“Well, if you decide to eat,” Ina Jo said, “up yonder you’ll find a good place. Go out the front door, turn right, another right at the corner, two blocks up, and turn left. Can’t miss it.”
I thanked her and left.
The late-October evening breeze had an apple-crisp snap. Amber and rust leaves rustled underfoot, with streetlights spotlighting the sidewalk. I focused on the sights and smells, pushing down thoughts of the earlier phone calls. I walked over to the suggested eatery, but the smell of fried food made me gag. Turning to the empty street heading back to the hotel, I tucked my hands into the pockets of my jacket.
A car engine revved and tires squealed on the pavement behind me. I glanced back.
A pair of blinding headlights barreled straight toward me.
I hurdled my body left, rolled, and smashed against the brick storefront.
The black truck roared past, missing me by inches, and raced around the corner.
I lay on the sidewalk, heart pounding, unable to move for a moment. The smell of the spinning tires burned my nose. The street was empty. No witnesses.
Shaking, I shoved off the ground and leaned against the building. I’d scraped my hands and knees and ripped my pants. The contents of my purse had spilled across the sidewalk. I slowly gathered everything up.
Limping, I made my way back to the hotel. I could phone Clay and tell him someone had attempted to run me down. Or was it a drunk driver?
The lobby was empty of people but echoed with a screaming baby. I raced to the front desk and peered over. The wailing sobs came from Ina Jo’s baby, still in the car seat on the floor. Her fists waved in the air, eyes were closed, and face scrunched up and red. Hurrying around the counter, I checked the office behind the registration desk. A series of small television screens flashed black-and-white views of the hallways, elevators, pool, workout room, and breakfast area. Even though the quality was poor, I could see no sign of Ina Jo.
Returning to the baby, I picked her up and hugged her, gently rocking. Her squalls turned to whimpers. The smell coming from her diaper gave some of the reason for her howling. I went back to the security screens and checked again for signs of the woman. They flickered, would go blank, then kick back on. Ina Jo didn’t appear.
The baby’s whimpers grew, and I looked around for a diaper bag. This time I noted a jacket and car keys on the small desk, a purse resting on an office chair, and an overturned garbage container.
The automatic doors hissed as they opened.
I ran to the front desk.
The babysitter rushed over to the counter. “I came when I got the message—” She froze when she saw me. “Where’s Ina Jo?” She reached for the baby.
I handed her over. “I was hoping you knew. Her baby was screaming when I came in.”
Motioning her behind the registration desk, I pointed to the keys, jacket, and purse. She started to reach for them, but I stopped her. “Do you recognize them?”
She nodded, eyes wide open. “She would never leave her baby alone. Ever.”
Ushering us both into the lobby, I called the police department. “I’d like to have a welfare check on a crying baby and possible missing person.” I gave them the facts I knew, then hung up.
“You don’t suppose he kidnapped her?” the sitter asked.
“Let’s not speculate.” I did anyway. Ina Jo was about the same age as Shelby Lee. If the rapist kidnapped her from a public place like this hotel, he’d grown incredibly bold.
Shortly, a female officer arrived and I gave her the information I knew. I left out the black pickup that tried to run me down. I wasn’t sure why.
Once back in my room, I dropped my jacket on the sofa and returned to the sketch of the John Doe. Closing my eyes, in my mind I superimposed Ina Jo’s face over that of Shelby Lee in the hospital.
Tomorrow I’ll get a copy of the police report on Shelby Lee.
The screech of bus brakes and chatter from a large number of people came through the window at the front of the hotel. The noise grew as they reached the lobby, turning into a chant for some team.
I thought of Ina Jo.
“Attention, attention,” someone spoke through a megaphone. “Please retrieve your luggage before going to your rooms. Pick up your room assignment from Doris. We’ll assemble here in the lobby at 0600.”
Trying to ignore the laughing, joking, door-slamming, luggage-squealing commotion in the hall, I turned on the hot water in the bathtub. While the tub filled, I tended to my scrapes. The room phone rang just as I settled in. I jumped from the tub, but the ringing stopped before I could get out. I lay back in the hot water. I could still feel the baby in my arms. It had been close to fifteen years since I held my own daughter like that.
I’m scheduled to fly home in less than forty-eight hours.
I’d placed my cell on the shelf by the tub. Picking it up, I dialed. “Welcome to Delta Airlines,” the recorded voice said. “Please choose from the following menu items—”
“Cancel a flight.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE NOISE LEVEL HAD DROPPED BY THE TIME I’d finished my bath, but before I could drift off, the thump-thump-thump of people in the room above me began. It sounded like they were playing basketball.
I fell asleep with a pillow over my head.
The phone rang.
I groped for it, but whoever called had disconnected by the time I answered. The digital alarm clock read 3:17 a.m.
Bullhorn returned at 6:00 a.m., reminding the partygoers of details of the event that day. I turned off my alarm, set for seven. Dialing the front desk, I felt my heart sink when Ina Jo didn’t answer. “How may I direct your call?”
“Did they find her yet?”
A pause. “Um . . . no.”
I hung up. My knees and palms were still sore from the near miss the night before. Limping slightly to the television, I turned it on and made a concerted effort to focus on the day and not on the report from the doctor or missing mother. News came on the local station, and the lead story was the rapist. I prepared a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker while I listened.
A bland-faced man seated next to an attractive younger woman was speaking. “Another woman was reported missing and is feared to be the latest victim of the Pikeville rapist.” A photo of Ina Jo appeared on the screen. “Ina Jo Cummings, a front desk clerk at the Craftsman’s Hotel, was reported missing last night. If anyone has seen her, please call police immediately.”
“The sheriff’s department reports no leads in the investigation,” the woman read off a teleprompter, “in capturing the man responsible for the rape of young women in the Pikeville area. Nicknamed the Hillbilly Rapist, he allegedly tortures the woman for days. Police are unsure of the exact number of his victims.”
The man spoke again. “A forensic artist has been brought in to draw a composite sketch of the suspect, and we will bring you the latest information as it comes in. Crime Stoppers is now offering a five-thousand-dollar reward in the case. If you have any information, you are asked to call—”
I turned off the set. Considering Sheriff Reed didn’t want me here, I was sure getting news coverage.
The thought stopped me in my tracks. Would Sheriff Reed have wanted me to leave so badly that . . . No. All he had to do was fire me. Not run over me.
Maybe the only reason Reed brought me in was because of pressure from the news outlets. Some way to visibly show that the police were doing everything possible to solve the case. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been in that situation.
I dressed, packed up my forensic kit with the file for the sheriff, and headed to the hotel lobby. The bus crowd had pretty much emptied the coffee on the stand by the door, and I had just enough for one cup by tilting the carafe. I tried not to hover around the reception desk and pepper the clerk with questions on what she knew about Ina Jo.
Promptly at eight thirty, Junior pulled up in front of the hotel. He didn’t say anything when he saw me, just jerked his
head, signaling me to follow him to the squad car.
“Good morning,” I said to his retreating back.
He muttered something in return.
I struggled to open the car door, juggling my purse, kit, and coffee. Junior didn’t seem to notice. He slid into the driver’s seat and waited while I loaded my things.
He pulled out as soon as I sat beside him. “Junior,” I said. “Did we somehow get off on the wrong foot?”
He glanced at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well—”
Ignoring me, he focused on driving, though the fingers of his right hand tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel.
We drove in a different direction from the hospital. “Where are we going, Junior?”
“Department.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer. We soon pulled up in front of the sheriff’s department. The entrance featured a pleasantly laid out entrance with landscaped foliage, a small fountain, and walnut-colored, stamped concrete. Several bronze metal benches rested against the sides. Junior jerked a thumb at the front door. I took the not-so-subtle hint and jumped out, barely retrieving my things from the backseat before he took off.
The gray-tiled lobby led to a bullet-resistant, glassed-in reception area. The officer looked up as I approached. “I’m here to see Sheriff Reed. My name is Gwen Marcey.”
“Identification?”
I removed my driver’s license and slid it through the scooped-out opening under the glass.
After reading it carefully, comparing it with my face, then writing my name on a clipboard, he dialed a number. A short time later I was admitted into a bewildering series of hallways, all looking alike, to Clay’s office.
He was on the phone but waved me in and pointed to a chair. “Okay, okay, yeah, got it.”
I sat and checked out the décor. A walnut-colored bookshelf on my right held a set of Reader’s Digest condensed books. Above were several framed photographs of Clay enjoying different activities: on a boat holding up a nice-sized fish, gripping a rifle and standing over a ten-point buck, and waving from the back of a decorated convertible with a sign on the side saying Vote for Clay Reed, Sheriff. No photos showed Junior or anyone who resembled family. On the opposite wall was a corkboard with his collection of law enforcement patches.
He hung up and ran his hand through his hair.
Pulling out the file and flash drive, I handed them to him. “Here’s the drawing I did on the unknown remains. I usually keep the original. Is that okay?”
Clay took the material without looking at it. “Yeah, yeah, sure. You heard about the woman last night.”
“I called it in. I thought you knew that and wanted me to make a report.”
“No. But since you’re here . . .” He pulled out a form and placed it in front of me.
I looked at the form. “Um, Clay, why am I here and not at the hospital? With Ina Jo missing, and presumed taken by the rapist, we’re in a time crunch. I’d like to talk to Shelby Lee as soon—”
“She’s gone. Left town. Just like the others.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” I SAID TO CLAY. “SHE WAS really hurt. How could she leave—?”
“The nurses told me she slipped out late last night.” Clay rubbed his neck. “I drove to her apartment, but the door was open and the place empty. As in a hurry-to-leave type empty. Just like the others.”
“You commented about that before, but I’m not sure I know what you mean.” I pulled a pencil out of my pocket and twirled it. The rape victims and their families all leave town without a trace? “Was there any sign of foul play?”
“No.”
“If all your witnesses are leaving town, why didn’t you post an officer outside Shelby Lee’s door?”
“I did. She must have waited until he took a restroom break—”
“Why did it take so long to see if she’d packed up? You said you checked this morning. Why didn’t the officer go to her place immediately?”
“He wasn’t looking in her hospital room. When the nurse discovered her gone, the officer called me—”
“Why didn’t you have her apartment under surveillance?”
Clay shifted in his chair. “I had patrols beefed up, but—”
“Does the press know about the previous victims leaving town?”
“No.”
I stood. “The news media know I’m here. They’re going to wonder why I didn’t get a composite drawing, especially with Ina Jo missing.” I held my breath. If Clay brought me in as a token gesture for the press, sending me right back would look bad for him.
With Clay’s handling of the case, my drawing skills might be the only way to identify the rapist. And I wasn’t leaving town until that mother was reunited with her baby.
Clay absently stroked his gold watch while he stared off in the distance.
I didn’t move.
His head nodded slightly, as if he’d just come to some agreement with himself. His gaze returned to me and his eyes narrowed. “Well now, seeing as how we’ve been as busy as a moth in a mitten, I haven’t had time to bring you up to speed on these cases.”
Relaxing slightly, I pulled out a sketchbook and pencil, then nodded encouragement.
“We thought the first rape, earlier this year, was a single incident. Found a beat-up prostitute. We weren’t surprised when she took off. A month later a second victim, another prostitute, did the same thing. It wasn’t until the next two victims that we saw a pattern. Both were taken in the same month.”
“The slimebag was accelerating.”
“Yeah.”
“Did he have a victim type?”
The sheriff pulled a file from a drawer on his left, opened it, and read. “Classic low self-esteem, un- or underemployed, late teens to late twenties, often homeless, in a shelter, or high-risk prostitute. The two women taken that month were living at home in poorer, single-parent households.” He looked at me. “Now, not only did the victims scoot out of town, so did their families.”
“You mentioned that you thought it might be from shame.”
“There was a lot of talk.”
I refrained from commenting about that kind of thinking. “Why do the newscasters call him the Hillbilly Rapist?”
“The newspapers nicknamed him. You’re smack-dab in the middle of Hatfield and McCoy country, the country’s most famous feud. We celebrate Hillbilly Days in April. And his choice of victims is, shall we say, from country stock. I suspect the Hillbilly name came from all that.”
“So outside of the victims, no one’s actually seen him?”
“Nope.” He opened and closed his hands. “Now—”
“Did you call in the FBI or State Crime Lab profiler?” I asked.
“We did, but didn’t get much more than what we already had.”
“Which was?”
He looked down at the file and shuffled through a few pages. “The Hillbilly Rapist is motivated by the victim’s suffering. Needs to control and inflict psychological and physical pain over hours or days. They call him an—”
“Anger excitation rapist.”
Clay’s eyes shot up. “Impressive.”
I grimaced. “Not so much. Some of the stuff you need to learn to be a forensic artist. I worked on a serial killing case recently where one victim was held for hours. And two of Ted Bundy’s earlier victims were captured and held before he killed them. Your serial rapist just hasn’t moved to the next step of murder.”
“Yeah.” Clay glanced at his watch. “The biggest thing the profile noted was the rapist had a really good way of finding victims. Another month gave us another young woman, this time a gal working at a sandwich shop. We thought he was slowing down until we got two missing persons reports.”
“Why did you think they were his victims?”
“They fit the type. Both were underemployed, about the same age, and their apartments showed signs of a quick move. So we beli
eve his actual count was three for that month.”
I shifted in the chair. “So. Learning and honing his craft.”
“And accelerating even more.”
“Again, classic behavior of a serial rapist.”
“Yeah. And now that clerk’s missing. We’ve usually had more time between his grabbing the gals. Predictable time. We’d worked out that his next victim was going to be taken on Halloween. Now we need to look at that timetable.”
“So you’re pretty sure Ina Jo is with him?”
He didn’t answer. He was staring at my hand. Following his gaze, I discovered I was twirling my pencil like an out-of-control metronome. I stuck the pencil in my pocket.
“He holds ’em someplace remote for up to five days.” Clay glanced out the window at the surrounding mountains. “Not hard to do around here.”
“He must convince them during that time that their only safety is in fleeing for their lives. Telling them something like he’s going to kill her family if she talks.” I leaned back in the chair and thought. “From what I remember about this type of rapist, every part of his crime is meticulously planned and methodically executed. And probably recorded somehow for future reference. What about physical evidence? Have you found any DNA?”
“Nope. No body fluids at all. As you said, he’s careful. Very careful.” He leaned back in his chair and gave me a slight smile. “We’ve been doing all we can to solve this. Seems like we’ve reached a dead end, at least for now. Maybe when Ina Jo shows up—”
“Do you have any visual recordings of interviews with the previous victims?”
“Nah. Not really. For the most part, we didn’t get a chance to videotape anything. The women bolted before we could set anything up. Why?”
“Sometimes body language or verbal clues will relay a great deal of information.”
The sheriff tapped his lips with his finger. “Interesting. We might . . .”
“Yes?”
“We had one woman we interviewed and taped. We weren’t all that sure she was a victim of the Hillbilly Rapist.”
When Death Draws Near Page 3