by C. A. Shives
He wasn't sure if McNeil's story was a lie or the truth. But either way, it didn't seem to be useful information.
~ ~ ~ ~
The blood-stained couch was the centerpiece in the room. Tucker and Saxon stood a few feet from it, their eyes averted from the remains of Matt Montgomery. Paul Lee bent over the body, his brow furrowed.
"Looks like the same man," Lee said. "It appears you have a serial killer on your hands."
"No shit," Tucker said. He glanced at Saxon. "Call Miller in. We'll have the press here in no time. God only knows how many girlfriends Janie Montgomery has already called. We'll need more crowd control than just Johnson at the door."
Herne inhaled the scents in the room: marijuana, coffee, and death. With his head bowed he walked over to Matt Montgomery's body. To a casual onlooker—and many investigators—the scene was one of horror. Blood puddled on the floor and soaked the carpet. Two eyeballs, one with tendons still attached, sat neatly on a throw pillow next to the victim's head. The contents of Matt's stomach spilled onto the chintz sofa. And somehow the emptiness of the victim's eye sockets made him seem even paler and more helpless.
Herne saw all of this as he walked toward the body. But he also saw something else in his mind. The killer. Looming over Matt. Slipping a thin, sharp blade into flesh before eviscerating his victim with the savageness of a animal. Herne knew the killer had a need. A need that he fulfilled every time someone's blood was spilled.
"Jesus, Art," Tucker said. "You've got a hell of a grin on your face."
Herne ignored his friend and turned to Lee. "All of the victims worked in construction," he said. "These men weren't weaklings. They weren't pussies. We know our killer drugs them, but he has to get the drop on them first. And if he waits until they're regaining consciousness to do his work, then he still expects a struggle of some kind."
"Probably," Lee said. "The lab reports agree that both previous victims had sodium thiopental in their systems. I imagine it will be the same for this poor man."
Tucker shuffled his feet. "Are you certain the men aren't knocked out entirely during the attack? Why would he want them awake and struggling? Seems smarter to just keep them unconscious."
Herne shook his head. "No. He waits until they're awake."
Tucker looked at him, his eyes narrowed. "Why do you think that?"
"He wants them to feel the knife."
Silence met this statement. Herne sensed the assessing stares of the other people in the room. In a few moments, he spoke again. "How alert is the victim as he awakens?" he asked Lee.
"He'd be pretty groggy and definitely weak," Lee said. "But he would be fighting for his life, so you have to add that into the equation. I think it would be fair to assume that our killer is a physically strong man."
Herne turned to Tucker. "Who discovered the body?"
Tucker nodded at Saxon. Her voice was low and even as she spoke, and Herne was again struck at how composed she seemed amid a scene of horrid violence. She's got more guts than Johnson, Herne thought, who won't even step into the room.
"The victim's wife, Jane Montgomery, said the crime occurred while she was inside the house," Saxon reported. "She claims to have seen most of it."
"An eyewitness?" Herne raised an eyebrow. "That's odd. I almost think our guy would have felt it if he had been watched."
"Why do you think that?" Tucker asked.
Herne shrugged. "Just a gut feeling. Killer X is intuitive. He's very personally involved. And he's very smart." He must be, Herne thought, since he hasn't left a trace of Charlotte's whereabouts.
"Maybe he's getting sloppy," Saxon suggested.
"I don't think so," Herne said. "More likely he's getting angrier. More frustrated. More intent on carrying out his mission. Did you notice that this victim had his eyeballs completely removed? The others only had cuts in their eyes. So either this one was special in some way, or our killer is starting to feel more and more rage." And God only knows what that might mean for Charlotte, Herne thought.
"It would help if we knew what the fuck his motivation was," Tucker said. "We know he's targeting the people of Hayes Construction, but we have no idea why."
"If we're lucky, he may get sloppy soon," Herne said. "He may start to hurry more if we can get closer to finding him. But for now, he's safe and he knows it. I don't see how he could have overlooked a witness."
"You forget who the witness is," Tucker said. "Janie Montgomery."
Saxon nodded knowingly, but the name meant nothing to Herne. Tucker responded to the question in Herne's eyes.
"It was well known around town that Matt Montgomery liked to use his wife as a punching bag," Tucker said. "He intimidated her in every way known to man. There were rumors he'd force her to do all kinds of degrading things. No one knows what really goes on behind closed doors, though. Still, we all saw the bruises often enough. I imagine Janie was a woman who had learned to hide. She probably knew the best way to avoid her husband was to stay out of sight. She's had a lifetime of cultivating the 'quiet as a church mouse' routine." Tucker nodded to Lee. "You were her physician, right?"
Lee nodded. "Yes. But I can't tell you anything about Janie Montgomery, Rex. You know that. All I can say is that I don't exactly regret seeing her husband dead on the sofa."
"Nor do I." The voice from behind them was quiet and solemn. Herne heard the passive desperation in it. He heard the years of humiliation. He heard the shattered soul. She spoke like a woman who'd been held captive in a box for a lifetime, tortured by her captor, and never allowed to feel the sunlight on her face.
But Herne also heard something else weave through her voice. A tiny thread of hope. A dollop of triumph.
They all turned to look at her, this woman whose husband had abused her for so long. Faded bruises—green, purple, yellow—dotted her arms. Her left eye appeared slightly smaller than her right, as if her eyelid was permanently swollen. It seemed a little slanted. A little askew. Herne instinctively knew it was because Matt Montgomery had regularly given his wife a taste of his right hook.
Of all the people in the room, Janie chose to look at Herne. She stared straight into his eyes as if searching for an answer to an unspoken question. Herne met her gaze unwaveringly. The stare of an abused woman did not unnerve him. During his years in Philadelphia, he had seen many battered women. Their eyes always looked the same. Vacant. Tired. Unemotional. Numb.
"Chief Tucker is correct," Janie said. She seemed to be speaking only to Herne. "Matt abused me. Regularly. Horribly. In ways you can't possibly imagine."
And then Herne saw it. That spark in her eye. That twitch of her mouth. It was an expression that rarely crossed the face of an abuse victim. And in an instant he knew Janie Montgomery was crazy. After all this dust settles, Herne thought, she is going to be a dangerous woman.
Herne also knew that anything Janie said was likely to be tainted with the dark colored lens of revenge.
He decided to handle her as he would any other witness. He would not pander to her weakness simply because she wore bruises and scars on her body.
"Can you tell us what happened today?" Herne asked. "What did you see?"
He could barely hear her words when she spoke, but Herne heard the underlying thread of strength in her voice. "I was in the kitchen making lunch. It was chicken pot pie, which is Matt's favorite. He was in the living room, watching cartoons. I could hear him laughing at the television. I was hurrying because I didn't want his lunch to be late."
She paused, and Herne glanced at Tucker and Saxon. Both wore an expression of concern. Both listened sympathetically. Both seemed to know that a late lunch would have resulted in Matt's fists flying against Janie's face.
Herne was sure that the woman in front of him would have suffered at the hands of her husband if the chicken pot pie had been late or burnt or unsatisfactory in any way. But he didn't care. He only cared about finding answers.
He nodded at Janie, silently urging her to continue.
"When I realized he had been quiet for a while, I went to check on him. Matt was rarely quiet when he watched TV."
"What did you find?" Herne asked.
Janie pointed at the hallway. "I was there, in the hallway, and I could see into the living room. Matt was lying on the couch. He looked… unconscious. There was someone standing over him."
"You saw the killer?" Herne asked. "Can you describe him?"
Janie shook her head. "Not really. All I saw was his back. I never saw his face. It looked like he was wearing a mask of some type, so I didn't even see his hair."
"You're certain it was a man?" Herne asked.
Janie nodded. "It had to be. He was big. Very big. Bigger than you."
"What happened next?"
"Matt started to wake up. He looked groggy, like maybe he had been drugged. I don't know. He was probably smoking some weed during the cartoon, so maybe he had just passed out. Anyway, as soon as he opened his eyes, the other man cut him."
"Cut him?"
"With a knife. He… the killer… had been holding a knife. He stabbed Matt in the eye. And then… I don't know. I don't know exactly what he did after that. There was a lot of blood and it all started gushing everywhere, and I could see Matt's insides when they started to fall out, and Matt was screaming and crying but the killer had his arm on Matt's neck so he couldn't move, so Matt's body just jumped around on the couch but his head was still and it was so bloody…"
Sobs erupted from her mouth and she covered her face with her hands. Herne made no move to comfort her. He simply waited.
When she had regained herself she dropped her hands and met Herne's gaze again. When she spoke, it was as if she had never wept a tear. Herne was surprised that such a woman could have been battered and abused by a man. Janie seemed much stronger than her life story implied.
"That was it. Matt died. The man left."
"You're lucky the killer didn't see you hiding in the hallway," Saxon said.
"I know. It's the first time ever that I've been lucky," Janie replied.
"Did you see the killer carve your husband's posterior?" Herne asked.
Janie looked at him blankly.
Tucker spoke. "Did the killer cut Matt's ass with a knife?" he translated.
"Yes. He turned Matt over before he left and pulled down his sweatpants. Not the whole way. Just enough to expose his rear end. I couldn’t really see what he did after that. I thought it was strange, but I wasn't about to ask him what he was doing."
"Can you tell us anything else about the man? Any distinguishing features? Any tattoos? What kind of shoes did he wear? Anything?"
Janie shook her head. "He was big. And dressed in black. And he wore a mask. That's all I remember. I was too frightened to really get a good look at him."
Herne heard the tightness in her voice. The little extra lilt at the end of her sentences. He knew she was lying.
"Did the killer say anything? Did you hear his voice?"
Janie nodded slowly. Herne sensed her reluctance. "He accused Matt of ruining his life. When he cut out Matt's eyes, he said something about Matt spending his whole life as a blind man."
"A blind man," Herne repeated.
"It didn't make sense to me. Matt had 20-20 vision. Never needed glasses a day in his life."
"Thank you, Mrs. Montgomery," Herne's tone was dismissive. "We appreciate your help."
She bowed her head and left the room. Janie Montgomery was clearly a woman who had grown accustomed to being dismissed.
"What do you think?" Tucker asked Herne.
"I don't know. Obviously the comment about Matt as a blind man was metaphorical. Matt was blind to something in his life. But what?"
"Maybe he turned a blind eye to something," Saxon suggested. "Like he overlooked an injustice of some kind."
"Or perhaps he was unable to see something—or someone—for what they truly were," Herne said.
Their conversation ended when Miller strode into the room, his footsteps heavy on the wood floors. When he spoke, his voice was peppered with anxiety. "Channel 4 News is outside." He stopped when he saw the crime scene, his eyes focusing on the body. "Damn," he said.
"Yeah, it's an ugly one," Tucker said.
"I think this is the first time I've seen one of these up close," Miller said. "This Killer X sure likes it bloody."
"Is Lori Sims here?" Herne asked.
Miller's eyes returned to Herne and he nodded. "Yep. She's here with a camera crew. I told her to bug off, but she's an insistent little thing."
Herne looked at Tucker. "You're not going to be able to keep this quiet much longer. You've got three dead bodies. It's time to go public."
"No way," Tucker said. "No fucking way. The whole damn town will be in a panic. And the state boys will come in here and try to run the show. I'm not letting that happen. We're keeping this under wraps."
"So how do you want to handle the media?"
"You go out there and talk to her, Art. She likes you, though only God knows why. Try and make the focus about Charlotte instead of the murders. That's what we want people thinking about. Charlotte. Maybe Lori can get the town organized for a damn candlelight vigil or whatever. I don't give a fuck, just as long as she keeps her nose out of these murders."
Herne turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
Lori Sims noticed Herne the moment he stepped on the Montgomery's front porch. Her strides seemed impossibly brisk in the stiletto heels that adorned her feet. She brushed past Johnson's broad shoulders as if he were nothing more than a cardboard cutout, tossed her blond hair, and thrust her microphone into Herne's face.
"Artemis Herne," she said in her trained voice. "You're a consultant with the Hurricane Police Department. What can you tell us about these murders?"
"Nothing," Herne replied. "There's nothing to tell."
Lori clucked. "Come now, Mr. Herne," she said. "There have been three homicides in Hurricane in the past week, and you've been present at each of the crime scenes. The public has a right to know if they are in danger. Are the three deaths connected? Do we have a serial killer on the loose? Why did the chief call you to consult on these murders?"
"I am not consulting on these cases," Herne said. "I am investigating the disappearance of Charlotte Allen."
"So the missing woman may be connected with these homicides?"
"Possibly. It's an avenue we're exploring."
"How are they connected?"
"All of the victims—including Charlotte—worked for Hayes Construction. In addition, they were all approximately the same age and attended Hurricane High School at the same time."
"So these crimes could have a long history? They may stem from something that goes as far back as their school days?"
Herne shrugged. "We don't know. It's just one possibility. All I can tell you is that I'm still looking for Charlotte, and I believe she's still alive." He said those last words for Elizabeth, even though he could hear the hollowness in his voice.
Lori Sims turned her face to the camera, somehow managing to appear somber while still flashing her even, white teeth. "Thank you, Artemis Herne, for that interesting information. I'm sure all of Hurricane will keep Charlotte Allen in their thoughts and prayers this evening. We’ll rest easier knowing that you're on the case."
The cameraman snapped off the camera and walked away. Lori turned to Herne again.
"Off the record," she said, "are you any closer to finding this guy?"
"We've got a pretty vague physical description and a couple of suspects," Herne said. "We're getting closer."
Lori inched toward him, giving him the full force of her smile. "I'd sleep better if I had an experienced cop like you beside me," she said.
Herne swallowed the lump of disgust that rose in his throat. Lori Sims was fake, manipulative, and had breast implants the size of baby watermelons. She was everything he disliked in a woman.
"Officers Miller and Johnson are both single men," Herne said. "Perhaps
you should ask one of them to keep you company at night."
Lori giggled, mistaking Herne's response for one of coyness. She gave him a light tap on the arm before sauntering back to the news van.
As Tucker stepped on to the porch, Herne growled, "That's the last time I play puppet for you, Rex. If you want to give the media a message, you can give it to them yourself."
Herne didn't bother to wait for a response. He just turned his back to his friend and left.
CHAPTER 19
NOVEMBER 10 - SATURDAY MORNING
Charlotte wasn't sure how long she'd been Trout's captive. Her prison was blanketed in darkness except for the crack of light that peeked beneath the basement door. His visits to her were intermittent. At times she thought only a few hours had passed since the last time he had tormented her. Other times it felt like a day or longer.
But she always knew when he was coming. The heavy tread of his footsteps on the floor above her would sound ominous and purposeful.
She wasn't sure how long he'd left her alone this time. She thought it might have been almost a full day since his last visit. Her stomach growled insistently—she thought longingly of the dry bagel, overripe pear, and bottle of milk that had been her most recent meal in the hands of her captor. She was surprised to find herself hungry. Most people in my situation would have lost their appetite by now, she thought.
But she had become accustomed to the stench of her waste bucket—infrequently cleaned by Trout. And not for the first time she thought that she finally had an inkling of what it must be like to live in a third world country. The filth. The hunger. The despair. It was enough to drive someone mad.
A new worry had been gnawing at her. One that was brought to the forefront of her mind every time Trout walked into the basement.
He was becoming more frenetic. More excited. More crazed.
She’d noticed that the blows he struck on her body were growing faster and harder. And sometimes, through the blur of pain and tears and screams, she noticed that he’d been sporting an erection while he beat her.
Soon, she knew, he would rape her.