Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  The way Darling singsonged Zach’s name in such a deliberate and familiar way made him uneasy. He had very little to bargain with before going to the photos. Making something up was risky, especially if Darling stayed in touch with the Follower. “He’s departing from your signature. Moving on.”

  Xav drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair. “Lying is below you. There’s no dee-par-churrr.”

  “Sure there is. He doesn’t take seventy-two hours before he kills them.”

  “Not new.” The bizarre smile developed. “I want a picture now.”

  Zach’s heart plummeted. “I gave you something.”

  “Nawp. Picture.”

  With not-quite-steady hands, Zach selected a photo from the envelope and pressed it to the window. The morgue image of Vicki Hightower with her face covered wasn’t great, but Darling didn’t deserve high-quality pictures. Hell, he didn’t deserve to see any pictures. The victims deserved dignity in death.

  Darling smiled. “Pretty good work. Keep it there.”

  Why had he agreed to this? Purchasing information with photos of murder victims was wrong. Zach counted to ten and pulled the photo away.

  “I’m not done.” Menace laced the tone.

  “I didn’t agree to prolonged viewing. Give me something usable about the Follower. Age? Job?”

  “He sees these offerings as part of a transition.”

  Offerings? Human sacrifices? “What do you mean, ‘transition’?”

  Xav rolled his eyes. “To change.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Into what?”

  “A higher power.”

  Not good. It sounded like the Follower was delusional, but knowledge of mental dysfunction wouldn’t help catch him. They needed something more concrete.

  “God made the world in five.”

  “That’s pointless. Our agreement is for helpful information.”

  “It is helpful. You not understanding it is on you, not me. Give me another picture.”

  Why had Zach expected any different? This was titillation for a man who lived his life in a cell. What else could be more entertaining than manipulating the FBI—and Zach—in a personal puppet show?

  Time for a salvage operation. “He’s more skilled than you are.”

  Xav yanked at his restraints. “No.”

  “More controlled.”

  “That ain’t what you said in your TV interview.”

  “You taught him so well he’s surpassed you. He’s out there enjoying himself while you’re stuck here in solitary.”

  “You fucker! The Follower ain’t me. Will never be me. I’ll rip your fucking heart out, Littman. Gonna reach in and tear it loose.”

  Xav had said such before. It wasn’t comfortable listening to the litany, but somehow it wasn’t terrifying. The string of profanity continued. Zach waited.

  Day leveled a withering glare. “You’re goading him.”

  “Quiet, please,” Zach murmured.

  A look of astonishment flared on Day’s face, but he closed his mouth.

  When Darling quit swearing, Zach said, “The Follower could become a prisoner here. You could see him, talk to him. Remind him who does the better work. Remind him who taught whom. He’d be nearby. You could make it happen.”

  Unexpectedly, Xav settled. “You’re close to finding him. Closer than you think. You’ll find him when he gets to five.”

  Van was a failed attempt at number three. There was no four—yet. Zach was to be number five. Closer than you think. Had Zach unwittingly said something that was a clue? Was the Follower a former prisoner?

  Day gave an exasperated sigh. “Mr. Darling—”

  “Hush.” Xav’s bottomless eyes remained on Zach. “I’m your best shot at solving this thing, doctor dearest. Give me another picture. Then we’ll talk.”

  “As a show of good faith, give me the location of Carrie’s body.”

  “You give me two pictures, and I give it to you.”

  Zach weighed the bargain. Giving in would imply to Xav that he could run the conversation. On the other hand, getting the location might be the one positive to come out of the interview; it didn’t look like Darling planned to give them anything useful on the Follower. No surprise there.

  Zach selected two of Perny’s autopsy images, turned them toward the Plexiglas, and held them in place. Count to thirty. One, two, three…

  Darling cracked a smile, and he strained against the bonds. “So pretty,” he murmured. “The boy does good work.”

  This boy is past tense.

  Day swallowed audibly. Rhys kept her eyes on her paperwork. Zach’s stomach churned from sharing such intimate pictures with a psychopath. …Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

  Down came the photos.

  “I wasn’t done.” Darling’s brows knit together.

  “Where is Carrie Schemmel?”

  “I want another picture.”

  Zach looked at Day. “I upheld my end of the agreement: two pictures in exchange for the location. Please instruct your client to answer.”

  “Mr. Darling.” Day cleared his throat. “Please answer the question.”

  “Why?” Darling narrowed his eyes.

  “Because it’s what you agreed to.” Day glared at his client.

  “I tell him at the end of our talk.”

  Zach gathered his things and stood. “Thank you, Mr. Day, Ms. Nementhal. I’m sorry we—”

  “No.” Xav’s voice thundered. He curled his hands into fists. Zach could almost hear the angry buzz of the tiny lights on the cage, amping up as they fed off Xav’s fury. “Not done.”

  Still standing, Zach asked, “Where is Carrie Schemmel?”

  “I need to show you.”

  “No. Give me directions.”

  “I need to go along.”

  Zach put down his papers and leaned on the table. “You will not go along. You will not leave this building—not for any reason—for the rest of your life.”

  Xav’s eyes glittered like knives. “Off Rampart Range Road.”

  Day hit Mute. “That area was affected by the Waldo Canyon fire. It’s changed significantly since he would have left the girl.”

  No wonder Darling had been willing to offer the location. It was probably unfindable. Zach punched Speak.

  “I need more specifics.”

  “Halfway along the road there’s a rock formation shaped like a frog, ’bout five feet high. From there, walk due west a hundred steps. You come to a drop-off to a dry gully.”

  Zach nodded.

  “Look north. She buried under the oak tree split by lightning.”

  The fire might have taken all the trees. “How far from the gully drop-off to the tree?”

  “Fifty feet. On a little rise. Real pretty. You can hear the birds in the morning.”

  * * * *

  “The impounded car? It was junked,” Richfield reported to Beck. “It had a handwritten bill of sale and a salvage title. The person on the title doesn’t exist. There’s no registration, and the plates don’t match the car.”

  “What about prints?”

  “None so far. It’s been wiped. The tech said she’ll try the hidden spots people miss.”

  A law student wouldn’t have missed those, in Beck’s opinion. “Anything in the trunk?”

  “Moldy carpet, a tire iron, and a jack.”

  “Trace?”

  “They vacuumed the whole car, but the tech said it was clean, like it’d been professionally detailed.”

  Perny had taken pains—if this was Perny’s vehicle. “Okay. Keep me updated.”

  * * * *

  Parked by the side of the road, Zach took a deep breath. The tight band constricting his chest had disappeared. Behind him, Supermax hunkered in the distance, silhouetted by the Rockies.

  Displaying the pictures still bothered him, but the encounter hadn’t been as bad as the one the previous October—no head-banging, no blood. A shower sounded good, but it wasn’t an emergency—not like last t
ime. Finding Carrie Schemmel might be possible.

  From what Zach had gleaned from Rhys and Day, the search could be arduous. Jurisdiction would be complicated: Denver PD would have to coordinate with Colorado Springs PD, El Paso County, and the US Forest Service to do the recovery. The FBI would want their two cents’ worth. They’d need a medical examiner and a forensic anthropologist.

  Beck would know what to do first. Zach punched in the number.

  “Stryker.” All business, no pleasure.

  “It’s me.”

  “Hold on.” Footsteps marched at a brisk pace, and then a door closed. “Hey.” Friendlier now. “What happened?”

  Zach filled him in on the debacle and the scant useful information about the Follower.

  “He didn’t give the name, address, or social security number, huh?”

  “Nope. Mostly riddles. There might have been something subtle, some hint… I don’t know. I’ll have to replay the recording.”

  Quiet hung on the line. There was expectation in Beck’s silence. At least Zach had something positive. “He gave me the location of Carrie Schemmel’s body.”

  “Seriously? Where is she?”

  “Somewhere off Rampart Range Road. Do you know it?”

  Beck groaned. “A big fire burned through there a couple of years ago. The landmarks are probably gone. Is he being honest or just jacking us around?”

  Hard to know. Xav would love the thought of law enforcement stumbling around in mud and ash on his say-so. “No way to know short of going out there.”

  “It’s not under Denver’s jurisdiction. It’ll take several agencies.” Beck seemed to be thinking; Zach could practically hear the wheels turning. “Years back, there was a task force to catch Darling. I’ll need to run it by SJ, but I could call the leaders of that group and try to cut through some of the red tape.”

  “Okay. I’m on my way back. See you in three hours.”

  “Yep. Be careful.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The dead were so still. Noiseless. Pale. Beautiful.

  Within that confluence of sinew and muscle lay the fascinating framework of bones. Flesh took a million forms: fat or thin, round or angular, tall or small. Two hundred six structural units underneath all, regardless of shape.

  Beetle lowered the field glasses. Despite the shade of the deciduous forest, it was uncomfortably warm. Insects whirred among the ground cover. Broad daylight and his work had yet to be noticed.

  The location hadn’t been discovered. Laid out in the open for all to see and nary a looker. More surprising because the day was pleasant, sunlight playing across grass and trees, picking out highlights and shadows on chiseled marble.

  Ten more minutes and he’d have to leave. The monthly lunch with Mommy Dearest was in less than two hours. There would be no canceling, not on such short notice. The world might spin off its fucking axis if everything wasn’t perfectly aligned, like china and silver on a linen tablecloth. How blueberry crepes served with fresh cream and English tea bestowed order was beyond him.

  And right when he was on the cusp of attaining greatness.

  If they didn’t get it soon, he’d text coordinates to Dr. Littman. In the meantime, there was a suit with his name on it.

  And a plate of fucking crepes.

  * * * *

  So much for that idea. Beck rubbed his neck and looked over his scant notes. After SJ had approved resurrecting the Darling multijurisdictional task force, Beck had settled with a ham sandwich and a phone list.

  The word “no” figured prominently into the discussions.

  The main problem was that most of them were retired, and the current leadership had little interest in retrieving a body when the person responsible sat in Supermax for life. A lot of rhetoric about departmental budgets and manpower shortages and allocation of resources.

  Colorado Springs PD and the El Paso County Sheriff’s Department enthusiastically agreed to let DPD dig on their turf—no help, but “feel free to dig away.” The US Forest Service had been a harder sell, but they declared their finances and staff stretched too thin after the fire. Another “dig away” tempered with “don’t wreck anything.” Like what? Ashes?

  No one was optimistic anything would be found.

  Unless the feebs anted up, it wouldn’t be a go until Beck could muster a crew. Zach wouldn’t be pleased, but right now the Follower took priority.

  There was a knock on the door frame. Richfield stood there, fidgeting.

  Now what? “Come on in, Owen.”

  “Wanted to…uh, wanted to let you know about…the blue car? There were fingerprints on the gas cap.”

  Mental fist pump. “Perny’s?”

  “No. Sorry.” Richfield looked guilty as hell.

  “Not your fault.” Beck pointed at a chair, but Richfield remained standing.

  “The thumbprint on the gas cap matches the one on Annika Unger’s glasses.”

  Beck’s eyebrows shot up. “How did you hit on that?”

  “Since it seems like the Follower and Perny are connected, I asked the tech to compare. They’re identical.”

  Oh my God. How in the hell had Richfield thought to compare the two? The guy was more on the ball than Beck thought. If the print belonged to the Follower, it was one more thing that put him with Annika. The barrette tied Annika and Perny. “Good work. Take a patrol officer and canvass the houses near the spot where the blue car was parked. See if anyone saw someone associated with the blue vehicle drive any other cars and whether he went into any dwellings over there.”

  Richfield straightened the knot on his tie. “And then call you?”

  “Sure.” He listened to Richfield’s footsteps fade away.

  Beck felt adrift in the case—a lot of data, a lot of dead ends, but little direction. Zach had been certain the TV interview would shake something loose. Instead they’d spent the night apart, waiting for an attack that never happened. Either the Follower had figured out the plan, or he’d taken a breather to regroup.

  Tonight Beck had arranged for better accommodations—and inviting Zach over for a little private relaxation before curfew kicked in.

  The phone vibrated, dancing its way across the table. “Stryker.”

  “Sergeant Trout here, Detective.” The watch commander sounded grave. “I have a potential task force victim.”

  Beck closed his eyes. The asshole had taken action after all. “Where?”

  “Ridgeview Cemetery.”

  * * * *

  Red-and-blue lights throbbed along the main road through the graveyard. An assortment of unmarked vehicles had joined the cavalcade of cruisers parked haphazardly on the strip of asphalt.

  Beck pulled up behind the last vehicle and climbed out. The scents of fresh-mown grass and damp earth were at odds with what waited. Beck headed toward the tangle of cruisers; they surrounded a golf cart marked Ridgeview Cemetery Maintenance. A uniform was interviewing a man in work clothes.

  At the top of a gentle slope of lawn, someone had strung crime-scene tape between trees and shrubs; inside, cops milled around beneath the trees. One man stood off to the side, heaving breakfast into an unlucky lilac bush.

  One of those scenes. Beck scrambled up the hill, showed his ID, and ducked under the tape. The blue-clad crowd parted. A human-shaped lump lay covered with a white plastic sheet.

  “Who draped him?” Beck asked.

  An older bald man in uniform stepped forward. “The caretaker wanted him to have a little dignity. He says the sheet was new, came right out of the original packaging.”

  At least the crime scene might not have additional contaminants. Beck pulled out gloves and peeled back the sheet.

  Jesus.

  Nude, the older man lay staring up at the cloudless sky. A panel of ribs had been removed along with the sternum, leaving the chest open. Between the lungs, the cardiac cavity was empty.

  No heart. It was impossible to tell if the Follower had left a message; blood had coagulated like curran
t jelly inside.

  Next, he surveyed the hands. On the right side there was shiny cartilage where the fifth finger should attach.

  Multiple wounds marked the belly. The word “THREE” could be there, but it was hard to tell. After the medical examiner got him cleaned up, they’d see.

  The groin was the worst. No dick. No balls. All that remained was raw tissue set upon by flies. Beck’s skin crawled. “Any ID?”

  “No.” The bald LEO gestured at the body. “Just what you see.”

  How were they ever going to catch this bastard? Beck covered the victim. “The ME?”

  “On the way.” The officer leaned in. In a low voice he said, “Did you see the headstone?”

  Admittedly he’d been distracted by the body. Beck focused on the gray granite marker, and his heart stutter-stepped. Shit.

  It read Littman.

  * * * *

  Zach crested the hill on northbound I-25, and the city came into view. Hello sunny, smoggy Denver.

  Bzzz…

  Zach glanced at the phone. Could be important. Enduring venomous glances, he crossed two lanes and pulled onto the shoulder.

  Bzzz…

  “Littman.”

  “Where are you?” Beck’s voice sounded distant, echoing.

  “Just hit south Denver. What’s up?”

  “He did another one.”

  Zach’s stomach hollowed. “When? Where?”

  “Ridgeview Cemetery. A tiny private graveyard up north. It was called in about two and a half hours ago, not long after I talked to you.”

  “You’re sure it’s him?” Zach shut off the motor.

  “I’m sure. It’s number three.”

  Get in the game before number three. Zach was in the game, but only the Follower knew the rules. Zach was playing blind, guided solely by instinct and training.

  “Where are you?” Zach heard himself ask.

  “With Elmo. At the morgue.”

  “And?”

  “There’s a note,” Beck said tersely.

  The hollowness turned to nausea, the kind accompanied by a cold sweat and a racing heart. “A note?”

  “I’ll tell you the rest in person. I’ll be with Elmo.” Beck lowered his voice. “Be careful.”

  “Beck, I…”

  “What?” The voice was gentle, patient.