Текст книги "The Last Victim"
Автор книги: Karen Robards
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After that, something in her had apparently been sensitized, because she had started seeing spirits on a regular basis. Every single time it was harrowing, heart-wrenching, and left her feeling physically sick. One of the reasons she had decided to become a psychiatrist rather than pursue another medical specialty was because psychiatrists almost never came into contact with the recently, violently dead in the course of their work. The other reason, of course, was that she wanted to see if she could find a way to identify and stop the human sharks that are serial killers. She felt she owed Holly that.
And now there was another of those sharks loose in the world, and he was about to slaughter another terrified seventeen-year-old girl unless he could somehow be stopped in time. Charlie’s heart turned over just from thinking about it. Dear God, how was it possible that such evil could exist in the world?
I can help the FBI just as much from here.…
“Your hands,” Bartoli prompted. Jolted back to the present, Charlie nodded.
There was a staff restroom nearby. Summoning every bit of willpower she possessed in an effort to mask how bad she really felt, Charlie started walking toward it, carefully averting her eyes from Garland’s body and the uproar that continued to surrounded it. Still, she couldn’t help glancing down the hall in the direction that Garland had looked right before he had vanished. Despite her effort not to think about it, the fear on his face lingered in her mind. What had he seen, in those first moments after his spirit had separated from his body? He had been a bad man who had done terrible things. At the moment of death, had he found himself facing divine retribution?
She didn’t know. She never knew.
Evil man or not, he was still deserving of pity: she said a silent, heartfelt prayer for his soul.
“Were you talking to somebody back there?” Crane lobbed the question at her in an offhand way that was belied by the look he gave her. He and Bartoli were walking with her, like some kind of Praetorian guard. “You know, at the end, just after you had lifted your hands up away from the wound but were still kneeling down beside the convict? Because it kind of seemed like you were talking to somebody, but nobody was there.”
Bartoli gave him a sharp look that said shut up as plainly as words could have done.
“I was saying a prayer,” Charlie answered with dignity, inspired by the one she’d just sent winging skyward for Garland. Crane frowned, but with Bartoli’s eyes on him, he let it drop.
“Do you want one of us to come in with you?” Bartoli asked as they reached the restroom.
Clearly, Charlie realized, she was not giving off the kind of I-got-it-together vibe she wanted to.
“No, of course not. I’m fine.” This time it was almost true. She was feeling stronger, almost herself, almost normal, as she pushed through the restroom door. That is, until out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed the guards heaving Garland’s body onto the stretcher. It took four of them, one latched onto each limb. His head dangled limply back in a way that simply wasn’t possible in life. Blood streamed from his chest, splattering as it hit the floor.
As the door swung shut behind her, Charlie felt sick all over again. Barely making it to the toilet in time, she promptly vomited.
After flushing, the first thing she did was wash her hands, carefully averting her eyes from the dyed-red water as it swirled down the drain. Then she rinsed her mouth, and her face. Finally, she sank down fully clothed on the toilet because it was the only place in the single-user restroom to sit, closed her eyes, and dropped her head to rest between her knees.
In an effort to make the restroom stop swirling around her, she started on a series of slow, deep breaths.
You wimp, you cannot faint in a bathroom with the FBI waiting outside. Get a grip.
But almost as soon as she had the thought she realized that the strong smell of fresh blood she couldn’t seem to escape was real, and from a still-present source, and her eyes popped open again. Seconds later she catapulted to her feet.
From her knees down, her pants were soaked with Garland’s blood.
“Oh, God.” Quivering with horror, she kicked off her sneakers, then stripped off her pants. Her legs, which were toned and tanned and shapely from her running regime, were smeared with blood, too. Stomach once again churning, she instantly attacked them with wet paper towels. Her sleeveless blouse was okay, she concluded as, having finished with her legs, she checked herself out front and back in the mirror, but her white ankle socks had to go: blood had leached onto them. The socks she discarded by dropping them into the wastebasket. She would have done the same with her slacks except, oh, wait, she couldn’t walk out of the restroom wearing nothing but her shirt and a pair of silky pink bikini panties. So she did the only thing she could think of: she plopped her pants in the sink and rinsed the blood out of them, careful to sluice them only from the knees down. Probably there were drops of blood elsewhere on her pants, but if so they were impossible to see—and in any case, she didn’t want to know. All she wanted was to get them blood-free enough so she could wear them for a brief period without having her skin crawl. As soon as she got home she would throw the pants away, never to be worn again, but for now she was stuck with them.
“Dr. Stone? You okay in there?” Bartoli called through the door.
Charlie realized she had been in the restroom for a good deal longer than just washing her hands required. She hated knowing that Bartoli and Crane were waiting right outside the door for her, wouldn’t even allow herself to consider that maybe they’d heard her losing her lunch, and tried not to think about why they were waiting, and what they wanted her to do.
“I’m fine,” she called back, glad that it was actually starting to be true. As long as she didn’t let herself think about the corpse—or the spirit that had been so violently separated from it—that would continue to be the case, she hoped. Thank God the water in the sink was running clear. Turning off the tap, she started to wring out the legs of her pants. Forget trying to dry them with the hot air from the hand dryer: she would wear them wet until she could get rid of them.
“Doc, you gotta help me,” said Garland’s voice behind her.
Charlie practically jumped out of her skin. Whirling, clutching the sink for support, she found him standing in front of the toilet, looking every bit as tall and muscular and solid as he had when he was alive. The shackles were gone; so was the blood. His prison jumpsuit was zipped to about halfway up his chest, and he balanced on the balls of his feet like a man poised to run. There was something dark and hunted in his eyes as they fastened on her.
“You got to fix me. Put me back together. Quick.”
Charlie took a deep breath. God, she hated this. He was dead, and yet here he stood crammed with her in a tiny, should-be-private bathroom, minus his restraints, which made him scary as hell, still possessing enough physicality to trap her against the sink, pinning her with his eyes, talking to her in that honeyed southern drawl, which fortunately she knew better than to trust one inch. A ruthless killer in life, she doubted he’d changed any in death. And because she was the victim of some hideous cosmic trick, she had no way to get away from him.
This whole I-see-dead-people thing totally sucks.
“I can’t put you back together,” she spoke as calmly and reasonably as she could. “I can’t fix you. You’re dead. You should be able to see a white light. Go toward the light.”
His brows snapped together. He looked at her with disbelief. “What are you, the fucking ghost whisperer? ‘Go toward the light’ is the best you can do?”
Actually, never having died herself, she had no idea if there really was a white light, but she’d said it before and spirits had never taken issue with it. She’d done a lot of research into the afterlife, too, and according to it—and, yes, TV—there should absolutely be a white light.
“The light should take you to where you’re supposed to go. To—to heaven.” Okay, she faltered on that last bit. Heaven for Garland might be a stretch.
He snorted. “Yeah, right. I’m gonna get beamed right up to those Pearly Gates and get my angel wings and halo on. I don’t think so. Look, I’m thirty-six years old. I got things to do, places to be. I fucking can’t be dead. Fix me.”
“I can’t fix you. You’re dead. Really. Go toward the light.”
Looking pissed, he crossed his arms over his chest. “News flash, Doc: there’s no damned light. There’s like this purple fog with things in it.” With a quick glance around, he seemed to become aware of exactly where he was. She got a glimpse of what she thought was panic in his eyes, and just thinking about what it must take to panic somebody as big and bad as Garland gave her goose bumps. “What are you doing in a bathroom in your underpants? Why aren’t you out there giving me CPR or something?”
Banging on the door, Bartoli called, “Dr. Stone, are you okay? Is somebody else in there?”
Crap, he must be able to hear her talking to Garland.
“I’m fine,” she called back for what felt like the dozenth time, making no effort to disguise the irritation in her voice. “I’m on my cell phone.”
Having glanced instinctively at the door when Bartoli knocked, Charlie looked back at Garland just in time to see him dissolve into a shimmer that swooshed toward the wall before vanishing.
“There has to be a light. Find it and go toward it,” she whispered after him urgently.
“Nice legs, Doc.” The reply that floated back to her was no louder than a breath, but Charlie heard it. Then, even more faintly, “Forget the fucking light.”
CHAPTER FIVE
By nightfall, which in North Carolina in August happens right around ten p.m., Charlie was in the FBI’s makeshift search headquarters, otherwise known as a Greyhound bus–sized RV parked in the driveway beside a pale pink beach house just outside of Kill Devil Hills. The RV was central command, the house provided parking for the RV and lodging for the agents—and Charlie, whose suitcase had already been carried up to the second floor. Not that she had been inside the house yet: she had been ushered straight into the RV. The feds had commandeered the property, which was next door to the murder scene, as their base of operations for the duration of the investigation. Having flown to this bustling beach town in a private plane with Bartoli and Crane, she was now surrounded by FBI agents—and cops, and sheriffs, and deputies, and constables, and practically every other law enforcement type known to man. Even as twilight had turned to full dark and tourists had left the wide white sand beach just beyond the dunes in favor of the town’s restaurants and nightlife, more law enforcement types had swarmed the place to report in or exchange information or otherwise help in the investigation, until the RV was as busy as a Macy’s just before Christmas. Seated at a desk in front of a computer in a tiny back bedroom that had been turned into a surprisingly efficient office, Charlie pushed the hard-copy files she had been studying aside to pour over the autopsy photos that had just popped up on her screen. Shaken loose from her safe haven at Wallens Ridge by the unnerving prospect of encountering Garland’s ghost every time she turned around for approximately the next week, she had embraced the lesser of two evils and agreed to do what Bartoli and Crane wanted.
Now she couldn’t believe she had ever hesitated. Bayley Evans’ desperate need had smacked her in the face the minute she’d stepped inside the RV to join the search dedicated to finding her. Any distress Charlie might be feeling—and she was definitely feeling some distress—was nothing compared to the terrible reality of the missing girl’s plight.
She’s going to die if we don’t find her fast.
The knowledge sat like a rock in Charlie’s stomach.
“So is anything jumping out at you?” The question came from Crane, who leaned back against the wall just a few feet away, scant minutes later. Ever since the photos had appeared on-screen he’d been watching Charlie like a dog hoping for a bone. The blinds covering the narrow window beside him were closed against the night, and the overhead light in the room was giving Charlie a killer headache. Or at least, something was. If not the light, then the glow of the computer screen, or possibly the fact that all she’d had since lunch (which she’d lost) was two cups of coffee and a candy bar. Or maybe it was because she was forcing herself to concentrate really, really hard on the details of the pictures in front of her to keep from getting emotionally flattened by the gruesomeness of the whole.
The photos were horrific. And that would be because the murders had been horrific. Charlie had known the pictures would be upsetting and had steeled herself to face them. But that didn’t mean they didn’t bother her anyway.
I hate this. But there was nothing to do but deal.
Setting her jaw, Charlie continued to study the picture in front of her, practically millimeter by millimeter.
Meanwhile, her headache cranked up to a whole new level of bad.
It had been a long day. But headache or no, the situation was too urgent for anything but an all-out, full-bore effort on everyone’s part, including her own.
Somewhere out there, a terrified teenage girl’s life was ticking down.
Just like Holly’s had. While Charlie had cowered in a hospital room under police guard.
I can’t think about that. If I do, I’ll lose it.
“We just got those photos uploaded a few minutes ago. Give me a break,” FBI Special Agent Lena Kaminsky snapped at Crane before Charlie could answer him. Late twenties, small and curvy, with a black, chin-length bob and an olive complexion, Kaminsky was pretty in a sultry, exotic kind of way that her snug-fitting navy blue skirt suit and killer high heels elevated to glamorous. Her super-feminine looks had made her aggressive personality come as something of a surprise. She’d already made clear her feelings about assisting Charlie, which were, in a nutshell, she had better things to do. At the moment, she was seated at the other desk in the room, which was catty-corner to the one Charlie was using, looking at the same images Charlie was viewing.
“Sorry.” Crane held up both hands and grimaced as Kaminsky glared at him. Clearly there was some kind of history there, but Charlie had no interest in trying to figure out what it was. Every bit of her focus needed to be on the screen in front of her.
Maybe I can find something that will save this one.
As soon as she had it, Charlie banished the thought. She had to deliberately force away the sense that she had any kind of special responsibility for the victim. Emotions would only get in the way of what she needed to do. If she started reliving what had happened to Holly—which she recognized was what her mind was subconsciously attempting to do—she would no longer be objective, and thus would be no use at all to Bayley Evans.
She was the expert. As such, she had to keep her past out of this. She would stay in the present. This girl deserved the best she had to give.
Looking at pictures of the gruesome slash mark that had nearly decapitated Julie Mead, Bayley Evans’ mother, Charlie felt both grimly determined and ill. The wound was so eerily similar to the one that had killed Diane Palmer that it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to close her eyes and turn away. Horrible memories tried to thrust themselves upon her consciousness, but she kept them at bay—barely—by concentrating on mundane details that kept her grounded in the here and now: the squeakiness of the office chair on which she sat, the uneven legs of the white metal desk in front of her, the glare coming off the monitor.
And if Bayley Evans reminded her irresistibly of Holly, well, that was just something she was going to have to keep from thinking about lest it cloud her judgment. Although that was difficult with a photograph of the sweet-faced blonde push-pinned to a bulletin board above the desk.
Cheerleader cute, tanned and blond, Bayley looked enough like Holly that they could have been sisters.
She also looked so young and happy and carefree that she broke Charlie’s heart. Once upon a time, Charlie had looked like that herself. Holly had looked like that. Until they, too, had been ambushed by random evil.
Only this time, Charlie was in a position to fight back.
“I’m ready.” Charlie nodded at Crane, who pushed the record button on the video camera he was holding. They had agreed that her insights would be recorded so that they could be viewed by the investigative team, which would convene again in the morning. The recording could then be replayed whenever and wherever it was needed.
“Go ahead,” Crane said.
“This guy hates his mother,” Charlie said into the camera. “Or his mother substitute. He was very likely raised by a single mother, probably biological but possibly adoptive or foster, middle– to upper-middle-class household. His mother or mother figure was abusive to him from a young age. Certainly physically and psychologically, possibly sexually as well.”
“You can tell that from looking at a couple of autopsy pictures?” Kaminsky broke in skeptically.
Charlie glanced at her. “Yes.” Turning back to the monitor, she pointed to the wound on Julie Mead’s neck. Crane came around with the camera to capture what she was pointing at. “The depth and severity of this wound indicates extreme rage and hatred. Either the killer knew this victim well and hated her, or she served as a symbol of a similar figure in his own life whom he hated. We have to assume the latter, because this is the third matriarchal figure to suffer this violent of an injury, and it’s very unlikely that the killer personally knew and hated all the mothers in all three of the targeted families. Therefore, she acted as a surrogate for his own.”
“Okay.” Crane turned the camera from the screen back to Charlie. “So why a middle– to upper-middle-class household?”
“Because of the nature of the victims. Bayley Evans’ family—all three families—are middle to upper-middle class. The killer is targeting these families for a specific reason, which is most likely that they remind him in some way of the circumstances in which he himself grew up. He is in part lashing out at his past.”
Kaminsky looked unconvinced. Charlie felt a flicker of annoyance.
“Anything else?” Crane asked.
“The killer is probably an only child. Or if there are siblings, they were much older and out of the house when he was growing up.”
Kaminsky’s brows went up. “How can you possibly tell that from autopsy pictures?”
Charlie kept a grip on her patience. “If you’ll call up a full body photo of each member of Bayley Evans’ family, I’ll show you.” The vagaries of an unfamiliar computer system were the reason Kaminsky was in the room: Kaminsky knew how to operate it. Charlie was perfectly proficient with computers, and it wouldn’t have taken her long to figure it out, she didn’t think, but however long it took her was time Bayley Evans didn’t have.
Or at least, that was how Bartoli had put it when he had ordered Kaminsky to work with Charlie on this.
A moment later autopsy pictures of Julie Mead; her husband, Thomas Mead; and their son and Bayley’s half brother, Trevor Mead, appeared side by side on the screen.
Charlie tried not to notice that Trevor Mead was a cute eleven-year-old kid. The only way she was going to get through this was if she mentally objectified the victims.
“The killing wounds in both of these victims were stabs, not slashes.” She pointed to the wounds on the torsos of Thomas and Trevor. “The only slashes were suffered by Julie Mead.” There were slashes to the woman’s arms and chest area and left cheek in addition to the fatal wound to the neck. Charlie pointed to each of them in turn. “The father and son were simply killed in the most efficient manner possible. The mother was slain with far more emotion, as the slashes clearly indicate.”
“He would have to be a pretty big guy to overpower Thomas Mead, who was six foot one, weighed in at around two hundred thirty pounds, and was a former football player and current assistant high school coach, without Mead showing any signs of defensive wounds, wouldn’t he?” Crane asked.
Charlie shook her head. “I can’t speculate about that. I will tell you that many times serial killers exhibit what appears to be extraordinary strength, which is believed to result from the adrenaline rush they get from acting out their fantasies.”
“According to the position, depth, and angle of the wounds, the perp is six foot one and approximately one hundred ninety pounds,” Kaminsky said impatiently, giving Crane a look. “We got that already without any help from Dr. Stone here. What we’re still working on is how he was able to take out Mead and the other adult male with such apparent ease. You’d think they would have fought like tigers.”
“He used a stun gun.” Having left without explanation about half an hour earlier, Bartoli was back, standing in the doorway, looking as tired and wired as Charlie felt. His eyes were bloodshot, the top button on his shirt collar was unbuttoned, and his tie was slightly askew. Stubble darkened his cheeks and chin, and his hair looked like he’d been running his fingers through it. He was still handsome, which Charlie absently noted in passing even though her thoughts were almost totally consumed with gruesome things. “We just had that confirmed a few minutes ago. The marks were right up past the hairline on the base of the neck, so they weren’t immediately apparent. They were present on the other adult male, too.”
The first case, which involved the slaughter of the Breyer family and the abduction and subsequent murder of their eighteen-year-old daughter, Danielle, included an adult male victim, Danielle’s father, whose first name Charlie had forgotten for the moment. The second case was the Clark family, consisting of two pre-pubescent sisters and their mother, as well as the teenage victim and presumed target, seventeen-year-old Caroline. The attacks had come three weeks apart, in separate small beach towns along the North Carolina coast. The teenage girls had been determined to be the primary target. Both their bodies had been found within ten days of the murders of their families and their abduction, buried under nearby boardwalks. It was only after the third attack, which was on Bayley Evans’ family, that the FBI had gotten involved, because until then no one had put the crimes together and suspected they were dealing with a serial killer, or connected the new killings to the unsolved Boardwalk Killer cases of fifteen years before. The local FBI had in turn contacted ViCAP, or the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, a specialized group that tracked serial killers, among other particularly dangerous violent criminals. Bartoli, Crane, and Kaminsky were an elite Special Circumstances FBI unit that was sent around the country to investigate serial killers as an offshoot of ViCAP, and they were assisting local agents in this case. When Bartoli had filled her in on these facts on the plane ride down, Charlie had been impressed with how fast the FBI had worked. In not much more than twenty-four hours, every available investigative force had been mobilized.
Including herself.
“That explains a lot,” Crane said, while Kaminsky threw him a triumphant look.
“And you thought they had to have been drugged. Told you that would have been way too hard to coordinate,” she said.
“You like being right way too much,” he retorted.
“This making any kind of sense to you?” Bartoli asked, his eyes on Charlie. She was looking at autopsy pictures of the other two adult female victims—the mothers, although she didn’t like to think of them in that way—whose wounds confirmed what she already knew.
“You’re looking for a Caucasian male who was raised by a single mother.” Charlie swiveled her wheeled chair around to fully face Bartoli as she spoke. Crane moved to keep the camera on her. “His mother was overbearing and abusive, certainly physically and psychologically and possibly sexually. There were no siblings in the household in which he grew up. He is heterosexual, probably with an addiction to pornography. He wet the bed, most likely past the age of twelve, and was severely punished for it. As an adolescent, he would have had trouble in school and been socially isolated. Wherever he went to high school, he’ll have a disciplinary record. There may be instances of fire-starting or voyeurism, or possible animal cruelty in his background, any of which might have drawn the attention of authorities, so he may have a juvenile record. I am almost certain that he either lives or works within a few mile radius of his victims, which since they are located in three separate towns means he is itinerant in some way. And there will have been a trigger event, something that precipitated the killing spree, probably within a month of the first murder. Most likely a divorce or romantic breakup, goading him to lash out against the victims, who are acting as substitutes for the female who rejected him.”
Bartoli lifted his brows at her. “You work fast.”
“I’m good at what I do.”
Bartoli’s tense face relaxed into a near smile. “That’s why we wanted you.”
“I would place his age at twenty-five to thirty-five, except for one thing: if he is indeed the Boardwalk Killer, then he would have to be older, forty to fifty.”
“You cannot possibly tell that from those pictures.” Kaminsky looked at her with palpable disbelief.
“No, I can’t,” Charlie agreed. “I know how old the Boardwalk Killer was because I saw him. He looked to be around thirty.”
Kaminsky’s eyes widened. Then she grimaced. “I forgot about that. Sorry.”
“That’s another reason you’re here,” Bartoli said imperturbably. “We’ve got the sketch of the unsub you assisted the police with fifteen years ago. We’re having it age progressed as we speak.”
“I’m not convinced it’s the same man. The dormancy period has been too long.” Charlie kept her voice steady, even though remembering the circumstances under which she had helped the police artist make the sketch made her palms grow damp. The artist had come to her in the hospital. Charlie had tried to stay calm, but by the time the sketch was finished she’d been shaking and crying: a mess.
And in the end, none of it had helped Holly.
I can’t think about that.
“We’re not one hundred percent convinced, either. It’s a possibility we’re exploring,” Bartoli told her.
Charlie looked up at Bartoli. “He will have taken a trophy of some sort from the primary victims, like a piece of jewelry or clothing. Always the same type of object, which he will keep as a memento. Do you know what he’s taking for trophies? Because that will tell you something about him.”
“Not yet.” Bartoli signaled to Crane to turn off the recorder, then looked at Charlie again. “You up to visiting the crime scene tonight? If you’re exhausted, we could hold off until tomorrow, but …”
His voice trailed off. There wasn’t any need to say more. Everybody in that room knew that every second counted in the race to find Bayley Evans while she was still alive.
Charlie refused to think about what she was letting herself in for. “I’m up to it.”
“Let’s go, then.” He looked at Crane. “You can get busy pulling up the juvie records for two periods of time: twenty-five to thirty-five years ago, and seven to seventeen years ago. Whether this guy is the Boardwalk Killer or not, that should cover his teenage years. Look for what Dr. Stone said: fire-starting, animal cruelty, any kind of predatory violence. Also, run Dr. Stone’s original sketch through the juvie databases to see if we can find a match.”
Crane nodded. “On it.”
“And you”—Bartoli’s gaze shifted to Kaminsky—“start looking for someone who’s been out of commission for the past fifteen years and has just resurfaced. Caucasian male of the right age who’s been in prison and was just released, been out of the country, been in a hospital, you know the drill.”
“Got it,” Kaminsky said.
Ten minutes later, with Bartoli beside her, Charlie was heading for the Mead’s rented beach house, which was pastel blue and located next door to the pink one the RV was parked beside. The pink house, she had learned, had been chosen precisely because it was the next property down from the crime scene, although the two houses were separated by a considerable expanse of sea oats–covered sand. Walking along the wooden sidewalk that wound through the dunes—Bartoli had nixed driving; he didn’t want to alert the media (presently being kept at bay out front by the local cops) to their arrival—Charlie let the brisk wind blowing in from the ocean do what it could to soothe her. It smelled of salt and the sea, and lifted tendrils of her hair that had worked free of the loose knot at her nape and slid beneath the V-neckline of her sleeveless white blouse to caress her skin. Even with the breeze, the night was warm enough so that the black blazer she carried over one arm was not needed. She was once again wearing black pants—clean black pants; she had a lot of them—with heels. It was her professional but not-inside-a-prison look.
A makeshift fence composed of a line of yellow crime scene tape surrounded the house, blocking the sidewalk in front of them. Bartoli circumvented it by the simple expedient of ducking beneath it, then holding it out of the way so Charlie could follow.
Once on the other side of the tape, she took one last look at the house from the sanctuary of the beautiful summer’s night. It was a large, rambling, two-story structure, with a multitude of windows and a wide gallery on the second floor. Built back-to-front, as most beach houses were, it had the main living areas facing the ocean, while the garage and lesser areas, like laundry rooms, fronted the street. The curtains were tightly drawn, but inside the house blazed with light, making the windows seem to glow. It was a sad commentary on the situation that the darkness outside seemed way preferable to what awaited within, Charlie thought. For a moment longer she stood still, drinking in the night with its starlit, black velvet sky and palely gleaming beach and rumbling waves. Then she mentally squared her shoulders and let Bartoli usher her inside the house.
