Jacob spread grape jelly onto the four slices of toast. “Two murders are bad enough, but I’ll gladly take two isolated murder cases over a series of murders where the body count keeps piling up.”
“I hope you’re right about these being two isolated murders. It could be that some dissatisfied John did away with Timmons and Becky Olmstead. Either that or Timmons and his girls were somehow involved with drugs. Not a far stretch, considering their line of business.” Dallas eyed Jacob over the rim of his cup as he lifted it to his mouth.
Jacob sighed heavily. “But? Just say it. I know you think there’s more to the murders.”
“A dissatisfied john who’s a bit of a nutcase or an angry drug dealer doesn’t customarily strangle his victims. With those types, a gun is usually the weapon of choice. A quick, clean kill.”
“Strangling a person is far more personal, right?” Jacob speared his scrambled eggs and shoved a forkful into his mouth.
Dallas nodded. “Most of the time. I’d look for a jealous lover. Or . . .”
“Or?”
“Or strangulation could be part of a serial killer’s calling card.”
Jacob swallowed. “Damn!”
“I didn’t say I think we’re dealing with another serial killer, but you need to keep an open mind. The type of murder Genny witnessed in her vision was ritualistic. I don’t think this killer is a novice.”
“We haven’t had any murders in Cherokee County similar to the one Genny saw in her vision. Not while I’ve been sheriff and none that I can recall.”
“It could be his first kill in Cherokee County. The other women he’s murdered could have lived in neighboring counties, even other states.”
“If this is a serial killer and the redhead was his victim, then why would he kill Timmons?” Jacob knew the answer before Dallas replied. It was the only logical explanation.
“To keep Timmons from identifying him. If Timmons set the guy up with one of his girls and she came up missing, then Timmons could ID the guy.”
“Man, I hope you’re wrong on this one, but you’re probably not.” Jacob wolfed down the rest of his eggs, polished off the three pieces of toast and washed it all down with coffee.
“I realize that without a body, we can’t be certain Becky Olmstead is dead,” Dallas said. “But if we had a picture of her, we’d know if she was the woman Genny saw being strangled. If she is, then unless she shows up, you can at the very least consider her a missing person.”
“I have a photo of Becky.” Jacob glanced at his suede jacket on the rack by the back door. “Her mother gave me a wallet size of the girl’s senior picture. I’d like Genny to take a look at it.”
“Yeah. Good. As soon as Genny wakes, we’ll show it to her,” Dallas said. “In the meantime, why don’t we make some phone calls and see if there have been any murders in neighboring counties with the same MO as the one Genny saw in her vision. We’ll start with Sevier, Knox, Blount and Loudon.”
“I’ll take Sevier and Loudon,” Jacob said. “I know the sheriffs of both counties.”
“Okay. I’ll take Knox and Blount.”
Jacob had learned a great deal about solving crimes and hunting down criminals from Dallas, who was a former FBI agent. The two of them had become good friends since they first met back in January. They found out, on that very first case, that they worked well together. Jacob had the greatest respect for Genny’s husband.
When Farlan MacKinnon had suggested Jacob run for sheriff after he took an early retirement from the Navy and left behind his career as a SEAL, he had been reluctant. After all, his background was as a warrior, not a lawman. But old man MacKinnon and a few other politically minded citizens had persuaded him to run. No one had been more surprised then he when he’d won by a landslide. He’d entered office believing he could do the job since Cherokee County wasn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity. He should have known that things would change—for the worse—not long after he was elected.
“Let’s go over the basic facts of Genny’s vision and see if we can put together our killer’s MO,” Jacob said. “If he does turn out to be a serial killer.”
“Let’s hear it,” Dallas said.
“Okay. He strangles his victims with a black braided ribbon. He kills redheads.” Jacob shook his head. “Not just red-heads, but redheaded prostitutes or possibly women he perceives as whores.”
“Go on.”
“Moments before he kills a woman, he screws her. Then he dumps her body in the—” Jacob huffed. “Damn, why didn’t I think of it sooner? A prostitute’s body was fished out of the Tennessee River near Loudon just a few days ago.”
“You’re right. I remember reading about it or hearing about it.” Dallas nodded to the wall phone. “We’ll call the Loudon County sheriff first and find out if their victim was strangled with a black ribbon. And if she was sexually assaulted. If she was, then—”
“Then the odds are we have another serial killer on our hands.”
Fifteen minutes later, just as Jacob got off the phone with Loudon County Sheriff Whit Ezell, Genny walked into the kitchen and went straight to Jacob. She placed her hand over his heart and the two exchanged a silent understanding.
“The man who killed this young woman has killed before, and he will kill again,” Genny said, her voice a mere whisper.
Dallas came up behind his wife, but didn’t touch her. “Did you have another vision?”
She shook her head. “Not exactly a vision. It was more a strong feeling than anything else. I sensed great sorrow. The sorrow of more than one woman. It was such tremendous sadness that it had to come from numerous souls.”
“Are you all right?” Dallas turned Genny to him and skimmed his fingertips lovingly over her face.
She offered Dallas a fragile smile and took his hand. “I’m fine. Let’s sit down.”
Dallas quickly assisted Genny in sitting at the table. After preparing her a cup of hot tea, he sat beside her and then turned to Jacob. “Fill us in on what Sheriff Ezell had to say.”
Jacob joined them at the table. “At first he wasn’t too thrilled to be disturbed on a Sunday morning.”
“I’ll bet he wasn’t.” Dallas grinned.
“Who is Sheriff Ezell and why did you call him?” Genny held the cup to her lips, then took a sip and sighed.
“He’s the sheriff over in London County,” Jacob replied. “They found a prostitute’s body in the river over near the dam a couple of days ago and—”
“You and Dallas thought perhaps that murder was connected to the one I saw in my vision.” Genny completed his sentence for him.
Both Dallas and Jacob nodded, then Jacob said, “The woman they found in the river was identified as Kat Baker, a Knoxville call girl. She’d been missing less than a week.”
“Did she have red hair?” Genny asked.
“Yeah. Dyed red. But regardless of that fact, technically she was a redhead.”
“What about the cause of death?” Dallas asked.
“Strangulation.” Jacob looked from Dallas to Genny. “They found a black braided ribbon knotted around her neck.”
Genny gasped.
Dallas grunted. “Same MO as the killer in Genny’s dream.”
“Maybe I was seeing something that had already happened,” Genny said. “It could be that the woman I saw was this Kat Baker.”
“Possibly,” Jacob replied. “But I’d lay odds that the woman you saw was Becky Olmstead, our missing Cherokee Pointe prostitute.”
“Let’s get busy making some phone calls to other police and sheriff’s departments to see if Kat Baker’s murder was an isolated incident.” Dallas glanced at Genny. “I want you to eat something, then rest for a while. And under no circumstances are you to do anything without me. Understand?”
Genny reached over and patted Dallas’s hand. “I understand.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Jacob emitted a closed-mouth chuckle. “I’m glad
to see she finally listens to somebody. Whenever Jazzy or I warned her to take things easy, not to delve too deeply or try to connect to a killer’s mind, she didn’t pay any attention to us.”
“I paid attention,” Genny corrected him. “It’s just that occasionally I knew what had to be done and did it.”
Jacob’s cell phone rang. Genny jerked nervously. Standing quickly, Jacob pulled the cell phone from his belt clip and responded.
“Butler here.”
“Sheriff, it’s possible Becky Olmstead’s body has been found,” Deputy Bobby Joe Harte said. “A couple of fisher men up at Douglas Lake pulled a woman’s body out of the lake about two hours ago.”
“Do we have any details?”
“Sketchy. Young female. Apparently the body’s pretty fresh.”
“Do we have a number for Sheriff Floyd?
“Yeah.”
“Give it to me. I’ll get in touch with Noland and see what I can find out.” Jacob undid the popper on his shirt pocket, retrieved a small notepad and pen and hurriedly jotted down the number. “Thanks.”
As soon as Jacob returned his cell phone to the belt clip, he looked over at Dallas. “A couple of fishermen pulled a woman’s body out of Douglas Lake this morning. It could be Becky Olmstead.”
Both men glanced at Genny.
“I can see if I can pick up anything,” she said.
“Maybe you shouldn’t.” Dallas frowned. “You’re already exhausted.”
“I won’t go in very deep.” She closed her eyes and meditated for several minutes.
Taking both of her hands in his, Dallas watched her protectively. Jacob went over and pulled the photo of Becky Olmstead out of his coat pocket, then walked out of the kitchen and onto the screened back porch. After slipping the wallet-size picture in his shirt pocket, he dialed Sheriff Floyd’s number. By the time he went through several dep uties and actually had the sheriff on the phone, Dallas eased open the back door and the two men made eye contact.
“Genny says she’s certain the woman they found in Douglas Lake is the woman from her vision.”
Jacob nodded, then pulled Becky’s photo from his pocket and handed it to Dallas. “Ask her if this is the woman.”
Dallas took the high school picture and went back into the kitchen. Jacob focused on his phone call.
“Sheriff Floyd, this is Sheriff Jacob Butler over in Cherokee County. I understand you’ve got a brand-new homicide case.”
“Yeah, we do. What’s your interest?”
“We’ve got a missing woman from Cherokee Pointe. Been missing since last night. She’s a young prostitute whose pimp was found murdered. Strangled to death.”
“Give me a description.”
“Like I said, young. Red hair. About five-six. Slender.”
“That fits our wet floater’s general description. You got someone who can ID the body? Although our coroner says the body probably hasn’t been in the water more than ten or twelve hours, she’s not a pretty sight.”
“Our girl’s name is Becky Olmstead. She has a mother and stepfather.” Jacob cleared his throat. “On a strictly confidential basis, tell me how she died?”
“She could have drowned, but I figure she was strangled first and then dumped in the lake,” Sheriff Floyd replied.
“Did y’all find anything in particular that indicated strangulation?”
“A black braided cord of some kind was still around her neck. That bit of info won’t be released, of course. Beneath the cord, there was a straight line bruise on her neck and it looks as if the cord cut into her flesh.”
Jacob sucked in a deep breath, then released it slowly. “Ask your coroner to check carefully to see if she was raped.”
“I thought you said she was a prostitute.”
“If what I suspect is true, the last sex this girl had was not consensual. She could have been drugged, and he probably raped her only moments before killing her.”
Veda MacKinnon returned from Sunday services at the Methodist church she had attended since coming to Cherokee Pointe as a young bride. Although she’d been raised Presbyterian, she had soon converted, much to her husband’s and his parents’ delight. In those early years, she had truly tried to please Farlan and his family. She had longed to fit in, to belong. Although their marriage hadn’t been perfect, they had once loved each other. And when she’d given birth to Brian, all the MacKinnons had treated her like a queen. But time had a way of changing things. She had tried un successfully to give her husband more children, but after five miscarriages, the doctors had warned her to never become pregnant again. If only there could have been other children. Perhaps a daughter.
When she entered the foyer, Abra met her and took her coat and purse.
“Has Mr. Farlan come down yet?” Veda asked.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s in his study with Wallace.”
“What about Mr. Brian?”
“I haven’t seen Mr. Brian this morning.”
“Thank you.” Veda removed her gloves and handed them to the housekeeper. “I’d like dinner served at one-thirty today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Veda glanced up the carpet-covered staircase and wondered if Brian was still in bed. He often stayed out late on the weekends, but usually didn’t stay out all night as he’d done last night. When he had moved back in with them after his divorce from Phyllis, he’d remodeled two rooms and a bath on the opposite end of the hallway from his parents’ rooms. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have been aware of exactly what time he’d come home, wouldn’t have known that he’d stayed out until shortly before dawn. But this morning she had been awake and waiting, not for her son, but for her husband. It wasn’t like Farlan to stay out all night, although when he made business trips, she had no idea what type of schedule he kept.
Veda had gone to bed at eleven, but had been unable to rest, knowing Farlan hadn’t come home. He had telephoned earlier and left a message for her with Abra. At three this morning, she’d gotten out of bed, put on her robe and sat by the windows overlooking the driveway. She’d seen Brian pull his Porsche into the garage, then heard him walk up the backstairs. Being quiet as a mouse, she’d eased open her bedroom door and watched her son rush down the hall and into his bedroom. Just as his door closed behind him, she’d heard the grandfather clock strike. Five o’clock.
Where her son went and what he did was his own business. He was no longer a boy, but a man of forty-two. He’d probably been with some woman, but that was perfectly understandable. After all, a man had needs. It wasn’t her son’s needs that concerned her, but her husband’s. Sex wasn’t a regular part of their lives these days. She had lost interest in sex in her mid-fifties, but had faked passion to satisfy her husband. But as time passed, Farlan’s sex drive had also waned, and only recently he’d assured her that at seventy- five, he preferred a good meal to a good fuck.
In all the years since that one ill-fated affair so long ago, Farlan had been faithful to her. At least she was reasonably certain he had been. After all, he’d sworn to her that he would never let another woman come between them. And she had made it abundantly clear that if she ever discovered he’d been unfaithful to her again, she would kill herself. She wasn’t sure if she’d actually commit suicide, but that didn’t matter as long as she’d convinced Farlan. And apparently she had.
Veda walked down the hall and knocked on the closed study door. “May I come in, please?”
She heard murmurs, then footsteps. The door opened, and Wallace came out, a wide smile on his face. Poor, sweet Wallace smiled most of the time. Smiled as if he knew a secret no one else knew. Perhaps in his childlike mind, he held all kinds of mysterious thoughts.
“I got me a dog,” Wallace told her. “I found him this morning, out in the front yard. Farlan says he’s a stray, but that if I make him a bed out in the garage, I can keep him. You don’t mind, do you, Veda?”
A dog? Veda wasn’t overly fond of animals and had never allowed Brian to kee
p a pet. She had always vetoed the idea of Wallace keeping any of the strays he brought home, something he did quite often. “Well, isn’t that nice. A dog.”
“I’ll keep him outside, and he won’t bother you none. I promise. I’m going to name him Spotty since he’s white with black spots all over him. Do you think that’s a good name?” The more excited Wallace became, the faster he talked. “Farlan says I can ask Abra for some old quilts to make his bed and to tell her to fix him a dish of food.”
“Yes, yes, dear. You go along and take care of Spotty.”
Wallace barreled past her and lumbered down the hall. He was a bear of a man with a little boy’s mind. She squared her shoulders and entered her husband’s private domain, but stood just over the threshold until he looked up at her from where he sat in his leather easy chair.
“Come on in and close the door,” Farlan said. “I’m sure what you have to say to me needs to be said in private.”
Turning around, she closed the door, then pivoted to face her husband. “Do we need privacy for what you have to say to me?” Their gazes met and momentarily locked.
“Don’t stand there glaring at me. Come on in and sit down.” He indicated the chair across from him. She broke eye contact as she walked over and sat, her back ramrod straight. “How was Reverend Prater’s sermon this morning?”
She folded her hands in her lap. “He asked about you. I told him you were a bit under the weather this morning.”
“A socially acceptable white lie.”
Hearing the humor in his voice, she glowered at him. “It would have been unnecessary for me to lie if you’d gotten up at a decent hour and attended services with me.”
“Don’t beat around the bush, Veda, just come right out and ask me.”
If Looks Could Kill Page 13