by Julia Shupe
“A serial killer? You sure you want to use that term?”
The captain’s eyes threw daggers at Jacob. “I need these people to listen to me, Agent. I need them to take this seriously.”
“And Tubbs?” Gil pressed.
Captain Wahl shook his head. “No. Not yet. We can’t. We can’t mention his name.”
“Not even a reference to the similar MO?”
“No. And do you know why? Because MO, Lieutenant Knowlton, is all we’ve got. And trust me: it ain’t worth shit. If we release the alleged connection to Tubbs, we bare our necks for a slander suit later. We need something concrete to tie him to the crimes. We need something better, something tangible. And for God’s sake, we need to find the sonofabitch.”
“Assuming he’s even our guy,” Jacob said. “If he is, the media might help flush him out, particularly if we offer a reward. Nothing brings the sludge to the surface like a potential payday.”
Wahl considered the idea for a moment, but his mind was set. “No,” he barked. “We can’t. This is still my case, Agent Forrest. So for now, if you don’t mind, I’ll call the shots. We keep Carlton Tubbs under wraps, and that’s final. We don’t bring him up ‘til we can tie something legitimate to his name. And nothing,” he added, his eyes scanning the room, “absolutely nothing about the damned skinnings. No chopping of feet, no flaying of skin. Am I clear? We keep this clean, generally speaking. We give the basics, and nothing more, just enough to keep us out of trouble. A number of women—we don’t release the exact number—have been found raped and murdered. Everyone got it?”
“Raped?” I asked. “You want to say he’s raping them?”
“Rape,” Captain Wahl said, “evokes a visceral, animal reaction. When rape is involved, fathers tend to take notice.” He turned to the whiteboard, black marker in hand. “We need to get this under control. I want cell phone records and credit card receipts. I want doctors, churches, veterinarians, personal trainers. I want everything logged categorically, by group: doctors categorized with other doctors, gyms catalogued alongside other gyms. You get the picture? Or do I have to spell it out for you? I need an excel spreadsheet that can be read at a glance. We’ve got eighteen women with different backgrounds and social standings, so we need to find what connects them. Amanda Reed was white, petite, blond, a young adult. Jennifer Hall was tall, thin, African American, and in high school. But I’m telling you: there is a connection, and when we find it, we’ll find our killer.” He turned to Gil. “I’ll give you all the men and women I can muster. It’ll take overtime, weekends, butts in chairs. Nothing—and I mean nothing—takes precedence over this.” Peering at the report in his hands, he looked suddenly grave. “Look at this time line, people. Amanda Reed is our most recent victim. Decomp puts her in the soil for about three weeks, but she went missing about a month before that.” He glanced around the room. “Do you know what that means? Anyone? Bueller?”
I knew exactly what it meant, and it was too damn depressing to consider. “It means,” I said softly, “that he’s taken another. It means he’s holding someone hostage right now.”
Captain Wahl nodded. “Exactly. Find out who it is. I want teams investigating missing women around the area. I want names, pictures, everything we’ve got. I want friends and families interviewed. We don’t have eighteen victims. We’ve got nineteen—one that we can potentially save.”
“Yes sir,” Gil replied, as he turned to face his team, his face showing grim determination. “Who’s making a Starbucks run? Because this is gonna be a late fucking night.”
Chapter 27
It was one o’clock in the morning when I left, one-thirty when I punched the code into the alarm, and I hadn’t even been the last person to leave. Gil and Jacob had stayed with the others. But Gil, despite my adamant protests, had forced me to call it a night.
“I need you fresh tomorrow,” he had said. “You’ve been on your feet for forty-eight hours. You look like shit, and you smell like it too. Go home. Take a bath. Drink wine. Do something normal.”
Jacob, his face pale and drawn, had backed him up. “I’m right behind you, kid. Go on. Get out of here. Kiss that son of yours goodnight. Get some sleep.” He lifted his lips in a half-assed grin. “And Gil’s right. For God’s sake, take a shower.”
Standing in the dark and quiet house, my smile quickly bled to a frown. I was so damn tired, I could sleep for a year, and a bath sounded heavenly, as did the wine. My problem, of course, was that I couldn’t kiss my son. Danny wasn’t home yet. He was still at Scott’s house, a scenario that was quickly becoming commonplace.
Scott, of course, had pointed it out on the phone. “We need to talk about Danny,” he’d said that morning. “I’m worried about him.”
Worried about him? Bullshit. Worrying about Danny was a bullshit euphemism. Why couldn’t he say what he was thinking? He was using my job against me, plain and simple. It was classic Scott. I could read him like a book. To get what he wanted, he’d exploit anything, and right now, what he wanted was Danny. My job was the easiest means to that end. But the exasperating thing was, he didn’t want Danny, not in that aching pit-of-your-stomach way a normal parent should. Not in the way that I did. Having his son under his roof, to Scott, was a medal of honor, like checking a box on a daily to-do list. It was all for show. None of it was real. The emotion behind it, the desire, wasn’t genuine. In the divorce, Scott hadn’t fought for Danny. He hadn’t made his son a priority back then. Why the sudden turnaround now? Maybe, I thought, since he’d recently remarried, he was ready to broach the subject again—now that someone else could do the parenting, of course.
The thoughts were quickening my pulse. I found them appalling, but also frightening. Was Scott making a play for Danny? He’d mentioned custody on a few separate occasions, and I knew on paper, he appeared more stable than me. He had a family, a safe home, in an upscale neighborhood. His stepchildren attended the best schools in Hillsborough County. His wife was a stay-at-home mom. I balled my hands into fists. I wouldn’t back down. Not from this. If he was waging this war, it was a war he wouldn’t win. I simply wouldn’t allow it.
My heart was pounding in my chest. I needed to calm down. I was getting ahead of myself. I was overtired. Overworked. Scott hadn’t even threatened custody yet, and here I was, letting my imagination run wild. I could only imagine the picture he was painting, the one he’d proudly show to the court: the single mom who worked too much, the tight budget, the mother who’s sister—a recovering addict, no less—was the stand-in-mommy when she was gone. It didn’t look good. I knew that. But the closeness my son and I shared was real. It couldn’t be expressed in words, or on paper.
I sunk to the sofa and dropped my head into my hands. I needed Danny like I needed no one else. At times, the depth of that need frightened me. It was intense. I was nothing without Danny. If Scott took him from me, I’d fall apart at the seams. It was unavoidable. Holidays and birthdays would never be enough.
I peered around the shadowed contours of the room. I had a nice life. I was making it here. But though I was strong, I was lonely at times. I was human, after all, was I not? Companionship and love were luxuries to me, comfort foods I hadn’t tasted in a while. But that’s all that they were to me now: faint memories, scents I could vaguely remember. They were milk and honey, while Danny was bread and water. I could live without luxuries—forever if I had to, but I couldn’t face life without Danny.
Pulling myself up, I trudged to the kitchen. My feet were leaden. My mind was a buzzing hornet’s nest. I had always been pulled in so many different directions: mother, sometimes-father, career woman, sister-of-the-year. I was responsible for the wellbeing of everyone in this house, and now I had a serial killer with which to contend.
“Two, actually,” I whispered in the dark, remembering the black box clutched in Danny’s hands, and reaching for the half-empty bottle of wine in the cupboard.
~ ~ ~
Morning came faster than I ever though
possible; the alarm was a foghorn in my ear. I must have fallen asleep in the middle of the bed, for I was fully clothed, and my shoes were still on. I dressed in a haze and dragged myself to the car. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to make me feel human again. I drove to Scott’s house in a daze, my thoughts strangely blurred, the Cowpen Doe case swirling in my head. With eighteen victims, there was an endless amount of work to be done, and all at once, the tasks overwhelmed me. I always felt this way when a new case began. I never wanted to fail the families. They were counting on us to administer proper justice, which felt like a very important charge. At times, admittedly, it was a debilitating one. I’d seen many excellent cops crumble beneath the weight of this pressure. Those without a family support system usually had it the worst.
Lucky for me, I had Danny.
“Mom,” he said, as he came rushing into my arms. I held him there, and smelled his hair, a scent sweeter than honeysuckle in spring. “Was your trip cool?” he asked. “Did you catch the bad guy?”
“Nothing about my trip was even half as cool as you.” I poked his belly to make him squeal, and straightening, lifted a hand to my eyes.
“Hello, Vanessa. How was the trip?”
I gave my ex-husband a tight nod. The scent of his aftershave made my nose hairs curl. “Scott,” I said, ignoring his question. We both knew he didn’t give a damn about my trip. It was more important that I’d left Danny behind, and I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Better to get to the point, I told myself. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
His eyes flitted to Danny then back to me. “Maybe we should talk about it later?”
“No,” I snapped. “We can talk about it now.” When Danny tensed beside me, I immediately regretted my tone. I’d have to do this delicately. Scott was looking for the easy win, a mistake he could exploit, fuel for the fire he was undoubtedly stoking. I shouldn’t be handing him a butane lighter. Taking a deep breath, I started over. “Scott. Hello. My trip went well. Thanks for asking.” I tousled Danny’s hair. “I’m glad to be home, and I’m glad to see this funny little guy. So.” I crossed my arms. “I’m here. What did you want to talk me about? If it’s what I think it is, there isn’t more to say. We’ve talked about this; the answer is still no. The always be always be no. Enough said.”
“I disagree, Vanessa. I think there’s a helluva lot to say. I assure you, I’m only doing what I think is best. On some level, I think you know that. At the very least, you have to appreciate it. I’m considering what’s best, what’s healthiest for our s—” His eyes flashed to Danny. “For the situation.” His eyes traveled up my body, to my face. “I mean, look at you,” he added.
I tried to stand a bit taller. I really should have put more of an effort into my appearance. My shirt was wrinkled. My hair was still wet. I’d given a half-assed attempt at applying makeup, but had stopped after it failed to conceal the dark bags beneath my eyes. Scott, on the other hand, was plucked and shaved and pressed and perfect. The man was practically pickled.
“You look like sh—,” he started to say then winked at Danny. “You look tired, Vanessa. That’s all I’m saying. You’re clearly overworking yourself again. You’re pulling all-nighters. Am I right?” He gave an exasperated sigh. “Let me help, Ness. Let Penelope, for that matter. She’s not a monster. She’s a woman. And a mother. And an excellent mother at that, I might add. We’d love to keep Danny for a few more days. We have lots of fun when he’s around.” Squatting in front of Danny, he tousled his hair. “Isn’t that right Dan-the-Man? Don’t we have fun?”
I couldn’t keep myself from visibly cringing. The nickname sounded false as it rolled off his tongue. How dare he put me on the spot in front of Danny? He was ever so crafty and cunning. It was a good-guy bad-guy scenario I couldn’t win. And furthermore, I thought, how dare he mention that woman’s name to my face?
I forced a smile that I hoped wasn’t a snarl. “Be sure to tell Penelope how much I appreciate the generous offer, but I’m fine. Danny’s fine. I’ll be taking him home today.”
“This a big one?” he asked, obviously digging. Blinking at him, I played dumb.
“A big what? A big fight? I’m not fighting with you, Scott. I’m just stating what’s going to happen—”
“A big case, Vanessa. A big case. I’m asking if you’ve got a big case on your hands.”
“Yeah,” I heaved a sigh. “It’s big. Big enough. But it has nothing to do with Danny coming home.”
“Is it the case I heard about on the news this morning? The girls at Cowpen Slough? How many were killed?”
Clearly the captain had held his press release.
“Yes. That’s the one. But I can’t say how many were killed. It’s classified. I can’t release details. You know that.”
My phone rang and he crossed his arms, smirking like he’d won a private bet. “Need to take that? Go ahead. I can take Danny to school if you need me to. Just say the word, Vanessa. I’m at your service. Despite what you think of me, I’m a pretty decent father.”
Reaching for my phone, I frowned. I refused to let him heap misplaced guilt onto my already laden shoulders. “Scott, you act like it’s one o’clock in the morning. It’s eight-thirty AM, for Christ’s sake. It’s normal for people to take calls at eight-thirty. Most people are already at work by now.”
“But do most people finish working at three o’clock in the morning?”
Danny was beginning to fidget at my side. He lifted his face and shielded the sun. “Why do you guys fight so much?” His voice was quiet and he was shifting from foot to foot. It was almost as if he needed to pee.
Crouching low, I swept him into my arms. “We’re not fighting, baby. We’re talking. And actually, we’re done, so say goodbye to Daddy. We’ve gotta get going. It’s almost time for school.”
“Bye, Daddy.”
“Bye, little man.” Scott ruffled his hair. “Ness” he added, “We’re not done here. Not by a long shot. You can’t escape this. Consider the conversation tabled for now, but eventually, you know we have to have it.” Capturing my gaze and holding it, he made the threat I’d known was coming. “I have a stable home, Vanessa, with a wife, a dog, other kids for Danny to play with. It’s a healthy environment, healthier than yours. You’re not even dating anyone.”
“What makes you think I’m not dating anyone?”
He threw his hands into the air. “Fabulous. So I’m wrong. That’s great. I want you to be happy. I’ve always wanted that. We can talk about this later. What time is good for—”
“Mom,” Danny cut in. “Can we go? I have to pee.”
Picking him up, I squeezed him to my breast. Dear God, how I loved this kid. His timing was impeccable. I peered at my ex-husband. “You heard him. Time to go. We gotta pee.” I was stiff, in shock. My words sounded mechanical. My intuition had been right on the money. He was actually making a play for his son. “Have a good day, Scott. We’ll talk to you later.” Spinning on my heel, I walked toward the car, burying my nose in my son’s soft neck. “Can you hold your pee ‘til we get to school?” I felt him wave at his father over my shoulder. “Cuz if you can’t, I can make a pit stop at Dunkin Donuts.”
Leaning in, he whispered in my ear. “I don’t really have to pee, Mom. I lied. But it was only a white lie, so it’s okay.”
“A white lie?”
“Yeah. So it’s okay. I was just trying to help. I was giving you the save.”
“The save?” I laughed. “Where the heck do you learn this stuff?
He answered by laying his head on my shoulder. “I love Dad, Mom, but I want to stay with you. Don’t let him take me. Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
My heart swelled to the point of bursting. Nothing could have melted it faster, or meant more. Serial killers and Cowpen Slough be damned: whatever this day had in store for me, my son had just made it bearable.
Chapter 28
The Shadow Man
The sun was a fine bl
ade, prying his gummy eyes open. Slanting through the windshield, it made the temperature in the car unbearable. He’d fallen asleep, in the driver’s seat, again, slumped against the cracked interior. He was sweating through his clothes like a pig; his shirt had become an uncomfortable second layer of skin. As he peeled the sticky fabric from his stomach and chest, he remarked that it wasn’t even summer yet. What would happen when it was? If he couldn’t control these blackouts soon, he could end up dying in this God-forsaken car.
When he tried to right himself, his throbbing head nearly caused him to vomit. His mouth was dry. His breath was sour. Empty beer cans littered the floor and passenger seat.
He’d blacked out. Again. He was drinking too much. It was the second time this month that he’d lost track of time, the sixth in less than a year, maybe more. It was getting out of hand, this addiction of his, but it had been like that since he’d tasted his first drink. It ebbed and flowed with the passage of time, but he couldn’t remember a time when it was worse.
For the past few years, it had been his constant companion. It was a veil he used to cover his face, to forget the things he did, and had done. It was a cloak he used to hide from himself. Peace, he had learned, came hand-in-hand with inebriation. When Carlton was drinking, he was free of the nasty feelings. He could lock them away, box them up, set them in a corner and pretend they weren’t there.
It was the guilt and the disgrace that he ran from, the shame and the fear that he wanted to deaden. Drinking softened the hard edges. It silenced the voices that whispered in his head. There was an art to this drinking, he had learned. It was the act of balancing an invisible scale, but the problem, of course, was that he didn’t do it well. He lacked the willpower, the self-discipline to make it work. That sweet spot, the place between buzzed and slobbering drunk, became harder and harder to find each night. If he went too far, he would pass right by it. But if he found it, and stopped, he could live in that space. It was a powerful state of confidence and courage, achieved somewhere between seven beers and nine. It was a place where Carlton was invincible, where he was capable of anything, on top of the world. The problem was, he could never stay there. He lacked the requisite self-control. Seven to nine beers easily became twelve. Any more than that was a dark cold void.