by Rick Murcer
“Smart thinking. I hadn’t thought about how my gloved hand might contaminate some of the evidence. You get a raise, if there’s any money in the budget, that is.”
“That was good thinking, Dean, but I wouldn’t hold my breath on the raise possibility. Let’s get to work,” said Manny.
Leading the CSIs past the three blues guarding the front door, Manny pulled the yellow crime scene tape aside, opened the door, then turned to Alex and Dean.
“I’ll come and get you in a few minutes or so. I need to get a feel for what happened here.”
“You’re the boss. Just don’t mess up anything. It’ll give me a minute to see if we have any updates from the toxicology lab on the other cases anyway. That could help us figure out what to look for here.”
Nodding, Manny walked in and closed the door behind him.
The focal point of the dimly lit room was painfully obvious. The thirty-something male lie on his back, arms and legs spread apart in an-almost normal position, like he was taking a nap. That’s where any similarity involving ‘normal’ ended. Pictures of a body, and what some sick bastard had done to it, was one thing. But this, well, this was hard evidence that all was not well with the human race.
He scanned the body from head to toe and then back. Again, there only seemed to be a significant amount of blood near the chest cavity. The corkscrew, the sewing of the mouth, including the small, sparkling medallion that doubled as Aphrodite’s calling card, were all in place. Exactly in place, as far as he could tell. But the etching on his shoulders, his abdomen, and his legs seemed different. Like she had been in a different mindset or had been distracted. The web-like design was not as spatially correct and the carving appeared to be deeper, especially around his eyes. She’d been frustrated or something hadn’t gone completely to Hoyle. A disruption of the plan wasn’t something killers like this one appreciated. Control was always a forte for unsubs involved in these cases and, if he didn’t know better, he’d say she’d lost that impeccable control. That . . . or she was getting sloppy and becoming so immersed in the moment that the result of her actions didn’t matter nearly as much as the act.
Manny contracted an immediate sense that he was right. He shivered. That meant she was evolving, becoming bolder, less afraid of capture and gaining strength and confidence. Most of all, it meant she was reaching a different height with her newly found pleasure, maybe even perverting her actions into a love ritual, as her self-christened title indicated, instead of killing for a more obvious reason. He had suspected she was different, although one deviant act was hardly a pattern. Not to mention, the second and third victims hadn’t had a snake sewn into their mouths, breaking the first established pattern. He knew the snake could have been part of the experimentation that wasn’t uncommon with serial killers like this one. That seemed to be the case; that she’d found her perfect experience and the snake wasn’t part of it.
Some serial killers get the process down, in their own special manner, and then revel in the perfection of the killing and all that it brought to them. Some killed to take, some killed to receive. That had always been true. In the end, the motivation for these psychopaths was always something palatable, especially for women expressing themselves by taking lives. An uneasy feeling whispered in his head. If this woman had no agenda like the others, other than the pure joy of killing, it made her different than any other they’d encountered and the unknown was never a good land to wander through.
Taking a step, he shifted his weight, ready to run his hand through his hair and then stopping, the rubber glove making him rethink his habit. He’d lost more than one hair forgetting he was wearing gloves. Instead, he bent closer to the thin man’s body and stopped at his eyes, which were closed. He frowned. The other victims’ eyes had all been open, possessing the same kind of vision that belonged only to the dead. And unless he missed his guess, the angle of the other victims’ heads had been almost exactly the same, looking straight toward the ceiling. However, this one was different. His chin was touching his chest as if he’d been watching something just over his sunken sternum.
In most cases, when the mouth was sewn shut, it meant the killer was trying to depersonalize the victim by not letting them speak. Speaking might mean begging, not to mention yelling or screaming for help. The same with the eyes. If they were open, the victim might be able to communicate something with an expression that would dissuade the killing, in theory. Those actions would indicate a certain level of . . . feeling . . . toward the victim, but again, he didn’t get that feeling here.
Swamped with another thought, Manny quickly glanced at the man’s wrists and then his ankles. He noticed no ligature marks or any tape residue on either, just like the others.
Shaking his head, he was immediately pissed at himself. In all of the files and this case, he hadn’t asked the question of how.
How did you gain control of these men, Aphrodite?
Stepping back to the door, he motioned for Alex and Dean.
“You done trancing?” asked Alex.
Manny nodded. “For now.”
“Good. Now get the hell out of the way and let the real cops go to work.”
Moving past Manny, Alex entered the room with Dean on his tail. Putting their black cases on the floor simultaneously, the two CSIs glanced at each other then back to Manny.
“This is different, even for an ex-Los Angeles boy,” said Dean.
Letting out a breath, Alex nodded. “Always something different in this business . . . but you didn’t let us in because you had all of the answers, right?”
“I never have the answers, just guesses that work out sometimes. Anyway, I didn’t ask myself a question that I should have and I need your help,” said Manny.
Alex tore his eyes away from the face of the corpse. “I’m marking this down on my calendar . . . you need my direct help this early in an investigation?”
“I do. I can’t see how this woman who, based on the video, can’t be more than five-five and one hundred and twenty pounds, is able to control these guys. Other than some kind of drug situation . . .”
“I think I can help you with that. Let me check something first.”
Reaching into the now open case, Alex pulled out a wooden tongue depressor, kneeled near the head of the victim, and searched his mouth, taking a whiff of the opening. He stood, wearing a frown not common to his friend.
Pulling out his smartphone, he scrolled the screen down, reading intently for about fifteen seconds, scowling the whole time. “Damn,” he muttered.
“What do you have?”
“It’s what we all have: a real smart woman with a truly revolting problem.”
CHAPTER-35
“Are you sure you’re all right, Mum?” asked Chloe as she set the cup of tea on the table and sat to Haley Rose’s left.
“Yea. I’m fine. I might be fifty but I’m tougher than some of those American cops, ya know?”
Jen nodded. “I think that’s true, Grandma Franson. You look tough.”
“Thank ya, darlin’, and I told ya not ta call me grandma when people are around. But I guess it’s okay this time,” she said, the sparkle never leaving her eyes.
Gavin snorted. “These are good cops. They just didn’t want to hurt you, and they wanted to avoid all that paperwork.”
“Well, now ya know, Mr. Crosby, I think I—”
Chloe raised her hand and interrupted her mother. “Okay. You two can discuss that one over ice cream or ale, just not until you tell me what the hell you were doing outside the house, after dark, apparently sneaking up to the back door. Please.”
“Ahh, girl. Ya always did have that way of getting to the point,” said Haley Rose, sighing and grinning.
“Got it from my mum, I did.”
Haley threw back her head and laughed. “You did at that.”
Her mother had always been a pretty woman—tough, but pretty. She still had the red hair Chloe had inherited and she kept herself in great shape. But s
eeing her like this, maybe when she needed to see her the most, made her mother look like an angel in disguise.
Reaching across the table, her mum touched her hand. “I’ll be honest. I came for two reasons. I’m missing you and this new family of yours more than I thought this old Irish lass would. I was going to surprise ya all. But those Bobbies spoiled it. Why are they there, by the way?”
“I’ll tell ya later.”
“I’m sure ya will. It also seems Manny and his lovely daughter have captured more than just my daughter’s heart. I think of you, all of you, more these days especially with your cousin Mairead ready to tackle college in Dublin. Plus, I ain’t getting any younger. Lonely and old ain’t no way to live life. So I’m here ta tell ya I’m selling the bed and breakfast and moving to the states, if you don’t have a problem with either situation.”
“What? Really?” asked Chloe.
Haley Rose nodded. “Really.”
Before she knew it, Chloe had pulled her mother out of the chair and hugged her like only mothers and daughters, who’ve seen a thing or two together, could do. Chloe tried to stifle tears that had a mind of their own.
“Nothing would make me happier,” she whispered.
She felt Haley Rose swallow hard, then break the embrace, holding her daughter at arm’s length. “I’m glad to hear that. We’ve not spent enough days together since you joined the FBI and I want to fix that. A girl could always use her Mum around, from time to time.”
“I’d like that, very much.”
“Hey, does that mean we can go like shopping to the mall? All of us?” asked Jen.
Haley Rose laughed again. “That would be wonderful. I need some of those jeans that make my fanny look a wee bit smaller.”
“Fanny looks good to me,” said Gavin, shrugging.
“Were ya looking, man?”
“Ah, well, yes. Anyway, you said there was another reason you came to visit.”
“Still a cop, I see. Yes I did.”
She looked at Chloe, then glanced at Gavin, her look far more serious than a moment earlier. She reached into her purse and brought out a disc dressed in an amber case and handed it to Chloe.
“I-I . . . well, I was cleaning the room that Fredrick . . . Argyle . . . had stayed in and found this hidden under the heat register behind the door. All these months and I never noticed it. It was in an odd place, to be sure, but still. I should have seen it.”
Turning the disc over in her hand, Chloe felt uneasy. “Okay mum. Only this could be anything, belong to anyone.”
Haley Rose shook her head. “See that label, the one that says ‘HELP?’ That’s his handwriting.”
CHAPTER-36
Sophie circled the back of the rundown motel and started up the iron steps bathed in dim fluorescent light. The steps were bowed in the center and looked like they hadn’t been painted in a century or longer. She didn’t know how the owners got away with such piss-poor maintenance. She could actually scratch her new shoes on this crap.
She reached the second floor, followed by Ben Garcia, and immediately banged on the first door. Waiting for an answer, she glanced up at Garcia and her eyes lingered a little longer on his handsome face than she had intended. The man had one of those mugs that got him into bed far more often than not and if anyone knew that look, it was her. Plus, he was built like a brick shithouse.
“Something wrong, Agent?” he asked.
“Ah. No. Just wondering why you’re playing cop instead of dancing at the local strip club on women’s night.”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“Good point. Do you?”
“Twice, on a dare. Problem is, the captain frowns on exposing his staff to the public like that. Get it? Exposing?”
She rolled her eyes. She couldn’t believe she had been attracted to this type. Dumb and shallow. They were good for one thing, however.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Sophie turned and knocked on the door again, then crossed her arms and tapped her foot. She’d volunteered for the canvassing duty. Unfortunately, it had slipped her mind just what a pain in the ass door-to-door was. Along with that, she really couldn’t remember when a single word out of a “credible” witness had panned out.
Damn. I could use a drink.
“Ahh, Agent. I think—”
“Not now, Detective, We have to get this covered, and I don’t have time for any more small talk.”
“I understand, but you’re knocking on the maintenance door. I don’t think we’ll get anyone to answer at eight o’clock in the evening.”
“I know what I’m doing, smartass. Just stand back and learn.”
“Learn what?”
She sighed. “See that light coming through the left corner of the door jamb? That just might mean someone’s behind the door. Besides, you NEVER walk past a door that might give you something you didn’t have before. Got it?”
“Yes ma’am. I—”
The door swung open and an older man with a shaved head and large paunch covered—almost—with a sweat-stained tee shirt and leather tool belt sized them up, mumbling under his breath. He smelled like he hadn’t taken a bath in a month. Somehow, Sophie knew that was about right.
“What do y’all want? I’m fixin’ to go home and they don’t pay me no freaking overtime,” he growled. “I spent enough hours in this hole for a day. Especially with the killin’ thing downstairs.”
“Well, nice to see that good old Southern hospitality hasn’t been lost somewhere in the twenty-first century,” said Sophie, showing him her credentials.
“What the hell’s that? Your green card? I ain’t got my readin’ glasses on.”
“Okay, dumbshit. We’ll do it your way. I’m with the FBI and this gentleman is with the New Hanover Sheriff’s Department. I’m not here for any sarcastic bullshit unless I dish it out. Got it?”
The man’s mouth dropped open and she could see, even in the dim light, his face turning red. “Sorry, Miss. I didn’t know who ya were. My name’s Moss Jackson. What can I do fer ya?”
“Good answer, Moss. I want to know if you saw anyone come or go from that room where we found the body today, say around noon?”
He shook his head and started talking, his hands coming along for the ride. “I didn’t see no one. I mean it gets kind of busy here around noon until two or so. Lots of people park down the street there and do their best to sneak to where they be headin’. After a while they all look the same to me.”
“I see. So this is kind of a getaway for a quickie at lunch place?”
“I s’pose so. I don’t really care. It’s a paycheck for me. Not too awful of a big one but I can eat on it. Besides, didn’t y’all check with the front desk to see who rented that Godforsaken room?”
“We did, and the man, this Daryl Winters, rented it for two days, asked for two keys, then walked away toward town. That’s all anyone can remember,” answered Sophie.
Detective Garcia stepped closer to the door. “We need you to think real hard. It was probably a woman, good looking, not too big, maybe a blond wearing something plain, black or gray, and carrying a bag.”
Watching the man’s face for even a twitch of response, she thought maybe she’d misjudged Garcia. That was a good question. Grays and blacks are the colors of choice when people are trying to stay out of someone’s memory, and their killer had worn a blond wig on the video.
Moss rubbed his stubble and the odd look on his face told Sophie concentrating wasn’t one of the man’s strong suits. At least he was trying. Finally, he tossed his hands in the air, his eyes weary and angry. “I got nothin’. I just don’t pay no mind to that shit no more. When I was younger, I was a hound. If’n she wiggled and walked, I was after it. But not no more. I’m truly sorry, Agent, I just can’t hep ya.”
“Fair enough. Here’s my card. If anything comes to you, call me, okay?”
“Will do. And sorry I couldn’t do no better.”
Shutting the door, she heard Mos
s turn the lock and she and Garcia headed for the next room.
“Nice try to get him to rethink his answer. There might be hope for your tall ass yet,” said Sophie.
“Thanks, Agent. I was trying to push his ‘man’ button. You never know.”
She scowled. “Man button, huh?”
“Yes. In case you hadn’t noticed, we think differently than women,” he smiled.
“Yeah, I get that,” she said, absentmindedly.
Striding to the railing extending the full length of the second floor veranda, she looked below and got an immediate, full view of the room where Aphrodite had gone to work. Along the edge of the railing were fresh gouge marks where something had scraped off what was left of the red paint. She worked her way down the railing and saw similar marks in several places.
Spinning around, Sophie took five steps and pounded on Moss’s door again.
He answered much quicker this time. His irritation was unmistakable, even though he tried to hide it.
“Yes’m. I already told you I don’t know nothin'.”
“You did. I have another question. The folks downstairs said you don’t have any security system, including cameras, right?”
“Yep. I hear tell its bad for business if’n people know they could be on video some. So?”
“That makes sense. But I guess that wouldn’t stop you from picking out a few hotties during rush hour and taking pictures or even shooting a little video for your own entertainment pleasure, would it?”
“Lady, what the hell y’all talkin’ about?” asked Moss, his eyes darting to Garcia and back to her.
“I think a leopard never changes his spots. I think you work here for the fringe benefits. There’s paint on your leather belt. I think that’s from leaning over the railing so you can see what you can see and then use that little camera in the front pocket, the one with the hole about the size of a lens, to snap pictures and, better yet, to make your own movies.”
“Yer crazier than a—”