He flipped her over and looked at her eyes. They were open, staring, lifeless; the blood from her crushed head ran down, staining her exposed breasts. He pulled the nightie all the way off and flung it across the room. He lifted her naked body up and set it on the floor. He took the steak knife he’d pilfered from the Robinsons’ kitchen and proceeded to mark her skin in very intricate ways. The police should have no trouble getting this one, he thought as he worked away. He took the risk of switching on a small light on the nightstand and used the knife blade to dig under her fingernails, extracting pieces of his hood from them. These he put in his pocket.
He took her watch from the nightstand, set it to six, pulled out the stem and wrapped the band around her wrist.
Finished, he felt for her pulse, just to be sure. It had gone for good. Jean Robinson had ceased to be. Next stop for the woman, the licensed butcher, Dr. Diaz. Harold Robinson was now a widower with three young boys to care for. And the world would go on, which proved his point entirely that none of it really mattered. We’re all replaceable.
He grabbed the nightie, which might have traces of him on it, and stuffed it into his pocket. He didn’t have the luxury of vacuuming up after himself, because of the home’s other occupants; indeed, he was fortunate that the sounds of their mother’s being beaten to death hadn’t roused the two older boys.
He turned back once more to look at his work. Yes, it was all nicely set up-first-rate, in fact.
Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.
He went to the kitchen, found her purse, took out her cell phone, hit the directory, obtained the number he wanted and called the good husband, who was on the road, not too far from here. He said four simple words. “Your wife is dead.” He then hung up and turned off the phone. He reached up on top of the kitchen cabinet and retrieved the bug he’d planted there in an earlier burglary. He’d no longer need it.
Now he had one more task to perform, and then it would be over, at least for tonight. He started to the back stairs leading to the basement.
“Mom?”
He froze there in the hallway as the light in the upper hall came on. Footsteps approached; they were short, halting strides; bare feet sliding along wood flooring.
“Mom?”
The little boy appeared at the top of the stairs and looked down. In one hand he clutched a stuffed dog that he was dragging along. He was clad in white underpants and a Spider-Man T-shirt. He rubbed sleepy eyes with a small, dimpled fist.
“Mommy?” he said again. Still looking down, he finally saw the shadow of black hood at the bottom of the stairs.
“Daddy?”
The killer stood there and stared back up at the child. His gloved hand slipped to his pocket, fingered a knife. It would be over in an instant. A deuce instead of only one dead, what did it matter? Mother and son, what the hell does it matter? He tensed to do this very thing. Yet he made not a move. He simply stared at the small frame outlined in the weak light; the potential eyewitness.
“Daddy?” he said again, now his voice rising with fear when no answer came.
He snapped back just in time. “It’s Daddy, son, go back to sleep.”
“I thought you had to go, Daddy.”
“I forgot something, Tommy, that’s all. Go back to sleep before you wake up your brothers. You know once your little brother starts to cry, it’s all over. And give Bucky a kiss for me,” he added, referring to the stuffed bear. While he couldn’t exactly imitate the father’s voice, knowing the son’s name, that he had brothers and other intimate details would certainly put the little boy at ease.
He’d researched the Robinsons thoroughly. He knew everything from their nicknames to their Social Security numbers to their favorite restaurant to the various sports the two older boys, Tommy and Jeff, played: Tommy baseball and Jeff soccer. He knew that Harold Robinson had left the house at a little before midnight on his way to Washington, D.C… that their mother loved them very much… that tonight he’d taken that person away from them forever. He’d done so solely because she’d had the great misfortune to pass by his radar while shopping for milk and eggs. It could have been anyone’s mother. Anyone’s. But it just happened to be Tommy’s. And twelve-year-old Jeff’s. And little one-year-old Andy’s, who’d had the colic his first six months of life. It was amazing the intimate details people shared if one just listened. Yet no one did listen anymore, except perhaps priests. And killers like him.
He let go of the knife in his pocket. Tommy would have the chance to grow up. One Robinson was enough for tonight.
“Go back to bed, son,” he said again more firmly.
“Okay, Daddy. I love you.” The little boy turned and headed back down the hall.
Black hood stood there for far too long, staring up at the empty space where sleepy Tommy had been, where he’d said, I love you, Daddy. He should be making his escape; finishing up his last task. I love you, Daddy.
He suddenly felt ashamed to even be in the same house with the child who’d said that to him, however mistakenly. He cursed himself. Go, go now. The husband is probably right now phoning the police. Go, you idiot!
Down in the unfinished basement he shone his light on the capped piping that marked a future toilet area. He unscrewed the cap, took out the large Baggie of items, stuffed it in the pipe and screwed the cap back on just so. In planting evidence one could neither be too obvious nor too obtuse. His fence-straddling would have to be perfect.
He slipped outside, crossed the backyard and made his way to his blue VW parked several blocks off. He took off his hood as he drove away. Then he did something he’d never done before. He drove directly to the home where he’d just committed perhaps his most heinous crime of all. The murdered mother was in her bedroom. Tommy was in his—the third dormer window from his left. The kids got up at seven to be ready for school. If their mother wasn’t up by then, they’d go and get her. He checked his watch; it was one o’clock now. Tommy perhaps had six more hours of normalcy. “Enjoy them, Tommy,” he mumbled to the dark window. “Enjoy them… And I’m sorry.”
He drove off, licking at the salt of the tears sliding down his cheeks.
Chapter 82
King had already left in a rental car by the time Todd Williams called Michelle with the news of Jean Robinson’s death. When she arrived at the stricken home, it was surrounded with police and emergency vehicles. Neighbors stared terrified from windows and porches. There was not a child to be seen anywhere. The three Robinson children had gone to a nearby relative’s home with their father.
Michelle found Williams, Sylvia and Bailey in the master bedroom; all three were staring down at the former lady of the house.
Michelle recoiled slightly as she saw what had been done to the woman.
Sylvia looked over at her, and nodded in understanding. “Stigmata.”
Jean Robinson’s palms and feet had been mutilated as though to resemble the markings of Jesus on the cross. And her body had been laid out too, like the son of God on that piece of chiseled wood.
Bailey said wearily, “Bobby Joe Lucas. He did the exact same thing to fourteen women in Kansas and Missouri in the early 1970s, after raping them.”
“I’m pretty certain no rape occurred here,” said Sylvia.
“I wasn’t suggesting that. Lucas died of a heart attack in prison in 1987. And her nightgown is missing according to the husband. That would fit our killer’s M.O.”
“Where’s Sean?” asked Williams.
“Out getting some questions answered.”
Bailey looked at her suspiciously. “Where?”
“Don’t really know.”
“I didn’t think Batman went anywhere without Robin,” said the FBI agent sarcastically.
Before Michelle could fire back a response, Williams said, “Well, can’t you call him? He’ll want to know about this.”
“His cell phone was broken during the chase with Roger Canney. He hasn’t replaced it yet.”
“I’m sure he’ll
hear about this soon enough,” said Sylvia. “Bad news always travels faster than good.”
“Where’s the husband?”
Williams answered, “With the kids. He was on the road when it happened. He’s a salesman with a high-tech outfit. He said he got a call from his wife’s cell phone a little before one o’clock this morning. The voice said his wife was dead. He tried calling her cell phone back but there was no answer. Then he tried calling the house but the line wasn’t working. We later found the wires had been cut. So he called 911.”
“When did Robinson arrive here?”
“About an hour after my men. He was on his way to Washington for a sales conference.”
“He likes to travel pretty late at night.”
“He said he wanted to put his kids to bed and spend time with his wife before he left,” answered Bailey.
“Any reason to suspect him?” asked Michelle.
“Other than that there was no forced entry, none that we can see,” replied Williams.
“And no one saw anything?” she asked.
“There were only the three kids here. The infant of course can’t help us. The oldest boy—”
A female deputy rushed into the room. “Chief, I just finished interviewing Tommy, the middle child. He said his father was in the house last night when he woke up. He doesn’t know what time it was. He said his father told him he forgot something, to go back to bed.”
At this instant another deputy burst in. “We found something in the plumb pipe in the basement.”
They placed the Baggie taken from the plumb pipe on the dining room table and observed its contents through the clear material.
“St. Christopher’s medal, belly ring, gold anklet, belt buckle and an amethyst ring,” inventoried Williams.
“All the things taken from each of the first five victims,” said Bailey.
Williams immediately turned to one of his deputies. “I want Harold Robinson taken into custody right now.”
Chapter 83
King’s first stop had been a physician friend of his in Lynchburg who was also a well-respected pathologist. They’d gone over Battle’s autopsy results very carefully. A more detailed report had been prepared by Sylvia, which included the toxicology results and microscopic examination of Battle’s brain tissue.
“From the gross finding of the unusual wrinkling on the thoracic aorta and the microscopic lesions on the brain, I certainly can’t discount it, Sean,” said his learned friend. “Those certainly are telltale signs of the disease.”
“One more question,” said King. “Can it affect the fetus?”
“Do you mean can it cross the placenta? Absolutely.”
King’s next stop was UVA Hospital, where he met with a professor in the pharmacology department. This was really what had started it all going in his mind.
He quickly received confirmation of his suspicions.
The professor informed him that “a person who abuses strong narcotics builds up a tolerance to them. Over time the desired effect is diminished, and higher doses of the drugs are required to achieve the desired result.”
King had thanked him and went back to his car. Well, I certainly know someone who’s been taking strong narcotics: Dorothea.
His next target was an antique shop in Charlottesville’s downtown mall area that he’d been to several times. With the shop owner’s help he found the object he was looking for.
“It’s a cipher disk,” explained the owner. He pointed to the round piece of metal that had an outer ring of letters and an inner one. “You can decode encrypted messages that way. You move the rings to line up the two sets of letters: a fore, s for w and so on.”
“And if you’re off by one letter or one tick, the whole meaning of the message changes? One tick off?”
“That’s a good way to phrase it. One tick off and the whole thing changes.”
“You just don’t know how unbelievably satisfying that is.” King purchased the cipher disk and left, the curious owner staring after him.
A little later he was speaking with Bobby Battle’s private physician, a prominent doctor in the area and a man he knew well.
He discussed the results of the autopsy with the gentleman, who looked at the report very carefully and then took off his wire-rim glasses and said cautiously, “I’ve only been his doctor the last twenty years, you know.”
“But you’ve noted changes?”
“In his personality, yes, I suppose. But he was getting on in years. Half my patients have personality changes when they get to that age.”
“But in Bobby’s case did you suspect that was the cause?”
“Not necessarily. Usually, it’s a case of mild dementia or the beginnings of Alzheimer’s. Obviously, I didn’t have the benefit of a postmortem exam.”
“Did you run any tests while he was seeing you?”
“The symptoms weren’t extreme, and you know what he was like. If he didn’t want any tests run, none would be. However, these autopsy results could indicate he’d reached an advanced stage. I emphasize the word could.”
“Did you ever talk to Remmy about it?”
“It wasn’t my place and I had no hard proof. I suspected she knew that something was amiss,” he hastily added.
“Yet they had Savannah.”
“Typically, penicillin has been very effective against the disease. And the fact is, Savannah is hale and hearty.”
“If Bobby had it, how long could it have been in his body?”
“Decades. It’s chronic. It can have a long evolution in the body if left untreated.”
“So he might have contracted it after he had Savannah?”
“Or he could have had it before. In the late stage it’s not sexually transmittable, so even if he had it when Savannah was conceived, there would have been no danger for the fetus.”
“Yet Remmy could have contracted it.”
“I don’t know her doctor, but if she had, I’d imagine she would have sought treatment.”
King spoke with the doctor for several more minutes, then thanked the man and left.
He had one more stop to make. He phoned ahead to make sure the shop was open. Two hours later he was pulling into a parking garage in downtown D.C. Minutes after that he was walking into a very special retail store, where he spoke for some time with one of the employees there.
“It’ll do the job?” King asked the employee, holding up the piece of equipment the man had given him in response to his request.
“Without a doubt.”
King drove back to his houseboat, a big smile on his face. As he’d learned over the years, information was king.
He’d just walked into his houseboat when he heard footsteps outside. He looked out the window and saw Michelle hustling toward the dock.
He stepped outside as she ran up to him.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said.
“What’s up?”
“They think they found the killer.”
King looked at her in bewilderment. “What? Who?”
“Come on, there’s a lot you need to be filled in on.”
They ran for her truck.
Chapter 84
“And the little boy’s certain it was his father?” asked King for the third time.
They were at police headquarters going over the events at the Robinson house the night before.
“That’s what he said,” answered Williams. “I don’t know why he’d lie about it.”
“But he told you he was at the top of the stairs looking down into the dark.”
“His father spoke to him. Knew his name, his brother’s name, and that there was a baby upstairs and even the name of Tommy’s stuffed animal. Who else could it be?” King didn’t respond; he sat back and fiddled with a pen he was holding.
Williams continued. “And we found all the items taken from each of the five murder victims in the man’s house.”
“Any prints on them?” asked King sharply.
“None. But that hardly surprises me. We haven’t found fingerprints at any of the other crime scenes either.”
“Pretty convenient, leaving all the evidence at his house.”
“No, we were damn lucky to stumble on it. My deputy only noticed it because the cap was screwed on crooked while the other pipe caps were on straight. He was down there looking for ways the guy got in and spotted it.”
“What’s Robinson’s story?”
“He left the house at midnight and was almost halfway to D.C. when he got the phone call.”
“He didn’t stop anywhere?”
“No. His wife’s cell phone did ring on his at that time. We checked. But he could have been standing right in his house and done that with both phones.”
“Yet he showed up over an hour after you got to the house?” said King stubbornly.
“So he drove around all that time giving himself an alibi. And he really didn’t seem all that choked up that his wife was dead. He took the kids and went to a relative’s house.”
“And his motivation for killing all those people?”
“He’s a serial killer disguised as a dad in the burbs. It wouldn’t be the first time. He picked his victims out and did them.”
“But what about the connection between Deaver, Canney and Battle?”
“Coincidence, or the connection was wrong.”
“And the theory of why he killed his wife?” persisted King.
“Maybe she suspected him,” offered Bailey. “And he had to take her out before those suspicions became dangerous, and he tried to tie it to the serial killings. The guy’s on the road alone a lot at night, perfect for a serial killer. Right now we’re looking into his whereabouts at the time each of the murders took place. It was a risk, killing her in his own home. But he might have felt he had no choice. Had his kid not seen him, we never would have suspected.”
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