by Lisa Jackson
“Or he’s getting off on his victim’s pain,” Montoya said, not liking that train of thought.
“We’re already checking on who purchased a stun gun lately; maybe by the marks on Pomeroy’s throat, we can figure out the make and model.”
“That would help,” Montoya agreed. “So what about the weapon that killed them?”
“We think it belonged to Mrs. Jefferson’s husband, Walter. A few weeks ago, he came into the station and reported one of his pearl-handled revolvers had been stolen. Two were in the gun case, only one taken. From his den, while both he and his wife were working. I’ve got a call in to the officer who took the report and did the follow-up, but I doubt if we get much. Weapons are stolen every day. We’ll see what the officer has to say, but the husband’s a real mess, doesn’t want to believe that his wife is gone, blames himself for the weapon being taken, the whole nine yards. Zaroster and Brinkman have already talked to him, gotten one of his brothers to come and stay with him, just in case he’s so depressed he loses it and tries to do something stupid, like off himself.”
“This just gets better and better,” Montoya said with more than a grain of sarcasm. He scanned the interior of the pine-paneled room and stared at the money, still left where it had fallen, while the scene was meticulously photographed. “What’s with all the cash?” There had been no hundred-dollar bills, or bills of any amount, cast upon the previous scene, though there had been a lot of feathers from the pillow strapped to Gierman. No pillow here that he could see. “How much is it?”
“Near as we can tell without moving the bodies, over six grand.”
Montoya whistled. “Obviously the motive wasn’t money.”
“I talked to Pomeroy’s wife. She says Asa kept five thousand locked in the glove box of his car at all times in case he joined up with a private poker party. Kept it in one of those purple velvet Crown Royal whiskey bags. But that was just his backup wad. He usually carried another fifteen hundred or so on him, in the gold money clip she gave him for Christmas a couple of years back.”
“Is the money clip here?”
Bentz shook his head.
“You figure the killer took it?”
“If the missus can be believed, he never left home without it.” Bentz shot him a look. “Wives have been known to be wrong about their husbands’ habits when those husbands are off-leash.”
Montoya walked around the bodies, viewing the death scene from another angle. “Let’s just assume the wife knows what she’s talking about. So, the killer takes the money clip but leaves the cash Pomeroy had in his pocket at the scene. The killer also somehow knows about the glove box stash and includes that in our confetti here. Either Pomeroy, maybe pleading for his life, told him about his money or the killer, or someone he works with, is close enough to Pomeroy to know about the cash in the glove box.”
“Until we find the car, we won’t know.”
“The Buick out front belong to Ms. Jefferson?” Montoya glanced at Bentz.
“Yeah.” Bentz nodded. He was avoiding staring for any length of time at the victims. Montoya remembered that Bentz always had trouble keeping the contents of his stomach down whenever he visited a murder scene.
“Anything taken from her?” Montoya asked. An investigator was prying the two corpses away from each other to check for lividity and take each body’s internal temperature.
“Maybe. Mr. Jefferson swears she always wears a simple gold cross, one her mother gave her years before. On a chain around her neck.”
“I take it, it’s not there.” Montoya glanced at the two now separated bodies.
“Not that we’ve found.”
“Bingo,” Santiago said, lowering her camera. She was looking at the base of a leather ottoman and the swatch of purple fabric that was peeking from beneath it. “Bet the Crown Royal Bag is under this.” She took several more shots and, using gloves, moved the ottoman, then snapped off several more shots of the floor beneath the crumpled whiskey bag.
“Looks like the wife was right this time,” Montoya said as Santiago slipped the purple velvet drawstring pouch into a plastic evidence bag.
Montoya had seen enough. He didn’t understand why in each case the bodies had been positioned in a way to suggest the victims were lovers. What was the point of that? Skirting the central part of the crime scene, he walked with Bentz through the front door to the porch, where an officer stood guard, the sign-in log in his hand. Headlights and klieg lights were visible through the trees; the press was still camping out. Overhead the steady whoop, whoop, whoop of helicopter blades accompanied the beam of a searchlight from a local television station.
Bentz and Montoya lingered under the porch’s overhang rather than be caught by the sweep of the searchlight or the cameraman’s lens. “Courtney LaBelle always wore a diamond cross, and it was left in favor of the promise ring.” Bentz looked thoughtful.
“As I said, our boy ain’t about money.” His back to the breeze that was carrying the scent of damp earth and rain, Montoya automatically reached into his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes. His fingers scraped the empty pocket liner before he realized what he was doing. If Bentz noticed, he didn’t comment.
“Serial killers don’t do it for the money. It’s about power, ego-stroking, showing off, or some kind of personal mission.”
“And they don’t usually cross race lines,” Montoya said. “Whites kill whites, blacks kill blacks. But now, it appears we’ve got three white bodies, one African-American.”
“Usually. Yeah.” Bentz scowled and jammed his hands into his pockets. “What makes you think there’s anything usual about this case? Our guy has an agenda. This isn’t random. So he might not fit the profile.”
“Agreed.” Montoya knew that statistically serial killers were usually white, male, and somewhere in their twenties or thirties. They may have been abused; they probably had a history of childhood violence. It wasn’t true in every single instance, but it was the norm. However, there was always the exception to the rule, and Montoya wondered if this guy just might be it. “It’s obvious he’s trying to tell us something. With the things he’s taken, the way he stages the crimes. Why are the men naked, the women dressed and lying on top? Is he showing that there’s sex involved? Or is he signifying physical or psychological dominance? Why make it appear as if the woman killed the man, then turned the gun on herself ?”
“If we knew all that shit, we’d have him.” Bentz scratched the back of his neck and gazed into the surrounding darkness. Another chopper joined the first, and arcs of blue light sliced through the night. He glanced up at the sky. “Give me a break,” he muttered.
Montoya’s cell phone chirped and he answered, “Montoya.”
“Hey, it’s Zaroster. You aren’t by any chance listening to the radio?”
“I’m at the crime scene.”
“Take a break and listen to WSLJ, Gierman’s Groaners. It could be that the killer’s surfacing.”
“Got it.” Montoya was already on his way to his cruiser, long strides tearing up the ground, Bentz at his side. The sweep of the helicopter’s light zeroed in on them, but he didn’t care.
“What is it?”
“Zaroster thinks the killer’s contacted the radio station.”
He turned the ignition to ACC, flipped on the radio, and found WSLJ. Maury Taylor’s nasal voice was on the airwaves.
“. . . that’s right, so I’m not sure if this is the real deal, or a fake,” he was saying. Every muscle in Montoya’s back grew taut. He hardly dared breathe he was concentrating so hard, glaring at the radio’s digital display. “I mean it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to send a simple, and I mean simple, note to the station here. Any idiot can do that. So, if you’re listening A L, I don’t get it. I mean, I know that you’re trying to creep me out and all, but I’m not all that convinced you’re the real deal.”
“What?” Bentz asked softly.
“I mean, I’d expect something a whole lot better than thi
s to prove that you’re the killer. So I’m going to assume that it’s a fake, that whoever you are, A L, you’re just out for your fifteen minutes. Sorry, Pa-A L, you won’t get ’em from me. So, okay, enough with cowards and fakes, let’s get down to the topic of the night: Cheating on your spouse. If you can get away with it, who does it really hurt?”
“Son of a bitch!” Montoya hit the dashboard with his fist. “The killer’s contacted him. That scrawny-necked piece of crap!”
“Maybe the killer’s contacted him, maybe not. Remember who we’re dealing with. Maury Taylor would sell his soul to the devil, then renege on the deal if he got a better offer and higher ratings were involved. This could all be just a publicity stunt.”
Montoya, ready to spit nails, swore again. “Damn it all to hell, I think it’s time to visit our friends over at WSLJ.”
“Good idea. I’d better finish up here. Call me.” Bentz glanced at the dash where Montoya’s fist had hit. “Careful with the car,” he said, climbing out of the Crown Vic. “It’s publicly owned.”
“Shove it, Bentz. Get the hell out of the car so I can go throttle that little dick-head.”
Bentz slid across the seat, slamming the door shut behind him.
Montoya backed up then hit the gas, tearing down the lane, only to have to slow for the cluster of vehicles at the gate. Cop cars, lights flashing, half barricaded the drive while press vans collected as close to the crime scene as possible. Vehicles from rubberneckers lined the street, and knots of people stood and stared through the open gate, hoping for a glimpse of a victim or God knew what. Montoya wished they’d all go home. “Get a life,” he muttered under his breath as one woman wearing a yellow slicker barely moved out of his way. She stared after him. He wondered vaguely if the killer was among the curious and had left instructions for the cops guarding the gates to check and keep track of anyone who wanted a closer look.
Once through the tangle of vehicles, cameras, klieg lights, and humanity, Montoya hit the gas again. He gripped the wheel as if he could strangle it and listened with half an ear to the police band. As the Crown Vic’s tires hit the pavement of the country road, he switched on his lights. He was nearly an hour away from the city. He planned to be there in half that time.
* * *
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
His muscles screamed at the punishment, but he kept persisting, going through set after set of push-ups as he listened to the remains of the Gierman program. He strained hard and sweat ran down his naked body, along the cords of his neck, and dripped from his nose.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
The disk jockey was an imbecile. An insult to the human race, a pea-brain who was awkwardly, and so obviously, attempting to lure him into exposing himself.
It didn’t matter. The important thing, the only thing that mattered, was that the note had been delivered.
Though the audio reception within the basement of the hospital was sometimes difficult, tonight the radio waves were getting through; he could hear the Gierman show with perfect clarity in this—one of the padded cells where those patients who had been out of control had been contained. It was a perfect room for honing his muscles. He was just finishing his daily routine—one that had been outlined by the armed forces—a regimen of sit-ups, pull-ups, push-ups, jumping jacks, and running in place. He had one elastic band he used for resistance as well as a set of graduated weights. A bench was tucked in the far corner. He worked out each day during the airing of the Gierman show. He’d intended to not interrupt his routine, but he couldn’t help himself today. He would finish later, perhaps do an extra set, but for now, he drew himself into a sitting position and crossed his ankles. Naked and sweating on the mat, his elbows resting on his knees, he picked up a towel from the floor and blotted his body as Maury Taylor, thinking himself so smooth and sly, tried to bait him.
“. . . it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to send a simple, and I mean simple, note . . .”
“How would you know, you idiot?” he said, swiping the sweat from his face. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, still smelling the bleach they’d used here when the hospital had been fully operational, when she had been alive.
“. . . but I’m not all that convinced that you’re the real deal.”
It doesn’t matter, you cretin, they will know. The police will understand. Don’t you get it? You’re just the sorry little messenger.
He’d heard enough, so he snapped off the radio, satisfied his plan was working. Refocusing, he went back to his workout, did the other seventy-five push-ups, then finished off by lifting weights for nearly an hour, until his toned muscles screamed with fatigue and he was covered with sweat again.
Picking up his towel, he walked to the bathroom, an addition that had been here since one of the later renovations to the asylum. He had rigged up one of the forgotten showers, such as it was, and knew the old nuns would never suspect someone was on the premises because there was no heat involved; no electric bill to give him away. The water came from a well on the property, so no one would be reading a water meter, and the runoff and waste from his one toilet would flow into the same septic tank that was used by the convent.
He smiled at his supreme cleverness. The plan was foolproof and no one would be the wiser that he spent so many hours a day here. If the ancient pipes groaned in the hospital above, who cared? No one walked these nearly forgotten grounds but him.
Almost no one.
She had come, hadn’t she? The daughter. The one who looked so much like Faith. He sucked in his breath at the memory. Though he should have slipped away before she caught sight of him, he’d wanted to let her know that he was around, had closed the doors on the second floor of the sanitarium quietly while she was on the third floor testing the door to Faith’s room. So intent was he on his task, he’d nearly been caught by the nun. Jesus, that old bag had nearly ruined everything. Nearly. He had personal reasons to dislike outwardly pious and meek Sister Maria. Upon hearing her on the stairs, he’d had to slip into 205 while the nun accosted Abby on the floor above. He’d had to think fast, realizing he’d trapped himself when he heard Abby and the nun descending. He hadn’t been able to use the stairs without running into them, but he’d known that when Abby noticed the closed doors on the second floor, she would search each and every room. His only chance of not being discovered had been the fire escape, and he’d quickly slipped onto the rusted grate, barely closing the window behind him before the two women had reached the second floor.
Over the hammering of his heart, he’d heard them opening and closing doors, pacing the hallway. He’d considered hanging from the railing of the fire escape and dropping to the ground, but instead had waited breathlessly. Fortunately neither Sister Maria nor Faith’s daughter had checked the window on the far end of the hall.
If they’d spied him, he would have been forced to alter his plan and that wouldn’t do. Not after waiting so long for everything to be perfect.
Now, he stepped onto the moldy tiles of the shower and turned on the faucets. Cold water misted and dripped from the rusted showerhead. He sucked air through his teeth and lathered his body. He closed his eyes as he washed, his hands sliding down his own muscular frame, just as hers had so long ago . . . and had he not taken her in a shower much like this? Oh, yes . . .
In his mind’s eye, he saw her as she had been. He had come to her room and gathered her up, not listening to her whispered arguments, not caring about anything but having her. He remembered being barefoot and forcing her down the steps in the middle of the night to the shower room, where he’d turned on the warm spray and pushed her up against the slick wet tiles.
Her nightgown had been drenched, molding to her perfect body, the blue nylon turning sheer and allowing him to see her big nipples—round, dark, hard disks in breasts large enough to fill his hands. Lower, beneath the nip of her waist, was her perfect nest o
f thick dark curls, defining the juncture of her legs through the wet nylon . . . so inviting. She smelled of sex and want.
Even now in the cold spray he felt his erection stiffening as he remembered in vivid detail how she’d gone down on her knees before him, the water drizzling over her hair and how difficult it had been to restrain himself. Only when he couldn’t stand her perfect ministrations a second longer without exploding had he hoisted her up and plunged into her.
He could still taste himself in her open mouth. “Faith,” he whispered, remembering her tense fingers scraping down the walls, leaving tracks on the misty tiles in her want. He recalled the way she had opened her eyes, her pupils dark, her gold irises focused on him just before her entire body had convulsed. She’d clung to him then, had clawed into his shoulders as she’d held back a squeal of pure, violent pleasure, her slim legs clamped around his waist, her head tossed back, exposing her throat and those wet, slick breasts, her body bucking as hot needles of water washed over them both . . .
Oh, Faith, I vow, I will avenge you . . . your torment is not forgotten.
Shuddering at the vivid memory, he let the lather run down his legs, and then twisted off the faucets. There was so much to do. He didn’t bother with a towel. The bracing feel of air evaporating the moisture on his skin snapped him to the present. It helped him focus, and he needed his mind clear now more than ever.
He couldn’t become careless.
Too much was at stake.
Walking down a long corridor illuminated dimly by a few lanterns he’d left burning, he opened the door to his special room, the one where all his fantasies were born and replayed. Once inside, he lit candles, watching the flickering shadows dance on the wall and on the framed picture of her sitting on the desk. Faith. Staring at him with eyes the color of pure, raw honey. How he missed her.
Deftly he opened the old secretary and found his treasures. His most recent: the fat, old man’s money clip. Pure gold and in the shape of a dollar sign. “Self-involved greedy bastard,” he whispered, remembering with blood-racing clarity the fear in Asa’s eyes as he’d stared down the barrel of the gun. He’d been filthy, had soiled himself, had been brought down to the most basic of needs, and still had thought he could buy or barter his way out of death.
