Текст книги "Fear the Dark"

Автор книги: Chris Mooney

Соавторы: Chris Mooney
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

42

‘What kind of knots?’ Darby asked, reaching for her notebook.

Rita stared at her from across the table. ‘I look like a sailor to you? They were, you know, knots. Complicated ones. Intricate. He tried all different kinds on me.’

‘Name?’

‘Timmy. At least that’s what he called himself. Never gave me a last name. Most of ’em don’t.’

‘The rope this guy used,’ Darby began.

‘Not rope. Ropes. He used the same two pieces every time we got together.’

‘We talking about the kind of rope you find on a clothesline?’

‘No. This was thicker. Blue, I think.’

Darby opened her folder and rooted through the pages, stopping when she found the sheet depicting a surgeon’s knot. She showed it to Rita.

‘That one was his favourite,’ Rita said.

‘Why?’

‘Because that was the one he used to make me pass out.’ Rita stifled a yawn. ‘The nooses he made with some of the other knots – they required him to stand behind me and, you know, apply constant pressure until I passed out. This one, though,’ she said, tapping a fingernail against the sheet of paper. ‘With this one, when he pulled the rope the knot stayed right where it was. It didn’t, you know, come undone or anything. The knot did all the work, maintained constant pressure around my neck. He could control the tension, which is what gets these kinds of guys off. He’d give the rope a good, hard yank, then move round the chair to watch me choke and pass out.’

Rita spoke dispassionately, as though being tied down and nearly strangled to death not once but over and over again was a normal, everyday occurrence, like brushing one’s teeth.

‘I kind of liked passing out,’ Rita said. ‘Gave me a break from the stench.’

Darby felt her scalp prickle. ‘What stench?’

‘Guy was a BO factory. He had some sort of skin condition that made him smell like he’d spent his nights rolling around in a bed of rotting fish. I don’t know what it was, and I never asked. I got round it by dabbing some of that Vicks VapoRub under my nostrils. My clothes? Had to put them in the wash the second I got home. Had to scrub my hair too. This guy had an Olympic-grade stink.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Over a year ago? Maybe longer. We got together four, maybe five times.’

‘Why did you break off it off?’

‘I didn’t. He just stopped calling. Which is too bad, because this guy paid really well. He told me he lived here in Red Hill, but I never went to his house or anything. We always met at the Beacon. That’s a hotel in Brewster.’

‘How did he contact you? Phone? Email?’

‘Phone,’ Rita said. ‘I don’t do email or Facebook or any of that stuff. My line of work demands discretion. I can’t have you police types sticking your noses where they don’t belong, harassing my customers.’ The woman grinned broadly. ‘He always called me from different numbers – payphones, a burner. All my clients usually do. Don’t like their wives or girlfriends finding out about their particular needs.’

‘You remember anything flashing up on your caller-ID?’

‘Nothing came up on my caller-ID except a number.’

‘You didn’t put his name and number into your contacts?’

‘I don’t record any of my clients’ details in my phone.’

Darby leaned back in her seat and tapped her pen against the notepad. ‘Timmy was into some rough stuff. Guy like that, I’m assuming you’d ask around, look into his background.’

‘Jeannie vouched for him. Jean Derry. She’s a dominatrix. Or was. She did some BDSM work with him until she had to move back to Arizona. Her mother was sick, lung cancer or some shit, so she referred him on to me.’

‘Where in Arizona?’

‘No idea. She used to live in Brewster. That’s how we know each other. My mother lived there. When she croaked, I inherited her shitty two-bedroom ranch. But it was paid off, no mortgage, and the property taxes here are chump change. I’m rarely home – I’m always travelling – so I decided to sublet my two-bedroom in Manhattan to a yuppie couple for five gees a month. Sixty grand a year for doing absolutely nothing.’ Again, she pulled back her coat sleeve and checked her watch.

‘There a local BDSM scene here?’

‘I’m sure there is; every place has one. But I’m not tied into the local scenes. They don’t pay as well and can’t meet my price.’

‘Why’d you make an exception with Timmy?’

‘Because Jeannie vouched for him, and because he parted with a grand for an hourly session.’

‘What’d Timmy do for a living? Was he married? Single?’

‘No idea, and no, I didn’t ask. I was there to get paid, not help him on his Facebook or match.com profile. I got the feeling his junk didn’t work.’

‘He was impotent?’

‘No clue. He never pulled it out. Most guys who are into this stuff, the second you start choking they start beating their meat like it owes them money. Don’t get me wrong; Timmy got all hot and bothered, but he always kept his clothes on. He was pretty normal for a guy who was into this stuff. He never pranced around in women’s clothes or anything weird like that, and he never tried to film me.’

‘You have any pictures of him? Anything he might have given to you as a gift?’ Darby was hoping for a fingerprint.

‘No and no,’ Rita said. ‘He was six feet, maybe five eleven. Looked like a guy who spent his whole day in front of a computer – flabby, bald, weak chin, all that.’

Darby’s gaze dropped to her notebook. She doubted Red Hill PD had a sketch artist on staff. Brewster probably did, but he or she wouldn’t be as talented as the federal agents who worked in the forensics facial imaging lab. Hoder could rustle one up with a single phone call. Put the guy on Skype and have the Tuttle woman talk to him over the MoFo’s secure satellite feed.

‘We about done here?’ Rita asked.

‘I’d like you to talk to a sketch artist.’

‘How long will it take?’

‘Five families are dead, Rita – it’ll take as long as it takes.’

‘See, this is why people like me don’t like helping people like you.’ Rita’s eyes were smiling again. ‘You guys are always taking advantage of someone’s generosity.’

‘So why did you come forward?’

‘Because I happened to be talking to a friend who shall remain nameless, and this friend, this person, was telling me about how you guys have been running all over Red Hill and Brewster, some of you even making calls to Denver where a lot of us work, asking questions about BDSM guys who are heavily into knots and tie up women to chairs and shit. I thought of Timmy and placed a call. When Officer Dipshit showed up on my doorstep, I told him everything and yet he insisted on dragging me here.’

‘Did Timmy scare you? Hurt you?’

‘No, he was very considerate. Even gave me a special collar for my neck so he wouldn’t leave any rope burns.’

A true gentleman, Darby thought. ‘If he was so considerate, why you here ratting him out? That can’t be good for business.’

‘The reward money. Duh. If Timmy ends up being the perv you guys are looking for, then I get the hundred grand, right?’

‘That why you waited all this time to tell us about your client? Original reward money not good enough?’

‘Number one, I already told you Timmy was a former client. Number two, I just found out about the reward money today.’

Bullshit, Darby thought. You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes.

‘Anything else you can tell me about Timmy?’ She asked. ‘Any distinguishing features or characteristics?’

‘He wore a brown suit from J. C. Penney’s and Hush Puppies. Look, you want me to do this sketch artist thing, let’s get the show on the road. And I want to use a phone right now so I can talk to my pilot, see the latest time we can fly out. There’s a big storm rolling in tonight and I don’t wanna get stuck in this shithole.’

43

Darby spoke with Rita Tuttle for another fifteen minutes, trying to get specifics on her former client’s skin condition. Rita said she didn’t know. The man named Timmy refused to discuss it with her, and he never took off his clothes.

When Darby flipped shut her notebook and left the interrogation room, she locked the door behind her in case Rita Tuttle had a sudden change of heart and decided to make a break for the private plane waiting to take her to Barbados. She headed to Williams’s office to use his computer. It took only a few minutes to find what she was looking for.

Then she sorted through the case files tucked into her backpack. After she finished, she went to find Officer L. Griffin.

She found him standing outside the station’s front doors, pacing and chain-smoking under the porte-cochère. The sky was pitch-black, and it had already started to snow. A fine white dust covered the parking lot and cars.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Whaddya think of Rita?’

‘She’s got some solid info. What’s her story?’

‘Local, born and bred. No record, not even a parking ticket. We went to high school together. She was a couple of years ahead of me and had a reputation for being wild and uninhibited. Supposedly she arranged a private gangbang for our football team and made five hundred bucks.’ Griffin raised his hands. ‘Hey, I’m not judging.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Twenty-six. She’s been entrepreneurial since day one. Left here when she was eighteen, and from what I’ve heard she makes a pretty good living servicing rich old guys who live out on the coasts.’

‘She mentioned a woman named Jean Derry.’

‘Yeah, Rita told me about her. Her last-known address is in Brewster. Rented an apartment there. Heard she had a thing for nose candy, did a couple of rehab stints.’

‘I’d like to talk to her.’

‘I figured as much – I’ll run her down for you.’ Griffin dropped his cigarette and stubbed the butt out underneath his thick, black-soled boot. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

‘You mind taking Rita’s statement for me?’ Darby needed to talk to Hoder about getting a sketch artist.

‘Sure thing,’ Griffin replied. ‘Just do me a favour: if anything comes of this lead, I’d appreciate it if you put my name out there. It’ll go a long way with all this transition shit.’

‘You got it.’

‘Wait, before you go, I spoke to Ray. He wanted me to tell you about Nelson.’

‘What about him?’

‘The disposable camera Lancaster said he found on him? Nelson’s prints were all over it. Chief pressed him on it, and Nelson finally copped to taking pictures inside the Downes house last night.’

So Lancaster had been telling the truth.

‘He also admitted to taking Ray’s cell phone,’ Griffin said. ‘There was an incident last month, in December, with the Connelly family.’

‘Ray told me about it.’

‘There won’t be any charges. Chief wants this to go away quietly, so Nelson agreed to submit his resignation. It was coming anyway. He and his wife have been thinking about moving to the north-east – New Hampshire, I think. His father-in-law is some big-time builder, offered Nelson a construction job.’

‘Where’s Ray now?’

‘In Brewster with the chief. Some meeting, I don’t know what it’s about.’

‘Ray say anything else?’

‘You mean beyond you having a mean left hook?’ Griffin grinned broadly.

Darby found Hoder inside the squad room, talking to the reporter, Levine, who seemed to be on his way out. The cameraman was already gone.

Hoder caught Darby’s urgent expression, then shook the man’s hand and joined her. He looked especially haggard, his thoughts and emotions veiled. She wondered if he knew about what had happened with Lancaster.

Darby told him about her conversation with Rita Tuttle.

‘She identified the knot?’ Hoder asked after she finished.

Darby nodded. ‘There’s something else,’ she said. ‘Downes’s secretary, Sally Kelly, told me she overheard Samantha talking to her father about a guy in her class who smelled like garbage. This guy was only there for one class, though. Remember that antibiotic I found on the bedroom floor?’

‘The neomycin. That reminds me: Hayes spoke to the family’s physician. He never prescribed it.’

‘It’s used to treat severe cases of liver disease, hepatic coma, intestinal infections, by targeting certain types of bacteria in the gut, prevents them from producing ammonia and some protein they need to survive. Turns out it has other uses.’ Darby flipped her notebook open. ‘Type “neomycin” and “fish odour” into Google and it comes back with this rare genetic metabolic disorder called –’ She looked at her notes. ‘It’s called trimethylaminuria, or TMAU, otherwise known as “Fish Odour Syndrome” or “Fish Malodour Syndrome”.’

Hoder’s eyes narrowed in thought.

Darby continued. ‘People who inherit this condition have a defect in the production of some enzyme called FMO3,’ she said. ‘What happens is trimethylamine builds up in the person’s system, then it’s released through sweat, breath and urine, giving off a strong fishy or garbage-like body odour. There’s no cure for this thing. If you’re born with it, you’re stuck with it.’

‘How does the neomycin fit into this?’

‘It helps to minimize the fish odour with some people. In order for the antibiotic to work effectively, you’ve got to modify your diet. People who suffer from TMAU, though – no matter what meds they’re taking, no matter how much they’ve modified their diet, you put them into a stressful situation, they start to sweat even more, and the fish odour goes into overdrive.’

‘The bedroom window at the Downes house,’ Hoder said. ‘It was open.’

‘And the windows in the other house were open, too. I looked through the photos taken of the bedrooms. At each crime scene the Red Hill Ripper opened all the bedroom windows. If our guy has this TMAU disorder, I bet he opens all the windows to clear out that fishy odour.’

Hoder made a fist and rubbed it across his bottom lip, thinking.

‘Look, this was just a quick Google search,’ Darby said. ‘It could be some sort of other metabolic disorder, maybe a skin condition, like Rita Tuttle said, maybe something else entirely. But two separate people who said something about a guy with a particular fishy and garbage-like body odour? That’s something we can’t ignore.’

‘Agreed. Where’s the Tuttle woman now?’

‘Interview room. Griffin’s going to take her statement. I think we should get a sketch artist, preferably one of yours. We can take Tuttle to the MoFo and have her talk to this guy over Skype.’

Hoder nodded and removed a satellite phone from his jacket pocket.

‘Where’d you get that?’

‘Coop,’ he said. ‘He brought them from Denver, one for each of us.’

‘Where is he?’

‘At the hotel with Hayes, sweeping our rooms for bugs. Otto’s inside our rolling lab, working his way through the blood samples.’ Hoder sighed. ‘It’s not looking good. In addition to using bleach, our guy used hydrogen peroxide on the floor. He knows forensics.’

‘If this Timmy guy signed up for a class and dropped it, the college will have his name and address on file.’

‘We’ll need a court order before we go fishing.’

‘I know. I say we skip the local route and go federal. People get real co-operative when they see a federal warrant. We can also use it to target local pharmacies, see who’s getting neomycin prescriptions filled. We should also start asking around, see if anyone knows anything about a guy named Timmy who has a permanent BO problem. What’s the status of the video interview?’

‘The RCFL guys have it,’ said Hoder. ‘They’re installing that hidden tracking program. It’ll go live in about twenty minutes or so.’

‘What do you think about putting out the information on the knots?’

‘I think it’s too early. If we go out with the knots and the sketch tonight or tomorrow, he might get spooked and decide to leave town for a while. Let him keep thinking he’s got the upper hand. We’ll give it a day or two to see what the trace comes up with.’

‘You look like you could use some sleep,’ said Darby.

‘Couldn’t we all. I’ll meet you in the interview room.’

Darby returned to Williams’s office and used his computer to get a list of local pharmacies.

There were two in Red Hill; Brewster had four. She could sit around and wait for a court order that, most likely, wouldn’t come through until sometime tomorrow, or she could try to do something now.

Five minutes later, she was behind the wheel of her rental, with the case file and the pharmacies’ addresses lying on the passenger’s seat.

44

Baylor Apothecary was the closest, located inside the ground floor of a small brick-faced building right around the corner from Cindy’s Diner. The windows were dark, but the pharmacy was still in business. Darby pressed her face against the glass and in the gloom she could make out fully stocked aisles. Baylor’s opened every morning at eight. She’d have to wait until tomorrow.

She had better luck at the Rite Aid on the other side of town, off the main highway, Route 6. It was in a strip mall that at one point in time had included a Blockbuster video store and a discount lumber liquidator. The snow had picked up, growing in intensity. A white blanket covered the two cars in the lot.

The inside of the pharmacy was brightly lit and eerily quiet, as though it had suddenly been abandoned. It was also uncomfortably warm. Darby unzipped her jacket as she made her way to the back with the case file for the Connelly family pinched between the fingers of her left hand.

The pharmacist was a thickset middle-aged woman with a button nose and brittle black hair that had thinned to the point that her scalp was visible. Her nametag read BARBARA.

‘Evening,’ Darby said pleasantly. ‘I need your help with a medication called neomycin – the oral antibiotic and not the topical treatment.’

Barbara smiled as she turned to the computer. ‘Your name?’

‘Not me. One of your male customers.’ Darby showed her federal ID, and the woman’s smile collapsed. ‘His first name is Tim or Timothy.’

‘Do you have a court order?’ The woman’s attention was glued to the butt-end of the 9-millimetre tucked inside Darby’s shoulder holster. ‘I can’t help you without a court order.’

‘The FBI are getting it together. All I need to know is whether or not you have a man named Tim or Timothy in your system who gets his neomycin prescription filled here. If he is, great, I’ll come back with the court order. If he isn’t, then I’ll get out of your hair.’

Barbara was shaking her head the entire time. ‘I can’t tell you anything unless you have a court order,’ she said. ‘HIPAA and the state’s Medical Information Act prevent me from sharing any information regarding a person’s –’

‘I understand.’ Darby had expected to encounter this reaction. During the drive, she had come up with a way around it – provided she could get Barbara the Pharmacist to agree to play along. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t explain myself correctly. My fault. You live here in Red Hill?’

‘Why?’

‘Are you familiar with the Red Hill Ripper?’

Barbara didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The skin of the woman’s face flexed and tightened against the bone.

‘You can see why I’m anxious to see if this man is in your system,’ Darby said patiently. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything illegal. I just need to know whether or not this man is one of your customers.’

‘I’m just … I should really talk to my supervisor.’

‘I understand. But while you’re on the phone – while you and I are standing here, talking about rules and procedures, the Red Hill Ripper is planning on doing this to another family.’

Darby brought out her folder, her finger marking the spot she needed. She opened it and showed the woman a close-up of the noose wrapped around Linda Connelly’s neck, the skin swollen, bloated and purple.

The photo had the desired effect. Barbara the Pharmacist’s breath caught in her throat and she backed up slightly, wincing. Her attention swung to the pharmacy computer.

‘Just tell me if he’s in there,’ Darby said. ‘There’s no law against that, right?’

‘I … Well, no, I don’t think so.’ Barbara looked around uneasily, to see if anyone was nearby.

‘I really appreciate you helping the Bureau out on this,’ Darby said. ‘Thank you.’

The phone behind the counter rang.

Barbara looked relieved. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ she said.

As the woman hustled away, Darby stared at the computer on the counter. The Red Hill Ripper’s name and address could be just a few mouse clicks away. She wanted to jump over the counter.

Then the pharmacist’s head snapped to Darby. The woman’s features had gone slack, and the blood drained from her face. The person on the other end of the line said something that made her flinch. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips and she yanked the phone away from her ear.

‘He knows where I live,’ the pharmacist said, her voice stripped of colour.

‘Who?’

‘The man on the phone. At least I think it’s a man. His voice sounds … He sounds like he’s speaking through a computer.’

Barbara charged forward, her heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. ‘He said he was going to use a special knot on me.’ She held the cordless away from her as though she were carrying a snake. ‘He wants to talk to you.’

Darby dropped the file on the counter and took the phone. He must’ve followed me here, she thought as she moved across an aisle stocked with diapers and baby formula and jars of food. But how? She hadn’t seen anyone following her.

The front door came into view and Darby saw a young, pony-tailed guy minding a cash register, reading a weight-lifting magazine. He lowered it and watched her with curiosity and a growing alarm.

She brought the phone up to her ear. ‘McCormick.’

The disguised voice on the other end of the line spoke through a burst of static. ‘My girl,’ he said, and then let out a long moan, like someone riding the swell of an orgasm.

Darby couldn’t see the main road or much of the parking lot behind the curtains of snow, but she could make out her car, the driver’s side door hanging open.

‘I can’t wait until we get together. I’m gonna split you in half.’

Click.

Darby placed the cordless on a shelf stocked with discount boxes of Christmas cards. She took out her nine and from the corner of her eye saw the cashier drop his magazine, his face pale with shock.

She doubted the Red Hill Ripper was somewhere outside waiting for her to come out. He wanted to take her, and he would do it when she didn’t expect it, when she wouldn’t be able to see him coming. He wouldn’t call to alert her of his presence, and he wouldn’t make a move on her here, in a public place, with two potential witnesses. He had called because he wanted to remind her of his superiority. He wanted her to feel dread. She pushed open the doors and went outside.

Footsteps led away from her car. They were covered by snow; there wouldn’t be any way to get a mould of the impressions. Gun in hand, Darby slowly advanced to her car, snow flying into her face and the wind blowing her hair. The interior light was on; she moved around the open door, looked inside at her seat and saw two pieces of blue nylon rope speckled with white and red wrapped together to form a surgeon’s knot.