“Yes.” She wanted to find the killer as much as the police did, especially as he might be the only link to her past.
“Jordache gave me pictures of the victims and some crime scene photos to show you to see if anything registers.” Fox pulled a sheaf of photographs from the brown envelope and laid them on the table: the victims face up; the crime scene pictures face down.
“I don’t recognize any of the victims.”
He nodded like he didn’t expect anything else. “Look at the crime scene pictures. But be warned. They’re not pretty.”
She turned the pictures over and flicked through them. The photographs were graphic but after her death-echo synaesthesia these mute, static, odorless images of bloody mutilated corpses held no fears. Even the severed head didn’t faze her, although it troubled her to see her photograph stapled to the victims’ faces. She coolly studied each picture and read the marker pen messages, noticing the similarity to the language used by the intruder, but she felt no connection to what she was seeing. “I’m sorry. These pictures mean nothing to me.”
“I didn’t think they would,” Fox said quietly. He paused and looked at her. “There is another way you could find out more about the homicides and the killer.”
She understood immediately. “I’d have to visit the actual crime scenes. But it must be just you and me. No one else, not even the police, must know about my…”
“Your gift?”
“No one. You must never tell anyone.” She trusted Fox but there could be no misunderstanding about this. “If you do decide to tell someone, even for the most noble medical reason, then I’ll deny it. And without my testimony no one will believe you.”
He nodded slowly. “No one, not even Jordache, will come inside when we walk the crime scenes.”
She glanced back at the graphic photographs and felt suddenly nauseous. “What about the bodies? The head and…”
“Don’t worry. They’ll all have been removed.”
She made a decision, excitement overruling fear. “Let’s do it.”
Chapter 22
They arrived at the first crime scene a little after nine o’clock the next morning.
When Fox had told Jordache he wanted to walk the crime scenes with Jane Doe, the detective had protested, “I meant show her the photographs of the victims and the message, Nathan. Not walk the goddamned crime scene. There’s nothing there except blood and shit.”
“The place might be relevant and it gives context to the photographs and messages. You’re the one who insisted on jogging Jane Doe’s memory, Karl, not me. If you think she knows the killer or the victims then we either do this properly or we don’t do it at all.”
“Then why can’t I walk the scene with you?”
“Because you’ll cramp her style and you agreed to let me handle this my way, without asking questions.”
Jordache and his team waited outside while Fox and Jane Doe entered the derelict apartment block alone. Fox watched his patient constantly, still shocked by last night’s intrusion into her room at Tranquil Waters, determined to extricate her from the scene if it proved too much. This promised to be Jane Doe’s toughest test. Even Fox could sense a disturbing atmosphere here. Leading her silently past the elevator and into the stairwell, the smell of urine, viscera and blood was stronger than he remembered. The body had been removed but a strip of white tape outlined where it had lain. “You OK, Jane?” She nodded silently, seemingly overwhelmed by her surroundings. “Want me to brief you on what the police think happened?”
“No. Let me see it for myself.” Looking pale but focused, she stepped into the area where the body had lain. She leaned forward and when she touched the wall she exhaled loudly, as if winded by the impact of what she was experiencing.
“What is it?” He stepped closer but she raised a hand and waved him back.
“Later,” she said, not looking at him. “I’ll tell you later.” For a long while she stayed there, bent almost double, then she slowly straightened and began ascending the stairs. She went to the top of the first flight and turned to him. “You sure the victim was a man?”
“Yes,” he said, surprised. Jane Doe had seen the crime scene pictures. She knew that all the victims were men. “The killer dressed him in female underwear but the victim was a man.”
She stared intently down the stairs for a long while, seeing something he couldn’t, then shook her head in confusion. “It doesn’t make sense,” she said to herself, stepping back and closing her eyes. When she opened them again she gasped. “Ohh,” she said, experiencing a sudden epiphany. She scampered quickly down the stairs, as if following a falling object, and crouched over the taped outline of where the corpse had lain. As she stared down she began nodding to herself. The fear had gone from her face, replaced with intense concentration. “That’s strange.”
“What?”
“I need to see the next crime scene. Can we go there now?”
“You got anything yet, Nathan?” Jordache hissed as they arrived at the deserted warehouse where the second victim had been dispatched.
Fox was as much in the dark as the detective. “Not yet,” he said, lifting up the crime scene tape for Jane Doe to pass. “Not yet.” Fox no longer led but followed her to the crime scene. Her newfound confidence impressed but also unnerved him. When they were alone in the warehouse she walked straight to the tape marking where the body had lain, dropped to her knees and pressed her palm against the floor — not tentatively but firmly, expertly. Now the fear was under control she seemed to be mastering her gift. It occurred to Fox then that she was the perfect crime scene investigator. Trained CSIs had to study the evidence to extrapolate what had happened but she could viscerally relive the crime from the victim’s point of view — again and again. She stood up abruptly and frowned. Looking anxious but in command of her feelings, she stared down at the tape and kept shaking her head. “Why do that? Why?”
“Why do what?”
She looked up, startled, as if she had forgotten Fox was there. “I need to see the third murder scene.”
“Then will you tell me what’s going on?”
“First I’ve got to check out something. Something weird.”
By the time they arrived at the final crime scene, Jordache was bristling with impatience. “Speak to me, Nathan. Does she remember anything or not?”
“Later,” Fox reassured him. “After we’ve seen all the murders, I’ll tell you everything.” He hoped that whatever Jane Doe had discovered would be worth the wait. As soon as she walked into the hotel room where the last victim had been decapitated, her face drained of color and her newfound confidence deserted her. This had been the most traumatic murder and, as she placed her hand on the wall, Fox could tell it was taking all her strength to remain emotionally detached from what she was seeing and not run from the room. “This is hideous. This is hideous,” she kept saying, again and again. She stared into the bloodstained but empty wardrobe. “How could anyone do this? Who was she?”
“She?” Fox said aloud. “There were no women involved in any of the homicides.”
“Yes there were,” she said quietly. “There are women involved in all three.” She slumped on the bed, exhausted. “My photograph may have been stapled over the victims’ faces but I’m not the only link between the three killings. I’m not even the main one.”
“Really? What is?”
“Each murder happened before.”
“Happened before? What do you mean?”
She looked down and shielded her eyes with her hands, like a child watching a frightening movie. “I can’t stay in this room any longer. I can’t concentrate.” She began rocking from side to side. “Don’t take me back to Tranquil Waters. Take me somewhere without any memories. Take me somewhere safe.”
Fox took her hand and helped her from the bed. “Come with me.”
Chapter 23
Jane Doe kept close to Nathan Fox as he led her away from the last crime scene. When he helped
her into his car, Detective Karl Jordache scowled. “Why can’t you debrief her here? At least tell me whether she remembers anything or not.”
Fox gunned the engine and lowered his voice. “It’s complicated, Karl. As soon as I’ve got anything concrete I’ll call you. I promise.”
“But what about keeping her safe from whoever did all this?”
“I’ll take care of her.”
“Yeah, right.” Jordache swore quietly and ordered two of his policemen to follow their car. Driving away from the crime scene, the cops in the lone police car didn’t realize that they too were being followed. Fox said nothing as he drove and Jane Doe was grateful for the time to order her thoughts and recover from her ordeal. Reliving the gruesome crimes had made her aware of how close she had come to being one of the killer’s hapless victims, and how lucky she was that Fox had intervened when he did. Despite the horror of the crime scenes, however, she was surprised and encouraged by how well she’d coped. Only a few days ago she would have been unable to remain at any one of those places for even a few seconds — especially the scene of the horrific beheading. She hadn’t passively endured them either: she had actively probed each scene for clues. Not only had she stared into the dark heart of her deepest fears and not blinked, she had seen something that could help solve the case.
The car slowed and she felt herself stiffen as they approached a circular tower block. “What is this place?” she asked.
He turned into the underground parking lot. “It’s my home. You don’t like it?”
“The apartment block’s shape reminds me of my nightmares.”
“Thanks.” He smiled and patted her arm. “My aunt hates it too but north-west Portland is a good location, and the apartment suits me fine. It should suit you too. It’s a new-build with few ‘memories’ to distract you. You’ve no reason to be scared.” He got out, led her to the elevator and pushed the top button.
When he brought her into his apartment the interior surprised her. It was as striking as the block’s exterior was bland. Comfortable Italian furniture and rich Persian and Afghan rugs softened the minimalist white walls, downlighters and stripped wooden floors. Much of the walls was glass, affording sweeping views over Portland and along the river. Quirky, colorful artworks covered the remainder of the walls, alongside shelves crammed with books. A framed collage of photographs dominated one corner. Fox was right about the archaeosonics. She sensed no bad echoes here. The place calmed her, made her feel safe. “The view of the block’s pretty dull,” he said. “But the views from it are great.”
“I like the décor.”
He smiled. “You sound surprised. What were you expecting?”
“No. No. It’s just that you’re a psychiatrist and reveal so little of yourself…” Embarrassed, she turned to the open-plan, well-equipped kitchen and pointed to the glass-fronted drinks fridge. It contained some wine but was dominated by rows and rows of bottled beers. “You like your beer.”
“Want to try one?”
“OK.” The idea of alcohol appealed. It would be her first taste since losing her memory, assuming she had drunk before then. He took out a bottle, poured it into a glass and handed it to her. It was a golden cloudy color and when she put it to her lips it tasted sweet. “I like it.”
He smiled. “Most people don’t know that Oregon’s one of the beer capitals of the world. Take a seat and let’s talk about what you experienced back there. You seemed to cope with it better than before, as if you’re getting to grips with your death-echo synaesthesia. You said the homicides had happened before?” He took out his notebook and pen. “Tell me what you meant.”
She sat on the couch. “They were copycat killings. Each murder copied an earlier one committed in precisely the same place years before. Remember my first room in Tranquil Waters and the man cutting his wrists?”
“The hanging man who died earlier was fainter than the other guy.”
She nodded. “It was the same at the three crime scenes. I experienced the death echoes of the three men who were killed but also three fainter signatures of women who had been murdered before, in exactly the same place and almost exactly the same way.” She swallowed hard. “The only difference I sensed was that all the women had been raped before they were killed. Apart from that, it was like one murder had been written over the other.” As she described each murder he noted every detail down.
“You’re saying the killer choreographed his murders to fit with the earlier deaths?”
“Exactly. Each male victim was even dressed like the earlier female victim: the first died in underwear, the second in a blue dress, and the third was naked.”
He laid a crime scene photograph of one of the corpses on the coffee table. “What about the ‘Serve the demon, save the angel’ messages written in colored marker pens?”
“They must have happened after the victims’ deaths because I didn’t experience them in the death echoes. I did see a picture of my face in the first murder, though. I think my photograph in the newspaper was one of the last things the victim saw.”
“What about the killer? Or killers?”
“That’s the odd thing. The male victims all resembled the killers of the earlier, female victims. It was like someone knew what they’d done and was punishing them by killing them in exactly the same way as they’d killed the women.”
“Are you’re saying that the male victims of the current homicides were the perpetrators of the original ones?”
“Yes. They looked a lot younger in the earlier death echoes but I’m sure they were the same men.”
“What about the man who killed them? Did you see him?”
She looked down suddenly, frightened. “Yes, it was the same man who attacked me in my room.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Fox’s phone rang. It was Jordache. He put it on speaker. “You got anything yet?” said the detective.
“I might have,” said Fox, glancing at Jane Doe, “but I need your people to check something first. It’s going to sound a little strange so hold the questions. You ready? You might want to write this down.”
“Shoot.”
He scanned his notes. “Check if there’ve been any prior female homicides at the three crime scenes. Go back at least thirty years and compare the MOs against these three homicides. Concentrate on unsolved cold cases. Then pull out the mugshots of anyone suspected of the earlier female homicides and compare them with our male victims.”
“Why?”
“Check it out, you’ll see why.”
“What about Jane Doe? What’s this got to do with her?”
“Come on, Karl. I said hold the questions.”
Fox heard a frustrated groan. “I’m a detective, Nathan, it’s what I do.”
As Fox hung up Jane Doe rose from the couch, too tense and wired to sit still. Seeking distraction, she glanced around Fox’s apartment until she spied a cardboard box overflowing with childhood memorabilia, including a cricket bat, a baseball catcher’s mitt, notebooks and stacks of faded photographs. Fox saw where she was looking and smiled self-consciously. “Ignore those. I’ve been meaning to throw that box away for years.”
She picked up a creased, faded photo of Fox as a young boy with his family. “How did you lose your parents and sister?”
“They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, shot dead by two men holding up a gas station.”
“That’s awful. Where were you?”
“I was with them. But somehow I wasn’t hurt. Not a scratch.” He frowned. “I don’t know why. I can’t remember.”
She nodded slowly. “Is that why you became a psychiatrist?”
“I think I went into medicine because my father had been a doctor in England and I wanted to follow in his footsteps. I don’t really know why I chose psychiatry.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I did hope it would help me make sense of what happened.”
“Has it?”
He sighed. “I’m working on i
t.” She felt a sudden urge to comfort him, like he had comforted her, but didn’t know how. Then she remembered the drive back from his aunt’s. “I noticed you slowed down by the gas station on the way back from seeing Samantha. Was that the— ”
“Yes, it was,” he said quickly. The tight expression on his face told her to drop the subject but she couldn’t. Not yet. She could help him, she realized, repay some of the debt she owed him. “I could go back there for you and see if—”
“No,” he interrupted sharply, panic flashing in his eyes. “This isn’t about me. I’m not the one with the problem.”
“I’m sorry, I only wanted to help. I didn’t mean to…” She tailed off, afraid to jeopardize her relationship with the one friend she had in the entire world. Fox had not only dragged her from the depths of despair, but also saved her life.
“It’s OK. I’m sorry,” he said quickly, regaining control. “I overreacted.” There was an awkward silence, then he checked his watch. “We’d better go.”
She felt a stab of panic. “Do I have to go back to Tranquil Waters?”
After her ordeal last night and visiting the intruder’s grisly crime scenes today she was in no hurry to return to her room.
“You’ll have police protection.”
“I don’t care, I don’t think I can sleep there tonight.”
“I understand, but you can’t stay here. I’m your doctor.” He made two calls. When he told her what he had arranged she breathed a sigh of relief. “You should feel safer there.”
“I will. Thank you. You sure it’s OK? I don’t want to impose.”
“I’m sure,” he said softly. His smile reassured her but as they left the apartment she saw his smile fade and sensed Fox wrap an invisible cloak around himself, forming a barrier she would never breach. She remembered the photograph of the fierce little boy in the karate uniform, standing apart from the others. Never let them get too close. Never lose control.
Colour of Death, The Page 12