by Alex Kava
“Evil bastard, huh?”
“Did you see Cunningham’s memo this morning?” she asked.
“I try not to read my emails before lunch.”
“We have a prime opportunity to catch the Collector tomorrow,” she told him. “It’d be nice if I had some idea of what he looks like.” She went back to the computer and started tapping in her password to access IAFIS.
“What exactly happens tomorrow?” Ganza asked.
“All three of the Tanner family are being buried. I’m hoping the Collector won’t be able to stay away.”
And just at that moment Maggie saw on the computer screen that she had a hit. The system had found the Collector’s fingerprints.
61
Ganza pulled up a stool alongside Maggie. He had gotten a brown paper bag with his lunch out of the refrigerator and brought it to the counter like he was getting ready for dinner and a show. Without asking, he placed each half of his sandwich on paper towels and slid one of the halves to Maggie. He’d also brought her a cold can of Diet Pepsi.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Tuna salad on rye.”
Maggie knew Ganza kept plastic evidence bags in the same refrigerator. She also knew he was a deeply private professional and that this gesture of sharing his precious lunch was a huge token of trust and friendship.
Maggie popped the tab on the soda then took a bite of the sandwich. Her right index finger tapped and scrolled down the computer page.
“Looks like he was never charged, but they did fingerprint him.”
“Any photos?”
“No. But this was ten years ago. I don’t recognize the county in Massachusetts.” She took another bite of the sandwich. It was good, really good. “I never think of putting tuna salad on rye.” She kept reading the computer screen, but out of the corner of her eye she could see Ganza smile.
“What was he almost charged with?”
“Something to do with his father’s boat. Not much here. All they have is a name—Albert Stucky—and his address at that time. Maybe I can find a driver’s license.”
She downloaded the scant information available at IAFSI then started doing another search.
“State of Massachusetts hasn’t issued him a new license in ten years. He was twenty-one, six foot and weighed one hundred seventy pounds. The licenses weren’t digitized back then, so no photo.”
She continued searching other records. There was no marriage license, no property or home ownership. She was going to need to dig deeper.
“He probably doesn’t go by his real name,” Ganza said. “Hell, he may have not been Albert Stucky for the last ten years. Guy like this, he likes controlling the risks. I bet he’s been off the radar for a while. You know he didn’t just start killing. As bloody as that mess looked in the last container, that kidney was removed with some precision. Same with Barnett’s toe and Deputy Steele’s finger. This guy has been perfecting his handiwork for a while now.”
Maggie stepped back from the computer and rubbed at her eyes. She was functioning on too little sleep. Whatever hope and excitement that came with those two fingerprints quickly evaporated. Even knowing the Collector’s real name brought her no closer to knowing who the hell he was. Or what he looked like.
Susan Fuller’s description of the man she saw in the forest taking the woman out of the trunk was probably the truest description they had. Tall, lean, young. But Susan wasn’t even sure what color his hair was because of the shadows, and because she was hiding.
Maggie looked over at Ganza. Now finished with lunch he was back to work.
“I’ve got nothing,” she said, trying not to sound as exasperated as she felt.
“Right now he’s been calling the shots,” Ganza said. “He’s been leaving for us what he wants us to find. Sooner or later we’ll have something he didn’t mean to let us see. Like Susan Fuller.”
“That’s true. Maybe you’ll find something inside her car.”
“And maybe you’ll get lucky tomorrow,” Ganza told her.
She raised her eyebrow at him not following what he meant.
“At the funeral. So far, he’s had control over the playing field—the Gateway Mall, the parking lots, the victims’ cars. Even luring Deputy Steele to his own police cruiser. Not to mention full run of Devil’s Backbone State Forest. If he shows up tomorrow, he might be out of his element. He may trip himself up.”
“Or he might not even show up.”
“There is always that,” Ganza shrugged.
62
Tuesday
Warren County, Virginia
The sky was indigo blue with only wisps for clouds. Maggie couldn’t help thinking it a cruel irony. After a week filled of dark and stormy skies the sun had arrived just in time for them to bury Katie Tanner’s family.
Maggie had volunteered—perhaps a bit too anxiously—to skip the church service so she could be one of the surveillance details at the cemetery. Funerals reminded her too much of her father’s.
All she had to do was walk inside a Catholic church, get a sniff of the incense, and without effort or will, revert back to her twelve-year-old self. All those emotions that she worked so hard to bury came bubbling to the surface. There wasn’t a day that she didn’t think about her father, that she didn’t miss him, even though he’d been gone now for over fifteen years.
Maggie believed being out at the cemetery wouldn’t trigger those memories as easily. She was outside, able to breathe in fresh air. She could pace, let the sunshine stave off the dark thoughts. She was wrong. The waiting was too long, and she couldn’t stop the memories.
Maggie could see him lying in the huge mahogany casket, wearing that brown suit she had never seen him in before. She always remembered the crinkle of plastic under his clothes, his mummy-wrapped hands tucked down at his sides. His hair was all wrong, combed in a way he would never have worn it.
Maggie had reached her small hand up over the edge of the smooth, shiny wood and the satin bedding. She needed to brush his hair off to the side, off his forehead. Only her fingertips jerked back after revealing the blistered skin, patched up. The mortician had attempted to paint over the burned flesh and salvage what pieces of skin that were still there. But despite her fear, she had to rearrange his hair. She had to put it back to the way he always liked to wear it, the way she remembered it. She needed her last image of him to be one she recognized. It was a small, silly thing, but it had made her feel better.
The sight of her father haunted her childhood dreams, and they still came to her when she least expected. Even the smells came back to her, that nauseating scent mixed with the perfume the mortician had used in the hopes of masking the burned flesh.
That smell. There was nothing close to or worse than the smell of burned flesh.
Maggie could smell it now as if it were sifting through the fresh countryside air.
The cemetery was almost three miles outside of the small town of Jasper. She could tell that at one time there had been a country church here, too. Only the foundation was left. That was on the other side of the road. Up here on the hill, she could see how the tombstones lined up in even rows. All around her were rolling meadows dotted by stands of trees. On the horizon, vibrant green met blue. It was breathtakingly beautiful, and she couldn’t help to think the view was wasted on the dead.
From where Maggie stood she could finally see the mile-long procession of vehicles snaking their way along the only road to the cemetery. The two-lane blacktop came to a dead end at the entrance providing a dirt path for the line of vehicles to loop around and head back out. For now they were slowly and patiently lining up, pulling bumper to bumper to park on the side of the road that went nowhere else.
Inside her earbud she heard Delaney checking in. She tried not to look for him. He wore jeans, a flannel shirt and hiking boots. He wandered b
ack and forth from the pickup truck parked on the cemetery grounds. The stenciled logo on the vehicle’s door made him look like the guy responsible for the grave. The guy no one really wanted to notice, let alone acknowledge.
The parade of mourners got out of their vehicles and two-by-two walked along the narrow path from the road to the gravesite. Cunningham and Gwen blended in with their black attire and their heads bent. The path was challenging enough that Cunningham offered his arm to Gwen, and Maggie couldn’t help noticing that they looked good together. Like they belonged together. For the first time she could understand why Gwen might be confused.
Back on the road, she saw Turner standing solemnly as he held open the limousine door and helped family members out. Making him and Maggie funeral home employees had been a smart move especially since Turner was the only black person here. He’d have to be part of the employed entourage.
Lucille Tanner had insisted on two things: first, that Katie not be here. She wanted her to rest and heal. Maggie had been impressed that her grandmother recognized there were other ways of grieving than to put the young girl through this traditional mourning.
Mrs. Tanner’s second insistence was that the sheriff and his deputies stay away. Cunningham willingly relented, in part, because he wanted to keep a low profile. He didn’t want to spook the funeral attendees any more than he wanted to spook the Collector. He was able to make his agents—and even Gwen—fit in.
It wasn’t unusual for killers to show up at the scene of the crime or at one of their victim’s funeral. Berkowitz—better known as Son of Sam—spent his early life of crime as an arsonist. He’d start fires in New York City then wedge himself amongst the spectators watching the first responders. He even admitted to masturbating while he watched.
The Collector was interested in watching, but only to see the responses to his handiwork. Maggie wasn’t sure if there was anything here at the funeral that would intrigue him. Yet just last week he had been interested enough to park on a muddy pasture road, hide in the trees and possibly watch Daniel Tanner gunned down by Deputy Steele.
Yesterday, Ganza had told her that the ballistic report did confirm that the gun Steele had strapped to his ankle was most likely the one used to shoot Daniel Tanner in the back. Not only that, but the gun’s serial number had been filed off.
Maggie had to admit, she still didn’t understand if there was a connection between Steele and the Collector. Were they old friends? Acquaintances? There was no way the Collector had randomly stumbled upon that scene at the double-wide trailer. Steele or the Tanners had caught his attention. But would it be enough for him to show up here, today? If he did, Maggie was convinced it would be out at the cemetery, where he couldn’t easily be fingered or more importantly, where he was less likely to be trapped.
But now as she studied the last trail of mourners gathering under the tent and those staying at the fringes, she became frustrated and anxious. Knowing his real name—Albert Stucky—had produced nothing more. And unless he panicked and made some mistake, there was no way for them to identify who he was.
Unless they could see past his disguise.
As Maggie stood back in position, she saw no one observing her, glancing her way. If the Collector had come today just to watch ‘Agent Maggie,’ it would hopefully take him some time to find her. She had taken a page out of his playbook. Today she was dressed in the royal blue boxy blazers like the other funeral home employees. She wore black-framed glasses, a short blond wig and a body suit that added almost twenty pounds to her torso giving her a stocky build that even changed the way she walked.
She scanned faces and gestures and postures. As she looked for him, in her mind she taunted him. Two can play at this game.
63
Stucky decided the only piece of clothing he’d be able to wear from the delivery driver was the bright orange ballcap. The guy was too small and unfortunately he had bled out on the bright orange company T-shirt.
No big deal.
The logo on the ballcap matched the one on the T-shirt. How many people even noticed what the delivery guy was wearing when he was handing them a beautiful bouquet of flowers? In fact, how many people paid attention to the driver, period?
He had stuffed the man’s body into a trash bag and shoved it to the back of the white sprinter van. The vehicle was refrigerated and loaded with flowers ready for delivery. Good timing. They wouldn’t expect the driver to get back to the store for hours. Perhaps even the whole afternoon. He’d have plenty of time. When he was finished he’d leave and wipe everything down—hell, why even bother. He’d just leave the van parked along a street in the residential area where he’d hijacked the guy. Then he’d walk away. His own car was parked in an apartment complex lot where no one would notice its presence.
Stucky shook his head at how easy it had been. He’d actually gotten the idea two days ago when he was driving and doing one of his look-n-sees, searching for potential prey. This same florist, same van—different driver—had been making a delivery in the middle of the day. That driver had been taller. Stucky could have worn his T-shirt.
What he noticed was how the guy had left the engine running and the vehicle unlocked. Of course, he left it running—refrigerated cargo. In a quiet residential area where most of the occupants were at work, why not leave it unlocked? Not like anyone would come along and steal flowers. Or at least the company didn’t believe that was a risk.
So imagine the surprise on the driver’s face this morning when he slid back into the driver’s seat and glanced up into the rearview mirror. The first thing the guy noticed was that the door to the back had been left open. Before he could unbuckle his seatbelt to get up and close it, a cool sharp blade slid across his throat.
But that was Stucky’s one mistake. Despite his expertise with a scalpel, the blood had messed up the front of the man’s T-shirt, making the logo look like an abstract splash of wildflowers.
He smiled to himself. Maybe no one would have noticed. There was so much color inside and outside. The van was wrapped in giant yellow sunflowers and orange roses with the logo smack-dab in the middle. It was probably the most garish disguise Stucky had ever used. But he was pleased with himself. This would work just fine.
64
Saint John the Baptist
Catholic Church Community Hall
Warren County, Virginia
Delaney had donned a blue blazer and joined Turner and Maggie. Although at the moment, Maggie had lost sight of Turner.
The cemetery had been a bust. If the Collector had attended, he was probably long gone now, laughing about how he fooled them all. But that didn’t seem right to Maggie. Why bother to come and just watch? He would have wanted them to know he had been there. He would have left something. That was part of the game, after all, wasn’t it?
Now as she scanned the church’s reception hall, checking and rechecking the one entrance and two exits, she wondered if there was any way he could come in and leave without them noticing. The large banquet-sized room was filled with rows of long tables and folding chairs. It was a tight squeeze to weave between the crowd made up of Tanner family and friends either getting seated or still waiting in line to load their plates with thick slices of ham, scallop potatoes and homemade biscuits.
Small children raced back and forth. Maggie saw two little boys hiding underneath one of the tables while another peeked out from dozens of bouquets lined up close to the wall.
At one end of the room was a long counter that separated the kitchen. Maggie remembered from her own experience growing up in Green Bay. Her father made sure they went to church every Sunday and were a part of the church community. If a parishioner her father knew passed away, they attended the funeral. Maggie didn’t think he was a deeply religious man, but he respected and honored tradition and ritual. Like the medallion he’d given her. Certainly he didn’t believe it would protect her from evil
.
Did he? She needed to stop. She didn’t want to think about him again for fear her memories would loop back to his funeral.
She did remember how the women from the church prepared the funeral meal for the family’s guests. And though the family bought the meat, potatoes and bread, there was always a smorgasbord of food that the church community contributed. One glance and Maggie could see the line of covered dishes of various salads, cake plates, pans of brownies and cookies as well as several different kinds of pies. Lids, plastic and foil wrap were pulled off and the dishes placed on the counter for the long line of funeral attendees to add to their already overflowing plates.
“Take a look,” Delaney said as he pointed with his chin.
That’s when she realized they had failed. None of them believed the Collector, Albert Stucky, would dare to venture into this crowd and risk being trapped. It was the last proof she needed when she saw Turner smiling and chatting over the open counter that separated the women in the kitchen. His plate was filled with meat, potatoes, salads and two biscuits topping the pile.
She saw Cunningham and Gwen now. They were seated at a table with Lucille Tanner and her husband. Children of various ages surrounded the grandparents. A teenaged boy who looked enamored with Gwen had monopolized her attention, but she was listening and smiling.
“I was so sure he’d show up,” Maggie said. She wanted to scratch up under the wig. It was more uncomfortable than the body suit.
“Not your fault.” Delaney told her.
“Is it possible he was at the church?”
Delaney shook his head. “Cunningham doesn’t think so. And he and Dr. Patterson got there early. Although—” He stopped and his eyes surveyed the tables surrounding Lucille Tanner’s. “He pointed out that there’s a visiting priest no one seems to know. And now I don’t see him.”
Maggie’s pulse ticked up a beat. Why hadn’t she thought of that? A priest would be the perfect disguise. How could anyone do a quick check? If he showed up, said he knew one of the deceased and found it in his heart to be here, who would question him?