“They’re going to call that boneheaded husband of hers,” Cass said on an exhale. “I wonder if he’ll come.”
“He’ll come. He’d have to be made of stone not to care about what’s happened to her. She’s still his wife.”
“Hopefully not for much longer.”
“Sounds as if there’s a little conflict here.”
“No conflict. He’s just not the man for her.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m waiting for you to tell me that that’s not my call.”
“I’m not going near it, Burke.”
“In case you think I’m being harsh on the guy, she doesn’t think he’s the man for her, either.”
“Her choice.”
“Right.” Cass nibbled on a nail. “He’s been cheating on her. He’s totally wiped out her self-confidence.”
“She seemed pretty self-confident to me.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.”
“I guess.” He looked down at her and saw a woman ready to pass out from fatigue. “Why don’t you try to get a little rest while you can? Here, lean on me.”
“You’re a pretty good guy, Rick Cisco.” She rested her head against his upper arm, then realized what she had done. Uncomfortable with such intimacy, she moved her head slightly so that it leaned against the wall instead of him.
“For an FBI agent.” He moved her head back to where it had been, telling her, “Relax. I don’t bite.”
“I’ve got no problem with the FBI.” She ignored what he’d done and closed her eyes, too tired to make an issue out of it, though still uneasy with the close proximity to this man who was still pretty much a stranger. “You’ve been … respectful. Kind.”
“Let’s see what the Hasboro cops are calling me in the morning,” he said, and she tried to smile at his attempt at humor.
A young boy with his arm in a cast came out from one of the treatment rooms, his face wet with tears, holding his mother’s hand tightly with his good hand.
A young mother walked her sobbing baby back and forth across the lobby in an effort to comfort her. The automatic doors to the emergency entrance opened silently and a woman with a bruised and swollen face came in, aided by an older woman who wore a gauzy wrap skirt over her bathing suit, and a worried expression on her face.
Cass quietly watched each drama unfold. After a long ten minutes, she asked, “Where did you come from?”
“Maryland.”
“No, no. Tonight. You dropped me off at the house and left. Why did you come back?”
“I never got off your street. I was almost to the stop sign when I saw your neighbor come out of her house … the older woman who lives up the street?”
“Madge.”
“Right. Well, she came out her front door and was moving about as fast as she could in the direction of the corner, so I stopped to see what was going on. She said her dog—”
“June-bug.”
“Right. Apparently there was a stray cat in their backyard all afternoon, giving old Junie fits. The first chance she got, she took off out the front door and chased the cat around the corner, Madge in pursuit, with her cane in one hand and the dog’s leash in the other. I parked the car and chased the dog. Found her a few houses up, the cat glaring smugly from the roof of someone’s car. I brought the dog back and was handing her over when I heard the gunshots.”
“Did you see him?” Cass sat up. “He took off out the back.”
“No. I didn’t see anyone. Honestly, I just ran toward the house and came inside.” His arm felt suddenly cooler without her head resting against it. “Tell me again what happened.”
Cass repeated the story, the third time she’d done so since arriving at the hospital. The first was for Chief Denver, who’d met her at the ER and stayed long enough to make certain Lucy was still alive before leaving to personally oversee the investigation at Cass’s house. The second had been to the officer assigned to take her official statement.
She’d just gotten to the part where Lucy’s attacker ran out the back door, when she looked up to see Tasha Welsh coming down the hall.
“Cass, I heard what happened. I’m so sorry. Is your cousin all right?” Tasha took the chair next to Cass’s and turned it so she could sit facing her.
“We haven’t heard a thing. She’s still with the doctors.”
“What a horror.” Tasha shook her head. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Was it our guy … our killer?”
“I have to think so, but at the same time …” Cass hesitated, as if thinking it through. “He’d already struck once tonight. He’s never hit two women in the same night before. It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Well, here’s something else that won’t make sense.” Tasha leaned forward. “The other victim, the one in Hasboro? She wasn’t raped.”
“She wasn’t?” Cass frowned. “But all the others were.”
“Right. And something else. Remember I told you about the fibers?”
“The fibers you found in the hair of the other victims?”
Tasha nodded.
“Pink ribbon, did I tell you the lab reports came back? Pink satin ribbon. Real silk, not synthetic. Every one of the other victims had trace of it, and get this—the fibers matched perfectly.”
“Same kind of ribbon?”
“Same ribbon. We were able to trace it to the manufacturer. They stopped making that ribbon eighteen years ago.” Tasha tapped a finger on Cass’s knee for emphasis. “But this one tonight? Nada. No fibers.”
“You’re sure?”
“It was the first thing I looked for. There was something, I don’t know, awkward about the way he left this one. It looked different to me somehow.”
Cass nodded in agreement. “I thought the same thing. The legs weren’t really right.”
“Exactly. Similar, but not the same. A little haphazard. As if he was in a hurry and didn’t take the time to get it exactly right. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Cass looked at Rick.
“A copycat, maybe?” she suggested.
“Maybe he was in a hurry. We’ll need the report from the investigating officers to see what else they found,” he said.
“Well, don’t hold your breath until they offer to hand that over,” Cass reminded him.
“I can get it,” Tasha told them. “Might take me a few days …”
“Maybe your boss can get it sooner,” Cass said to Rick, who nodded.
“I’ll give him another call in the morning if I haven’t heard from him.”
“And another thing,” Tasha said. “In the past, the killer has made an effort to hide the bodies somewhat. This one over in Hasboro, he left her right out in plain view. Right there on the lower dock.”
“Like I said, maybe he was in a hurry,” Rick said. “Maybe he was afraid he’d be discovered if he took too long.”
“Not his style,” Tasha insisted. “If he was afraid of being seen, he would have left her someplace else. I think he wanted the body to be found, and fast.”
“How long had the body been there, you think?” Cass asked.
“I heard one of the detectives say that the family in the first house there off the bulkhead had gone out crabbing on their boat around three,” Tasha replied. “They found her when they came back, around five-thirty. So she’d been placed there somewhere within that time frame.”
“He was taking a chance, wasn’t he?” Cass said thoughtfully. “Broad daylight, the middle of the afternoon? It’s not like him to be that careless.”
“He wasn’t careless,” Rick said.
Cass looked up at him. “He wasn’t?”
“He didn’t get caught, did he? So far, no one’s come forward to say they saw someone there.”
“You could easily get away with it,” Tasha nodded, “if there were no other boats out at that end of the dock. And obviously, none were.”
“Plus, it’s early in the season. Not as many people around yet,” Cass said
thoughtfully. “But still, why would he take such a chance?”
“I think Tasha’s right. He wanted her found,” Rick told them. “And he wanted her found today.”
“Why do you suppose that would be important to him?” Tasha asked.
“Maybe because he had another target in mind. Maybe this victim was incidental to him,” Cass thought aloud. “Or he could have wanted to draw our attention to her, and—”
“And away from someone else,” Rick finished her thought.
“Lucy,” Cass said flatly.
“Could be. He needed to get you out of the way, so he provided a diversion,” Rick suggested. “She fits the type exactly. Right age, right build. Pretty woman with lots of long dark hair. If he’s been watching her, he’d know she lives with a cop. He’d have had to lure you out of there to get to her. How best to lure a cop? With a dead body. Smart on his part.”
Cass winced at the thought of another innocent woman losing her life being considered nothing more than a means to an end.
“But not smart enough to realize that he went out of my jurisdiction, or that the Hasboro boys were so territorial they’d send me packing the minute I arrived.”
“You can thank those Hasboro boys and their petty mentality for saving Lucy’s life,” he pointed out.
Cass put her face in her hands.
“Oh, God,” she said, “if I’d stayed longer we’d probably be sitting in the morgue right now.”
The headlights illuminated the wooden gate and he left the car in gear when he went to push it aside. Then he drove through the opening, got back out, and closed the gate. No need for a well-meaning somebody to come along and wonder who might be wandering about this time of night.
He drove with only his fog lights on, lest some passing car see the reflection from the brighter beams and call the police. Not that he thought the police were merely sitting around this night, waiting for something to do. No, he’d seen to that, all right.
The dirt road wound about a quarter mile into the marsh before splitting off in two directions. He took the road to the left and followed it for about five hundred feet. Sensing he was near his destination, he slowed, then brought the car to a stop. He killed the lights and the engine, then opened the glove box and took out the first-aid kit he always carried with him. He got out of the car and went straight to the trunk, from which he took a suitcase. He walked along the path to the blind and carried the case with him up the steps to the shelter. It was awkward, because the case was heavy now after all these years, and one of the fingers on his left hand hurt like hell. He placed the case on the floor of the blind, then climbed in behind it.
He sat next to it and opened the first-aid kit. Taking the small flashlight from his pocket, he shined it into the case. He assembled a small bottle of peroxide and a roll of bandages in front of him; then, holding the flashlight between his teeth, he unwrapped the strip of his shirt he’d previously tied around the throbbing finger. He poured peroxide over the ragged wound to clean it, then wrapped it with the gauze.
It was a minor wound, and it wasn’t the first time he’d been shot. But it was the first time he’d been shot by a woman.
And that woman. That woman …
He felt a terrible burning behind his eyes, and his hands began to shake. Hatred rolled through him, so strong and so fierce, he almost became nauseated.
If it weren’t for her, he and his love would be together right now. On their way to Cape May, to start their life together.
If it weren’t for her, everything would be all right right now. Right now …
But instead, he was alone, hiding like a frightened animal in a dark swamp.
And his love … oh, his poor love …
Well, that was all her fault, too. If it weren’t for her, his love wouldn’t be …
He paused, remembering the way his love had tried to fight him. Why had she done that? He hadn’t planned on hurting her. Why didn’t she understand that?
His fingers touched his face, outlined the scratches her fingernails had made.
Why had she been fighting him?
If she hadn’t tried to fight, he wouldn’t have had to hit her so many times.
If she hadn’t tried to scream, he wouldn’t have had to put his hands around her throat and …
But he hadn’t wanted to hurt her, never meant to hurt her—he loved her! He would have stopped, he told himself, he wouldn’t have tightened his hold on her, if the other one hadn’t come in, waving that damn gun around. He’d been confused then.
For a moment, he’d forgotten where he was and whom he’d been with. A fog had seemed to roll through him, clouding his mind. He’d watched his hands at her throat as if in slow motion, and it seemed as if they belonged to someone else.
By the time his head had cleared, it was already too late. He was dodging bullets, running for the door, and he’d had to leave her there, on the floor.
He was sick with the knowledge that he had only himself to blame.
He should have killed that one—the other one—when he’d had the chance.
Fifteen
Regan was on her second cup of coffee when the doorbell rang on Monday morning. She glanced at the clock: 7:45.
“I’ve got some good news,” Mitch told her when she opened the door, “and some … well, some theories.”
“Give me the good news first.” She waved him in and he followed her down the hall into the kitchen. “Then you can give me theories.”
“The good news is that I have names for two more of the victims on your father’s mystery list.”
Mitch set his black case on the floor next to the kitchen table and took out a folder.
“May 21, 1983. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Elaine Marchand. Age twenty-nine.” He glanced up at her. “Want to take a wild guess on the cause of death?”
“Strangulation. After having been sexually assaulted.”
“The file didn’t specify the order, but that would be my guess.”
“What else do you have there?” She leaned over to peek, and he folded the paper to shield his notes.
“Depends. Are you going to drink all that coffee yourself?” he asked.
“Sorry. I’ll get you a cup.” She went to the cupboard and took out a mug. “You were saying …”
“Charlotte, North Carolina. February 1, 1986. Raquel Sheriden.” He watched her pour the coffee and waited until she turned back to him. “Age …”
“Late twenties, early thirties. Raped and strangled.”
“You’re good at this,” he deadpanned. “Ever think about working for the government? I hear the FBI is looking for a few good agents.”
She smiled and handed him the mug.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that none of these murders have been solved.”
“You really are good at this.” He sipped the hot coffee carefully.
“Where did you get all the info?”
“From the Bureau computer files.” He poured half-and-half into the cup and stirred it with the spoon she’d used. “And that’s not all I got.”
“What else?”
“I have a list of over forty other uncannily similar, unsolved murders that have occurred over the past twenty-five years. Same MO. All different parts of the country. Heaviest in the south for several of those years, though. We’ll have to take a look at that.”
“Forty!” Regan’s eyes widened. “Forty …”
“And those were only the ones I was able to find with ease. God knows how many there might be that were never entered into the system.”
“So there could be more.”
“There could be way more,” he said soberly. “Now, of course, we have some work to do to determine if these others were in fact likely victims of our man. We’ll have to take a look at each case individually, but the coincidences are uncanny.”
“What about these other places …” She searched the table for the original list, found it on the bottom of the pile
. “Turkey, Panama, Croatia …” She looked up at him. “How do we find out about those places?”
“That will be a little trickier, but I have someone at the Bureau working on that. In the meantime, look here.” He took two maps from his case and spread one out on the table, moving the coffee cup out of the way. “This is a map of the United States. I’ve circled in red all of the cities we talked about, but it’s a little hard to see, so I bought some colored pushpins. Is there a place we can hang this?”
“How about over there on the basement door?”
“Works for me.” He tacked the upper corners to the door. “This will be fine, as long as no one wants to go downstairs.”
“Show me.” She pointed to the map.
“Let me get the pins in place. We’ll start by pinpointing the places on your dad’s list with red pins.”
“The known victims of the Bayside Strangler.”
“Right.” He proceeded to place red tacks into the map. “Now, for those murders along the Jersey Shore, I’m placing one red tack to represent all, since it was basically one place. Then we had Pittsburgh … Charlotte … Corona … Memphis …”
Regan stepped closer to take a look.
“Are we going to assume that the dates and places on that list represent murders?”
He nodded. “I think it’s a safe assumption. When you look at the whole picture, everything points that way.”
Mitch leaned back against the counter. “I think we agree the Bayside Strangler and the man who committed these other murders are the same person.”
“It certainly looks that way.”
“And I think that whoever he is, and for reasons that we don’t yet understand, he wrote to your father over the years.” Mitch walked back to the table for his mug. “’Hey, Landry, remember me?’”
“He sent Dad notes to keep him up-to-date on his activities. Bragging about his exploits. And my dad started to keep a record of when he received them, and where they were postmarked.”
“We need to find the rest of your father’s files and see what he did with all of this information.”
“He would have turned them over to someone,” Regan said. “Something like this, so many victims in so many areas, he’d have gone straight to the FBI. He’d have kept copies of the letters, but he wouldn’t have kept this to himself.”
Cold Truth Page 15
