The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  “You’re asking does Stanley rule the household with an iron fist?”

  “I met Laura Carpenter earlier today. I was … concerned by her seeming lack of interest or involvement with her foster child.”

  Shelly considered it. “Mitchell didn’t say anything, but I could follow up with him.”

  “Do you have a deputy you consider an expert in domestic abuse cases? Or maybe an officer you consider better at speaking with battered women?”

  “I do.”

  “I would send that person for the follow-up visit, see if he or she could get Laura alone. Stanley is never going to tell you anything. But maybe, if we reached out to Laura …”

  Shelly was nodding. “That makes sense. Consider it done.”

  Kincaid cleared his throat, and ruffled the papers in front of him. It was his meeting, after all. “So, Kimberly. Sounds like you’ve had a busy evening. Anything you’d care to share with the task force?”

  “I simply did some follow-up on Dougie Jones,” Kimberly said casually. She had no intention of mentioning her visit to Luke Hayes, nor, she knew, would her father want her to. “I paid a visit to his social worker, Peggy Ann Boyd, who was actually Dougie’s neighbor when he was born. According to her, Dougie’s always been very precocious, but at least for the first four years of his life, he was very well loved. Unfortunately, his mother was killed in a hit-and-run accident. When no family claimed him, he became a ward of the state, and his adventures with his various foster parents began. She insists that deep down inside, he’s still a good kid. He’s very angry right now, however, and in her own words, he needs that rage more than he needs to be loved.”

  “In other words, nothing we didn’t already know.”

  “I asked if there was any good way to reach out to Dougie. A special memento he might hold dear, a stuffed animal, blanket, whatever. According to her, he destroyed all of his personal possessions during the first fire he set in his foster parents’ garage, including each and every photograph of his mom.”

  “Ah jeez,” Shelly murmured from her end of the table, while the other officers shifted uncomfortably.

  “I think Dougie still loves his mother very much,” Kimberly said softly. “I think if someone exploited that information the right way, they could manipulate even a tough, suspicious boy like him. Say, lure him closer to their vehicle, or even convince him to go for a ride.”

  “Meaning, you’re thinking he has been kidnapped,” Kincaid stated bluntly.

  “Before, even with the ransom note and the beetle … Maybe Dougie is only seven years old, but by all accounts he’s quick, strong, and deeply distrustful of strangers, not the kind of boy who’s going to go without a fight. So how did our guy grab this kid without anyone noticing? In the beginning, that thought troubled me. But now … I can see how it might be done.”

  “Do you think Dougie is a second kidnap victim,” Kincaid asked steadily, “or have you considered that he might be an accomplice?”

  “Seven is a bit young to be considered an accomplice.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Kimberly hesitated. She did know what he meant and it wasn’t a pleasant thought, but one that bore considering. “It’s possible Dougie’s aiding whoever took Rainie,” she said, after a moment. “He’s angry, isolated, young. Clearly, that would make him a target for coercion.”

  “I’d like us all to keep our minds open when it comes to Dougie Jones,” Kincaid said briskly. “There are two pieces of this puzzle that continue to trouble me. One, that Dougie Jones seemed to know Rainie was missing before anyone else did. Now maybe it was purely coincidence, maybe he asked if she was missing because he wanted her to disappear. As Sheriff Atkins so eloquently put it, who the hell really knows when it comes to kids. However, that brings me to the second point: It appears more and more that Rainie was a targeted victim. Furthermore, that whoever took her knew a great deal about her and her life. Now, according to Mr. Quincy, Rainie was a private person with a very small inner circle. So who could have learned so much about her without getting on her radar screen? I’m beginning to wonder if these two pieces don’t fit together. Someone knew all about Rainie, because Dougie Jones told him. And Dougie Jones knew Rainie had disappeared because …”

  “He helped set her up,” Quincy filled in quietly.

  Kincaid nodded. “At this stage, it’s just a theory, of course, but one we can’t rule out. Hence my desire to search Dougie’s room.”

  “Not his room,” Kimberly said abruptly, eyes narrowing. “In Dougie’s world, that house is clearly controlled by Stanley, it’s enemy domain. The outdoors, in the woods, that’s where Dougie feels most comfortable. If he wanted a place to stash his treasures—say, a special rock, or his beetle collection, or who knows, notes from a new ‘friend’—that’s where they would be. In a tin can stuck in a tree or buried under a boulder. You know, someplace secretive, but accessible to a seven-year-old.”

  “More quality time outdoors,” Shelly deadpanned.

  “Maybe your deputies, as long as they’re there, searching the grounds …” Kincaid suggested.

  “Getting soaked to the bone.” Shelly rolled her eyes. “I’ll get to work on the warrant. Chances are something like that isn’t going to be lying around in plain sight.”

  She sighed, made a note on the pad in front of her, and the debriefing moved on.

  Detective Ron Spector from the OSP had an update from the two primary examiners who’d arrived from the Portland Crime Lab—which, interestingly enough, was located in Clackamas.

  “It’s good news, bad news,” Spector reported. “Car is in the process of being towed to the lab to be worked overnight. At the scene, they did a cursory exam of the interior with high-intensity lights. In the good-news department, no sign of blood, plus they discovered an imprint of a shoe tread pattern on the brake pedal, as well as a variety of fiber, trace, etc. So they anticipate plenty of evidence to process—whether any of it is helpful remains to be seen. Bad news is—this rain is killing us. Nothing is conclusive until the car dries out, but the scientists aren’t optimistic about recovering anything from the exterior of the vehicle. Needless to say, recovering trace evidence from around the vehicle is also considered hopeless.

  “Latent Prints also plans on spending more quality time with the vehicle tonight. In the interest of speed, they printed the rearview mirror, interior door handle, and gearshift, which are the most likely places to get results. The mirror yielded a full thumbprint. They’re running a comparison of it now against the victim and her family.” The detective glanced at Quincy, cleared his throat, then continued.

  “The first note has already arrived at the lab. It’s taking a quick spin through Latent Prints and DNA, before QD—Questioned Documents—does their thing. Bad news here is that DNA in particular is going to take some time, plus we happen to have a big load in-house at the moment. We’re looking at weeks, if not months, for the finished report, not tomorrow at ten a.m.”

  Spector glanced at Kincaid. The lead detective shrugged. It wasn’t even worth arguing this was a high-priority case. They were all high-priority cases.

  “Finally, the victim’s gun has also been printed and sent to the lab. One of the primary examiners, Beth, is already on her way back. She’ll test it for trace evidence tonight, then get it to Ballistics. They have a report they’re going to need you to fill out”—Spector nodded toward Quincy—“about your wife’s gun habits. Does she always clean it after firing, etc., etc.? It’ll help them determine if the gun had been fired recently.”

  “She does always clean it,” Quincy answered. “And it hasn’t been fired recently. We would’ve been able to tell from the smell.”

  Spector shrugged. The lab needed to do what it needed to do, and it was not the detective’s place to argue. “In conclusion, there’s plenty to process. Unfortunately, a great deal of it is periphery evidence. The primary crime scene—the roadside where the victim was most likely abducted—has been
destroyed by the elements. And sure, we can send the scientists to the woods where Dougie Jones lives, but I think they’ll tell you the same thing. Trace evidence simply can’t survive these conditions. It’s a fact of life.”

  Kincaid nodded glumly, the detective’s report not telling any of them anything they didn’t already know. In a case such as this one, with no suspect and a thirteen-hour window before the next contact, it was assumed that any evidence report would arrive too late to be of use to them. Instead, the information would be leveraged later, by a DA building a case to go to trial. What remained to be determined by Kincaid and the task force was what kind of trial it would be: one for kidnapping, or one for murder?

  Kincaid cleared his throat, turning toward Mac for an update on procuring the ransom money, when the conference room door burst open. Alane Grove pushed into the room, still shaking out her umbrella and looking positively wired.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she announced breathlessly, “but I have news.”

  Kincaid arched a brow at his young detective. “Well, by all means.”

  She barely waited for the invitation, tossing down her wet umbrella and now working furiously on her raincoat. “I’ve been retracing Lorraine Conner’s past twenty-four hours. No bars, from what I can tell, which I guess is good, but I discovered something else: She had a doctor’s appointment at three p.m. yesterday.”

  She looked squarely at Quincy. Kimberly did, too. He slowly shook his head. He obviously had no idea where this was going.

  “It was a follow-up appointment. Naturally, the doctor didn’t want to talk about it—doctor-patient confidentiality and all that. But the moment I said she was missing, he became very concerned. Apparently, he prescribed a drug for Rainie starting three months ago. The appointment today was to adjust the dosage. It’s an antianxiety medication—”

  “Oh no,” Quincy whispered.

  “Paxil,” Detective Grove volunteered brightly. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Oh no.”

  “Exactly. According to the doctor, this isn’t a drug that can be quit cold turkey—you have to be weaned off of it. As of yesterday, Rainie was up to sixty-two milligrams a day, which is the highest dosage. According to the doctor, she’s gotta keep taking it or the withdrawal symptoms will be pretty horrible—confusion, headache, nausea, hypomania, sensory disturbances. Some people have reported being unable to stand up, feeling like there were constant electric shocks going off in their brain. It’s really not good.”

  Kimberly was looking at her father again. Quincy was still shaking his head, ambushed, stunned. Rainie had found a new way to hurt her husband after all. She had sought help—she just hadn’t reached out to him.

  “I got the listing of the contents of the victim’s purse found in her vehicle,” Detective Grove was saying now. “No report of any prescription medication. But then I got to thinking: What if the victim didn’t want anyone to know she was taking an antidepressant? People are pretty touchy about these things, you know. So I thought, where’s a logical place to hide some pills where she would always have them with her, but no one would suspect a thing? And I found them. Inside the Pamprin bottle she carried in her purse.”

  The detective’s tone was triumphant. “I counted them all out. The number matches the prescription given by the doctor. So best I can determine, the victim took her dose yesterday morning, but hasn’t had one since. Meaning …”

  “We have to find her,” Quincy said tightly.

  “Yep. Or apparently, she’ll lose her mind.”

  27

  Tuesday, 9:38 p.m. PST

  She could not fall asleep. Would not fall asleep. Absolutely, positively should not fall asleep.

  Rainie forced herself to remain vigilant, hyperaware. She focused on the sound of water, dripping down the cellar walls, the feel of Dougie’s small body, pressed against her side, the smell of mildew filling her nostrils. She was freezing, shivering in periodic spasms that wrenched through her aching body and rattled her teeth. She used the discomfort to keep herself alert. It gave her something to feel, lost in a black world devoid of sight.

  She had wanted to get Dougie up off the damp floor. With her bound hands and feet, however, it had been impossible to manipulate the boy’s unconscious body onto the dry table. Instead, she’d done the best she could to drag them both up the first few steps. The hard wooden edge of the staircase dug into her bruised ribs, cutting off circulation to various parts of her body. She developed a routine, shifting first left, then right, then stomping her bound feet. Movement brought warmth, warmth brought hope. So she kept moving.

  Rainie had once been involved in a case where a young girl had been abandoned in an underground cave. She knew from that experience a person could die of exposure at fifty-five degrees. All it took was wet clothes and the constant chill.

  She and Dougie were both soaked to the bone.

  She had a feeling the basement was a good deal cooler than fifty-five degrees.

  Funny, how many long nights she had spent the past four months, her mind racing with thoughts she didn’t know how to control. She’d fallen asleep to horrible nightmares. She’d awakened to a displaced anxiety that often felt far worse than her dreams.

  She had watched herself erode from the outside. From a relatively happily married woman with a challenging job, to a jumpy, hunch-shouldered bundle of nerves, who couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t hope. She developed a hair-trigger temper that frightened even her.

  Any time she thought of Astoria, of Aurora Johnson’s final moments of terror, she went nearly out of her mind with rage, felt the anger claw at her skull like a feral beast, desperate for escape. Even when they completed their profile, even when the lead detective read it, and said, “Hey, I know this guy,” nothing changed. The maintenance man had a built-in alibi: Of course his prints were in the apartment—he maintained the unit. Of course there was blood on his shoes—he had called in the bodies.

  Quincy devised a strategy for interrogation. The stringy-haired twenty-one-year-old high school dropout shrugged for four consecutive hours, stating, “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that.”

  And so it went. They worked, they churned, they dug frantically for details. And Aurora Johnson’s cries for help once again went unanswered.

  Professionals were supposed to be able to handle that sort of thing. They were supposed to shrug it off, dig deep, as Quincy seemed able to do. You can’t win them all. The subject will screw up sooner or later. Which implied another slaughtered mother, of course, another terrified little girl.

  Rainie couldn’t find that level of acceptance inside herself. She dreamed of the bloody apartment, night after night. Sometimes she even fantasized about visiting the maintenance man herself. She knew how forensic science worked. Like any law enforcement officer, she had spent her fair share of time contemplating the perfect crime. She would take care of matters up close and personal. She would make sure that what happened to little Aurora Johnson never happened again.

  Except, of course, the maintenance man was only the tip of the iceberg. Obsessively, she started following other news cases: kidnapped children, abuse cases, stories from the Iraq war. She would wait until Quincy was out of the house, and then she would sneak to the computer like a thief. Google search: three starved children. Google search: house of horrors. Google search: rape of infant.

  It was amazing the amount of horror that would appear on her screen. She would sit there, hours at a time, reading, reading, reading, while the tears poured down her face. So much pain and suffering. So much injustice. The world was a miserable, cruel place, and there was nothing one woman could do that would ever make a difference. How could so many children be screaming, and nobody answer their cries?

  Then she would hear the crunch of Quincy’s tires on the drive. Quickly, she would close out the windows, scrub at her cheeks.

  “I was just checking e-mail,” she would tell her husband when he appeared in the hallway, smelli
ng of rain and fir trees. And he would nod at her, and he would continue on to their bedroom, while she sat there, hands folded, head down, wondering how she could lie to someone she genuinely loved.

  And she would feel the darkness grow in her, a living, breathing beast, cutting her off from the rest of civilization, isolating her from her own husband. She continued her horrible research and she didn’t tell Quincy about any of it. He wouldn’t understand. No one would understand.

  It had been a relief when she had finally taken that first drink.

  She was an idiot, she knew. It was her lot in life to live both inside and outside her body. She moved, she functioned, she felt. She was also an objective party, quick to criticize her own actions.

  Aurora Johnson was dead. How did Rainie drinking, Rainie lying, Rainie self-imploding, change anything about that? On her better days, when the fog receded from her mind, when her hands shook less and her thoughts grew clearer, she understood she was doing all the wrong things. On one of those days, when Quincy was shut in his office working on his memoirs, she even called and made a doctor’s appointment.

  Much to her amazement, she kept the appointment two weeks later, though she’d actually managed to sleep the night before and down some eggs for breakfast, so maybe the worst was behind her and she was starting to be sane after all. These things came and went, right? She’d been strong once, she’d be strong again. Hey, she was Rainie. Nothing got her down.

  She went to the doctor, a kind elderly gentleman who looked like he was straight out of a TV show. He told her she had an anxiety disorder and gave her a prescription. She carried the prescription in her purse for two more weeks, before one day having it filled. Then she went into the ladies’ room, and for reasons she couldn’t even explain to herself, she poured the pills into a Pamprin bottle, keeping one in the palm of her hand. She stared at it for a long time.

  She probably should’ve told the doctor about the number of beers she consumed in a day. The whole drinking thing probably made a difference.