Indelible

by Laurie Buchanan

  The description of the vehicle Wycoff used to check in at the hotel was a rental car they found abandoned ten miles away. The security cameras at both the rental car agency and the hotel had been disabled in advance, so the murderer wasn’t caught on camera.

  The autopsy determined that Rose had been raped before and after her death.

  In her comments, the medical examiner, Dr. Felicia Simmons, annotated, “There are three basic types of rape—anger, power, and sadistic.

  “Rose Gonzalez was kept alive on purpose. Her larynx and laryngeal nerves were slit, while avoiding her trachea. And though she could still breathe, Ms. Gonzalez couldn’t make a sound during the frontal rape. A power rape. Afterward, both of the carotid arteries in her neck were severed. Once dead, she was raped again. This time, anally. A sadistic rape.

  “We know a few things for sure. The killer didn’t wear a condom. We were able to collect semen from the victim. Unfortunately, after running the data through CODIS, we came up empty-handed—no DNA match. Why he’d leave semen but wipe his prints clean is beyond me. But whoever it is, knows his anatomy.”

  The cold serrated edge of police work cuts jags across Joe’s heart. Sickened, he shakes his head and repeats the search process in the database with Yolanda. He discovers the same brutal pattern.

  Yolanda Davis had been part of the housekeeping staff at a hotel in Jacksonville, Florida. Her body was found in the bathtub of room 224. It was rolled in a shower curtain that had been removed from the rod. Her throat had been slit in the same manner as Rose. Twice. And she’d been raped the same way. Twice. The first time, supine—face up—while still alive. The second time—prone—face down, postmortem. The room had been registered to a Philip Gray. There were no fingerprints. Everything had been wiped clean.

  The description of the vehicle Gray used to check in at the hotel was a rental car they found abandoned ten miles away. The security cameras at both the rental car agency and the hotel had been disabled in advance, so the murderer wasn’t caught on camera.

  The term “serial killer” turns over and over in Joe’s mind. A third murder will earn the killer the monstrous title.

  Typing each name from the rectangular badges in the suitcase into the database, Joe finds murdered housekeeping staff from differing hotels across the country. He methodically runs through each case, the highlights of which are on his computer screen. Teagan Lewis in Chicago, Illinois. Mai Lee in Los Angeles, California. Teresa Mendez in Boston, Massachusetts. Linh Wong in Dallas, Texas. Amala Banik in Portland, Oregon. Silvia Miller in Kansas City, Kansas. Veronica Alvarez in Denver, Colorado. And Devi Chandra in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

  Joe slumps back in his chair, reeling from the information that’s fastened like a tick in his mind. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a breath. As he exhales upward through his lips, he thinks, This is the work of a serial killer.

  He thinks back to one of the department’s mandatory classes taught by a forensic psychologist, Dr. Elizabeth Hamilton. Pulling a file from his desk drawer, he reads his notes. She’d explained the difference between narcissism, sociopathy, and psychopathy, saying, “A narcissist is someone who lacks empathy, is grandiose, entitled, seeks validation, and is arrogant. They have trouble regulating their self-esteem. When a narcissist does a bad thing, they feel a fair amount of guilt and shame. More shame than guilt, because they’re concerned about how other people will view them. Shame is a public emotion. They don’t like being viewed negatively in the public eye. As a result, they’re held hostage by the opinion of others.”

  Joe sets his notes on his lap, closes his eyes, and thinks about something his dad told him years ago when they’d been discussing pride. “Son,” he said, “people often value their reputations more than their integrity.” Joe nods his head in silent agreement.

  Picking up the paperwork, he continues reading. Dr. Hamilton went on to say, “Psychopathy is a different animal. Psychopaths are all of the things a narcissist is, except there’s no guilt and no shame. They don’t feel remorse when do they something terrible. They make great serial killers, assassins, and people who are hired to go in and gut a business. They don’t care who gets hurt.”

  Not wanting to rely solely on his notes, Joe opens his drawer again and digs through paperwork to find the handout from Dr. Hamilton’s class. He flips through the stapled pages until he gets to the part that he’s looking for, and then reads, “And while sociopathy and psychopathy are both antisocial personality disorders—some clinicians even class them together—criminologists differentiate between them based on their outward behavior. For instance, sociopaths tend to be disorganized, while psychopaths can be almost obsessively organized.

  “Sociopaths aren’t able to maintain normal relationships with family, friends, or co-workers, while psychopaths can maintain normal social relationships. They may even take care of aging parents or be married with children.

  “Sociopaths are often unable to keep steady employment or housing, while psychopaths are often very successful in their careers.

  “Sociopaths often live on the fringe of society. Studies of homeless people show that a disproportionately large number of them are classed as sociopaths. On the other hand, psychopaths often live in a typical house or apartment, and are indistinguishable from healthy people.

  “A psychopath’s ability to charm and manipulate people is one of the hallmarks of their disorder. The psychopath is an award-winning liar, gaslighting is second nature, the threat of punishment doesn’t faze them, and they thrive on other’s constant praise. Because the psychopath doesn’t possess real empathy—although they are adept at faking it—their ability to see consequences of their actions is limited to the furtherance of their own agenda.

  “Violence in sociopaths is erratic and unplanned. They’re easier to identify and apprehend as they generally leave behind a large trail of clues. Psychopaths often plan for years to exact revenge. They’re difficult to catch because they calculate each step of the act to ensure they will commit their crime undetected.

  “When a normal person does something wrong (mean, bad, embarrassing, rude) our autonomic nervous system causes our heart to race, we sweat, and we look around. A psychopath doesn’t have the same response. That’s why they’re able to lie on polygraph tests and get away with it—they literally don’t care.

  “PET scans reveal that the part of the brain that exhibits empathy doesn’t light up in psychopaths. They have glib, shallow charm, and tend to be intelligent. They learn behavior to assimilate into society, but it’s all a facade.”

  Joe sets the paperwork down and walks across the room to a large map of the United States tacked on the wall. Although his gait is sure and measured, he is grim-faced and pale. With his index finger, he traces a line from location to location of the hotel murders in the order they occurred. Crossing multiple state lines, the killer is spider-like, weaving an intricate web. Brilliant about covering his tracks, he never strikes in the same state twice.

  Joe walks back to his desk, grabs a pen and recreates the path on a piece of paper to see if there might be a recognizable shape, a symbol of some sort. No such luck.

  In each case, the killer used a different alias, but his MO remained the same—hotel rooms, rental cars, and disabled cameras. His method of rape and murder were identical with one exception—the wrists of the last eight women had been bound together with zip-tie restraints. But the most chilling consistency is the killer’s psychopathic predilection for premeditated violence—what Dr. Hamilton referred to as an “intra-species predator who preys on humanity.”

  Joe feels the onslaught of information stretching about inside his brain, unfolding its many tentacles. Picking up the handout again, he continues reading. “When a psychopath goes to jail, he doesn’t get upset. It’s viewed as ‘the cost of doing business.’

  “Most people who commit domestic or intimate-partner violence are either narcissistic or psychopathic. The psychopath will simply dispose of you if
you get in their way.”

  Joe scrubs his hands over his face. I’ve been on the force long enough to know that given the right motivation, we’re all capable of murder.

  He continues to read. “Empathy is a positive emotion. A psychopath isn’t empathetic, but they’re very understanding. They can read and understand a person’s vulnerability and use it to leverage their power.”

  Shaking his head, Joe puts the handout back in his desk drawer. With the information he’s gathered, he wonders, Why haven’t the police put these murders together? Why aren’t they linked?

  He realizes that the answer is on the computer screen in front of him. The crimes had been committed so far apart—in time and distance—that up until now, each one was viewed as a one-off crime, not as part of a series.

  Patterns and connections. They were there all along, just waiting to be made.

  “This discussion isn’t open for negotiation,” Libby says to Cynthia as she leads her down the hall to the guest bedroom.

  “But I can rest just as well in Brontë cottage as I can here,” Cynthia counters.

  “You heard Dr. Zimmerman just as well as I did,” Libby continues. “She said that if we were ‘back in the day,’ you’d be in the hospital for at least a week. But times have changed. And though you’re medically fit for discharge, that doesn’t mean that you’re well. It merely means that the hospital needs the bed.”

  Libby continues, pointing first to herself, then to Cynthia. “And Dr. Zimmerman put me in charge of you because she doesn’t want you to get ‘revolving door syndrome.’ She doesn’t want to see you back in the hospital. Her orders were for you to come home with me, stay put, and get well.” And though she’s smiling, Libby’s statement brooks no argument.

  Entering the guest bedroom, Libby can’t help but notice Cynthia’s eyes widen in appreciation. “It’s beautiful,” she says. Admiring the sun-weathered beige with hues of aqua, rose, and ochre, she continues, “I love the colors and fabrics you chose.”

  “I do too,” Libby says. “Sometimes I hope Niall’s snoring gets so loud that I have to come in here to sleep. I love the serenity in this space.”

  Walking toward the distressed white plantation shutters, an accent piece in the corner, Cynthia touches the nightgown draped over the top. “This looks like my nightgown.”

  “Yes, I hope you don’t mind. I went to your cottage and gathered a few things, including your toiletries,” Libby finishes, pointing to the ensuite bathroom.

  “You’ve thought of everything.” Cynthia smiles. “Thank you.”

  “Rest now. Niall’s just started making a pot of his world-famous chicken noodle soup.” Pressing her hands together in prayer-like fashion, Libby emphasizes, “It’s delicious!” Then she leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “I’ve pretended to be sick just so that I can have some.”

  Cynthia places both hands on her stomach. “I love his cooking. I can’t imagine him making anything that’s not delicious.”

  “Well, I can vouch that his chicken noodle soup will cure anything that ails you, regardless of what it is.”

  As she returns to the kitchen, Libby says, “Fran, Cynthia is resting now. You might as well get some rest too. I’ll ring you in Dickens cottage if anything new transpires.”

  “Promise?” Fran asks.

  Raising her little finger, Libby smiles. “I’ll pinky-swear if that’ll make you feel better.”

  Fran laughs and hooks her little finger around Libby’s. Entwined, they make a swift downward movement and together say, “Pinky swear!”

  “Okay.” Fran smiles. “I believe you.”

  Libby gathers her wind-tangled hair into a loose bun and then shifts to face the bird feeders. While filling them with seed, she notices the lengthening shadows and knows that dusk is on its way. She hasn’t heard from Mick. I’m not going to worry. At least I’m going to try not to worry.

  Long ago her mother told her, “Worry is like sitting in a rocking chair. It gives you something to do but doesn’t get you anywhere.” She smiles, knowing there’s wisdom in that adage.

  “Did you pick some basil for me?” Niall asks over his shoulder when Libby steps into the kitchen.

  “I sure did. Oh, that smells good!” Feigning illness, she holds the back of her hand to her forehead and bats her eyelashes.

  “You’ll get some too,” Niall laughs.

  Libby watches as Niall bathes the chicken in Chardonnay. When it’s almost cooked off, he tops the golden meat with sautéed artichoke hearts and sprinkles it generously with the basil that Libby had minced while he was making egg noodles.

  Niall turns the flame as low as it will go. “I’m going to hold off on anything further until the troops gather. Once I add the noodles, these bad boys won’t take long,” he says, pointing a flour-covered finger toward fat golden strips draped over a wooden rack.

  They turn in unison as Mick bolts through the door, Fran not far behind.

  “Fran told me that Cynthia’s here,” Mick says. “I need to speak with her.”

  “I was just about to wake her up,” Libby says.

  “Who, me?” Everyone turns as Cynthia enters the kitchen.

  “Cynthia, I’m so glad that you’re alive and safe. Here—” He leads her to a chair at the enormous pine table. “I need to show you something.”

  As he steps up to the table, Mick turns so that his right thigh is against the edge, then reaches into his pocket and pulls the interior fabric until a pearl earring drops onto the table. Everyone leans forward for a closer look.

  “This is one of Emma’s earrings,” he says. “I haven’t touched it. When I found it near the back side of Thoreau, I staked the spot with a stick, then scooped it up with a leaf and slid it into my pocket. I’m not sure what you look for when you tune into the energy of an item, so I didn’t want to contaminate it.”

  “Not many people are as thoughtful as you,” Cynthia says, looking up into Mick’s eyes, tight with worry. “Now if one of you will get a pen and paper, it’s a good idea to write down what I say.”

  “I’ll write,” Fran volunteers.

  “I’ll get a pen and paper,” Libby says.

  “Would it be okay if I use the recorder on my cell phone as a backup?” Mick asks.

  “Yes, that’s a great idea.” Cynthia smiles.

  As Libby hands a tablet and pen to Fran, Niall asks, “Are you going into a trance?”

  “That’s a good question, Niall. The answer is no.” Cynthia looks around the room and continues, “I’m just going to close my eyes and sit with Emma’s earring for a bit. If I receive any energetic pictures, I’ll state them out loud. I say this in advance because it might seem disjointed.”

  “What do you mean by energetic pictures?” Fran asks.

  “An impression. It could be something I see or hear. It might be something I feel, smell, or even taste.”

  “You said if,” Mick notes, an unasked question hanging on the end of his statement.

  “That’s right, Mick,” she says gently. “It doesn’t always work.” And with that, Cynthia picks up Emma’s pearl earring, lays it on her left palm, covers it with her right palm, then rests both hands on her lap.

  All eyes are on Cynthia as she closes hers.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Cram your head with characters and stories. Abuse your library privileges. Never stop looking at the world, and never stop reading to find out what sense other people have made of it. If people give you a hard time and tell you to get your nose out of a book, tell them you’re working. Tell them it’s research. Tell them to pipe down and leave you alone.”

  —JENNIFER WEINER

  Jason’s hands are trembling. His whole body is jittery. Damn, I need a drink, and I’m out of Jack. He wonders what else will soothe him. Patting the knife in his pocket he muses, Should I kill Emma now? Excitement tingles through him at the prospect. What a great blow that would be to Mick. But devastation should be paced. It should build—slowly—until
the final eruption. No, he tells himself, keep to the original plan.

  Jason removes a small, battery-operated lantern from his backpack and turns it on. It casts light on the damp walls. Bat guano glistens on the rock-strewn ground.

  Emma observes Jason’s face surreptitiously. The threatening emotions that play across his face raise the hair on the nape of her neck. Everything in her is coiled tight, ready to shatter. She can taste her dinner in the back of her throat. It’s been hours since she’s emptied her bladder and it feels like it’s going to burst. I’ll be damned before I take care of something that personal in front of him. The heavy knot in her stomach is dread.

  “They say anticipation makes pleasure more intense,” Jason says to Emma. “I saw you watching me.”

  Looking toward the mouth of the cave, Emma ignores his comment. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  Darkness is safer. I’m at home in the dark, Jason thinks. “What’s the matter, are you afraid of the dark?”

  “No,” she answers, her voice steady.

  “You should be. All of my disposals happen at night.”

  She can’t help herself. “Disposals?”

  Leaning forward, he looks into her eyes. “My kills. The ones I’ve done with my knife. It takes a great deal of stealth and intelligence to accomplish what I have,” he continues, pride lacing his voice.

  Heart pounding, mind racing, Emma knows she needs to buy time. Keep him talking.

  “What have you accomplished?” she asks.

  “Sliding his back down the rock wall he seats himself on the ground, wincing as he makes himself comfortable. “Let’s see now, there was Rose, Yolanda, Tegan, Mai, Teresa, Linh, Amala, Silvia, Veronica, and Devi.”

  He pauses for a moment. “There was also Sybil, but she doesn’t count. She was my mother. She never counted.”