by Jo Robertson
Calm down, calm down. Never mind, he’d fix this. Make it right. They hadn’t once come close to catching him. He was too smart for them. He hadn’t gone to regular school and college like those FBI experts, the profilers, but he was smarter than all of them. They tried to categorize him with their little charts and graphs. Qualify and quantify him like a product merchandized for the public. Imply that he was average. Ordinary. That he followed a course he couldn’t control. They had no idea what he was like. Their inferior minds could never understand.
The stupid asses didn’t know him at all.
He’d fix this.
Smith felt the deep breaths slowly relaxing him as he drew cool air into his lungs and slowly exhaled. Smug bastards thought they could track him down, catch him, put him in a damn cage where they’d poke and probe him, test and question him. Try to figure out how he was put together. What made him the way he was.
Just like those girls in high school. Those stupid bitches, the ones who’d made his life a living hell. The ones he wanted to grab and hurt. Smash and carve. Cut tiny and then larger and larger pieces off their perfectly smooth and tight young bodies.
He hissed like a striking snake. Just like they’d cut off pieces of him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Let’s go over what we’ve got,” Slater said as the three of them sat around the small kitchen table in Kate’s apartment. They’d brought Bauer up to date and their notes were now spread over the table, spilling onto the tiled counter of the kitchen. “Myers, you go first.”
Kate picked up her notes. “First, we know he’s a highly organized serial killer because he’s evaded capture for many years. That takes planning.”
“And he’s managed to escape profiling,” Bauer said.
“Because he’s mobile and he’s targeted cities with minimal law enforcement resources,” Slater added.
“Second,” Kate continued, “he’s changing his M.O. If my sister was his – his second victim, he was sloppy about – ” She paused and drew a deep breath. “I think the perpetrator didn’t kill Kassie in the way he fantasized about. He was rushed, or maybe he was scared. His later efforts were more polished. I think he was sexually inexperienced with the earlier ones.”
“A teenager or young adult?” Bauer suggested.
Slater stood and moved toward the wall by the kitchen counter where they’d tacked a large map of the United States. Colored push pins indicated the cities and towns where murders with common elements had been committed, possibly by their unknown subject. As far as they could determine, all cases were currently unsolved.
He referred to his notes containing the compiled list of open murder cases, at the same time pointing to the various sites with similarities to the Johnston murder. “We’ve now pinpointed thirteen murders over a period of about twenty years, including the Stuckey death in 1989, then Kassie in 1993.
“After her murder, there was the Virginia murder in 1995, followed by the 1997 North Carolina murder. Myers identified both of these murders during her original search.”
“That’s a two-year gap,” Bauer commented.
“There could be other murders in between that we don’t know about,” Slater said.
“He was refining his craft,” Kate said without a trace of irony in her voice, “getting better and better at what he enjoys most.”
Slater searched for the strain in her voice, but he thought she was holding up well. Although this analysis of her sister’s murder must be grueling, her face revealed little of the grief she’d shown last night. She was tougher than he’d given her credit for.
He indicated another push pin on the map. “The next murders we think are linked to the UNSUB occurred near Baton Rouge, Louisiana, in a small town called Clayton, and then outside Waco, Texas, in McGowen. They occurred in 1998 and 1999.”
“Only a year between these two,” Bauer observed, “but there were four victims from 1995 until 1999. Does that sound right?”
“It’s a moderate cooling-off period,” Kate said. “The time length is probably correct. It’s interesting, though, that the next eight killings all occur approximately six months apart, from 2000 through 2004.”
“He was feeling cocky,” Slater guessed.
“Yes, and superior. He’s an arrogant son of a bitch.” Kate moved toward the counter, poured a glass of water, and examined the map. “A break in the pattern occurs next. If the killings are the work of our perpetrator, there’s a hiatus from 2004 until 2008. Four years is a long time for this kind of killer to wait.”
“If he was on a roll, why would he stop?” Bauer asked. “And then bam, bam. Two here in Bigler County.”
“Maybe the bodies between 2004 and 2008 haven’t been uncovered yet,” Slater suggested, “or he’s been in jail. Some states don’t have mandatory DNA profiling for their inmates like California does.”
“He wouldn’t stop on his own,” Kate insisted. “His pattern is kidnap, torture in isolation, and murder, after which he places the body so it will be discovered, presumably some time after he’s left the area. Being discovered is one of the keys to his profile. He wants the body to be found by the authorities. He wants his notoriety.”
“What if he was in a hospital?” Bauer suggested. “Like a nut house.”
Kate mulled that for a moment. “Or what if he underwent a series of surgeries to correct some anatomical deficiencies?”
“Uh, I don’t get it,” Bauer said.
“Size does matter,” Slater clarified with a tight smile while Bauer blushed. “Okay, it could be a leap, but let’s say the killer was having some kind of sexual surgery during those years.”
“We can check records at hospitals that specialize in sexual reassignment surgery, or other sexual conditions,” Kate said. “There’s a limited number of them.”
“Good.” Slater propped an arm against the wall while he thought out loud. “The killing pattern is consistent with movement from coast to coast and back again. He left Idaho going east, then for some reason trekked back across the country fifteen years later.”
He traced his finger from Virginia to the last case before a California murder. “So, we’ve got a total of four murders every two years,” he summarized, “followed by eight murders twice a year from 2000 to 2004. Then nothing from 2004 to 2008, which could be explained by hospitalization or incarceration.”
“The last murder before the ones in Placer Hills was in Bishop, California. That’s southwest of Fresno,” Bauer added. “Then the two here in Bigler County.”
Kate leaned against the counter, sipping her water. “Jennifer Johnston’s the twelfth victim and Alison Mathews is the thirteenth, killed just days apart.”
Slater rubbed his knuckles into his gritty eyes. “The big mystery for me is why he took two girls from the same town. He’s never done that before.”
“It’s risky,” Bauer agreed.
“Unless he’s making a circle. Back to where he started,” Slater said, lifting an inquiring brow to Kate.
“Could be. He’s definitely accelerating because he’s not getting the same satisfaction from his kills,” she answered, weariness heavy in her voice. “He needs to murder more frequently and with greater violence to get the same sexual gratification.”
The three of them were silent for several minutes, mulling over the idea. Slater checked the time again, stretched and yawned.
“Okay,” he said, “here’s what we do. We track down anyone who knew Mary Stuckey before 1989. If this guy killed her and she was his first, he probably knew her. Matt, tomorrow you check out the Stuckey family, see if any still live around here. Talk to neighbors, teachers, the whole routine.”
Slater tapped the to-do list Kate had made. “At Monday’s incident meeting, we’ll hear the field and interview reports.”
“But if we’re right, those interviews aren’t going to do any good,” Bauer protested.
“I know, but for the time being, we don’t want to close those doors. Eventua
lly, we’re going to have to justify the direction we’re taking. I’ll assign three teams to area hospital records between 2004 and 2008 for any kinds of surgeries.” He anticipated objections from the department. “They don’t need to know we’re going in a different direction. They can just follow orders.”
Kate nodded. “Have them check between 1950 and 1975 for children born with birth defects, too.”
“What about the Sheriff?” Bauer asked. “Do we tell him?”
“Let me worry about Marconi.” Slater checked the wall clock over the kitchen sink, saw that both hands were straight up at midnight. “That’s probably all we can get done tonight.” He sat down, closed up the laptop, and pushed back on the heels of his chair.
“My brain’s starting to freeze.” Kate yawned and her contagion spread to Bauer who stretched his lanky form and cracked his back.
“Let’s call it a night then,” Slater said.
Bauer looked from Slater to Kate and then down at his hands. After another moment of heavy silence, he stood and hooked his jacket off the back of his chair where he’d hung it earlier. He slung the jacket over his shoulder.
“Uh, well, I guess I’d better get going.”
“I’ll give you a ride,” Slater offered.
“That’s okay, man, I’ll just walk. It’s not too far.”
“Don’t be stupid, Bauer. I’ve got to go anyway. It’s on the way to my place.”
He stood, thinking how exhausted he was. They’d been working nearly six straight hours at Kate’s apartment after an already long day, stopping only long enough to eat the sandwiches she’d made for them around nine. He felt pretty grimy and glanced covertly at Kate. He wished he’d thought to have Bauer drive his own car, but it was too late now.
He shouldn’t be thinking what he was thinking anyway.
“Okay, I’ll see you two at the office,” Kate said, clearing the dishes off the table and stacking the notes she’d taken into a manila folder.
Slater made a quick decision. At least he’d give her a chance to say no. “Matt,” he said, tossing his keys to his partner, “go ahead and get the truck warmed up. I have to make a pit stop before I leave.”
After Bauer departed, Slater turned to Kate. “I don’t want to pressure you or anything.” He puffed his cheeks and spat out a breath. “After I drop Bauer off, I’d like to come back.” Before she could answer, he continued, “Look, I don’t want to complicate the situation. I just want – ”
“Come back, Slater.” She laughed softly, promise in her eyes. “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”
He stared at her mouth. “Are you sure? I’m not a teenage boy who can’t wait. I want you to be certain about this.”
“I know you’re not a boy,” she whispered as she placed her lips firmly against his.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kate thought she heard the front door open, but the shower was so loud she couldn’t be sure. She turned the faucet off and wrapped a towel around her wet body, a matching one around her hair. “Ben, is that you?”
Silence.
“Slater?” More sharply.
She stood frozen, listening for the sounds of movement from the small living room which led down a short hall and into the bathroom and bedroom where she waited, her hand on the door knob.
Nothing.
Had she been mistaken? Was she just edgy from the late night and the grisly investigation?
She eased the bedroom door open and glanced down the dark hallway to the dim lights she’d left on in the living room. She should’ve given Slater the key, she realized, instead of leaving the door unlocked. Damn, she knew better. She lived in a ground-level apartment, more accessible to intruders than a second-floor one. Idiot.
Tiptoeing into the kitchen, she peered around the corner. No one there, but the front door stood slightly ajar. The swooshing of her blood roared in her ears. She was positive she’d closed it. Had the wind – ?
For the first time since she’d worked in law enforcement, she wished she carried a gun. Her former boss, Chief Howes, the one who’d effected her transfer to Bigler County, constantly nagged her to get certified at the rifle range. You work with too many nut cases, he insisted.
But she’d always detested guns of any kind. There was something so lethal, so deadly and final about them that she wouldn’t take the training to become competent with firearms. She rationalized that her job as a profiler was to bring a psychological element to cases, not try to run with the cowboys.
Now she wished she’d taken the Chief’s advice.
She eyed her purse from the hallway. She’d slung it over the chair when she returned from the office. Her cell phone was inside, along with the pepper spray her mother had forced on her the first time she’d consulted with LAPD.
The land line hung on the kitchen wall by the counter top. That phone and her purse were equidistant from her. Making the decision to dash for the wall phone, she dropped the towel and leapt toward the counter.
The front door swung fully open.
Kate gasped and instinctively grabbed a knife from the butcher block near the refrigerator. When she turned to face her intruder, Slater stood in the doorway to her apartment, a look of shock on his face.
Then he burst into laughter.
Even though they’d made love, Slater hadn’t appreciated the sight of Kate fully unclothed. Now she stood at the edge of the kitchen, naked except for a purple towel turbaned around her head. She clutched a large butcher knife in her right hand, raised as if to make a downward stab. The sight was sensuous and hilarious at the same time.
Standing with his arms filled with files, a small travel carrier, and a brown paper sack from the grocery store, he realized immediately the laugh was a goof.
When she saw him, fear, relief, and anger raced in quick succession across her face. “It’s not funny,” she stormed. “You scared me to death.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, trying to keep a straight face. “I – it wasn’t funny.” Of their own volition, his eyes moved to the lovely sights above and below her waist.
Understanding flooded through Kate as she saw where his gaze strayed. The knife clattered to the floor, and her body flushed crimson from breasts to face. She stomped down the hall, leaving both towels discarded on the kitchen floor.
After storing the groceries in the refrigerator and cabinet, Slater waited for Kate to come out of the bathroom, but when she didn’t, he knocked softly on the door.
No answer.
He rapped more forcefully.
Her voice was an angry muffle through the door. “What?”
“Ah, Kate, it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked.” Though not quite like that, he thought.
More silence, then an annoyed retort. “I know that.”
“Well, then, why don’t you open the door?”
“Because I made a fool of myself and I’m embarrassed. I must’ve looked pretty silly.”
“No, you looked cute.”
She flung open the door. “Cute?”
He reconsidered. “Smart? Cool? Sophisticated?”
“I don’t have any clothes in this bathroom,” she muttered.
He cleared his throat. “Hmm, why don’t I step outside for a minute or two while you get dressed?”
A long pause while he dared not take his eyes off her face even though he had to clamp down on the urge to do far more than look.
“Fine,” she agreed imperiously.
Slater stayed on the cement landing just outside the door to the apartment even when it began drizzling and the temperature dropped. He’d left his jacket lying on the sofa, but he forced himself to wait ten minutes longer to make sure Kate had plenty of time to compose herself.
Sometimes he really didn’t understand very much about women, he realized, even though the years of living with three sisters should’ve been good training. When he judged enough time had lapsed, he knocked softly and then entered the apartment, closing the door with a soft click and
locking it behind him.
Occupied with images of Kate Myers’ naked body, he didn’t even notice the gray van idling down the street, its headlights off and its exhaust sending whiffs of smoke into the cold air.
#
The watcher idled at the curb nearly a block from the new duplex, two side-by-side apartments, at 4890 Cirby Way. Only one of the apartments was occupied. The number one downstairs apartment was where the woman he’d seen while pumping gas lived. The purple-eyed woman.
The encounter at the convenience store had shaken him up. But after he’d gotten her address, he’d driven by, not lingering in the neighborhood – too risky. Obsessed and filled with fascinated fear, he’d returned tonight to make sure it was her.
There’d been several men coming in and out of the apartment since six-thirty. Smith wondered what that meant. Two men, wearing suits and ties, one a dark giant who walked with heavy purpose, and a younger fair-haired man, had arrived shortly after the woman returned to her apartment. The younger one left around nine and came back twenty minutes later with several six-packs of soda. Then after midnight, both men left.
Smith figured the woman wasn’t coming out of the apartment tonight. He was getting ready to leave when the second man returned with a small grocery sack in one arm, a travel bag over his shoulder, and a stack of folders. The man stayed for a few minutes, and then came out to stand on the concrete landing whose overhanging offered a little shelter from the rain.
Leaning carelessly near the door, the dark giant stared across the street into the dark shadows of the pines that ran along the banks of Linda Creek. The creek was low, but when the winter snows melted in the Sierras, they’d empty their load to rush down into the valley, sometimes flooding the small creek.
Smith assessed the man’s size, observing the muscles that bunched beneath a light blue, long-sleeved shirt. He was jacketless and there was a studied stillness about him, a panther waiting to pounce on a gazelle. The man pushed off from the stucco wall and wandered over to the front window of apartment number two, peered in the window to the empty rooms.