by Alex Kava
Where in the world had he taken her? And why?
She looked around again, her vision still blurred, distorting the items on the shelves, elongating and swirling them like something out of a van Gogh painting. Maybe she was hallucinating. Yes, maybe this was all a dream, a nightmare.
She tried to think through the cobwebs in her brain. She needed to stay calm. No good would come from panic. And she didn’t seem to have any energy left. She couldn’t allow the panic to take control of her again, to exhaust her. Last night…or was it days ago? How could she be sure? He had drugged her. Asked in his polite tone that she drink a bottle of some concoction.
“It won’t hurt,” he had promised her in that little-boy voice that she had once found endearing. “It tastes like cough syrup.”
But when she refused, she remembered how he grabbed her, shoving her into a headlock. She had been surprised by his strength, by his frenzy, by his…his madness. He had forced the liquid down her throat despite her clawing at him, despite her kicking and coughing and gagging. Yes, he had become a madman, totally out of control. Someone she didn’t recognize, and certainly not the Sonny she thought she had gotten to know.
She began to cry, thinking about it. Why had he done this? Why had he brought her here? What did he intend to do with her? If she screamed would anyone hear her?
She looked around the room again. The door was certainly bolted even if she could escape her restraints. Now she noticed that there were leather bindings attaching her ankles to the bed rails, as well. She couldn’t focus on that. She wouldn’t panic. She would talk to him. Yes, they would talk. Where was he? Had he left her? What in the world did he intend to do with her? She knew he hadn’t sexually assaulted her. If that wasn’t what he wanted, then what was it?
As if trying to find the answer, she began examining the room. There were shelves with jars of all sizes, crocks with metal-clasp lids, plastic containers, bottles and gallon glass containers. Close to her bed was a table with a lighted aquarium, illuminated jellyfish floating along the surface. On the other side was another table with what looked like bowls made of bits and pieces of shells.
There were pictures on the wall. Black-and-white photos of a boy and his parents. She couldn’t tell if the boy was Sonny. This was definitely someone’s work space or hideaway. There was no need to feel frightened, she tried to convince herself. She could talk to Sonny. Yes, talk and see what he wanted from her.
She lay back down, feeling better. The pillows were so soft. He had gone to some trouble to make her comfortable, despite whatever drug he had forced down her. But even the drug had simply made her sleepy. No headache, no hangover. She would just wait. Eventually he would come in and they would talk. She could feel herself relaxing. That was when she saw the shelf above her head.
She bolted up in bed, straining against the leather and twisting to get a better view, making herself look despite a fresh panic and the urge to flee. On the shelf above her were three skulls, hollow eye sockets staring out at her.
Oh, dear God! Why? What was this place?
She tried to focus on what was in the jars across the room, but it was too far to see anything more than blobs. Then she stared at the jellyfish in the aquarium next to the bed. They were transparent, illuminated from the backlighting, floating on the surface. There was nothing else in the aquarium. No little rocks at the bottom, none of the colorful greenery. She pulled herself closer for a better look. Did jellyfish always float on the surface like that?
Then in the light she noticed that both jellyfish had numbers imprinted on their surfaces. A string of numbers like a serial number, some sort of identification.
“Oh, my God!” Suddenly, she recognized them from a visit she had made to a plastic surgeon. These weren’t jellyfish at all. They were breast implants.
CHAPTER 27
Dr. Stolz didn’t bother to hide his displeasure. Maggie saw the scowl he gave Sheriff Watermeier—it was the third or fourth one of the day, Maggie had lost count. The sheriff announced he needed to leave but that she was welcome to stay. For a brief moment she expected Stolz to forbid it. But how could he? Instead, he muttered something into his mask about outsiders. Maggie got the impression he didn’t just mean her, but Watermeier, as well.
She wasn’t sure why she stayed. The only reason she was here was to identify Joan Begley. Perhaps she hoped that this victim, this woman, might be able to provide some answers of where Maggie could start looking for Gwen’s missing patient.
She watched from beside the stainless steel table. Her hands stayed in her pockets beneath the gown. It was an effort to keep them from helping, part instinct and part annoying habit. Already once she had reached for a forceps, stopping herself before Stolz could see.
He was slow. Slow but not necessarily meticulous. In fact, his movements seemed a bit sloppy, slicing here and there around the edges of the body cavity, reminding Maggie of a fisherman severing all the linings before gutting a fish in one swift scoop. It wasn’t the usual reverence she was accustomed to seeing medical examiners use. Perhaps it was simply a performance for her benefit. At first she worried that he would use the less-popular Rokitansky procedure where all the organs come out at once—one block of the internal system—instead of the Virchow method where each organ was removed separately to be examined.
She watched him cut with his elbow bent, hand zigging back and forth, a strange, almost sawing motion. But then she was relieved to see his gloved fingers reach in and scoop out the lungs, one at a time. First the right lung, which he plopped on the scale, then he yelled over the utensil tray to the recorder on the counter, “Right lung, 680 grams.” He dropped it into a container of for-malyn and scooped up the left one. “Left lung, 510 grams. Color in both, pink.”
Maggie disagreed. She wanted to mention that the left lung was not quite as pink as the right, but kept quiet. It wasn’t enough to note. No signs of foul play, at least none that had affected the lungs. In the killer’s mutilation to get at the breast implants, he hadn’t even punctured the lungs. And there wasn’t enough discoloration to indicate that the woman had ever been a smoker. The darker pink of the left lung may have only suggested that she had spent a good deal of her life as a city dweller.
Dr. Stolz picked up a needle and syringe off the tray, looked it over, then exchanged it for a larger one. He inserted the needle into the heart, drawing blood into the syringe. The heart showed definite signs of being punctured by the killer. Maggie could easily see a cut that didn’t belong, next to the area where Stolz took his sample. Satisfied, he labeled the sample and set aside the syringe, but he didn’t bother to remove the heart. Instead, he moved down to the stomach.
Maggie didn’t let him see her impatience. Okay, so he had his own way of doing things.
Of all the incredible workings and mysteries of the human body, Maggie always thought the stomach to be one of the most whimsical of the organs. It resembled a small, saggy pink pouch. A simple and soft touch of a scalpel was usually all that was needed to slit it open, and Stolz, despite his bull-in-a-china-shop approach, handled this organ with a gentleness that surprised Maggie. He laid it on a small stainless steel tray of its own, slit it open slowly and carefully. Using just his fingertips, he spread back the walls. Then, reverting to his normal routine, he grabbed a stainless steel ladle and began scooping out the contents, pouring them into a small basin on the tray.
Maggie moved around the table for a closer look. Stolz didn’t seem to mind. Now he seemed excited and anxious to share.
“Still lots here,” he said, continuing to scoop and stir the contents, clanking the metal ladle against the metal side of the basin with each pour. “This might be our best estimate of time of death. Being in that barrel threw off too many of the other indicators.”
So that was why he was so interested. Finally, something to show off his expertise.
“Is that green pepper?” Maggie asked.
“Green pepper, onions, maybe pepperoni. Looks l
ike she had pizza. Lots still here, which means she was most likely murdered shortly after her meal.”
“What do you think? Two hours?” Maggie knew that almost ninety-five-percent of food moved out of the stomach within two hours of being consumed. However, it wasn’t an exact science, either. There were things that sped up digestion, just as there were things that slowed it, stress being a major factor.
“Not much has made it into to the small intestine yet,” he said, his fingers back in the body cavity examining the coil of intestine. “I’d guess less than two hours. Closer to one.”
“So the next question, can you tell whether or not it was frozen or restaurant style?”
He looked up at her with raised eyebrows. “The pizza? Why in the world would that matter?”
“If it was restaurant style, chances are she ate out that night. Maybe even with someone. We might be able to track where she was—and with whom—right before she was murdered.”
“Well, that’s simply impossible to know,” he told her, shaking his head. “But—” he seemed to reconsider as he stirred the contents with what looked like an ordinary butter knife “—the colors, especially of the vegetables, seem brighter than normal, which from my experience could indicate that they were fresh and not frozen.”
Maggie brought out a pocket notebook and jotted down the contents. When she looked back up, Stolz was staring at her, his arms folded over his chest. The scowl had returned and was now directed at her, the only person left to try his patience.
“You can’t be serious?” he said. “You think the killer took her out for pizza first, then bashed in her head and sliced out her breast implants? That’s absurd.”
“Really? And why do you say that, Dr. Stolz?” It was her turn to grow impatient with his questioning of her expertise, his distrust that an outsider might have an answer.
“For one thing, that would suggest it could be someone local.”
“And you don’t think that’s possible?”
“This is the middle of Connecticut, Agent O’Dell. Maybe on the coast or closer to New York. This guy, whoever he may be, is using the quarry as a dumping ground for his sick game. My guess is that he lives miles away. Why would he risk dumping bodies in his own backyard?”
“Didn’t Richard Craft do that?”
“Who?”
“Richard Craft, the guy who killed his wife and then put her dismembered body through a wood chipper.” She watched Stolz’s expression go from arrogance to embarrassment. “In the middle of a snowstorm, if I’m not mistaken, and not far from his home in Newtown. Newtown, Connecticut—isn’t that just west of here?”
CHAPTER 28
Lillian sat quietly, listening in disbelief as Henry told her and Rosie about the bodies they had found so far. Of course, it was all confidential, and she knew there were things he wasn’t telling them, couldn’t tell them. When he came in earlier, his distraught and exhausted demeanor had been enough for Rosie to suggest they close the store early, something Lillian thought she would never hear her partner suggest. Now they sat, sipping decaf among thousands of the best stories captured in print, and yet Lillian couldn’t help thinking Henry’s story had them all beat. Forget Deaver and Cornwell, this was something only Stephen King or Dean Koontz could concoct.
“Sweetie,” Rosie said to her husband, keeping her small hand on top of his large one. “Maybe it’s some drifter. Maybe this has scared him off.”
“No, O’Dell says he has a paranoid personality. Usually those guys stick to familiar territory because they are paranoid. I’ve been trying to think of everyone I know who lives alone out on acreages in this area. But those I can think of don’t seem like the type.”
“The profiler says he lives close by?” Lillian wasn’t sure why that made her heart skip a beat. Perhaps it made it all too real. She liked thinking about this case in terms of fiction.
“He’s probably watching the news coverage every day, getting his kicks.”
“But if he’s paranoid, Henry, he’s not getting kicks,” Rosie said. “Wouldn’t he be devastated that you discovered his hiding place? Maybe even ticked off?”
Henry looked at his wife, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected her to hit the nail right on the head. But it seemed like common sense. You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist or Sherlock Holmes to know this guy would be upset. Lillian added to Rosie’s thesis, “Yes, very upset. Are you concerned that he might come after one of you?”
“That’s what O’Dell suggested.” He didn’t look happy that someone else would suggest the same. “She said the guy might panic, but I don’t think he would risk screwing up.”
Lillian couldn’t help feeling elated that she could have come up with the same idea the profiler had come up with. Maybe she was good at this. Who said you had to have life experiences to figure these things out, when all she had done was read about it.
“I’m guessing the profiler says he’s a loner, a plain sort of man who goes about his business without much notice.” She liked playing this game. She tried to remember some of her favorite serial killer novels. “Perhaps he’s someone who doesn’t draw much attention to himself in public,” she continued while Henry and Rosie listened, sipping their coffee, “but ordinarily, he seems to be a nice enough guy. He works with his hands, a skilled worker who has access to a variety of tools. And, of course, his penchant for killing will most likely be somehow tracked to the volatile relationship he probably had with his mother, who no doubt was a very controlling person.”
Now the pair was looking at her with what she interpreted as admiration or maybe amazement. Lillian liked to think it was admiration.
“How do you know so much about him?” Henry asked, but Lillian had been wrong about his look of admiration. It appeared instead to be laced with a hint of suspicion.
“I read a lot. Novels. Crime novels. Suspense thrillers.”
“She does read a lot,” Rosie said, as if she needed to vouch for her partner.
Lillian looked from Rosie back to Henry, who seemed to be studying her now. It caught her off guard and she felt a blush starting at her neck. She gave a nervous shove to her glasses and tucked her hair behind her ears. Did he really think she knew something about this case, about this killer?
“Maybe I should read more,” he finally said with a smile. “I could probably crack this case faster. But I have to tell you, for a minute there you sounded like you were describing someone, someone you knew fairly well.”
“Really?” she said, and tried to think of a character who might fit the bill. And suddenly her stomach did a somersault. She did know someone who fit her description, but it wasn’t anyone in a novel. The person she had described could very easily be her own brother, Wally.
CHAPTER 29
It was late by the time Maggie got to the Ramada Plaza Hotel. She started to feel the exhaustion of the day. A tight knot throbbed between her shoulder blades. Her eyes begged for sleep. And she wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. In the parking lot, while she unloaded her bags, she felt someone watching her. She had looked around but saw no one.
As she waited for the desk clerk—or rather, according to Cindy’s plastic clip-on badge, “desk clerk in training”—Maggie tried to decide what she’d tell Gwen. After everything that had happened today, she wasn’t any closer to knowing where Joan Begley was. For all she knew the woman was still here at the Ramada Plaza Hotel, lying low and simply escaping.
Maggie watched the desk clerk as she plugged in her credit card information. Hotel policy wouldn’t allow them to give out Joan’s room number. And Maggie didn’t want to draw attention to herself or cause alarm by whipping out her FBI badge. So instead she said, “A friend of mine is staying here, too. Could I leave a note for her?”
“Sure,” Cindy said, and handed her a pen, folded note card and envelope with the hotel’s emblem.
Maggie jotted down her name and cell phone number, slipped the card into the envelope, tucked in the flap
and wrote “Joan Begley” on the outside. She handed it to Cindy, who glanced at the name, checked the computer and then scratched some numbers under the name before putting it aside.
“Here’s your key card, Ms. O’Dell. Your room number is written on the inside flap. The elevators are around the corner and to your right. Would you like some help with your luggage?”
“No thanks, I’ve got them.” She slung her garment bag’s strap over her shoulder and picked up her computer case, taking several steps before turning back. “Oh, you know what? I forgot to tell my friend what time we’re supposed to meet tomorrow. Could I just jot it down quickly?”
“Oh, sure,” Cindy said, grabbing the note and sliding it across the counter to Maggie.
She opened the envelope and pretended to write down a time before slipping the card back in, this time sealing the envelope and handing it back to Cindy. “Thanks so much.”
“No problem.” And Cindy put the card aside, not realizing she had just shown Maggie Joan Begley’s room number.
Maggie threw her bags onto the bed in her own room. She kicked off her shoes, took off her jacket and untucked her blouse. Then she found the ice bucket, grabbed her key card and headed up to room 624. As soon as she got off the elevator, she stopped at the ice machine to fill the plastic bucket, and she padded down the hall in stocking feet to find Joan’s room. Then she waited.
She popped an ice cube into her mouth, only now realizing she hadn’t eaten since the sandwich at the quarry. Maybe she would order some room service. And as if by magic she heard the elevator ding from around the corner. Sure enough a young man clad in white jacket and black trousers with a tray lifted over his head turned the corner, walking away from her to deliver to the room at the far corner. She waited until he came back and saw her, before she slipped her key card into the slot.
