by Kay Hooper
“She wasn't menstruating, Deputy. And I think we can be fairly certain she didn't insert it herself.” She looked at Miranda. “It was still sealed in its plastic wrapper.”
SIX
The silence this time lasted much longer. Then Miranda ventured a reluctant question. “Are we talking about an act of rape, even if symbolic?”
Dr. Edwards frowned. “I don't believe so. I mean, I don't believe it was about power or domination, as we all know rape generally is. There was nothing to indicate that any violence or force was used. No bruising, no tearing—in fact, no signs of irritation whatsoever. He was careful. He was even, one could argue, gentle. The wrapped tampon was lubricated with K-Y before it was inserted.”
“I don't get it,” Alex said blankly.
Miranda looked at Agent Harte. “Any idea how to interpret that data?”
He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together over his middle, frowning. “Maybe he was… closing her, blocking her off. Making it impossible for anyone—including him—to have sex with her.”
“Because he wanted to?” Miranda mused.
“Maybe. If he drugged her and covered her face while he was beating her because he knew her, even cared about her in some twisted way, then he might have been fighting the temptation to have sex with her—maybe for a long time.”
“You mean before he abducted her?”
Harte nodded. “She was just barely fifteen, but pretty well developed for her age, physically more woman than child. It's possible he watched her, thought about her, a long time before he finally grabbed her.”
Plaintively, Alex said, “But what does it mean? Will knowing any of this help us catch the bastard?”
Miranda said, “Eventually, it has to.” She didn't wait for a response to that determined optimism, but went on broodingly, “There was no sign of sexual activity or even that sort of interest in Kerry Ingram. And if we add Adam Ramsay's murder, assume it's the same killer—”
“I say we do,” the doctor broke in. “I have a hunch about the appearance of those bones, though I'd rather wait until my tests are complete to comment. But one thing I am sure of is that the Ramsay boy was also exsanguinated. I doubt you'd have two killers operating at the same time in the same small town, both draining the blood of their victims.”
Miranda agreed to that with a grimace. “And as long as we manage to keep that detail quiet, it virtually rules out a copycat killer. I know you didn't have much to work with in examining the Ramsay boy's remains, but did you find any evidence of sexual activity?”
“No, none. But I'm sure you know such evidence would be difficult if not impossible to find with almost no soft tissue left, especially when the remains had been out in the elements for such a long time.”
Miranda realized she was rubbing her temple only when she felt Bishop's eyes on her, and at once stopped the betraying gesture. “Okay, so our killer grabbed a seventeen-year-old boy and apparently tortured him to death over a period of weeks. Then he grabbed a fourteen-year-old girl whom he also tortured by repeatedly strangling her, also over a period of weeks. Then he grabbed a fifteen-year-old girl and drugged her senseless, and beat her to death with a baseball bat—within a matter of hours. No sign of sexual interest in the first two—though we can't be sure about the boy—and possible signs of some kind of reluctant or abortive sexual interest in the third. He killed the first two with blows to the head, but killed the third by beating her to death. Slowly.”
“That sounds about right,” Harte said. “If you want my … hunch … I'd say we have an incredibly conflicted killer here. He feels he has to do this, and he won't let anything stop him, but at the same time regrets the necessity. Now, whether he feels remorse in any genuine sense is open to debate; my take is that he's sorry as hell he has to kill these kids, but not because they die—only because he has to disarrange his life and dirty his hands in order to kill them.”
Alex stared at him. “You get all that from the little bit we know so far?”
Harte smiled. “It's just a hunch.”
“Tony's hunches,” Bishop said neutrally, “are generally pretty reliable.”
Alex looked from one to the other, then shook his head. “What I don't get is that there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to how he's picking them. The victims have nothing in common.”
“Except that all three were teenagers,” Miranda said.
Bishop rose and went to the bulletin board, where he studied the reports and photos.
Miranda watched him for a moment, then turned back to Edwards. “You went over the postmortem on Kerry Ingram?”
Edwards nodded. “Peter was quite thorough, and I agree with his conclusions. She was repeatedly strangled to the point of unconsciousness and then allowed or made to revive, and she was beaten—though with a fist, I believe, and certainly not with the force used on the Grainger girl. A blow to the head finally killed her— a single very powerful blow.”
Musing aloud, Harte said, “The first victim stands out because he was male, but Lynet Grainger is the one who really stands out in my mind—because of the way he treated her. I say he knew her, and possibly very well.”
Alex sent Miranda a rueful glance, then said to the agent, “Trouble is, most every single adult male in town knew Lynet, if only by association with her mother. Teresa Grainger drinks too much and likes to party— and she isn't real particular who she parties with. To say that she dates a lot is definitely an understatement. And she was in the habit of bringing her dates home for the night. In that kind of environment, Lynet could have gone either way, I guess, but she was apparently pretty straightlaced. Didn't drink, didn't smoke or do drugs, didn't screw around—in fact, I heard it said she was proud of being a virgin.”
“She died a virgin,” Dr. Edwards said.
“So did Kerry Ingram,” Miranda said slowly. “Could that be something?”
“If it were just girls, I'd say maybe,” Harte said. “Could be some kind of obsession about sexual purity. But factoring in the male victim makes that less likely. I suppose the killer could be bisexual, attracted to both, but the Ramsay boy—”
“Seems to have led a very active sex life for a boy his age,” Miranda finished dryly.
“According to your report.” Harte nodded. “So the idea of the killer trying to preserve purity is out, unless he killed the boy for an entirely different reason.”
“He did.” Bishop spoke finally, turning toward them. “He wasn't tempted by the Ingram girl. Her body was still childlike, undeveloped. He could take his time with her, enjoy what he was doing without the distraction of being attracted to her. But Lynet Grainger tempted him. He wanted her, and his own need frightened him. That's why he killed her so quickly. I think … Lynet was a mistake. I think he grabbed her on impulse, maybe just because the opportunity was there, and once he had her he knew he had to go through with it, had to kill her. But he wanted to do other things to her as well, so he drugged her to make sure she couldn't speak to him, and covered her face so that wouldn't tempt him either. The tampon—Sharon, was it inserted postmortem?”
“Hard to say for certain, but I'd guess he did that while she was still alive.”
Bishop nodded. “Maybe as soon as he stripped her. Her body tempted him, and he had to do something to prevent himself from giving in to the temptation. Inserting the tampon not only effectively closed her sexual passage, it was also an act of penetration that probably took the edge off his need.”
“Why did he take her eyes?” Miranda asked. “Because she knew him?”
Bishop shook his head. “Because she had seen what he did to her, or he thought she had. Maybe her eyes partially opened at some point, and he thought she was looking at him. He took her eyes because … they had seen him tempted by her. They had seen his shame.”
Alex was staring at Bishop in unconscious fascination. “You say he killed Adam Ramsay for a different reason. What?”
“He needed something from him.”
“Other than his blood?”
“Yes.”
“And you know this—how?” It wasn't quite a challenge.
Bishop glanced over his shoulder at the pictures behind him, then smiled at Alex. “Call it a hunch.”
“A hunch? You wouldn't happen to have anything solid to back that up, would you?”
Bishop's smile remained, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “One or two things, Deputy. People always betray who they are, what their lives are like, and what their motives are, however unconsciously or accidentally. Little things, mostly. For instance, the way you tie your running shoes tells me that you run daily, that you're committed to it. The way you hold that pencil between your fingers tells me you're an ex-smoker, and I know from the way you're sitting that you pulled a muscle in your back fairly recently.”
He did not, Miranda noted, quite explain what “signs” had led him to deduce that their killer had wanted something of Adam Ramsay. But the performance had the desired effect of distracting Alex from wondering about it.
Not quite under his breath, Alex muttered, “You must be loads of fun at parties.”
Miranda felt a flicker of reluctant, rueful amusement, and when she looked at Bishop she saw the same understanding alight in his eyes. For just an instant, they shared the knowledge that they were set apart from others, that their abilities gave them insights into everything from the recent events and habits of an ordinary life to the dark corners of the human mind, where shadows and monsters lurked.
Then Miranda realized whom she was smiling at, and forced herself to look away from him. She met the doctor's calm gaze, and said the first thing that came into her head. “I guess there isn't much hope he left fingerprints on the tampon?”
“No hope at all. I believe he wore latex gloves, probably from the moment he grabbed the kids.”
“And since the time of death for Lynet means he was dropping her into that well before dawn, we're unlikely to find anyone who saw anything.”
Edwards sighed. “He's careful, I'll say that for him. If Bishop is right and grabbing Lynet was a mistake, then that's the only one he's made, as far as I can see.”
“No,” Bishop said. “He's made one more. He didn't bury Adam Ramsay deep enough.”
“Oh, come on, Bonnie, it'll be fun.” Amy kept her voice low even though Mrs. Task was downstairs getting supper ready.
“I don't think Randy would like it,” Bonnie protested.
Exasperated, Amy said, “Bon, it's very boring how you always do what your sister wants. I mean, come on—what's the harm? It's just a game.”
Bonnie looked at the Ouija board lying on the bed between them. It made her feel very nervous, a reaction she could hardly explain to Amy; there were some secrets even best friends couldn't share. Stalling for time, she said, “I can't believe you sat through church with that in your backpack. Reverend Seaton would call it a tool of the devil, you know he would.”
“It was out in Steve's car,” Amy said. “Besides, Reverend Seaton isn't going to know. And neither is Miranda, unless you tell her.” Amy read the hesitancy in Bonnie's expression and added quickly, “Even if you did tell her, Miranda isn't religious, so why would it bother her? It isn't a tool of the devil, it's just a game. Come on.”
“You just want to find out if Steve means to ask you to the prom,” Bonnie said dryly.
“No,” Amy said, feeling heat rise in her face, “I want to find out if he gives a damn about me.”
Bonnie's clear, startlingly blue eyes suddenly turned gentle. “He isn't dating anyone else. You'd know if he was.”
“That doesn't mean he cares about me. I give him what he wants, Bonnie. And maybe that's all he wants.”
It was a question Bonnie could have answered, but that was a rule she dared not break. She glanced down at the Ouija board, wondering guiltily if just bending the rule was really so bad when her intentions were good.
“Please?” Amy begged. Confident of the response she wanted, she moved one of the tables Bonnie used as a nightstand to the side of the bed so she could place the board on it. She put the planchette in position in the center of the board and placed her fingertips on it.
Bonnie wavered for a moment longer. “Oh, all right. But keep the questions very specific, Amy.”
Amy laughed. “Why? Is it a dumb board?”
Secrets really were amazingly restrictive, Bonnie reflected, wondering how to explain to her friend that when you opened a door you couldn't always control what came in. “Just don't wander off the point, all right? Ask about you and Steve, and that's all.”
“I thought you'd never played this game before,” Amy said suspiciously.
“I told you I'd never used a Ouija board, and I haven't.” Bonnie drew a breath and placed her fingertips lightly on the planchette. “Let's get on with it.”
Amy began, “What I want to know—”
The planchette jerked violently and centered itself over the word NO.
“Hey! You're not supposed to make it move,” Amy exclaimed indignantly.
“I didn't.” Bonnie stared down at the planchette and the adamant word showing through it.
“But I didn't even ask—” Amy shook her head and guided the planchette back to the center. “We'll try again. What I want to know is—”
The planchette jerked again, and again decisively indicated the word NO.
“Bonnie …” Every time Amy moved the planchette back to the center, it returned immediately to NO. “You swear you aren't—”
“I'm not moving it.” Not consciously at least. Not deliberately. Staring down at the board, she said softly, “Who are you?” The planchette moved instantly.
L… Y … N … E … T.
Amy jerked her fingers away. “That isn't funny, Bonnie!”
Bonnie removed her own fingers and looked at them as if they belonged to someone else. “I didn't do it.”
Amy opened her mouth to argue, then realized with a little chill that this was hardly the sort of joke Bonnie would find amusing. “You mean …”
“I think we'd better stop, Amy.”
“You don't really think … It's just a game.”
“Some games are dangerous.”
Amy felt a thrill of fear not unmixed with excitement. “But if there's a chance … Bonnie, what if we can find out who killed her? Everybody wants to know that, and if we can find out—”
Bonnie chose her words carefully. “Amy, Randy says the one thing you can never afford to do in this life is assume. You're assuming that whoever—or whatever— spelled out that name really is Lynet.”
“But who else could it be?”
“If her … spirit … could reach out to us, don't you think other spirits could as well? Maybe bad spirits?”
“Are there bad spirits?”
Bonnie looked at her sadly. “There are bad people. Why wouldn't there be bad spirits?”
“Well, but… spirits can't hurt us. Can they?”
“I don't know,” Bonnie lied. “But I imagine it's not a good idea to open a door for them.”
Amy bit her lip. “Bonnie, aren't you scared there's some maniac running around killing kids? Don't you want to look back over your shoulder every time you're somewhere by yourself? And just before you turn a corner, aren't you afraid there might be something awful waiting for you?”
Half-consciously, Bonnie fingered the small, oddly shaped scar on her right forearm. “Yes,” she said. “Yes to all that. But, Amy, doing anything because we're scared is bound to be a bad idea. We have to trust Randy and the deputies and the FBI agents to find the killer. It's what they do.”
Amy looked at her friend searchingly. “You really don't want to play this game anymore, do you, Bon?”
“I really don't,” Bonnie said steadily.
“Okay, then we won't.” Amy reached for her backpack to put the board away, and when she picked up the planchette neither she nor Bonnie noticed that it had once again centered itself over the word NO.
Miranda glanced at Bishop with a frown, trying to ignore the increasingly frequent stabs of pain behind her eyes. “Why was the killer's mistake not burying Adam Ramsay deep enough? Because we found him?”
Bishop nodded. “I don't think that boy's body was ever meant to be found—unlike the other two.”
Alex said, “Granted, Kerry Ingram was found lying openly in a ravine like discarded trash, but Lynet was pretty thoroughly hidden at the bottom of that well.”
“Yes, but for how long? I did a little checking, and it seems your local paper reported just a week or so ago that the property around the lake had been sold to a group of buyers from Florida who plan to build vacation homes there. Clearing off the home sites in preparation is due to start in just a couple of weeks. And according to the land surveys, one of those sites is within twenty yards of the well.”
“So the body probably would have been found,” Miranda agreed. “Okay. But did he want us to find the girls, or just not care whether we did?”
“You tell me,” Bishop said, looking at her steadily.
“Me? How would I know?” She was practically daring him to say something about extra senses in front of Alex, and both of them knew it.
Instead, Bishop said, “You know the basics of how to profile a killer, Sheriff. Why would one victim among three be transported miles farther than the others and buried in a forest where even hunters seldom go?”
She thought about it. “Because something about the victim or the way he was killed points to the killer.”
“Exactly.” Bishop reached back over his shoulder and tapped his knuckles against the photographs on the bulletin board. Photographs of Adam Ramsay's remains. “He took the boy first and kept him alive longest, and when he was finished he buried the remains where he had every reason to expect they would be hidden indefinitely.”
“Unfortunately, they nearly were,” Alex said. “And by the time we found them, there wasn't much left. How're we supposed to find any evidence pointing to the killer when all we have are bones—and precious few of them?”