“Obsession.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re wearing Obsession. Not the perfume. The cologne, I suspect. My wife was partial to it. Am I right?”
Beth kept her expression neutral. According to the file, Pell had decapitated his wife and kept her head in a jar.
“You’re very perceptive, Doctor,” she said.
Pell inclined his head at the compliment.
“Are you comfortable?” Beth asked.
He responded by lifting the chain securing his arms. “As comfortable as circumstances permit.”
“May I get you something to drink?”
“A soft drink, if you please.”
Beth turned to the nurse. “Is that possible? If there’s a charge, I’ll pay.”
“I’m not permitted to leave the room, Detective.”
“Would you call someone, please?”
Curry didn’t seem happy but used his walkie-talkie to relay the request. Beth turned back to Pell.
“Doctor, I’m here investigating three murders that occurred several days ago.”
“Yes. A terrible situation,” Pell said. “I heard about it on the news.”
“I was hoping that—”
“I could help you?”
“Yes.”
“Do tell me what happened. It sounds ghastly.”
Beth reconstructed the scene in the field, finding the tunnel, and the discovery of Betsy Ann Tinsley’s body in a shallow grave.
Pell listened attentively, nodding occasionally as Beth spoke, and then said, “You took photographs, of course? May I see them, please?”
Beth opened her briefcase and removed the crime scene photos. She was about to hand them to him when Curry instructed, “Please don’t lean any closer, Ms. Sturgis. Just spread them out so he can see them.”
A thin smile appeared on Pell’s face.
“The staff here tends to be alarmist.”
“I understand,” Beth said. “Can you see the photographs all right?”
“You haven’t been a detective very long, have you, Elizabeth?”
“Excuse me?”
“A detective. A crime fighter. A caped crusader for law and order, without the cape.”
“Five years, Doctor.”
“And what were you before that?”
“That’s not really relevant, Dr. Pell. If you’d just take a look—”
“You want my help, don’t you?”
“That’s why I came,” Beth said. “If you’re not going to—”
“Then kindly answer my question. It’s not complex. Whatever did you do before you were a police officer?”
Jack Kale’s warning about not revealing personal information came back to her. Pell sat there calmly waiting for an answer, the half smile still on his face.
She made her decision. “I worked for a travel magazine.”
“As?”
“An associate editor, Dr. Pell.”
Pell shut his eyes and took a deep breath before pointedly looking at the fourth finger on her right hand for a wedding ring.
“Why did you leave, may I ask?”
“I was ready for a change.”
“Was the work too mundane?”
“It was interesting enough.”
“A change,” he repeated.
“Something like that,” Beth said. “I’ve seen Silence of the Lambs and read the book. Your Lector impersonation’s excellent. Very impressive. If I’m wasting my time, please tell me now.”
Pell raised an eyebrow and studied her. Seconds ticked by. Beth finally had enough and reached for the photographs.
“The scarecrow’s cross is facing the wrong way,” Pell said.
Beth’s hand froze. “That’s what Jack Kale said.”
“Ah, clever Jack Kale. The television mentioned him. To tell the truth, it was actually him I was expecting.”
“Dr. Kale’s consulting with our department,” Beth said.
“He’s quite a terrible man, you know,” Pell said. He was about to say more but stopped when the door opened and Charles Raymond came in carrying a Coca-Cola. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Raymond managed to look both petulant and annoyed at the same time. Pell didn’t bother to turn around.
“Good morning, Dr. Raymond. Your aftershave precedes you. You really must do something about that.”
Raymond glanced at Beth and then handed the drink to Curry and left again. The nurse cautiously placed it on the table within Pell’s reach.
“Thank you,” Pell said softly.
Curry didn’t respond. He resumed his place at the door.
Beth waited until he finished drinking and then asked, “Why is Jack Kale terrible, Dr. Pell?”
“Because he tried to eviscerate me. Did, actually.”
“What do you mean?”
“He sliced my stomach open and pulled my intestines out.” Pell unbuttoned the top of his jumpsuit and opened it up, revealing a lateral scar going all the way across his stomach.
Beth stared at it for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“As if that wasn’t enough, he tried to frame me for that poor agent’s murder,” Pell said.
“His partner, Constance Belasco,” Beth said.
Pell smiled thinly again. “You’ve done your homework. Wasn’t this in the file?”
“Some of it.”
“That’s what keeps you ahead of the men in your department. You have to work harder than they do. Am I right?”
“Another woman’s been kidnapped, Doctor. I was hoping you could give me some insight about the killer, since he seems to be imitating you.”
“Why should I?”
“Because it might save her life.”
“Is that what drives you, Elizabeth? You want to save the life of a woman you’ve never met? What is she to you?”
“A human being who needs help.”
“Most people need help,” Pell said.
She was aware of his attempt to manipulate her. But as long as he kept talking and believed it was working, that was fine. The main thing she needed was information and to understand the mind of whomever was out there killing people. She was willing to put up with the games for as long as it took.
“I can’t help most people,” she told him. “But I may be able to save this one.”
Pell took another sip of his drink, watching her over the cup he held. He’d changed since his file photo. He was thinner now and his hair was completely gray and close-cropped. Pell finally spoke.
“How is it you know your killer has another woman?”
“Because he left clues for us to find,” Beth said.
“Tell me about them.”
Beth did, leaving nothing out. When she was finished, he said, “You and your associates believe the murders were done by someone imitating me, correct?”
“Yes.”
“But Jack Kale doesn’t subscribe to that theory, does he?”
“He hasn’t said so directly,” Beth said.
Pell seemed to find that amusing. His smile was as substantial as a wisp of fog.
When nothing more was forthcoming, Beth prompted, “Can you help me, Doctor?”
Pell turned the cup of soda first one way and then the other, arranging it on the table as if its position was important to him. She was ready to conclude the trip had been a waste of time when Pell continued, “Have you asked yourself why the killer left his clues at the Historical Society?”
“What do you mean?”
“A bright ambitious girl like yourself should be able to figure that out . . . an old satchel left at a museum. Do let me know what you find.”
“But—”
“Good day, Elizabeth. I’ve enjoyed our chat.”
Beth was about to press him for an answer when Dr. Raymond chose that exact moment to enter the room again.
“I have that information you requested, Ms. Sturgis,” he said, holding up a blue file folder.
Idiot. It was a good thing she didn’t have her gu
n. Pell leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
“I’ve grown quite fatigued by all these questions. Please take me back now.”
Raymond gave her a sympathetic look and said, “Perhaps it would be best to keep this session short.”
“I’m not finished,” Beth told him.
“Do come and visit me again,” Pell said. “I’m afraid that poor woman doesn’t have much time left.”
Chapter 29
It was obvious Pell hated Jack Kale. Only natural since Jack was the one who caught him. Driving through the last remnants of the storm, Beth reviewed her conversation with the killer. Why had he said Jack had framed him for his partner’s murder? He didn’t deny any of the other murders or that he had performed that gruesome surgery on her. It was probably the product of a sick mind and another attempt to manipulate her. Not a very subtle one at that. He obviously knew they were working together. She’d said as much herself. What better way to undermine her confidence in a partner than to create doubt?
Pell was convinced he was smarter than everyone else. Maybe he was, but look where it got him. Jack was right not to come. Howard Pell was a perverted individual, playing mental games, as Raymond said, and exerting what little control he could still exercise by dropping obsequious hints here and there. The only consideration now was finding that missing woman. And the clock was ticking. Of that she had no doubt. It might have been the one true thing Pell had said.
By the time Beth reached Atlanta, the sun was creating oil-slick rainbows in sidewalk puddles. Her cell phone beeped with a message from Jack asking that she join him at the crime lab.
She found him hunched over a microscope peering at something. Ben Furman was at the opposite end of the room adjusting the dials on an odd-looking device.
Jack informed her, “The fiber you found is asbestos. We’ve also broken down the soil sample and have some interesting results.”
“Like what?”
“First, that soil definitely comes from someplace other than the Historical Society grounds.”
“Where?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” Jack said. “Ben is about to burn a sample in the gas chromatograph spectrometer. We’re getting close.”
Furman muttered under his breath, which caused them both to look at him.
“The damn thing must be out of whack,” he said. “The nitrogen content in the soil is off the chart.”
“Run it again,” Jack said.
They waited while the tech cleared out and reset the machine.
“Same results,” he said.
“Okay,” Jack said. “Anything distinctive about the brick chips?”
“Other than being old and crumbling, they’re probably handmade as opposed to machine made.”
“And the mortar?” Jack asked.
“It contains a very high lime content, which indicates age.”
“Why?” Beth asked.
“More lime was incorporated into mortar used in the older buildings because it’s breathable and moves as the structure settles. You don’t see that much with modern stuff.”
Beth informed them, “Pell said the satchel and the Historical Society were the key.”
“He’s partially right,” Jack said. “Let’s take a ride.”
“To where?”
“The Historical Society. I need an old map of the city.”
Within minutes they were traveling down Peachtree Road. Eventually, they turned off at West Paces Ferry. Jack used his cell phone to call ahead and spoke with the director of the museum.
“What are you looking for?” Beth asked as they entered the building.
“I’m not sure. Possibly a company that manufactured fertilizer,” Jack said.
“Here in Atlanta?”
“Obviously not for many years. If they existed at all, it was a long time ago. Everything points to it—a carpetbag, brick and mortar from an ancient building, the Historical Society itself. They all indicate age. All we have to do is find out where they intersect.”
“There are a lot of old buildings in Atlanta,” Beth said.
“Not that many, thanks to General Sherman. Much of the city was burned toward the end of the Civil War.”
The director of the Historical Society was waiting for them in the lobby. Ellen Amblin was in her early sixties, stylishly dressed, and confined to a wheelchair. She possessed an intelligent face and gray hair that was swept back from her head and held in place by a clip.
“It’s good to see you again, Jack,” she said.
“Ma’am?”
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Well, I really can’t blame you. It’s been quite a few years. Your mother used to bring you to my parent’s store. They owned a little antique shop in the Peachtree Battle Center.”
“My goodness,” Jack said, shaking her hand. “It’s good to see you as well. Forgive me for not remembering. This is Detective Sturgis.”
The women shook hands. Beth seemed delighted.
She said, “I’d love to hear what Jack was like as a little boy.”
“Oh, he was quite precocious. Always touching things and getting into mischief. His mother had an awful time keeping up with him. In fact, I remember—”
“Miss Ellen, as I mentioned on the phone, we’re in a bit of a hurry. This is police business.”
“Yes, of course. I’ve pulled out several maps from our library that show Atlanta’s early development all the way back to when it was called Marthasville.”
“I thought it was always called Atlanta,” Beth said as they started down a long hallway. She glanced at Jack with an amused smile playing at the corners of her mouth. He continued to look straight ahead.
“Officially, we’ve had three names,” Ellen Amblin informed them. “Terminus was the other. Atlanta came last.”
Jack asked, “Are you familiar with any companies that manufactured fertilizer, say from the Civil War period to around the turn of the century?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What about stockyards or places where animals were kept? This was a major stopping point for the railroad in the South,” Jack said.
“The major stopping point,” the director agreed. “At one time, sheep and cattle were herded through the middle of downtown, but I’m afraid whatever was here is long gone now.”
They arrived in the library where three maps were hanging on easels. The stockyards shown on the first map, dated 1840, were gone by the time the second map was published in 1885. A third map, produced in 1901, showed three feed and fertilizer companies. Two were well north of the city. The third was now the site of Lenox Mall.
“It has to be here,” Jack said, staring at the maps. All of Pell’s murders were subterranean. He believed the killer was following that pattern.
“I’m sorry. So much of the city has been rebuilt in the last hundred years. Very little of the old town is left.”
“Obviously it has something to do with the Civil War,” Beth said. “Otherwise, why leave the carpetbag?”
The director said, “Except for a church at Peachtree and North Avenue, I’m not familiar with any brick buildings that old. After the war, when Reconstruction began, everything was more or less plowed under.”
Jack’s head came up. “What did you say?”
“You mean about Reconstruction?”
“No, after that. Plowed under—everything was plowed under,” he repeated. He turned to Beth. “The killer used a tunnel to move one victim, buried another, and locked a third in a vault under the dam.”
They held each other’s eyes for a moment, the same thought occurring to both simultaneously.
Jack moved to the oldest map and pointed to an area across from the present courthouse.
“There,” he said.
“Underground Atlanta,” Beth said. “It’s part of an entertainment complex now.”
“Not all of it,” Ellen
Amblin said. “Only the first section was rebuilt. The back is sealed off. At one time, it was part of Atlanta’s downtown. They had streets and shops, and—”
“The Beckworth Munitions Company,” Jack said, stabbing the map with his finger. “I should have made the nitrogen connection sooner. That’s where he’s got her.”
Chapter 30
Beth called dispatch and asked them to alert the SWAT team as they sped through the streets. Jack was driving.
“They’ll be onsite in five minutes,” Beth said. “I told them to get all civilians out of the area.”
Jack nodded, slowed at an intersection slightly, then ran the red light.
“How did you know about the arms company?” Beth asked.
“I didn’t,” Jack said. “The part about nitrogen threw me off. It kept going around in my head. Then I saw the name and remembered nitrogen is a principal component in the manufacture of explosives—you know, like nitroglycerin.”
“You just know this stuff?”
Jack shrugged and kept driving. “I read a lot.”
*
The only sound Donna could hear was her own breathing. The linen cloth covering her mouth and face was just woven loosely enough to breathe and see through. But even the little light filtering through the alcove opening disappeared as the last brick was set into place. She had been so close to getting away. Making her way through the crumbling building, she could see people walking on an odd street between openings in a fence. She had no idea where she was, and the street only confused her further. It was like something out of an old-time movie, paved with cobblestones and unusually dark like it was night. She never heard the Soul Eater coming until it was too late. Now she was surrounded by the ominous blackness again.
Her jaw still ached from where he’d hit her. When she awoke, she’d found herself completely bound in the wrapping and back in the alcove. As the last brick went into place, everything became muffled. She tried shouting for help, but there was no one to hear her cries. Eventually, she gave up. It was becoming harder and harder to think. Some part of her brain realized the air inside the little room was slowly disappearing. Panic tried to take control of her mind. You have to do something!
The choices were simple. Use up more air calling for help or lay here and die for lack of oxygen. Her eyes were growing steadily heavier. False images began to float in front of her—colors generated by her brain. Is this how it feels?
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