She took a moment to pet her dogs who had risen at her raised voice. “Sorry,” she muttered. But she wasn’t apologizing to Sam—she continued to scowl at him.
“I get your frustration, and I agree with it. Completely. For the record, I’m not one of those guys who ever—ever—blew off a potential victim.”
“That’s a thing?” Cici’s cheeks mottled with color. “How can that be a thing?” Her voice rose along with her indignation.
“Budgets, cultural assumptions. Look, for years…well into this decade, rape wasn’t pursued. There were few convictions, and a lot of women don’t report.”
“Well, with the stats you mentioned I can understand why.” Cici’s eyes sparked with tremendous outrage. “How did I not know this?”
“What I was getting at was this—I want to find out if the DNA we’ve managed to collect from under Patti’s fingernails matches anything we manage to pull from Kelli Ann Vander Keck and any of the other three-hundred-plus reported rapes in this portion of the state going back about a year.”
She cleared her throat, somewhat appeased by Sam’s comments. But her color remained high and her mouth settled in a defiant line, proving Sam’s theory that Cici wasn’t ready to drop this issue.
“Fine. You’re finally getting the kits tested. The evidence from those may help you pinpoint this guy in a few other crimes. Not enough of them,” she muttered.
“What do you want me to do?” Sam asked, his tone filled with exasperation. “There’s only so much money and only so many hours in the day. I can’t stop every criminal or investigate every crime.”
“I know that,” Cici snapped. She inhaled sharply. “I just…why wouldn’t police departments take these accusations more seriously?”
He leaned forward and clasped her fisted hand in his. “I do.”
She met his gaze. “You better.”
He didn’t tell her that the FBI believed there were somewhere between two thousand and four thousand serial killers—as defined as someone who murdered more than two people in separate incidents—running loose in the country. Those perpetrators were priority one. Nor did he tell Cici that in the last fifty years, the percentage of those murder cases solved had fallen from the mid-nineties to just about sixty percent.
Sam had his theories about why—maybe detectives weren’t paid well enough to stay in their jobs, since those jobs took more energy and garnered less respect with each passing year. Or maybe because new serial killers studied previous murderers and were better at covering their mistakes—at planting evidence or, as in the case of Patti Urlich, not following up and through with the same tactics.
Or…and Sam thought this particularly likely…serial killers were able to move around the country much more easily than in years past. Catching the patterns of murder took someone outside a specific department—someone there specifically to match the similarities in a case in Olean, New York and Sarasota, Florida, in Fresno, California or Midland-Odessa, Texas. That’s why he’d liked the task force in Denver. He’d been able to step back, take a macro approach. Looking for patterns, and finding them had helped Sam and his team collar some of the worst demons into long prison sentences.
Both he and Cici readied themselves for bed, too exhausted to even discuss their days further.
When he assumed Cici must be asleep, she muttered, “What does he do? Is his job how he finds the women?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s not like…a trucker who finds vulnerable women at gas stations. Clearly. He’s targeting a specific group.”
“Why young women?”
Sam considered the note from the burner phone he’d received earlier.
Keep pushing for answers and I’ll make sure all the women you know suffer.
Upon seeing those words, Sam realized they weren’t dealing with a man who allowed victims to find him. No, he sought out women specifically because he considered himself superior.
That tidbit of information might well be the key. He’d talked it over with Jeannette, who agreed with his assessment. She even called in a favor to get Sam the number of a federal researcher who knew the ins and outs of the inCel world. Sam’s skin crawled as he considered what he’d learned. The inCel community was a dark underbelly of involuntarily celibate men who’d been rejected by women in the past or simply didn’t like them enough to interact with them—while at the same time wanting the female form sexually.
According to the researcher, the last case involving such a man stemmed from the gamer community. Sam would bet there was enough interaction there—between the genders and as winners and losers—that law enforcement hadn’t seen the last of that type of revenge murder.
Cici slid into sleep, finally overcome by the exhaustion. Sam exhaled in a thick, harsh burst.
The message to his phone toyed with inCel language and ideology. But the words also felt personal—as if Sam should know the killer. As if Sam interacted with him before.
Sam touched Cici’s earring, reassuring himself that he had a way to find her. Always.
He’d promised that to both of them. And he damn well meant to keep his promise.
37
Cici
There are no dangerous thoughts; thinking itself is dangerous. ― Hannah Arendt
* * *
Millions of artificial spiders seemed to press their tiny, cruel legs along her skin, causing Cici to shudder and cringe as she woke in the night. Sam lay next to her, and Cici knew without rolling over that he was awake.
She really needed to stop giving him such a hard time—this case was taking a toll on him as well as on her. “I read one in sixteen women’s first sexual encounter is forced. The idea so many women don’t get the choice…I’m furious and I ache for them, Sam.”
Sam brushed her hair off her forehead. “That upsets me, too.”
They lay quietly for a moment, both staring up at the wooden beams of her ceiling. Cici blew out a breath. “I saw the hair floating around her in the water.”
When she took her last breath.
Cici couldn’t bring herself to say those words. She fisted her hand. He did that—took her life and her choice from her.
“She didn’t understand how or why he chose her.”
Sam shifted, causing the bed to squeak a little. “I’m not sure there’s ever a good reason. Just his reason.”
Cici never understood hate—not like most people did. Cici didn’t hate her father, whom she struggled to forgive for his affair, for leaving her mother right after the cancer diagnosis because it would make his life too complicated. She’d long considered empathy the very best weapon in her arsenal of compassion, of bridging gaps of understanding. But, today, she tasted the viciousness of rage and revenge on her tongue.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to breathe through the emotions. They kept up residence, causing her throat to ache.
Either she was now different from the rest of the populace or she hadn’t realized how much Chaco impacted her. Maybe it was both.
Maybe she didn’t care.
She hated the man who hurt those women and then dumped them in the scummy, dirty water. She hated him more because he wanted to hurt more women. Simply because they were female.
“Will you tell me—when you find out?”
“The woman’s name?” Sam replied. “Yes.”
“And also his reason. So I can maybe help other women.”
“Yes, Cee. I’ll tell you.”
Cici lay there.
“I dreamed of a girl. She was jogging near St. John’s. She stopped to pick up a cat sitting in the road.” She released a long, slow breath laden with the coming pain she didn’t want to share.
“You seemed to be having a nightmare,” Sam said. His voice was heavy with fatigue but also worry—worry for Cici. “This was it?”
She closed her eyes. “Yes. She could be Jenny. The woman was blond. She’d pulled her hair up into a ponytail.”
“That matches what her friends told us,” Sam said.
/> “So you think that’s who—”
“Maybe,” Sam said, cutting her off. Cici assumed it was because he didn’t want her to dwell on the woman, a real person who would be missed by friends and loved ones. He was right; she would fixate and mourn for the young woman and the people who loved her.
“A man stepped out of one of the courtyards and thanked her.”
“Where was this?”
Cici squinted as she thought back, trying to untangle her thoughts that kept trying to jumble. “Um…Old Santa Fe Trail, I think.”
“All right. He used the courtyard to make her feel safe—like he lived there.”
“Yeah, and he seemed so pleased to have his cat back. When he chatted with her, she chatted back. He noticed a scratch on her arm and suggested she come in, let him put a band-aid on it.”
“What did he look like?” Sam asked.
“Dark hair, kind of thick. Tallish. Beard. Bulbous nose, but not too large. Gray-blue eyes. Short lashes that kind of dipped down toward his eyes.”
Sam sat up, reaching over to turn on the light. He fumbled with his pad and paper, jotting down her description.
She narrowed her eyes at the sudden gleam. “I was so caught up in the cat, in the girl, I didn’t realize.”
Sam pulled her upright and hugged her hard. “You did it, Cici. You’re giving us the first look at our killer.”
Cici basked in his hold for a few minutes until her entire body stiffened. “He gave her a Benadryl, just like he did the others. When she didn’t want it, he grabbed her and shoved her into his car. He didn’t wear gloves. I think…I think she was the replacement for Patti.”
Sam rubbed her back and she choked and shuddered through the explanation and the reality.
“For not getting to rape Patti?”
“Yes,” Cici said, slowly. “He used the cat to lure her in, but then…he…he chooses the women he wants to punish…” Cici shook her head. “That’s not really helpful.”
“Maybe it is,” Sam said. “I’m beginning to see how all the pieces could fit together.”
“He’s young. Not much past college age, or college-aged.”
“Which would explain the T-shirt and the lack of a job,” Sam said.
Cici shuddered again, scooting even closer to him because she needed their connection.
“I’ve seen him before,” she muttered.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“At church?”
That would be the most logical place, but Cici felt, deep in her bones, her house of worship wasn’t where they’d met. She shook her head.
“I’m not sure where. I don’t think so. I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t place him.”
“Do you remember anything about his vehicle?”
She squinted. “Maybe?”
“What do you remember? What else can you go back and pick through from the vision?”
“Boxy,” Cici said slowly. “Like a truck…maybe an SUV.”
“Color?”
“Gray.”
Sam held his breath. “License plate?”
“Um….The turquoise one. There’s a seven and an L at the end.”
38
Sam
Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death. ― Anaïs Nin
* * *
Sam exited the bed after that conversation with Cici. He showered, dressed and strode into her kitchen with the dawn once again. Sam’s phone rang. One of the OMI numbers.
“Hello?”
“Sam. Good. This is Dr. Benson from OMI.”
“You’re getting an early start.”
“I didn’t leave,” Benson said, his voice grim. He slurped something and Sam guessed it was coffee. The poor guy had been inundated with victims—and they weren’t finished yet. They still needed to scour the rest of Old Stone and all of Two-Mile dams. Benson was aware of those details, but he, like Sam wanted to get as much information as quickly as possible. They were closing in on the suspect.
“Thanks to those victims you shipped me yesterday,” Benson said.
Sam winced. “Sorry, man.”
Benson grunted. “I really wish you’d stop finding bodies for me to examine.”
“I really wish people stopped killing other people. Then, I’d have no bodies to tag, bag, and need to identify.”
“Touché. Yeah, so I was calling to let you know the drugs in all the women’s systems match.”
“Straight up Benadryl?” Sam asked.
Benson affirmed.
“The drug’s easy to obtain. Each woman had high levels in her system, and the best guess is he used it as a cheap alternative to a roofie, basically,” Benson said. “It seems like the perp likes ‘em unable to fight back.”
Sam clenched his teeth. He’d never, ever understand what made certain people tick.
“All right. Thanks, man. Anything else?”
“They both show pelvic trauma in line with assault. No semen but trace amounts of latex and a lubricant product in the second body suggest the use of condoms.”
Sam hissed a curse.
“Another thing—the older corpse was still in her teens—you gave us that information, but the second victim appears a few years older. Maybe mid-twenties. I don’t know how that fits into the killer’s profile—what he’s looking for, specifically, because you have a variety of races and coloring, but it’s clear he likes them young.”
“He does seem to have a pattern,” Sam said. Part of that was unusual. Rapists might prefer one type of woman, but they also went after who was available—easy to pick off or to lure away from a crowd.
Sam paused.
Lure away. The camera, the cat. Lorena’s comments about Marietta handing the man his cat followed Cici’s comments about the man stepping out of the courtyard, thankful for the return of his pet. Was there a way the man could use the cat to pinpoint his victims?
Sam wiggled his jaw as he struggled to come up with a scenario, but it all seemed too farfetched. Maybe something would occur to him once he was caffeinated.
“Thanks, Benson. Would you email me your notes? I have to make some inquiries, but I have a running theory on the age—and it could help lead us to the man.”
Not that Sam was ready to share it yet, not even with Jeannette or Raynor. Based on the ages of the women killed, they were all likely to be in college or grad school—easy to pick off by a fellow student who waited and watched for women to be alone.
“Will do. How about you let me work on these bodies for a while? I still need to complete the autopsies. Maybe I could catch up on some sleep before you bring me another round.”
“We’re back out at the site today. I’m not making any promises. But I can tell you I hope we found them all yesterday.”
Benson sighed—the sound of someone shouldering too heavy a load but unwilling to relinquish the burden. “Yeah. Me, too. I don’t like having all these young women in my morgue. They deserved more.”
They did, and that’s why Benson wouldn’t complain—and why Sam would continue to probe. Because the women deserved justice.
Sam rung off with Benson and filled his travel mug with coffee. He went down the hall to talk to Cici. He needed to hold her close, feel her heart pulse with life against his chest one more time before he could return to the hellscape of murder and pain.
He did, and it helped.
“I’ll have a sketch artist by the church later today.”
Cici frowned up at him, dubious. “You think a rendering will help?”
“Can’t hurt and we need an image of the guy out there. The public’s going to get antsy. They already are.”
39
Cici
Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds. ― George Eliot
* * *
Sam left as the sun crested the mountain locals called Baldy. Cici rose from her
bed, wincing at her sore ankle and readied herself for the day, all the while dreading Patti Urlich’s memorial. These last public expressions of goodbye and grief were hard to watch, to participate in, but they were a necessary start to the journey through the shadow of the valley—the only way forward toward the light of living once more.
Not that the struggle through grief was fast or easy at the best of times. And the murder of a loved one was never a best time.
She dressed with care and precision, trying not to focus on the jumbled, befuddling dreams of the night before. The girl holding the cat, her fingers cuddling into the soft, warm fur. The man, whose blunt features were almost handsome, almost charming, until his rage poured from him. The cat leaped softly from her arms as he reached for her…
Cici shuddered. She rinsed her toothbrush and made herself coffee. She talked to her dogs as she did so, and they yipped and whined, vying for her attention. After fifteen minutes with the tennis ball and a tug-of-war toy they enjoyed, they collapsed on the kitchen floor, tongues lolling, eyes glowing with pleasure.
She made sure their breakfast and water bowls were filled and grabbed her keys. Much as she wanted to take her Harley, cruising around on a motorcycle didn’t feel appropriate today, so she settled for her sedate Subaru.
She arrived and opened the church about an hour before the committee arrived to adorn the sanctuary in the somber regalia for the funeral. Other members trooped in with large dishes for the reception held directly after the memorial.
Patti’s wishes to be cremated didn’t allow for a viewing, which Cici deemed best, especially since her body had not yet been released from the OMI facility. Her final, final goodbye would bring a new round of suffering for the family, who had already been through too much.
Cooper Urlich bawled. The large man’s shoulders hunched and folded inward, his big, callused hand wrapped around his son’s slight shoulders. The entire family appeared shocked by Patti’s death, going through motions of a service their brains barely processed.
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