by Lisa Jackson
Rick considered the mutilated publicity shot, handed a copy of it to Reuben. “Looks that way.”
Montoya’s jaw tightened. “Whoever did this is one messed-up mother.”
“Yeah, if this is all on the up-and-up I’d say, ‘yeah, the guy is dangerous.’ “’
“But,” Reuben encouraged.
“But it could be all for show. Publicity. Ratings of the Midnight Confessions have soared since the first incident, and the station’s been in financial straits for a couple of years. George Hannah bought WSLJ, thought he could turn it around and didn’t. Maybe this is a publicity ploy.” But Rick didn’t think so.
Montoya’s face screwed up as he glanced down at the photocopy. “It’s still sick-assed shit.”
“Yep. I’m waiting for a report on the note and the picture—I got the originals from the Cambrai PD, then sent them to the lab.”
He held up the photo. “You know what this reminds me of?”
Bentz was one step ahead of his younger partner. “The hundred-dollar bills with the eyes blackened.”
“Could be the same guy.”
“I considered it. Even put it in my report, but wouldn’t he have just marked out the eyes with a felt pen—like he did on the bills?”
“You’d think…but maybe this creep is smarter than we think.”
“It’s a long shot.” One Bentz was considering.
“But a possibility, or you wouldn’t have thought of it,” Montoya said.
Bentz reached for his coffee cup. The coffee was tepid and weak. “I’m not ruling anything out.” Truth of the matter was, the photo with the cut-out eyes bothered him more than the calls to the station. He had a bad feeling about this one, real bad. Was the guy a prank or was he going to raise the stakes? And what about the psychologist? Samantha Leeds should be freaking out, not letting strange neighbors moor their damned boats at her place.
Reuben dropped the copy of the mutilated picture onto a stack of files. “So what have we got on your serial murderer?”
“A little more. Semen was left behind on both women. The lab says it’s the same blood type. Same with hair samples.”
“No surprise there.”
“And it’s the same MO, from the looks of it. Both working girls, both strangled by some kind of bumpy noose, both posed afterward. He’s not afraid to leave fingerprints around, and we can’t find a match, so he hasn’t been printed—no priors or military or job where it’s required.” Bentz tossed Montoya the file. “Also, in both instances, there were other hairs found. Synthetic. Red.”
“A wig?”
“Yeah, but it’s missing, nothing close was found in the apartments and, according to people who knew the victims, neither ever wore a red wig, not even when they turned tricks.”
“So they were wearing one at the time of death and the killer took it, is that where you’re going?”
Bentz nodded. “As if he wanted his victim to look like she had red hair.”
“Jesus. Like Dr. Sam.”
“Maybe.”
Montoya sucked in his breath. “It’s still a pretty big leap.”
“I know.” Bentz wondered if he was grasping at straws, but he couldn’t dismiss the eyes being cut out and the red hair. “We’re checking out manufacturers and local outlets who sell wigs and I’m cross-checking cases, to find out if there are any other homicides where there was a red wig involved.”
“It’s not much, but somethin’,” Montoya said, scraping the letter opener against the side of his goatee as he thought. “I checked on the ex-husband of Cherie Bellechamps—Henry? Turns out he had a life insurance policy that he’d never let lapse. Ended up with nearly fifty thousand dollars.” “Where was he when the second victim was killed?”
“In bed. At home.”
“Alone?”
“Nah, he’s got a girlfriend who swears he was with her all night, but she’s got a record. Nothin’ big. Shoplifting, DUI, possession—cocaine. Seems to have been clean in the last couple of years, since she hooked up with Henry Bellechamps. By the way, it’s not Henry or Hank, he goes with the French pronunciation. Henri.”
“Bully for him,” Bentz growled.
“Even if he had an alibi, it could have been a hit. He could have found someone to off his ex and pay off the killer.”
“Then why the second victim? To throw us off? A copycat?” Bentz didn’t think so.
Montoya’s beeper went off. He dropped the letter opener onto the stack of files on Bentz’s desk, then pulled his pager from a pocket of his black slacks. With a quick glance, he checked the readout, and added, “I’m not convinced he didn’t off his ex, but I can’t connect him with the Gillette woman. I gotta take this call. You got anything else?”
“A bit of a problem,” Bentz said, leaning back in his chair. “In the first case, the woman was raped before she died, but with Rosa, it looks like she might have been dead first.”
“Might have been?”
“The ME’s not certain…”
“Why not?”
“My guess is that the guy did it, just as the women died. That’s his turn-on, killing them.”
Montoya’s dark eyes narrowed. “Shit.” He shoved his pager back into his pocket. “About task-force time, isn’t it?”
Bentz nodded. “I’ve already cleared it with Jaskiel and set the wheels in motion.”
Montoya scowled. “So we’ll be dealing with the Feds.” “Yep. The local guys.” Bentz forced a smile he didn’t feel. “It’s party time.”
Sitting at the scarred table, he listened to the night through the open window. Bullfrogs croaked, fish splashed, insects droned and water lapped around the poles holding up the tiny cabin, his one spot of refuge. His head clamored and he felt the need again. The need to hunt. But he had to be careful. Choose wisely.
He glanced down at his work and smiled as he picked up one of the dark beads and oh so carefully sharpened the facets with his file. It was delicate work and caused him to sweat, but it was worth it. In the end, each bead would cut soft flesh like a razor. His callused fingers wouldn’t bleed as he touched the glass, but a soft white throat would easily succumb.
He thought of the lives he’d taken, the rush of watching a woman realize she was dying, the feel of the beads in his hands as her breath left her lungs. God, it made him so hard he couldn’t think…could only hear the pounding in his brain, the thunder of lust as it ran through his blood. He relived each moment and knew he had to do it again, to keep the memories alive.
As the images faded, his hard-on softened. He turned his attention back to his work, filing, sharpening and polishing the beads until it was time for the program, then he snapped on the radio at just the right moment. The music was fading and Dr. Sam’s voice whispered over the crackle of interference.
“Good Evening, New Orleans, and welcome…” Her voice was so erotic, so sexy.
The bitch.
He stopped working for a minute, listened to the first caller’s complaints, then reached into his toolbox. He had two spools. Twenty-pound test fishing line…strong, clear, easy to string through the beads, or piano wire…even stronger, but not as flexible. The beads wouldn’t slide like liquid through his fingers, the sensation wouldn’t be so fluid. Which way to go? He’d used them both before. Neither had failed him.
Dr. Sam’s voice answered the listener’s question. She sounded so calm. Rational. Seductive. He reached down to touch himself, but stopped. He had work to do. He dropped the spool of piano wire back into the box, then tore open the packet of fishing line with his teeth. Removing the line, he pulled hard, watching as it stretched and held.
The muscles in his arms bunched. The line cut into his palm but didn’t break.
He grinned. Yes, it would do nicely.
As Dr. Sam continued her program, talking to the idiots who called her, he began stringing his sharpened beads, careful to put them in the correct order, ensuring that his rosary was perfect.
Nothing less would do.<
br />
Chapter Eleven
Melanie clicked off her cell phone and fumed as she pulled into a parking space in the lot of the strip mall. It had been a bad week. Bad. And it wasn’t getting any better she thought, slapping the dash and wishing that the damned air-conditioning in her hatchback would find a way to turn on. It didn’t and the temperature in the car was hovering somewhere near two thousand degrees by her estimation.
Her T shirt was wrinkled and clinging to her, and she was sweating between her legs. She climbed out of the car and tried not to dwell on the fact that Trish LaBelle seemed to be dodging her calls. Great. Already there was talk at WSLJ that Midnight Confessions was being expanded, but not one word about Melanie getting any kind of promotion and she deserved it.
Samantha’s job was a piece of cake. Melanie could handle it with her eyes closed. Hadn’t she proved that while Sam was in Mexico? So the ratings had dropped an iota. That was to be expected. Given enough time, Melanie was certain she could create a new, hipper audience. She was young and with it. But she needed the chance to prove herself.
She walked into the oven of a dry cleaners and gave her name to a petite blond girl with inch-long black roots, bad teeth and a permanent sneer.
So if WSLJ wouldn’t give her a job behind the mike, she’d decided to call the rival station, WNAB, where Trish LaBelle worked. Trish hated Dr. Sam. Melanie figured Trish would jump at the chance of meeting with Sam’s assistant and even offer her a job.
So far Trish hadn’t returned her calls.
Yet.
Melanie wasn’t one to give up. She’d always been a scrapper; never gotten any breaks that she hadn’t made for herself, so, if she had to, she’d damned sure make her own.
“Here ya go.” The girl hung her plastic-encased clothes on a hook near the till and Melanie handed over her bank debit-card. “Sorry. The machine’s broken. Ya got cash or a check?”
“I left my checkbook at home…” Melanie said, flipping through her wallet and seeing only two crumpled one-dollar bills. Not enough. The day was on a fast downhill slide. She felt bloated and achy; her period was due to start any time, her job was going nowhere, what little family she had didn’t give a shit about her and her boyfriend, again, couldn’t be reached.
Yep, things were rapidly going from bad to worst.
“There’s an ATM on the next block.” The twit in need of a bottle of Clairol snapped a wad of gum and waited with bored patience.
Melanie seethed. “It’s not my fault your stupid machine is messed up.”
The girl shrugged her skinny shoulders and gave Melanie a bored look that said, “tell it to someone who cares.” She held Melanie’s stare and for a second Melanie considered grabbing her clothes and taking off. After all the skirt, blouse and short jacket were hers.
As if she’d read Melanie’s mind, the clerk swept the hangers from the hook and hung them on another rail behind the counter.
“Fine.” Melanie snapped her wallet shut. “I’ll be back.” But she wasn’t going to bother today. She was too frazzled. She stomped into the blinding sun, flipped her sunglasses over her nose and slid into the sunbaked interior of her hatchback. The steering wheel was nearly too hot to handle. Twisting on the ignition, she threw the car into reverse and as the radio blared, stepped on the gas. In the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of a huge white Cadillac pulling out at the same time. She stood on the brakes as the boat slowly slid from its spot and an elderly man who never so much as glanced in her direction rolled slowly out of the lot.
“Idiot,” Melanie grumbled. “Old fart.”
She backed out, rammed her hatchback into first and sped out of the lot. Before the first light, she passed the old guy and resisted the urge to flip him off. It wasn’t really his fault he was old.
She hit the freeway and flooring it, opened the sunroof and all the power windows. Wind blew her hair around and she felt better. She couldn’t let one minimum-wage clerk with a bad attitude bug her. She’d pick up her clothes later. In the meantime she’d concentrate on plan B.
One way or another, she’d land a promotion and end up behind the mike. She let herself daydream a little, considered just how far she’d go. Maybe eventually television. She had the looks. A slow smile spread across her lips and she reached for the cell phone while cruising along at seventy. She’d try to call her boyfriend and plan to meet him. If she could get hold of him.
She just needed to unwind.
And he knew just how to help her.
Sam’s palms were sweaty and her heart raced, but she told herself, as she entered the booth, that she was being apprehensive and silly.
Nothing had happened.
For nearly a week.
Though each night she’d experienced the same case of nerves as she’d started her program, “John” had remained silent. Had he given up? Was he bored with his joke, if that’s what it was? Was he out of town?
Or was he waiting?
For just the right moment.
Stop this, Sam, it’s getting you nowhere. Be grateful he’s gone.
Still, she was tense as was everyone at the station in varying degrees. Gator and Rob kidded about her “boyfriend,” Eleanor stewed, Melanie thought it exciting, and George Hannah hoped that the ratings would continue to climb.
They hadn’t. Without John’s calls, the listenership’s numbers were falling back to where they’d once been, which, Sam thought angrily, had been good. George, his silent partners and even Eleanor had been satisfied.
But no longer.
Eleanor told her “Not to worry, honey. At least the pervert’s gone. That’s good enough for me. As for George, he can think up some legitimate way to attract a bigger audience. Let’s just hope John never calls back.”
Right, Sam thought, but a part of her wanted to talk to him again, if only to find out what it was that made him tick. Why he’d decided to call her. Who he was. From a psychologist’s viewpoint, he was interesting. From a woman’s viewpoint, he was terrifying.
She closed the door to the booth behind her. Slipping on the headset, she settled into her chair, then adjusted the controls, checked the computer screen and glanced through the glass window to the adjoining booth. Melanie was seated at her desk, fiddling with knobs, then gave her a thumbs-up gesture, indicating that she was ready to screen the calls for the night. Tiny was with her, taking his seat, saying something to Melanie that Sam couldn’t hear. They laughed, seemed relaxed and Tiny cracked open a can of Diet Coke.
Over the past few nights, Sam had steered the subjects of her nightly discussion away from sin, punishment and redemption and back to relationships, which, of course, was the basis for the show. Things were getting back to normal. The way they were before John had first called. So why had the electricity she’d felt every time she sat in this chair not abated, but in fact, heightened?
Melanie signaled through the glass and the intro music filled the booth. John Lennon’s voice, singing “It’s Been A Hard Day’s Night,” boomed from the speakers, then faded.
Sam leaned into the microphone. “Good evening, New Orleans, and welcome. This is Dr. Sam with Midnight Confessions here at WSLJ and I’m ready to hear what you think…” She started talking, relaxing, cozying up to the microphone as she invited her listeners to call in. “I just spoke to my dad a couple of days ago, and even though I’m over thirty, he thinks he can still tell me what to do,” she said as a way of connecting with her audience, hoping that someone would identify with her and phone in. “He lives on the West Coast, and I’m starting to feel that I should be closer to him, that he might need me now that he’s getting up in years.” She went on for a while talking about the relationship between parents and children when the phone lines started to flash.
The first was a hangup, the second a woman whose mother was suffering the aftereffects of a stroke; she was torn between her job, her kids, her husband and her feeling that her mother needed her. The third was from a hostile teenager who resented her paren
ts trying to tell her anything. They just didn’t “understand” her.
Then there was a backlash, from parents and kids who thought the teenage caller should listen to her folks.
Sam relaxed even more. Felt at ease behind the mike. Sipped from a half-drunk cup of coffee. The debate waged on and finally a woman called in on line three. She was identified as Annie. Sam pressed the button for the call. “Hi,” she said, “This is Dr. Sam, who am I talking to?”
“Annie,” a frail, high voice whispered. A voice that was vaguely familiar. But Sam couldn’t place the name with a face. She was probably a regular caller.
“Hello, Annie, what is it you want to discuss tonight?”
“Don’t you remember me?” the girl asked.
Sam felt the warning hairs on the back of her neck rise. Annie?
“I’m sorry. If you could remind—”
“I called you before.”
“Did you? When?” she asked, but the raspy voice hadn’t stopped, just paused to draw a breath and kept right on whispering through the studio, on the airwaves.
“Thursday’s my birthday. I would be twenty-five—”
“Would be?” Samantha repeated and a chill swept through her blood.
“—you remember. I called you nine years ago, and you told me to get lost. You didn’t listen, and—”
“Oh, God,” Sam said, her eyes widening. Her heart stopped for a second in a horrid nightmare of deja vu. Annie?
Annie Seger? It couldn’t be. Her mind spun wildly, backward to a time she’d tried to forget.
“You’ve got to help me. You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Please, you’re my only hope,” Annie had confided all those years ago. “Please help me. Please.” Guilt took a stranglehold on Sam’s throat. Dear God, why was this happening again? “Who is this?” Sam forced into the microphone. From the corner of her eye, she glanced at the adjacent booth, where Melanie was listening, shaking her head, her palms turned toward the ceiling, as if the caller had, once again, gotten past her. Tiny was staring hard through the glass, his eyes trained on Sam, the can of soda in his big hand forgotten.
