Twisted

by Andrea Kane

  Sloane waved off Derek’s concerns. “You’re right, he is odd. But he just when through a messy divorce, his mother’s all he’s got, and she’s slipping away. I think he’s scared.”

  “He’s got the hots for you, you know.”

  “I noticed.”

  “To my way of thinking, a recently divorced, vulnerable guy who’s odd and wants to hook up with you doesn’t sound like the ideal companion.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Sloane smiled. “But I wouldn’t worry. Burt’s seen my Krav Maga skills firsthand. I gave him and Elsa a demonstration once when I picked up the hounds. He’s also seen me shoot. I’m pretty intimidating with my bow and arrow. I’m also getting more accurate every day. At this point, my arrows consistently strike the red, in a tight cluster around the bull’s-eye. Truthfully, I think Burt’s fascinated by me, and at the same time, half afraid. He’s not exactly the macho type. He wouldn’t try anything for fear of his well-being.”

  Derek looked amused. “When you put it that way, maybe I should be scared, too.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  The phone rang again. This time it was Derek’s cell. He punched it on.

  “Parker,” he answered. “Mrs. Truman.” He shot Sloane a how-do-you-want-to-handle-this look. “Actually, I was going to get in touch with you either later today or tomorrow. Yes, we have some new information. But it’s only part of the whole picture. I was waiting until I had all the facts before I called you.”

  Tell her we’ll call her together on speakerphone. Sloane mouthed the words.

  Derek nodded. “I understand. You’re both anxious. Well, I’m reviewing the update with Sloane Burbank as we speak. Why don’t the two of us call you back on a landline using a speakerphone. That way, we can all take part in the discussion. Fine. Give us five minutes.” He punched off the phone. “Dr. Truman is with her,” he informed Sloane. “So this will be a four-way talk, complete with a castigation and interrogation session. Do you still want to take the lead? Because I assume that’s why you were signaling me.”

  “Yes, but only because I know them. It might take the tension down a notch or two.” Sloane’s pause was grim. “Not that my news is comforting. It implies the very worst of outcomes. This whole thing sucks.” She made a deferential gesture. “But this is your case. I told you I wouldn’t step on your toes, and I won’t. If you’d prefer to tell them what we found—”

  “No, I think it should come from you,” Derek replied emphatically. “I’ll fill in the official details, emphasizing the role the FBI lab at Quantico is playing, and the fact that our forensic engineer’s analysis is still in the works. I want the Trumans to feel reassured that all the FBI’s resources are being utilized for the purpose of solving Penelope’s disappearance.”

  “And I get to confirm their greatest fear. Because no matter how I spin it or cushion it, they’re going to draw the same conclusion we have—that Penny is dead.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  DATE: 8 April

  TIME: 1530 hours

  She walked right by me, eyes glazed, pupils as wide as saucers, oblivious to everything except the plastic bag stuffed in her pocket. That she fingered nervously, anxious to shoot up what she’d just scored.

  She weaved her way into the four-story tenement, so unsteady on her feet that she could barely make it. No surprise given the number of needles she’d probably stuck in her arm this past week.

  She looked strung out. Which meant she wasn’t as high as she needed to be. That was good news. She’d be more susceptible to pain.

  That was mandatory. She had to feel every life-draining slice of my knife.

  For the third time, I vomited in the street. I’d overdone it on the morphine. I knew it would make me sick, but I had no choice. How else could I dull the pain enough so I could drive down here and satisfy the demons?

  I never do this during the day. And never right out in the open. But I’m desperate. The demons won’t let me sleep until I give them what they want. Now.

  I know she’s alone. Her two “roommates” left to go shopping. They’ll be gone for a while. Not that anyone will notice. No one gives a damn who walks in or out of this dump they call a “resting house.” A lovely euphemism for the basement where whores live when they’re not at work. Late night is when their “careers” soar, when they go to that garish brothel on East Broadway and service the men.

  Not this ji nv. Not tonight. She won’t be alive to service anyone.

  I don’t know why the demons chose her, nor do I care. I’ve seen her come and go from the brothel a dozen times, even followed her here on two separate occasions. She’s been doing her job the longest. The demons must know that and have deemed her the one to punish. And made me their messenger.

  Even so, I’m furious that she’s forced me into this vulnerable position. My hands are starting to shake. The rage is beginning to pound through my body. Damn, I hate her, more every second. I can’t wait to carve her away, bit by bit.

  One more minute—enough time to sit down, get her fix ready, maybe even tie the tourniquet around her arm. But not enough time to inject the heroin. I want her alive, awake, aware, and terrified.

  And then I’ll send her to hell.

  It’s time.

  I walk down Eldridge Street, past a bunch of punks who look as seedy as the block we’re walking on. There’s garbage strewn everywhere. The sleazy teenagers are darting into doorways, probably picking up their Xstasy to sell tonight. They’re high as kites themselves, and wouldn’t remember my hooded sweatshirt or black gym bag if they fell over me.

  The stench of the tenement is vile—a combination of sex, filth, and drugs. I retch, but there’s nothing left to vomit up except bile. The staircase to the basement is cluttered with needles. I expected that, having followed her here before. The demons must have been preparing me.

  As assumed, I find her in the basement, crouched down on the concrete floor. Her back is propped against the wall as she concentrates on arranging what she needs for her next fix. The rest of the place is as still as death.

  I pull on my latex gloves. Then I shut the front door behind me and turn the lock.

  She looks up. Not surprised. Not anything. No emotion at all in those dark, almond-shaped eyes.

  “No,” she informs me. Her words are slurred, and the rest she mutters in Fukienese. But I understand enough. She’s instructing me to come to the brothel and make an appointment with “Susie.” She has the additional audacity to tell me she’s very busy and that she takes cash only.

  My hatred and revulsion escalate.

  “I’m not a client,” I respond in her dialect. Calmly, I unzip my bag and take out the photo equipment. I extend the tripod legs, set it in place, and anchor the video camera. I arrange it at the perfect angle so I can capture everything on tape.

  She looks vaguely puzzled, and asks who wants a picture of her.

  “I do.” I press record, finishing up that part of the ritual. Then I cross over to her, whisk out my prefilled hypodermic, and inject the ketamine in one quick stab to her thigh.

  She opens her mouth to yell in pain. I stuff a rag in it. Then I press her against the wall and hold her there, waiting for the ketamine to do its job.

  She fights like a wild animal. I restrain myself, knowing I’ll have all the time in the world to vent my fury—until she reaches up and slashes her nails across my neck. My neck. None of them has ever touched me before. I’ve been too strong, too focused. It’s the morphine doing this—and the slut.

  She does it again. That pushes me over the edge. Rage courses through me, stronger than my will. I don’t care that the ketamine hasn’t taken full effect. She touched me. She dared to lay one of her filthy hands on my body. I’m sickened.

  I backhand her across the face, calling her what she is. “Chao ji bei,” I snarl, backhanding her again. She lunges like a tigress, clawing at me and trying to lurch up and escape.

  I take out my com
bat knife, slash across her chest, up her neck, and down her arms.

  She screams silently, the rag absorbing the sound. She stares at the blood oozing down her body, and then stares at my knife.

  This time I see fear. Fear and pain.

  Her muscles begin to tense up as the ketamine does its job. She’s stiff. And she’s scared. Even though her eyes are glazed, she knows. She feels.

  That’s what I want. It’s what I need.

  I grab her legs and drag her onto the filthy floor, where she belongs. Flat on her back, like a trapped cockroach about to be crushed. Then I begin the second part of the ritual. I cut off her clothes, piece by piece, throwing them aside. I’m determined not to allow myself to experience that profane surge of pleasure. I spread her legs wide, tying one ankle to a radiator, and the other to a water pipe. She’s delicately formed, her body firm, her curves gently rounded.

  Like Artemis.

  The very thought sends me into a tirade. How dare I compare a whore like this to my pure and precious Artemis? It must be the morphine. Nothing else would do this to me.

  I unzip my fly. I never take off my clothes, not with any of them. That would demean me. I flinch as I touch myself. The pain in my groin is still bad, even with the morphine. As always, I extract a condom from my pocket—another absolute necessity. She’s a harborer of germs, of disease, of everything evil.

  I can’t get the image of Artemis out of my head. It’s wrong, so wrong. I hate myself for it. But I can’t make it go away. Not until I make this whore go away.

  I rip open the condom wrapper. I can’t harden my body enough to slide the damn thing on. It’s the injury. No, it’s the demons. They know I’m thinking impure thoughts about the purest of women. That terrifies and infuriates me. I rub myself fiercely. But to no avail. The pain in my testicles is too severe. And the demons are cursing me, threatening me, mocking me.

  I go wild. I shove the condom over my flaccid penis. It’s her fault. Hers and Tyche’s. Two biao zhis.

  I force my weight on top of hers, crushing her into the concrete floor with all my might. I lift up only to guide, shove, cram myself into her. It won’t happen. I begin pounding myself against her, desperate to penetrate. I can’t. I can’t.

  Sweat is pouring off of me. Pain lances through me with each unsuccessful thrust. Her blood is on my sweatshirt. I don’t care. I’m gripping her hair, pulling at it to gain leverage. It won’t work. Nothing will work.

  I launch myself off of her, seize my combat knife.

  I’ll conquer her one way or another, give the demons what they demand.

  The first slices are deep, cutting through muscle and tissue, severing blood vessels and puncturing organs. The feeling is euphoric, obliterating the rage, replacing it with a hunger for more.

  Excitement and power surge through me—the kind I get when I violate them. I’m shaking as I respond. I cut her again, and again, and again—each cut deeper, more frenzied. Time and place cease to exist. I’m blind to everything except the escalating pleasure taking possession of my senses. Building. Building.

  I stifle a shout as my body shudders, culmination shaking me to the core. I close my eyes, a prisoner to the feeling, my body lurching repeatedly as I fill the condom that hangs loosely from my aching member.

  My muscles go slack, and I roll onto my back, letting my eyes close and my head relax, loll to one side. I suck air into my lungs.

  I open my eyes and see her, or what’s left of her. Bloody. Mutilated. Butchered into nonexistence.

  I spit into her mangled face. Then I find the coin I brought, and place it beside her, in the stickiness of her spilled blood.

  The pain in my wrist, my nose, my testicles—none of it matters.

  The exhilaration is far greater. Because now I understand what the demons have been throbbing for.

  It’s the purest form of pleasure. Savoring evil, rather than festering over its temptation.

  A true victory. One I must revel in. And learn from.

  Hunterdon County, New Jersey

  4:15 P.M.

  As it turned out, Sloane and Derek had another four-way conference call, this time with FBI SSA William Mann and former SSA Lawrence Clark. The two men had worked closely together at the BAU for fifteen years before Larry’s retirement, so they were pleased to be doing so again. They listened carefully to the details Sloane and Derek provided.

  “How are we handling this?” Bill asked afterward in his customary blunt style. “If you want the BAU on board in an official capacity, then this phone call and request for our help has to technically be initiated either by Derek in his SA capacity, or by Sergeant Erwin at Midtown North. But if you want to skip the red tape and let Larry handle this alone, as an independent consultant, that’s fine. You’ll get the best there is and any of you can request his help.”

  “With one exception,” Larry taunted good-naturedly. “Now that I’m a consultant, I actually get paid. You know, real money, not like the Bureau salaries.”

  At his end of the phone, Bill chuckled.

  “We’d really like you both on board,” Sloane answered. “That’s why I reached out to you, and Derek reached out to Bill. This case is getting broader in scope. We could use both your expertise and the resources of the Bureau. Larry, the Trumans have offered to pay whatever fee you quote them, plus all your expenses. Their only stipulation is that you make this top priority.”

  “Meaning they want me up there yesterday.”

  “Exactly.”

  He drew a thoughtful breath. “I’ve got another urgent case to wrap up. That should happen tomorrow. I’ll drive up there as soon as I’m done. In the meantime, I can get started down here. If you either e-mail or fax me any case-file data, I’ll review it. Then we won’t lose any time. I’d need a day to familiarize myself with every detail of the case anyway.”

  “Consider it done.” Sloane was relieved and grateful. “I really appreciate it.”

  “It’s faster than I could get started,” Bill said truthfully. “We’ve got a couple of sensitive cases in the works right now, and I’m pretty much up against a wall. So Larry driving up there to do the investigative work would be ideal. He can check out the crime scenes, work up the victimology with you, and get the ball rolling. In the meantime, now that I have Derek’s official request, you have the full cooperation of the BAU. If I’m tied up, you can speak to my partner, who’s an excellent profiler. I’ll e-mail you her contact information. Then I’ll brief her, and our major-case specialists. You’ll be in good hands. And I’ll make myself available to you as often as possible. Let’s schedule our first video conference for the seventeenth.”

  “Fine with me,” Larry agreed. “Does ten o’clock work?”

  “It works and it’s now on my calendar.”

  “I’ll reserve the video conference room in New York, and we’ll make ourselves available,” Derek said, after receiving Sloane’s nod.

  “Before we hang up,” she jumped in quickly. “Is there anything you can suggest that would make us more productive at our end, at least until Larry gets here?”

  “Send Larry everything you’ve got ASAP. Do preliminary searches in VICAP and CODIS based on what you know so far. Derek, ask one of the task-force detectives on C-6 to get you access to the NYPD database, and do the same kind of preliminary search in RTCC. When Larry gets to New York, share all the results with him and let him do his investigative work. We’ll review everything on the seventeenth and see if we can derive additional patterns in either the crimes or the offender, which will allow us to further detail the profile.”

  Sloane didn’t look heartened, and Derek understood why. All the databases Bill had mentioned were only as useful as the data law enforcement officers provided. If pertinent violent crimes hadn’t been entered, VICAP wouldn’t have them. If their Unsub didn’t have a police record, there’d likely be no record of his DNA in CODIS. As for RTCC—the NYPD’s data warehouse to stop emerging crime by establishing patterns—it might
shed a few insights. Could it benefit them? Maybe. But was it even close to a panacea? No way.

  “Was there anything we gave you that would lead you to think in any one particular direction?” Sloane tried.

  Bill blew out a breath. “I understand how frustrated you feel. Honestly, I’m not giving you the runaround. But that’s a tough question to answer, since we have very little to go on and every case is different. Based upon the pattern and the targets—all attractive women on college campuses taken at knifepoint—plus the fact that none of them have resurfaced alive, I’d say we have two nobody homicides and an attempted third one, committed by a serial sexual killer.”

  “What about the fact that all the victims knew or were connected in some way to Sloane?” Derek asked. “Isn’t that an anomaly in your basic profile?”

  “It’s specific to this case, yes,” Larry explained. “But we can’t give you a full analysis on its significance until I’ve done my investigative work. In general, serial killers who commit sexual homicide—including no-body homicides—have no direct connection to the victims. They choose them based upon availability, vulnerability, and/or desirability. If there’s a variation to that profile—namely the victims’ ties to Sloane—we’ll probe it fully. What we do know about this offender is that he’s organized. His attacks have been planned, and his victims were targeted. Thanks to his third victim’s escape, we have a basic physical build and body type, a suspicion that he served in the military, a knowledge that he’s Caucasian yet speaks some Chinese dialects—”

  “Fukienese,” Derek interrupted. “All the phrases our C-6 language analyst came back to with were either Mandarin or Fukienese. They’re still working on the first phrase. It’s possible Tina misunderstood it.”

  “Good. We know Fukienese is a much rarer dialect than, say, Cantonese. All these things will factor into our analysis. Till then, all we can give you are the generalities you already know. Our Unsub is a white male, uses a combat knife as his weapon, probably has vivid sexual fantasies, some of them violent, and kills for sexual gratification. Offenders that fall into this category have a different assault site, murder site, and disposal site. We know that our Unsub’s assault sites are college campuses, but we don’t know his murder or disposal sites.”