by Alex Kava
Last week, the Philadelphia Journal had an article about a woman’s torso found in the river, her head and feet found in a Dumpster. It was the closest thing she had seen in months to Stucky’s M.O., yet it didn’t feel like him. Stucky’s handiwork, though inconceivably horrible, had never included chopping away a victim’s identity. Even his extraction of an organ from the victim was not a statement about the victim but rather his attempt to continue the game. Maggie imagined him watching and laughing as some unsuspecting diner found his appalling surprise, often tucked into an ordinary takeout container. It was all a game to Stucky, a morbid, twisted game.
The articles that frightened Maggie more than the ones with missing body parts were the ones of women who had disappeared. Women like her missing neighbor, Rachel Endicott. Successful women, all attractive, and all described as women who would not suddenly leave their lives without telling a soul. Maggie couldn’t help wondering if any of them had become part of Stucky’s collection. By now he had surely found somewhere isolated, somewhere to start all over again.
She knew Cunningham was waiting for a body. But when the bodies started showing up, they were the ones Stucky killed for fun. No, the ones they should be looking for were the women he collected. These were the women who ended up in graves deep in the woods, only after he was finished playing his games with them. Games that would drag on for days, maybe weeks. The women Stucky chose were never young or naive. No, Stucky enjoyed a challenge. He chose intelligent, mature women. Women who would fight back, not those easily broken.
Maggie lifted another file folder and a page fell out. Seeing his handwriting still sent chills down her spine. She picked it up by its corner as though its evil would contaminate her. It had been the first of many notes. He had written in careful script:
What challenge is there in breaking a horse without spirit? The challenge is to replace that spirit with fear, raw animal fear that makes one feel alive. Are you ready to feel alive, Margaret O’Dell?
It had been their first insight into the intellect of Albert Stucky, a man who had been afforded all the best schools, all the privileges money could buy. Yet he was thrown out of Yale for almost burning down a women’s dormitory. There were other offenses: attempted rape, assault, petty theft. All charges had been either dropped or were never pressed, due to lack of evidence. Stucky had been questioned in the accidental death of his father, a freak boating accident though the man had supposedly been an expert yachtsman.
Then, about six or seven years ago, Albert Stucky took up a business partner, and the two of them succeeded in creating one of the Internet’s first stock-market trading sites. Stucky became a multimillionaire.
Despite all of Maggie’s research, she never felt certain about what had set Stucky off in the first place. Usually with serial killers, crimes were precipitated by some stressor. An event, a death, a rejection, an abuse that one day made them decide to kill. She didn’t know what that had been for Stucky. Perhaps evil simply couldn’t be harnessed.
The phone startled her. She grabbed the .38 that sat by her side. Again, it was a simple reflex. It was late, and few people had her new number. She had refused to give it to the pizza place. She had even insisted Greg use her cell-phone number.
“Yes?” she said, her muscles tense.
“Agent O’Dell?”
She recognized Assistant Director Cunningham’s matter-of-fact tone, but the tension did not leave her.
“Yes, sir.”
She glanced at her wristwatch. It was now after midnight. They spoke infrequently these days, ever since he had taken her out of the field and assigned her to training duty. Was it possible he had some information on Stucky? She sat up with an unexpected flutter of hope.
“Is there something wrong?”
“I’m sorry, Agent O’Dell. I just realized how late it is.”
“That’s quite all right, sir. You didn’t wake me.”
“I thought you might be leaving for Kansas City tomorrow, and I didn’t want to miss you.”
“I leave on Sunday. Does there need to be a change to my schedule?”
“No, not at all. I just wanted to make sure. I did, however, receive a phone call earlier this evening that gave me great concern.”
Maggie imagined a body, sliced and left for some unsuspecting person to find beneath the trash.
“A Detective Manx from the Newburgh Heights Police Department called me. He told me that you interfered with a crime scene investigation this afternoon. Is that true?”
“I just moved into the neighborhood this afternoon. I noticed police cruisers at the end of the block. I thought perhaps I could help.”
“So you did barge in uninvited on a crime scene.”
“I did not barge in. I offered my help.”
“That’s not the way Manx described it.”
“No, I don’t imagine it is.”
“I want you to stay out of the field, Agent O’Dell.”
“But I was able to—”
“Out of the field means you don’t go using your credentials to walk onto crime scenes. Even if they are in your own neighborhood. Is that clear?”
“Yes. Yes, it’s perfectly clear.”
“Have a safe trip,” he said in his usual abrupt manner and hung up.
She threw the phone onto the desktop and began rifling through the files, noticing the anger still slamming in her chest. Damn Manx! Damn Cunningham! How long did he think he could keep her out of the field? And how could he ever expect to catch Stucky without her help?
The mess stayed scattered on the living-room floor. It seemed appropriate that her new home be initiated with a pile of blood and horror. She curled into the recliner that faced the wall of windows and watched the moon slip in and out of the clouds, making shadows dance in her new backyard. In her hand she gripped her revolver. Perhaps Assistant Director Cunningham couldn’t stop Albert Stucky from coming for her, but she sure as hell would. And this time, it would be Stucky’s turn for a surprise.
10
R. J. TULLY peeled off another ten-dollar bill and slid it under the ticket window. When had movies started costing $8.50 each? He tried to remember the last time he had been to a cinema. Surely he and Caroline had gone sometime during their marriage. Though it would have been early on—before she began preferring her coworkers to him.
He glanced around to find Emma dawdling far behind him. Sometimes he wondered who the hell this person was. This beautiful fourteen-year-old with silky blond hair and the beginnings of a shapely body she blatantly emphasized with tight jeans and a tight sweater. She looked more and more like her mother every day. God, he missed the days when this same girl held his hand and jumped into his arms, anxious to go anywhere with him. But that, too, had changed.
He saw her eyes dart around the lobby. Immediately, his heart sank. She didn’t want any of her friends to see her going to a movie with her dad. Was she really that embarrassed by him? He couldn’t remember ever feeling that way about either of his parents. No wonder he spent so many hours at work. At the moment, understanding serial killers seemed much easier than understanding fourteen-year-old girls.
“How ’bout some popcorn?” he offered.
“Popcorn has, like, tons of fat.”
“I don’t think you have a thing to worry about, Sweet Pea.”
“Oh, my God, Dad! Don’t call me that.”
He smiled down at her, which seemed to embarrass her more.
“Okay, so no popcorn for you. How about a Pepsi?”
“Diet Pepsi,” she corrected him.
Surprisingly, she waited next to him in line at the concession stand, but her eyes still roamed the lobby. It had been almost two months since Emma had come to live with him full-time. The truth was, he saw even less of her than when they were all back in Cleveland, and he was only a weekend dad. At least then they did things together, trying to make up for lost time.
When they first moved to Virginia he had tried to make sure they had din
ner together every night, but he was the first to break that routine. His job swallowed up much more of his time than he realized. So in addition to settling into a new home, a new school and a new city, Emma also had to get used to not having her mother.
He watched Emma’s nervous swipes at the misbehaving strands of her hair. Her eyes were still casing the theater. He wondered if fighting for full custody had been a mistake. Damn it! Why did this parenting thing have to be so damn hard?
He almost ordered buttered popcorn, but stopped himself and ordered plain, hoping Emma might change her mind and snitch some.
“And two medium Diet Pepsis.”
He looked to see if she was impressed by her influence on him. Instead, her light complexion paled as discomfort converted to panic.
“Oh, my God! It’s Josh Reynolds. I hope he didn’t see me.”
“Who’s Josh Reynolds?”
“Just one of the coolest kids in the junior class.”
“Let’s say hi.”
“Dad! Oh, God, maybe he didn’t see me.”
She stood facing Tully, her back to the young, dark-haired boy who was making his way toward them, his destination definitely Emma. And why shouldn’t it be? Tully thought. His daughter was a knockout. Tully wondered if Emma was really panicked or if this was part of the game. He honestly had no clue.
“Emma? Emma Tully?”
The boy was closing in. Tully watched in amazement as his daughter manufactured a nervous but glowing smile from the twisted panic that had existed just seconds before.
“Hi, Josh.”
Tully glanced down to check if some impostor had replaced his obstinate daughter. Because this girl’s voice was much too cheerful.
“What movie you seeing?”
“Ace of Hearts,” she admitted reluctantly, though it had been her choice.
“Me, too. My mom wants to see it,” he added much too quickly. After an awkward silence and them ignoring his presence, Tully said, “Hi, Josh, I’m R. J. Tully, Emma’s father.”
“Hi, Mr. Tully.”
“I’d offer you a hand, but they’re both filled.”
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Emma roll her eyes.
How could that possibly embarrass her? He was being polite. Just then his pager began shrieking. Josh offered to take the sodas before it even occurred to Emma. Tully snapped the noise off, but not before getting several irritated stares. Emma turned a lovely shade of red. At a glance, he recognized the phone number. Of all nights, why tonight?
“I need to make a phone call.”
“Are you a doctor or something, Mr. Tully?”
“No, Josh. I’m an FBI agent.”
“You’re kidding? That is so cool.”
“I work at Quantico, in the Investigative Support Unit. I’m what you’d call a criminal profiler.”
“Wow! That is so cool,” Josh repeated. Without looking at her, Tully saw Emma’s face change as she watched Josh’s reaction. “So do you track serial killers just like in the movies?”
“I’m afraid the movies make it look more glamorous than it is.”
“Geez! I bet you’ve seen some pretty weird stuff, though, huh?”
“Unfortunately, yes, I have. I really need to make a phone call. Josh, would you mind keeping Emma company for a few minutes?”
“Oh, sure. No, problem, Mr. Tully.”
He didn’t look at Emma again until he was safely at the pay phone. Suddenly, his belligerent daughter was full of smiles, genuine this time. He watched the two teenagers talk and laugh while he dialed the number. For a few minutes, he had almost forgotten that the world could be cruel and violent, then he heard Assistant Director Cunningham’s voice.
“It’s Tully, sir. You paged me?”
“Looks like we may have one of Stucky’s.”
Tully felt instant nausea. He had been dreading this call for months.
“Where, sir?”
“Right under our noses. Can you pick me up in about an hour? We can go to the site together.”
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
“I’ll see you in an hour.”
This was it. After years of sitting behind a desk in Cleveland and profiling killers from afar, this was his chance to prove himself and join the real hunters. So why did he feel sick to his stomach?
Tully made his way back to his daughter and her friend, anticipating her disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Emma, I’ve got to leave.”
Immediately, her eyes grew dark, her smile slid off her face.
“Josh, did you say you were here with your mom?”
“Yeah, she’s getting us popcorn.” He pointed to an attractive redhead in the line.
“Josh, would you mind if I ask your mom if Emma could join you for the movie?” Tully steeled himself for his daughter’s horror.
“No, that would be cool,” Josh said without hesitating, and Emma immediately seemed pleased.
When he introduced himself to Jennifer Reynolds, she also seemed pleased to help him out. He offered to repay her another night by treating all of them to another movie. Then he kicked himself when he noticed her wedding band. But Jennifer Reynolds accepted his offer with a flirtatious look that even an out-of-practice guy didn’t need to decipher. He couldn’t help feeling a bit excited.
He smiled all the way to his car, jingling his keys. He slid behind the wheel and checked his reflection in the mirror, as though he had forgotten the configuration of his face when it was happy. He drove out of the parking lot feeling he could take on anything and anyone. Maybe even Albert Stucky.
11
TULLY followed Cunningham’s directions and turned at the intersection. Immediately, he saw spotlights in the back alley of a strip mall. Police cruisers blocked the street, and Tully pulled up beside one, flashed his badge and drove through the maze.
Tully had seen plenty of crime scenes, severed limbs, bloodied walls, mutilated bodies and disgusting killer signatures that ranged from a single rose to a decapitated corpse. But all those scenes had been only in pictures sent to him at the FBI Cleveland Field Office. He had become one of the Midwest’s experts in developing criminal profiles from the bits and pieces sent him. It was his accuracy that had prompted Cunningham to offer Tully a position in the Investigative Support Unit, to hunt for one of the FBI’s most infamous fugitives.
Tully knew he owed his good fortune to the agent he had replaced, who had been assigned to teaching at law enforcement conferences. He had never met Margaret O’Dell, but knew her by reputation. She was one of the youngest and one of the best profilers in the country. Rumors suggested that she had lost her edge, that she had become paranoid and obsessed with recapturing Stucky.
Tully pulled the car as close to the barricades as he could. Cunningham jumped out before Tully had it in Park.
“Where is she?” Cunningham wasted no time asking a detective who looked to be in charge.
“She’s still in the Dumpster. We haven’t moved a thing, except the pizza box.”
“Where is the pizza box?”
“Officer McClusky gave it to the doc. The kid who found it sorta dropped it, and the stuff got all jostled.”
Suddenly the smell of stale pizza and the sounds of police radios made Tully’s head hurt. He ignored the nausea as he followed his boss to the Dumpster where three uniformed officers stood guard. Even the officers stood a good ten feet away to avoid the stench.
The first thing Tully noticed was the young woman’s long blond hair. Immediately, he thought of Emma. His boss’s face remained emotionless.
Tully could tell the woman had been young, not much older than Emma. Discarded lettuce and spoiled tomatoes clung to her naked breasts. The rest of her was buried in garbage, but Tully saw glimpses of thigh, and then realized she wore only a blue baseball cap. He could also see that her throat had been slashed from ear to ear, and there was an open wound in her side. But that was all. There were no severed limbs, no bloody mutilation. He wasn’t
sure what he had expected.
“She looks like she’s in one piece,” Cunningham said. He addressed the detective again. “What was in the box?”
“Not sure. Looked like a bloody glob to me. Doc can probably tell you. He’s over in the van.”
He pointed to a dusty van with the Stafford County emblem on the side. The doors were open and a distinguished gray-haired man sat in the back with a clipboard.
“Doc, these gentlemen from the FBI need to see that special delivery.”
Cunningham stepped up into the van, and Tully followed, though it seemed crowded with the three of them. Already he could smell the contents of the box, which sat in the middle of the floor. He sat on one of the benches before his stomach started to churn.
“Hello, Frank.” Cunningham knew the medical examiner, too. “Agent Tully, Dr. Frank Holmes, Deputy Chief Medical Examiner for Stafford County.”
“I don’t know if this is your man, Kyle, but when Detective Rosen called me, he seemed to think you might be interested.”
“Rosen worked in Boston when Stucky kidnapped Councilwoman Brenda Carson.”
“I remember that. What was that two, three years ago?”
“Not quite two.”
“Thankfully, I was on vacation. Fishing up in Canada.” The doctor cocked his head as though trying to remember some sporting event. “But if I remember right, Carson’s body was buried in a shallow grave in some woods. Certainly not in some Dumpster.”
“This guy’s complicated, Frank. The ones he collects are the ones we rarely find. These women are his rejects. They’re simply for sport.”
Tully stared at the box on the floor. Despite the scent of pizza and pepperoni, he recognized the acrid scent as blood. So much for eating pizza ever again.
“Nothing happens in this quiet little suburb,” Dr. Holmes said. “Then two homicides.”
“Two? I’m not aware of another homicide, Frank,” Cunningham said.
“Well, I’m not sure the other one is a homicide, yet. We never did find a body.” Dr. Holmes finally put the clipboard aside. “We had an agent on the scene. Maybe one of yours?”
