray, swinging indiscriminately.
“Cops’ll be here in a few minutes.” This from the guy on her right. “Time to choose who you’re leaving with, baby. We gotta get out of here.”
A smile curved her lips as she dropped her hands to the crotch of each, squeezed suggestively. “No reason to choose, boys. I can handle both of you.”
She ignored their quick muttered discussion and slid off the bar stool, stretched, then walked toward the exit, certain they’d follow. When it came to sex, people were predictable. Didn’t matter who they were. Where they came from. Women could always be counted on to mix sex with messy other emotions, like fear, guilt, and “love.” And men could always, always be led around by their cocks.
She paused at the door and checked over her shoulder, un-surprised to see the two men trailing close behind her. It was good to know that the men in Savannah were no exception.
Ryne straightened from his stance against the wall of the crime lab conference room, relishing the look on chemist Mark Han’s face when he walked through the door and saw who had “urgent business” with him. The scientist worked in the drug identification section and Ryne had worked with him before. He was good, but famously irritable. At least around Ryne.
The man was dressed, as usual, with a white lab coat covering designer clothes and shoes that probably cost what Ryne paid for a month’s rent. Ryne had heard rumors that Han was independently wealthy. It was a sure bet that he didn’t afford his wardrobe on a GBI salary. With his slight build, short haircut, and small dark-rimmed glasses, he always reminded Ryne of a Eurasian Buddy Holly.
“Robel.” Han glanced around, saw they were alone, and looked wary. “What do you want?”
“Do I have to want something?” Ryne countered. “I brought doughnuts.”
He nodded to the box he’d set on the long table.
“Which only makes me more suspicious.” Han folded his arms across his chest, looking impatient. “I told you last time you called, it’s useless to speculate about the drug your twist is using. I’d need a sample to determine anything. Bad enough that you’re burying the rest of the sections with every damn piece of trace evidence you’ve got on your investigation. This may come as a shock to you and Dixon, but we actually work cases other than yours.”
“I’m not feeling the love here, Mark.” Ryne was enjoying himself hugely. “You’re going to make me think I’m not your favorite cop, and you know how that would hurt me.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Ryne pretended to consider. “I dropped off a sample of the drug we took from a full syringe we discovered yesterday, but now I feel a little guilty, knowing how busy you are. I had asked the lab manager to assign you to the tests, but I’m sure O’Brien would do just as good a job.” He turned, as if headed toward the door, but Han beat him to it, barring his exit.
“You’d better not be kidding.”
Ryne arched a brow. “You think I made the trip across town just to yank your chain? I can do that by phone.”
Han stared hard at him for a minute, then, as if convinced, demanded, “How big a sample is it? Was the syringe full? God, I’ve been waiting to get my hands on this. I have a few ideas, but without a sample, it was pointless to waste time on conjecture.”
“But now you’ll be able to tell what it is, right?” Ryne was hoping if they could get the individual elements identified, they’d at least have another strong lead to pursue. Controlled substances left a nice trail of paperwork, if they were gotten through legal means, or stolen from a place that had acquired them legally. This could open up a whole new avenue of investigation.
The forensic chemist frowned, visibly reining in his excitement. “It depends on whether it’s a large enough sample to run all the tests I need to do. This is going to be time-consuming, so don’t even think about calling for hourly updates.”
The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Hardly. Ryne was well aware that most crime scene evidence languished in labs for months. Although the backlog in some of the lab’s divisions had improved drastically in the last few years, it still wasn’t unusual for a suspect to be arrested, convicted, and sentenced before the lab work was even done. Given the level of cooperation they’d gotten so far, he’d known Dixon had to have been strong-arming someone to get this case designated as top priority. No doubt Mayor Richards had some pull with the governor, who in turn leaned on GBI. Whatever the process, he was damn glad for it. Especially now.
He also recognized, however, when finesse was called for. “I wouldn’t think of it. I know you’re busy, but if you can fit it in as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it.”
Han studied him carefully, no doubt looking for traces of sarcasm, but as Ryne passed him to head out the door, he said, “Well . . . yeah. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.” Although impatience was clawing through him, he knew better than to let it show. While he was here, he still planned to swing by the serology section and talk to the biologist examining the blood found in Juarez’s vehicle. If the blood type matched that of Billings, they’d have their warrant for Juarez’s place.
As for the drug sample they’d transferred from the syringe . . . he knew Han. Knew how fascinated the man had become with the unknown compound and its puzzling effects. He was probably already itching to start running tests, even if it meant staying after hours to get his other obligations fulfilled.
Best-case scenario, they’d get preliminary results in days, not weeks. And with Juarez already in custody, maybe the rapist’s next targeted victim would be spared.
Maybe.
Hidalgo Juarez’s basement apartment was short on natural light, and Abbie figured that just might be a blessing. The man wasn’t about to give Martha Stewart competition anytime soon.
“Guy lives like a cockroach,” McElroy muttered, kicking through the debris on the floor. As if to punctuate his words, a bug scuttled from beneath a fast-food container across the threadbare carpet.
“I was thinking you two shared the same decorator,” cracked Cantrell. The investigators filled the cramped area to overflowing, each carefully covering a predetermined area.
Once Ryne had received word that the blood type found in the Bronco matched that of Billings, the warrant had sped through the sometimes cumbersome legal process. Ryne then had summoned the task force to Juarez’s address. Abbie had been across town at Ashley Hornby’s house, trying in vain to get the woman to open the door and speak to her. Hornby had been the rapist’s third victim, and after her initial statement had become more and more reclusive.
From the looks of things, Abbie was the last on the task force to arrive. She stopped Ryne and asked, “What’s the scope of the search?”
He looked tired, and it occurred to her that he must have gotten very little sleep last night, which she could sympathize with. She’d lain awake for hours, thoughts of her sister and the case circling in her mind like frantic ants. Thoughts of the case’s lead detective had been just as difficult to banish.
“With the discovery of the syringe, we’ve got cause to search anyplace we could reasonably find drugs, which gives us a lot of latitude.”
Abbie turned to scan the room, her gaze landing on the older-model computer sitting on a stained vinyl-top table in the corner of the living room. “I don’t suppose we have access to his computer.”
“Nope.”
“Why, do you need to check your e-mail, Tinkerbell?” McElroy looked up from his search of the carpet’s edge, where a loose area could signify a hiding place. “You into those online singles chatrooms?”
“If Juarez is our guy, I’d expect to find porn. Very specific images.” She gave
the computer a last regretful glance and headed to the bedroom, which was being tossed by Holmes.
“You want porn? I’m about to make your day.” Isaac Holmes got to his feet and handed her a stack of magazines he’d pulled from beneath the bed. Abbie took them gingerly and carried them into the other room. Setting them on the table next to the computer, she sat down to flip through them, suppressing an instinctive surge of distaste.
Ryne had finished with the closet and crossed the room to look through the stack. “An extensive and imaginative collection.”
There were magazines featuring adults engaged in a variety of sex acts, including bondage, female on female, group sex, and bestiality. But the presence of the magazines themselves meant nothing. Given the organized precision of the attacks themselves, she’d expect the UNSUB’s collection to reflect a similar orderliness. “Any magazines featuring rape and torture?” Fantasy played a major role in a ritualistic offender’s crimes, and the perps often developed elaborate porn collections that implied the underlying motivation. The theme of the pornography was reflected in the way the offender interacted with his victims.
Ryne flipped through the pile, checking covers. “None that I can tell.”
“See, that’s the job I want,” McElroy said in a loud aside to Cantrell, as they pulled the cushions from the dilapidated couch and checked inside them. “I’ll volunteer to go through the porn. I’ll even stay late to do it. After shift. Without overtime pay.”
“You’re a prince among men,” Cantrell agreed laconically.
Abbie straightened, looked around the area once again. There was a TV but she didn’t see a VCR or DVD player. Crossing to the bedroom, she peered in, but didn’t see any electronics in there. “Doesn’t appear that he has a video porn collection, but keep an eye out for any scrapbooks or notebooks.”
At Ryne’s quizzical expression, she explained, “Some offenders will go so far as to cut and paste images from existing pornography to sketch out their fantasy scenarios, or to have partners act out certain erotic behaviors that are then filmed or photographed.”
“She’s talking about you, McElroy,” Holmes called from the bedroom.
An idea struck her then and she addressed Ryne, who was still flipping through the pages. “Have you interviewed prostitutes in the area regarding this investigation?”
Wayne Cantrell looked up from where he was bent over the couch, his hand shoved into the creases surrounding the seat. “Why would we? We’ve got low-risk victims in this case. It’s not like our guy is out trolling the red light district.”
“An offender like this one often evolves, rather than planning and enacting the crimes right away.” She went into the kitchen area and checked the freezer compartment and refrigerator. There was nothing to be found but beer and two soggy onions. “Sometimes they’ll act out their sexual fantasies with wives or girlfriends to serve as props in their rehearsal of future crimes. If those females aren’t available, it’s not unusual for them to use prostitutes.” She turned her attention to the kitchen cabinets. “We had an offender in St. Paul who nearly killed three call girls prior to his first sexual homicide of a university professor. The complaints filed by the prostitutes weren’t investigated fully until after the murder.”
“See, we’re different here in Savannah,” McElroy said. He rose and tipped the couch forward for Cantrell to check beneath. “We take our prostitutes seriously.”
“It’s a good idea,” Ryne interjected. “When we get done here, McElroy, you and Cantrell can follow up on that. We’ve checked incident reports filed in the last year, but it wouldn’t hurt to talk to some prostitutes in the area. They might know about something that never got reported.”
“There you go, McElroy,” said Cantrell as the two started on the dilapidated recliner. “Your Christmas just came early.”
“You’re gonna give Tinkerbell the wrong impression of me.”
Abbie rose from checking the bottom cupboards, which were empty except for a few pans and what she suspected were rodent droppings. “That wouldn’t be possible, Nick.”
Holmes came out of the bedroom. “You might want to look at these.”
Ryne stood up. “What have you got?”
The detective held up a pair of black tennis shoes, soles out. “Got some crushed rock in the tread. Other than that, they seem fairly new.”
Abbie remembered the fill beneath the hydrangeas in front of Barbara Billings’s house. It should be fairly simple to compare the samples.
“Anything else?”
In answer to Ryne’s question, Holmes held up something he carried between thumb and forefinger on his other gloved hand. “Just this.” It was a protective plastic tip. The type that would fit over a hypodermic needle.
Chapter 7
“This really isn’t necessary,” Abbie muttered, for at least the fourth time. “I’m capable of finding my way to the site on my own.”
“It’s necessary if you insist on revisiting each of the crime scenes yourself.” They’d left the campus of Savannah State fifteen minutes earlier, and were driving toward the ocean. Specifically toward the site where Amanda Richards had been transported for the attack. “I’ve worked with profilers before. Never had one insist on going to each scene personally. Usually they work from the photos in the case file.”
“Then they weren’t doing their jobs,” she said flatly, gaz ing out the window.
Ryne could only agree. But then he’d never put any stock in the profiles rendered by the police psychologists used in a few of the cases he’d worked on in Boston. Or in police psychs as a whole. They were worse than Internal Affairs’ Rat Squad. IA could fuck up your reputation, but the Psych Service types fucked with your head.
The thought summoned an unwanted memory. And what was going through your mind at the time of Deborah Hanna’s shooting, Detective Robel?
As if he’d had the words for all the emotions that had flooded him when they’d burst through that door two years ago and found Glen Powell with his gun against the woman’s temple. The exact moment he realized just how badly he’d miscalculated. Adrenaline, fear, anger, determination. Guilt.
The high-rises had given way to housing developments on either side of the interstate. Not scenery that should have kept Abbie’s gaze rapt on its passing, but her silence made it all too easy to hear the echo of that long-ago voice in his mind.
Do you think you would have handled the situation differently if you hadn’t been drinking the night before, Detective?
Wrong question, Doc. It wasn’t the bottle the night before that had been the problem. It was the ones he’d consumed throughout the whole damn case that had blinded him to the perp’s identity.
We acted in a manner in keeping with the facts we had at hand. The outcome couldn’t have been foreseen.
He’d been too late to save Deborah Hanna, but had managed to save his own ass. The exchange hardly seemed even. His team had been cleared of any mishandling of that final scene. But the stench of failure clung to a reputation, was impossible to dislodge.
“You know, there isn’t going to be much for you to see at the beach house,” he said abruptly, shaking off the memories. “Mayor Richards barely gave us time to process the scene before he was hiring new decorators to gut the place. Must have decided that wasn’t enough, because I hear it’s on the market now.”
“That’s a problem when coming in midway through the investigation,” she said. “But I like to see for myself the security that’s in place surrounding the scene. The transportation routes and cover provided nearby. I get a clearer picture of the UNSUB when I can look at what environment he chose for his attacks, and what precautions or risks he took. It would have been even better if I could make these visits at the same time of day the kidnapping occurred.”
He knew where she was going with this. “No way to get an accurate picture of the Savannah State campus as it was last spring with no classes in session right now. Besides, Dixon promised Richards that
no one would be allowed inside his place without the lead investigator present.” The landscape was flattening, the evergreens and towering oaks growing scarcer. “I could have asked for you, but I don’t know that he would have changed his mind.” He’d have been reluctant to contact the mayor on her behalf, at any case, and be grilled for an hour about their progress. Right now Dixon was handling City Hall, and that’s what he was paid to do.
Abbie remained silent, and he glanced her way again. Another woman he might figure was sulking because she hadn’t gotten her way, but he was beginning to know her well enough to doubt that. She was working through something in her mind, and he wouldn’t hear from her until she did so.
A few minutes later, she proved him right. “So it was dusk when Amanda was snatched on her way across campus after work. The UNSUB used a surprise attack again. He waited until she got on the bike path through a more wooded section and then jumped her from behind. Fewer people than usual were out and about because of finals week.”
He took up the verbal reenactment. “Those paths were built wide enough to allow use by small campus vehicles. He probably had a car stowed nearby and dragged her to it.”
“She was the only one whose tox screen showed something other than the same elements the others were injected with.”
He nodded, checking his mirrors and changing lanes. They were making pretty good time, primarily because there were few people heading to the beach in the middle of the afternoon midweek. The same drive at this time tomorrow would be hellish. “He used chloroform to knock her out immediately. Probably bound and gagged her in the vehicle. Hard to say because she didn’t come to until at the beach house.”
“And now with Billings’s rape, that makes two out of four times that he’s transported a victim,” she mused.