by Gina LaManna
Russo’s eyes followed mine to Claire, then to the house. A thin smile landed on his lips when he turned his gaze back to mine. “Not a whole lot, hence the reason I called you over.”
“How’d you hear about my history with Wilkes? We’re not exactly in the TC Task Force’s jurisdiction.”
“We ran specific details through the system—”
“You mean, the victim’s lack of teeth.”
“That,” Russo admitted. “Along with the age and gender of the victim and location. Didn’t get that many pings for someone removing an entire set of teeth perimortem. Cross referenced that with killers who were still alive, and I was more than a little intrigued to see that one Ramone Wilkes had escaped from prison late last night.”
“I thought it was this morning?”
“Last night,” he said. “We didn’t catch wind of it until this morning.”
“Just enough time to travel up here.”
“Just being the key word. It doesn’t leave a whole lot of flex time before he started killing,” Russo said. “He must’ve had a car waiting. He would’ve hit the road and traveled overnight. What brought him here, specifically?”
“Are you wondering aloud, or asking me?”
“Both?”
I rolled my eyes to stare at the sky and tugged my jacket closer to my shoulders. I hadn’t dressed up for the drive to Wisconsin—at least, not on purpose. I’d worn a pair of black jeans and low heels, along with a long-sleeved, red V-neck sweater and a thick jacket. The swipe of mascara and lip gloss along the way hadn’t had anything to do with the fact that I had suspected I might see Russo. Absolutely not.
“Look, Rosetti. I asked you here for a reason. You’re the smartest cop I know, and you have personal experience with Wilkes.”
“Lucky for you.”
His eyes narrowed on me. “What happened with him?”
I glared back. “Did you ask me here for my help on this case or to rehash the past?”
“The past can affect the future.”
“Not this time,” I said. “You can have my help if you want it, but the past stays private.”
“That bad?” Russo watched me carefully. “I’m sorry, Kate. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
“Well, you did, and now it’s too late. I want to see this asshole behind bars, and the sooner the better. Where’s the body?”
Russo wisely let our conversation drop and led me toward the front door. The unassuming home was flanked by two neighboring residences that were close enough to touch if I extended my arms and stood between them.
“Did anyone hear anything?”
Russo scanned the neighboring homes. “Nothing. This is a college neighborhood. The house to the left was having a little party—kids inside were bumping music and drunk. Nobody heard a thing. The house to the right was empty all night—a group of college girls live there, but they were away. Over at boyfriends’, family, whatever. Wilkes got lucky.”
“He doesn’t get lucky,” I corrected. “He chose this place for a reason. I don’t know what it was yet, but there was a reason.”
“Why’d he choose his last victims?”
I steeled my jaw. “The ones he killed, he chose for... sport.”
Russo pushed the door open, waited for further explanation.
“He started with the females,” I said. “There was never anything sexual about his killing—no rape or anything of the sort.”
“Thank God.”
I quirked one shoulder up. “Small miracles. The things those women and men went through, it’s hardly any relief to know...”
“I understand,” Russo said quietly.
I shook off the chill that settled over my shoulders as we climbed the stairs to a bedroom on the upper level. “Over time, he selected his victims according to the challenge each one presented. His first victim—Marla Kismet—was a prostitute.”
“Easy prey.”
“She weighed about eighty pounds soaking wet and didn’t have many people who’d miss her,” I agreed. “The second victim remains a Jane Doe to this day.”
“Another prostitute?”
“Probably,” I said. “But she was bigger in size, and she had defensive wounds on her hands.”
“She fought back.”
“Hard. But it wasn’t enough.”
“He liked the struggle,” Russo said. “His third victim was a man?”
“William Thompson,” I said. “Respected businessman. Fit, intelligent, well-liked by all accounts.”
“Defensive wounds?”
“Not much,” I said. “Wilkes prepared. He drugged Thompson and tied him up. He was waiting for him after work inside his house. He finished the murder and left the house just five minutes before the wife returned home.”
Russo cursed under his breath. “Cutting things close.”
“You could say that. An awful thing for the wife to come home and find,” I said. “Was this guy married?”
Russo stopped inside the doorway to the bedroom and gestured to the sparse, lived-in space with a lack of enthusiasm that told me he was already exhausted from Wilkes. The bastard had the tendency to wear law enforcement down. He defied rhyme or reason, acted in chaotic patterns. It was difficult to predict Wilkes’s next moves, and even harder to predict the logic behind them.
After he’d been arrested the first time, I’d interviewed him. I’d tried to understand how he’d done it—both logistically and mentally. How he’d justified the killings, and more importantly, why. I’d tried to unravel what had gone wrong in this man’s life to turn him so evil, but the only thing I’d deduced was that Ramone Wilkes had been born bad.
“Not married, but we believe he was in a relationship with a woman,” Russo said. “Judging by the extra toothbrush in the bathroom, the feminine soaps in the shower, and the call log on his phone. We’re trying to get in touch with her to confirm.”
I stepped further into the room and wrinkled my nose against the smell. Death and decomposition mixed with stale air and burnt flesh was enough to make my stomach roil. It didn’t take long for me to size up the scene. While I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, it looked like Wilkes.
The man—identified by Russo as Jonathan Tate—appeared to be in his early thirties, Caucasian, in average shape for a man of his age. It was hard to tell if he might have been called attractive due to the heavy bruising and swelling around his face.
I gloved up, nodded at the ME, and knelt before the body. When I gestured toward Tate’s mouth, the ME cracked it open for me. I winced at the now-gaping mouth—bloody sockets where teeth belonged.
“I’m guessing you haven’t found the teeth yet,” I said.
The ME shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard.”
“You won’t,” I said dully. “This is Wilkes. His hands?”
The ME moved his gloved fingers down and exposed the palms of Tate’s hands. “Severely burned. No prints.”
“Of course not.” I sighed, raised myself to my feet. “Any other initial findings?”
“No signs of any defensive wounds as of yet, but I’ll be scraping what I can from under the fingernails and checking more thoroughly during the autopsy. See here?” The ME gestured toward the smallest prick on Tate’s neck. “I’m guessing he was drugged. Made it easier for the killer to perform the rest of his rituals without having to worry about a fight. We’ll run tests, see what—if anything—was in his system.”
“Etorphine.”
The ME looked up. “That’s strictly used for animals. How would he have gotten his hands on it?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “He must have had a stash from before he went to prison. We always suspected he had money, a go bag, the necessities stored somewhere. Figures he’d have his drug of choice, as well. If not that, he might’ve knocked Tate out with sevoflurane first, then tied him up.”
The ME looked at his wrists. “He was bound—looks like a thin rope.”
“It’ll be standard, h
ardware store rope,” I said. “Tracing it will be a dead end, but I imagine you’ll test the fibers anyway.”
“It sounds as if you have some experience with this killer.”
“If it’s who we believe it is,” I corrected. I reached into my pocket, grabbed a card. “Give me a call when you get the results, will you? I’d like them sent over to the TC Task Force up in St. Paul. Dr. Melinda Brooks performed autopsies on the other three victims we believe this man also killed. I’d like the two of you to pow wow and come up with the probability that we’re looking at the same guy.”
The ME stood, snapped his gloves off. “Sounds like you already have a hunch.”
“I’ve got more than a hunch,” I agreed. “But I want it documented. When we catch Wilkes, he’s going back to prison for good. I’m not taking the chance he’ll slip through the system again.”
The ME glanced over my shoulder at Russo. “I’m under strict orders to work directly with the FBI—”
“I’m a consultant on the case,” I said. “As is Dr. Brooks.”
A pained expression crossed the ME’s face.
“Russo,” I called across the room. “Will you come over here and give the doctor a written note that says he can share his autopsy results with Dr. Brooks and myself?”
Russo spoke in quiet tones to the ME. When they finished, the doctor turned to me and offered a hand.
“Dr. Watts,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”
I faced Russo. “I hope you won’t be making this case difficult.”
Russo raised his eyebrow. “What’d I do? I just gave you a pass.”
“I’m either in, or I’m out,” I said. “Where are you staying while you’re in town?”
“The Hilton.”
“I’ll head over, check in,” I said. “Please have the case file delivered to my room ASAP. I’d like to get started reviewing what little information we have to go off.”
“Detective—” Russo reached out, grasped my wrist. “There’s one more thing.”
“Okay.”
“I’d like to put a protective detail on you.” Russo spit it out, looking nervous the second the words left his mouth. “I don’t know all that went on between you and Wilkes, but I imagine the results weren’t pretty. Please, consider it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I figured you’d say that.” Russo rubbed tension from his forehead. “Once we confirm it is likely that Wilkes is responsible for Tate’s murder, I’ll be forced to keep a protective detail on you.”
“Nobody’s holding a gun to your head,” I said. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“It’s either that, or you’re off the case.”
“We’ll talk about this later. Send me the files. Please.”
“Fine. We’ll talk about it—tonight, over dinner.”
I pulled my arm free of Russo’s grasp. “Business?”
“Of course.”
I studied him.
“I’ll bring the case files to dinner,” Russo said. “No protective detail until tomorrow. Final offer.”
I scowled, turned on my heel, and paused in the doorway. “You’re buying.”
“No, detective,” Russo said with a wide grin. “I’m expensing. I’ll see you tonight.”
Chapter 4
My hotel room was basic and plain. There was a functional dresser and television, a queen bed, and a shower that had me reminiscing of the last time I’d stepped foot in a hotel. Russo had walked out with a black eye. This time, I was determined not to cross any sort of lines when it came to the attractive FBI agent—especially not lines that began or ended with a shower curtain.
I lugged the Vera Bradley overnight bag I’d borrowed from my sister’s closet and ignored the floral imprint as I dumped out my change of clothes and the stack of papers I’d packed for the trip onto the hotel room bed. I’d picked up a Jimmy John’s sandwich on my way, and I curled up with it on the bed.
I unwrapped the sub slowly, ignoring the letters on top of the bag until I couldn’t possibly avoid my name written by a careful, no-nonsense hand any longer.
I swallowed, pulled the top one closest to me, and flipped it open. My mouth went dry at the familiar script on the lined paper inside. If my mother knew that my only Valentine’s Day card had come from a murderer, she just might die.
That’s why I hadn’t told anyone about the letters.
His letters.
Ramone Wilkes had been writing me since the week he’d gotten to his would-be-final resting place in a maximum-security facility in Texas. The first one had arrived just over a year ago and had triggered another set of nightmares. I’d woken in the early hours of the morning for weeks on end in a cold sweat, certain Wilkes was standing over my bed with a smile on his face.
The panic would eventually fade, but I’d rarely get back to sleep on those nights. Then, I’d slowly return to a life of normalcy. But always, just when my schedule had gotten back on track, another letter would arrive and would kickstart the garish cycle all over again.
I flattened his latest letter against the bed. My sandwich sat forgotten on the nightstand, my appetite no longer present. I scoured Wilkes’s words—he had excellent penmanship, especially for a male—and wondered if I’d missed something. A clue, a sign that he’d been ready to kill again. He would have teased me with it, taunted me. It was a part of the game.
Dearest Kate,
I hope you haven’t forgotten me. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve written, but I’ve been thinking of you—I always do. Saint Valentine’s Day is coming up, and I hope you won’t be spending it alone. You’re a beautiful woman, Kate, and you deserve love. But you’re like me, aren’t you? It’s just not in your blood. If things were different, maybe you and I could’ve been friends. It’s not too late, you know. There’s still hope.
Sweet Dreams,
Ramone Wilkes
He usually signed his letters Sweet Dreams. It was like he knew the distress he caused me, the way he permeated both my waking moments and my dreams.
I could see the smirk on his face as he wrote, knowing he’d violated every part of my mind—and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Hours of therapy hadn’t wiped Wilkes’s face from my memory, nor had it pushed him into the deep recesses of my brain. With each letter, he pulled himself forward with grimy fingers, slipping like seaweed to the surface.
For a while, I’d toyed with the idea of throwing his letters away. Of tossing them straight into the garbage and ignoring them completely, but I hadn’t been able to do it. After three cycles of stashing unopened letters in a kitchen drawer, I’d torn them open one after another during a wine-fueled panic in which I was convinced I’d missed a clue. A sign that Wilkes had somehow defied the odds—escaped from prison—and killed again.
My heart pounded in my chest. My worst nightmare had happened. I’d played by the rules, opened his letters, battled the nightmares, and still, I’d missed it. Where was the clue?
I scanned the letter, noted his last lines.
It’s not too late, you know. There’s still hope.
What was I supposed to make of that? He always promised to see me again, to visit when he got out, to keep me company. He waxed poetry about the two of us becoming friends and teaming up, or of murdering me and my family. His letters were always intensely personal, but for a year, there’d been no sign that it had been anything more than a deluded fantasy.
A fantasy that he’d made come true.
I smacked the letter down and stood up. In a moment of unbridled fury, I picked up the remains of the sandwich and its wrapper, balled them both up, and slam-dunked the mess into a trash can. How could they have let Wilkes escape? The entire country knew he was dangerous thanks to the national coverage his case had received. The case that had nearly broken me while simultaneously propelling me to moderate local fame. I’d take the anonymity over the cost of fame any day.
There wasn’t much for me to do until dinner. I’d spoken briefly to Russo when I�
�d arrived at the hotel and learned he’d set up interviews with Jonathan Tate’s family and girlfriend for the next morning. We’d play it by ear after that.
I showered and changed into fresh clothes and passed the next couple of hours on my laptop. I alternated between the necessary evils of paperwork and desperate searches that might hold the answers to Wilkes’s escape.
The internet hadn’t caught wind of Wilkes’s break from prison yet, which was a small miracle. It’d buy us some time before having to deal with media on top of what was sure to turn into a killing spree. The pressure built, heavy on my shoulders, as I dialed Asha.
“I need some favors,” I said when the half-Asian, half-African-American computer whiz answered. “Quiet favors.”
“Personal?” Her fingers already clicked on the keys.
“No, work-related, but it’s sensitive,” I said, then quickly explained the nature of my trip to LaCrosse. “Can you do some digging and pull up whatever you can find about Wilkes’s escape plan?”
“Oh, Kate. Don’t tell me you’re hankering for a trip to Texas.”
“The only thing I’m certain about is that Wilkes will kill again. If he talked to someone down there—anyone—I need to know about it.”
She sighed. “I’ll pull whatever I can from the system, and outside of it. And I imagine you want me to flag any of Wilkes’s aliases, check bus systems, car rentals, the like?”
“You won’t find anything, but run the sweep anyway,” I said. “He likely knocked out his vic with some potent chemicals, which tells me Wilkes kept a stash somewhere. And whatever car he took to get up here, he’s already dumped once or twice over.”
“I’m really sorry, Kate.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“No, but I know what Wilkes... what he means to you.”
“He means nothing to me,” I said, but my voice came out cracked and dry. “Call me when you get something.”
When Asha disconnected, I changed tactics and called Jimmy. He answered with a mouthful of food.
“Doughnut or fried chicken?” I asked.
He harrumphed in a way that told me it might be both.
“Tell me about Harry Brine. Anything?”
