Текст книги "Fear the Dark"

Автор книги: Chris Mooney

Соавторы: Chris Mooney
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

20

The Ripper Task Force operated out of a squad room with white panelled walls and insanely bright overhead fluorescents that reflected off the grey linoleum floor. A dozen or so cops and patrolmen packed the small room, the warm air smelling of coffee and cigarette-baked clothes. Posters advertising the state’s $100,000 reward and toll-free number for the hotline had been tacked to the walls in the front of the room.

Ray Williams stood in the back, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. As Darby made her way to him, the haggard faces seated behind the scuffed desks regarded her with suspicion. Some blatantly looked her over from head to toe, like they were inspecting a piece of meat. She was the only woman in here – the only living one, at least. Crime scene photographs of the dead women were held by magnets to the rolling whiteboards on the far side of the room. A map of the town was pinned to a standing corkboard: the murder sites were marked with pushpins and beside each one was a Post-It note indicating the victims’ names and time and manner of death.

‘Any luck with the phone number?’ Darby asked when she reached him.

Williams leaned into her, a breath mint clinking against his teeth. ‘It belongs to a payphone two blocks from your hotel,’ he whispered. ‘Not going to get any witnesses, I’m afraid. Payphone’s set between two stores, both of ’em out of business. You get any sleep?’

‘Couple of hours.’

Darby leaned her back against the wall. Williams’s cheeks glowed from a morning shave, and his skin smelled of sandalwood and leather. Had he worn aftershave for her? She hadn’t smelled any on him yesterday.

‘How you holding up?’ he asked.

‘Never better.’

Williams leaned closer, grinning, his eyes filled with amusement. ‘Does it ever get tired?’

‘Does what get tired?’

‘Wearing all that armour.’

Darby found herself grinning. ‘Sometimes I take it off.’

‘Really? And when would that be?’

‘Depends on the person, and the circumstances.’

Williams cracked his breath mint on his molars and smiled with his eyes.

Hoder entered with Red Hill Police Chief Tom Robinson, a tall and reedy baby-faced man with marbled skin and ruddy cheeks. Williams had told her that Robinson, a widower and grandfather who suffered from Crohn’s disease, recently had part of his colon removed and wore a colonoscopy bag. The chief refused to step down from his position until the Red Hill Ripper investigation was closed.

Robinson made a point of distancing himself from the man who had entered the room behind them – Brewster Deputy Sheriff Theodore Lancaster, who was quickly finishing up a conversation on his phone. Darby, veteran of squad rooms and police debriefings, recognized a pissing contest when she saw one.

She looked sideways at Williams, who had straightened, his eyes riveted on a neutral spot ten inches from his nose. Blood climbed into his neck and she saw the cartilage working behind his jaws. Apparently he hadn’t been told about Lancaster’s surprise visit.

Lancaster matched glares with Williams as Robinson took to the podium. Darby wondered how much information the police chief would reveal to his people with Lancaster in the room.

Robinson’s raspy voice had a slight nasal twang, as though he were recovering from the tail end of a cold. ‘Everyone got their cells muted? Okay, good. Listen up. Most of you have already met Special Agent Hoder. And y’all know the man standing to my left, Teddy Lancaster.’ The chief’s face and tone echoed the contempt he felt for the Brewster sheriff. ‘I don’t have to tell y’all why Teddy’s here with us this morning.’

Dead silence. Hostile silence. Darby could hear the hum of the Coke machine in the lobby.

‘Okay, let’s get down to business,’ Chief Robinson said. ‘The mobile lab from the FBI’s Denver office had some sort of mechanical problem yesterday, so the evidence recovered from the Downes home was taken to Denver last night. Now, about what was found in the Downes house. Same setup as the others – family tied to chairs, male suffocated to death, the women strangled. Same duct tape and same plastic bindings. You’ll know the lab results when I do.’

Lancaster spoke up. ‘I’d like copies as well.’

The chief didn’t answer or acknowledge Lancaster. ‘The Bureau’s lab identified the type of knot the killer used,’ Robinson said. ‘I’ll let Agent Hoder explain while I pass these out.’ He started to hand out pictures from a file as Hoder folded his arms and rested them on the podium. It was easier and more comfortable to lean against it than to try to balance his weight on the cane.

‘It’s called a surgeon’s knot,’ Hoder said.

The seated men leaned forward to hear Hoder’s soft voice.

‘A surgeon’s knot is a figure-eight knot that’s generally used in sailing and rock climbing, which leads me to believe the Ripper may have experience in one or both of these areas. Maybe he took sailing lessons as a boy or spent part of his youth working on boats. Maybe his father or grandfather was a fisherman; you get the idea. The other possibility is he could simply be a knot fetishist. And, yes, such a thing exists.’

Timid laughter, but not from Lancaster. His gaze, Darby saw, kept jumping between her and Williams.

‘There are the usual internet forums where people who are into bondage and S & M discuss various knots and binding techniques,’ Hoder said. ‘There are also people, generally men, who are simply fascinated by knots. They get together and teach each other how to tie these sorts of complicated knots. These clubs, get-togethers, whatever you want to call them, are a relatively new phenomenon. As you can imagine, they don’t advertise in the Yellow Pages. They don’t want to attract any unwanted attention for obvious reasons, but a few do openly advertise on the internet. We should see if such a club is operating in or around Red Hill.’

Smart, Darby thought. Damn smart. She had heard about clubs that catered to knot fetishists, but she hadn’t stopped to consider that the Red Hill Ripper might be a member of one.

‘My computer people haven’t found a local club listed on the web,’ Hoder said. ‘They might have a website that can’t be accessed conventionally, one that’s in the Deep Web or the Darknet. Our tech guys are going to see what they can uncover. I won’t bore you with the technical details.’

‘Good,’ someone said.

Snorts and chuckles all around.

‘We’re looking for a white male in his late forties to early fifties,’ Hoder said. ‘He’s an introvert but not a loner. He’ll have a steady job and be married or in a long-term relationship. He’ll have a normal sexual relationship with his wife or partner, but he won’t share his love of knots with her or his desire to tie her up and strangle her.

‘Check prostitutes to see if they had a john who was into knots, possibly tied them to chairs with plastic ties and used duct tape. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he had practised using the same knot and the same items.

‘He won’t have a history of anger issues. He’ll be a regular guy-next-door type who is neat in appearance. The same holds true for his house. Everything will be neat and orderly, possibly to the point of an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

‘That’s all I have at the moment. Questions?’

There were none.

Chief Robinson took centre stage again. ‘It’s possible that we have an interesting development. I’ll let Dr McCormick explain. That’s the lady standing in the back – and she’s had great experience in these types of cases. Come on up and meet the fellas.’

Darby hesitated.

‘No need to be shy,’ Robinson said. ‘Crowley over there doesn’t bite any more.’

Snorts and titters.

Darby didn’t want to go up to the front. She didn’t want to turn this into a Q & A session. She didn’t have any concrete proof that the Ripper had, in fact, recorded what he had done to the Downes families and to the other families, or that the killer had been listening in on yesterday’s conversations. She could smell the desperation in the room. She didn’t want to give these men false hope.

She went, though, the heels of her harness boots clicking across the floor.

Darby turned and faced the room. Her deep green eyes stood out in her tanned face.

‘I have reason to believe the killer may have watched and possibly recorded what he did to the families,’ Darby said, and then launched into her theory of how the camera installed in a smartphone, iPad or laptop had been pointing at the murdered family at each crime scene.

‘At the moment it’s just a theory,’ Darby said. ‘We’ll know more later today, after the devices have been looked at.’

A cop with a buzz cut said, ‘So if he was recording himself, it’s possible he could’ve been listening, maybe even watching, what you guys were doing inside the house yesterday.’

‘I won’t know anything for sure until the FBI’s computer guys in Denver finish examining the devices.’

‘In other words, he could’ve been spying on us this whole time.’

‘Maybe.’

Darby saw the exhaustion and defeat in their faces. Some had taken out their phones and were studying the screens.

‘No tip or thought or theory is insignificant,’ Darby said. ‘Bring them to us. It goes without saying that this is your case. I don’t give a shit about turf or who gets credit. That holds true for Agents Hoder and Cooper. I’m leaving a stack of cards here on this desk.’

Darby had started to walk to the back of the room when Lancaster said, ‘I have some questions, Dr McCormick.’

21

Lancaster shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘This theory of yours,’ he said, puffing out his chest a bit. ‘Something of a stretch, don’t you think?’

‘I worked a case where the perp left behind hidden microphones at the crime scene, so he could listen in on the police and forensics,’ Darby said.

‘Just one case?’

‘So far.’

‘So this sort of thing is pretty rare.’

‘If you have an alternate theory or idea, I’m sure everyone here would love to hear it.’

From the corner of her eye Darby caught more than one man trying to suppress a grin. She looked only at Lancaster.

‘I meant no disrespect,’ Lancaster said. ‘You and Agent Hoder have stellar reputations, and I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we’re glad to have you here with us.’

The man’s tone hit all the conciliatory notes. Darby wasn’t surprised. The deputy sheriff’s position was an elected office. As a seasoned politician, he knew how to serve up bullshit and call it filet mignon. But all his slick-speak and well-honed gestures couldn’t hide the fact that the man was a first-class asshole.

‘I understand you received a phone call last night,’ Lancaster said. ‘At your hotel.’

Darby had told only Williams and Hoder about the phone call, and neither would have told Lancaster. How did he find out? Because there’s at least one person here leaking information to Lancaster, she answered. Someone, maybe several people, were looking to score points with the deputy sheriff.

‘I was told this person threatened you,’ Lancaster said. ‘Something about wanting to get you in the rope.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Could you please tell us the contents of your conversation? It might be beneficial to our case.’

Not only was Lancaster trying to embarrass her – payback for last night – he was making an active play to diminish her worth as an investigator. If she didn’t answer – if she showed the slightest hint that she was embarrassed or uncomfortable – every man in this room would view her with a limp sympathy, similar to the way many viewed women who had been sexually assaulted. They’d isolate her like a leper and refuse to talk about the case in front of her.

When Darby spoke, her voice was calm. Clear. ‘He said I had nice tits. His words, not mine.’ She smiled. A couple of men returned it. A few avoided looking directly at her altogether. ‘Then he said he liked my choice of underwear, which, for the record, was a pair of white boy shorts made by Hanes. I buy them in a three-pack at Target.’

She got a few chuckles. It immediately diffused most of the tension in the room. But not Williams’s: his heated gaze bored into the deputy sheriff, and Lancaster returned it.

‘He said he couldn’t wait to get me into his rope. He ended his call with a long, drawn-out goodbye, and hung up. He called from a nearby payphone, and he used some cheap piece of shit voice-changer. That’s it.’ Darby turned back to Lancaster and said, ‘Any more questions about my boobs and underwear, Sheriff?’

Lancaster remained stone-faced and serious; her words had washed right over him. ‘Anything you’d like to add to Agent Hoder’s profile? Maybe another avenue we should explore?’

Darby felt her iPhone vibrate inside her jacket pocket; a text message had been delivered. She ignored it but wondered if Coop had just sent her an update from Denver.

‘I agree with Agent Hoder’s assessment,’ she said. ‘The only thing I would add is that the Ripper’s sexual sadism and need to bind and torture women – that’s something he probably experimented with as a teenager, meaning he practised tying himself up. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he dressed up as a woman when he did it. I would also take a serious look at any suspect who’s familiar with autoerotic asphyxiation.’

‘Could you explain that please?’

‘Explain what?’

‘Autoerotic asphyxiation. I don’t want to assume everyone here is familiar with the term.’

Her phone vibrated again. Another text had come through. She ignored it and said, ‘It’s cutting off oxygen to the brain, usually by using a rope, while masturbating. Supposedly, it heightens the orgasm.’

‘Have you had any experience in this area?’

‘I haven’t, but I’m sure you won’t mind answering any questions these boys might have.’

Someone stifled a laugh. Then she heard footsteps coming her way, turned and saw Ray Williams waving his hand at Robinson.

‘Excuse me, Chief,’ Williams said, ‘but I need to borrow Dr McCormick here for a minute.’

Robinson gave a short, curt nod. Lancaster tracked Williams as he walked all the way to the front of the room. As Williams held the door open for her, the chief started to explain how Red Hill and the deputy sheriff’s people were going to start working in shifts at Pine Hill Cemetery. Almost all of the Red Hill Ripper’s previous victims were buried there. It was Hoder’s belief that the killer would visit the graves to relive the murders.

Not if he recorded them, Darby thought as she stepped out into the hall. It was surprisingly quiet for a police station: the only sound was that of a janitor wringing out his mop in a bucket.

Then she remembered the text message that had come through. She retrieved her iPhone as the door swung shut behind Williams.

‘What is it with you and Lancaster?’ Darby asked. ‘He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.’

‘May I see your phone? I’m having problems getting a signal on mine.’

Darby caught the slight hitch in his voice, and his eyes seemed wired. He looked like he was going to snatch the phone from her hand.

She stepped away and hit the button on her phone; the screen came to life.

‘Give it to me,’ he said. ‘Please.’

Williams looked alarmed. Sick. But Darby didn’t hand over the phone. She swiped her thumb across the screen and felt her stomach drop.

22

Darby had received two text messages. Neither contained any words: there was just a thumbnail picture in each. She tapped the first photo and when it enlarged she broke into a cold and greasy sweat.

The photo had been taken through her window. It showed her standing inside her hotel room, naked and facing the camera, her back arched and her hands frozen behind her head; she’d been in the process of tying back her damp hair when the camera’s shutter had snapped shut.

The second photo showed her standing in the low-rise underwear that hugged her hips.

She looked up at Williams, saw the expression on his face and knew he had been sent the same photos. His face blurred and she felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach.

Inside the squad room she could hear Police Chief Robinson speaking in low, hushed tones. When Darby went to look through the door’s glass partition, Williams darted in front of her and blocked her view.

It didn’t matter. The glimpse she had caught was enough.

Darby walked away and, finding her legs unsteady, stopped and placed a palm flat against the side of the Coke machine.

Then Williams was standing next to her. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, his voice sounding far away, as though he were speaking to her from down the end of a long tunnel. ‘I’m going to go back in there and make sure every one of those photos is deleted.’

But you can’t delete what just happened, Darby thought. You can’t delete what they just saw.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes and, inhaling deeply, replayed what she had seen inside the squad room before Williams had blocked her view, how the men were standing together, each one looking at his cell. One stared lasciviously at his screen while another puckered his lips and arched his eyebrows and whistled approvingly at her nakedness.

‘I don’t know how the bastard got our numbers,’ Williams said. ‘But I promise you we’ll find out. I’ll get a court order and within an hour we’ll have traced the cell.’

‘Burner.’

‘What?’

‘Burner. Disposable cell.’ Her voice sounded foreign in her ears, as though someone else were speaking. ‘You can buy ’em for next to nothing in practically any convenience store. That’s why anyone looking to avoid a wiretap uses them. He’s probably already chucked it.’ It was a dead end and Williams knew it.

‘Let’s go to my office. It’s right down the hall. You want some water? A Coke?’

Screw this. Darby brushed past him, her heels clicking across the floor.

Williams caught up with her. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Going to see who else got these pictures.’

‘I’ll do it.’

Darby stopped walking. ‘What do you want me to do, Ray, go and hide in your office? Hang my head in shame because this asshole sent out some tit shots of me? Screw that.’ She pushed open the door and entered the squad room.

I still own the first weapon I ever purchased: a Springfield bolt-action rifle. It had an M84 telegraphic sight and fired .30–06 shells from a clip-loaded, five-round magazine feed. The Springfield was one of America’s finest firearms. It became the standard infantry rifle during World War II and, because of its accuracy and reliability, was used by snipers during the Korean and Vietnam wars.

There’s a range I sometimes go to just outside of Denver, one that offers paper targets printed with human silhouettes. Mostly I practise near my home. Twice a month, usually on a Sunday afternoon, I pack a lunch and a thermos of black coffee and head deep into the woods behind my house to keep up my long-distance shooting skills. I’ve conducted this monthly ritual for as long as I can remember. The reason is both simple and practical: no matter how meticulous and prudent I am with my planning and execution, there’s always the risk of my secret life being discovered.

Every decision we make involves managing consequences. I have thought long and hard about how I want to depart this world, the mark I want to leave, and it doesn’t involve my being handcuffed and escorted to a waiting patrol car. History doesn’t remember compliance and co-operation. It records blood. When the police come for me, I’ll turn myself into Colorado’s version of Charles Whitman, the former Marine and engineering student who, after stabbing his mother and wife to death in their sleep, entered the Tower of the University of Texas at Austin the following morning and, armed with bolt-action rifles and several other firearms, killed seventeen people and wounded thirty-two others in a mass-shooting rampage. I have boxes of rifle ammo stored in strategic locations all over the house. I need only remember to save one bullet for myself.

The police, the FBI or anyone else for that matter will never be able to search my house. Before I die, I’ll set the timer for the bomb I’ve constructed.

The only solace I take in this scenario is that Sarah will join me in death. Together, we’ll travel through the next world – and there is a next world. I’m not a religious man, but I do know that the love we share is something that survives death. Only a monster would believe otherwise.

I could drive back home and do it now. Head downstairs to the basement and then come back up and spare us both what’s coming down the road.

No, that won’t work. There’s no way Sarah won’t see the rifle. I don’t want to scare her. Better to wait until she’s asleep. It’ll be more peaceful that way. Humane.

There’s another option: set the bomb, then crawl into bed and make love to her one last time before the blast rips us apart and scatters our remains for miles. The bomb’s construction is simple but crudely effective: a timer connected to five sticks of dynamite, with blasting caps stolen from a locked storage facility at a construction site.

Then my thoughts shift to the picture tucked into my coat pocket. All that work I put into researching Angela Blake and the others, and now I can’t take her or Tricia Lamont or anyone else, all because of that red-headed bitch the FBI sent here.

In my mind’s eye I see my father’s steamer trunk. It sits in a corner of the basement, near my Springfield. The magazines are long gone – my whore of a mother saw to that, burning them in our backyard fire pit – but I still have my father’s uniform and belt, which, while snug, do fit me. In addition to the dynamite and blasting caps, the trunk houses a few other treasures I’ve collected over the years. I pull over to the side of the road, complete a U-turn and drive home.