Blood Trails

by Michael A. Black

  O’Keefe sat there for several seconds, as if assessing this, then said, “He was only paroled three months ago. You wrote the book pretty fast.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d been working on it for a while. Fontaine’s been trying to get him released for years.”

  Pearson removed an 8x11 color photograph from the folder and handed it across the table.

  “Does this photo look familiar?” he asked.

  Colby looked at it. A crime scene photo. The body of a nude woman lay on a bed, her face canted off to the right, her tongue protruding grotesquely, most likely due to the tightened ligature around her neck. The woman’s arms had been bound to the bed frame, her legs left splayed open. It was gruesome, but nothing he hadn’t seen before, but somehow the picture struck a chord of familiarity within him, although he couldn’t immediately place it.

  Pearson’s eyes narrowed. “Just what can you discern from that picture?”

  Colby stared at the FBI man. What was going on?

  He thought about just walking out, but then he’d never find out what their game was. He took a deep breath and reassessed the photo.

  “Appears to be a homicide, possibly a strangulation murder. The decedent looks like a female, white. Probably late twenties to early thirties. From the position of her legs, I’d say sexual assault was probable.”

  “What else?”

  Colby scanned the area surrounding the body. It was obviously a bedroom. Women’s clothing was strewn over a nearby chair, and a big, round-faced alarm clock was next to the bed.

  “It looks like a bedroom. Possibly the victim’s. The alarm clock says this photo was taken at three o’clock, although AM or PM, I’m not sure.”

  Pearson’s mouth gave a little twist at both ends. Something akin to a smirk. Like the mention of the clock was significant.

  “What would you say if I told you that the clock in this photo was inoperative?” Pearson said. “That it had been set at that time?”

  What the hell is he driving at? Colby managed a non-committal shrug. “I’d take your word for it.”

  The FBI man’s face twitched.

  “You’d do well to be serious,” he said.

  “Great. Then give me something to be serious about.”

  Pearson removed the copy of Blood Trails from under the folder and pushed it across the table.

  “Now that’s a subject near and dear to my heart,” Colby said. “You want me to sign that for you?”

  “Page one-eleven,” Pearson said, nodding at the book.

  Colby heaved a sign, picked up the book, and turned to that page.

  It showed a black-and-white photograph of one of the crime scenes. Jenise Williams, naked and bound to her bed, with black boxes strategically inserted to block her face, breasts, and pubic area. Colby had insisted that the black lines be inserted to preserve the last modicum of dignity for the decedent’s surviving family, even after they had agreed to allow the photos to be included to show the heinous nature of Laird’s deeds. But the similarity in the positions of this body and the one in the new, color photograph Pearson had given him were unmistakable. Not only that, but the alarm clock on her nightstand was a dead ringer for the one in the new photo. The hands were also set at three o’clock.

  “Look at this portion of the new photo,” Pearson said, holding the tip of his pen like a pointer to the bed stand.

  All Colby could see was a black plastic device next to the alarm clock.

  “Know what it is?” Pearson asked. He waited a beat, then answered his own question. “It’s a radio alarm clock.”

  Colby could see the plastic shape more clearly now.

  “What does that tell you?” Pearson asked. His voice rose a half octave. O’Keefe seemed to be watching intently. Maybe there were more Feds behind the one-way glass watching, too. Colby shook his head and shrugged.

  When Pearson began to scowl, Colby said, “Look, are we gonna play games, or what? Tell me what you’re getting at. Are you implying that this is a copycat crime?”

  Pearson leaned back in his chair, looked toward O’Keefe.

  “The CSI’s who processed the scene found something interesting, Detective,” O’Keefe said.

  Ah, Colby thought. Maybe this is a federalized version of good-cop-bad-cop.

  “The techs found a good deal of fingerprints,” she continued. “Mostly the decedent’s, on everything except that second alarm clock.”

  “It was wiped clean,” Pearson said.

  Colby was considering the implications, but Pearson filled in the blanks.

  “As I said, it wasn’t running, either.” Pearson tapped the open page.

  “It’s our conjecture that the offender purposely brought the clock to the scene and set the hands at three to mimic the crime scene photo in your book.”

  Colby blew out a slow breath. This was really shaping-up to be one of those “aww, shit” days.

  It was time for Matthew to become Morgan Laird once again. He slowly selected the next manila envelope and bent back the clasps that secured the flap. The sheaf of reports and 8x11 crime scene photos spilled out. This one was another woman. Almost all of them were. Except when the men were incidentals, like the couple in the car or the farmers. Unless you counted the fag.

  Matthew smiled.

  The farmers. That had been his first one. Certainly not Laird’s first. No, he’d claimed that his mother had that dubious honor. Too bad Matthew had never known his own birth mother. But the host of surrogates had served him well enough.

  Onward and upward.

  Still, the thoughts of that first time…what had the old lady said when she’d walked in the kitchen when he’d been washing his hands?

  “Where’s my husband at?” Her voice had an irritating countrified lilt to it. The old cow. She’d howled loudly as she died, but there was no one around to hear her.

  After copiously researching the account of Morgan Laird’s first documented homicides in the state of Illinois, Matthew had searched laboriously for a suitable farmhouse. One just like the house described in Colby’s book. No photos of that crime scene for that one, so Matthew had to delve into the special crime scene files to make sure he got it right. Luckily, the book did contain a photograph of the infamous clove hitch knot, and that, he decided, would be enough of a clue for this one. His clue…his gift, was more like it.

  He’d parked his car a mile or so down the road, removed the license plates, and screwed the stolen temporary plates onto the bumper. A note in the window saying, “Out of gas. Be back,” was all the subterfuge he needed. Then he set off on the little trek across the field toward the farm house. He remembered how friendly the old man had been when he walked up.

  “Howdie do, young fella,” the farmer had said, pausing to wipe some sweat from his face. “What can I do for you?”

  His voice had that southern Illinois twang. Like a redneck’s. Matthew had mimicked Morgan’s own southern Missouri accent when he’d answered.

  “Sir, I’ve been on the road a spell. I sure would appreciate a glass of water. I’d be glad to help out with some of your chores, too, if you could see your way clear to give me a good meal in exchange.” He hiked the sparsely filled backpack up on his shoulder, trying to make it look like it contained all his worldly possessions.

  The imitation Southern charm, heavy on the mint julep, had worked. The farmer told him to hop on the tractor and headed for the house. It was just like he’d pictured it. A big, two-story place painted white, with a swing on the porch. The same type that Morgan must have seen back when he’d wandered up that road coming from his second prison incarceration.

  “Ma, we got us a guest for supper,” the farmer had said. “We’re gonna be doing some of that baling in the barn.”

  The woman smiled, and Matthew thought she looked like a happy barnyard beast. Big-boned and heavyset, with lackluster brownish hair turning gray, and a washed-out print dress covering her fat belly. Bovine. All she needed was a bell around her neck. He m
ade sure he showed her his most polite smile, just like Morgan must have done.

  The old man made it easy for him, turning his back after he’d handed Matthew the pitchfork and told him to move some hay. The old guy’s expression was one of total surprise when Matthew said, “Hey? Like this?” and the farmer turned around, probably half-expecting some dumb question, designed for reassurance. Instead, he got the prongs of the pitchfork jammed into his gut. He lay curled on the dirty floor, holding his belly and moaning as Matthew took his time flipping the end of the rope over the cross support beam before slipping the noose around the farmer’s neck. The old coot was heavier than he looked, and it took Matthew three tries before he mastered the leverage and pulled enough of the rope over to the perpendicular shaft and secured the modified clove-hitch. Just like the one described in the book.

  It was a good thing he’d brought his own rope. Who knows how long he would have had to search around in that pig sty for one of the right length and texture. No, bringing it was perfect. A masterstroke. The first of his many masterstrokes.

  “Where’s my husband at?” The woman said as Matthew was washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

  Getting her into the bedroom was more problematic than he’d anticipated. But luckily, he’d brought his own knife, too. He left her lying on the bedroom floor, mimicking the crime scene photos from the special file, hopeful that at some point the cops would connect all the dots. Hopeful, too, that the clove hitch would provide the associative clue they needed to begin assembling the big picture.

  That first one had been hard to set up, but each time it got easier, and a lot more fascinating. By the time he’d gotten to the boy and girl in the car he had really begun to enjoy the game.

  Matthew smiled and looked at the next crime scene photograph. Another nondescript house.

  This was almost too easy, but after all, it was in his DNA.

  Chapter 2

  Dix waved the waitress off when she came by to offer them more coffee. He leaned forward. “So why the Feds involved in this anyway?”

  “One of the victims was abducted and transported across state lines.”

  Dix raised his eyebrows. “That all?”

  Colby blew out a slow breath. “It looks like someone is mimicking Laird’s crimes. Setting the new scenes to match the ones I had in the book.”

  Dix raised his eyebrows and then licked his lips. “How many so far?” he asked. Colby held up three fingers. “Which ones?” Dix asked.

  “Jenise Williams for sure. Even went so far as to bring one of those old-style wind-up alarm-clocks. Then there was a murder Downstate.” Colby sighed again, looking down at the table. “Remember that farm couple? The Browns. The FBI thinks a new one might be another copycat crime. Had the same kind of knot that Laird tied, same positioning of the victims. And a young couple abducted in a car in Cal City and killed in Indiana, just like Judy Thompson and Henry Snow. The crime scene photos are so similar, they’re scary.”

  “Those are ones he got immunity for, right?”

  Colby nodded, disgusted by the series of miscarriages of the judicial system that had corrupted this case, which was the driving force behind him writing the book. Once it was announced that Laird was being released from prison, something the state’s attorney had guaranteed would never happen, Colby felt compelled to write an exposé of the injustice.

  “Hey,” Dix said, patting Colby on the arm. “You can’t go blaming yourself for the actions of some crazy psychopath.”

  “Yeah, I know, but…” Colby grabbed his cup and took a sip. The coffee was cold and bitter, just like his mood. “This whole thing makes me sick.”

  Dix patted his right side. “I got a little silver flask in my pocket that could warm things up for you.”

  Colby shook his head. “I’m on duty, remember?”

  “So take the rest of the day off. We got things to discuss here.”

  “We do?”

  “Sure,” Dix said. He leaned across the table again, getting close and lowering his voice to a whisper. “You think Laird could be involved somehow?”

  Colby shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Can’t you call in a couple markers…get yourself assigned to these new cases?”

  “I’m knee-deep in unsolved homicides now. I’m not looking for any more.” He sighed. “Besides, so far they ain’t in our jurisdiction. The suspect crossing state lines has brought the federales in. They don’t need me.”

  Dix snorted as he sat back. “Don’t you see the potential? You gotta get on this task force. It’s dynamite stuff. I can see another book in the making.” He held his hands up, as if framing an imaginary title. “Copycat. That’s what we can call it. Imagine, you and me on the talk-show circuit. We’ll be getting laid every night.”

  Colby smirked. “What’s gotten into you? First you’re flirting with that pretty news gal this morning, and now you’re sounding like a frat boy anticipating his first beer party.”

  “I’m just realizing my full potential, that’s all,” Dix said. The leering grin appeared again under the well-trimmed mustache. “Getting divorced will do that to you. Leaves you all debonair and da-boner.”

  “I’m divorced, too,” Colby said.

  “Are you?” Dix raised his eyebrows and frowned. “We shoulda stayed in touch more.”

  Colby said nothing. It had been years since Dix had reached out to him.

  “But anyway,” Dix said. “Think about it. I can run down any leads you need help with.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Just think about it, okay?” Dix dug into his jacket pocket, removed the silver flask, and unscrewed the cap. “Here, a little toast. To our success.”

  Colby held his hand over his cup. Dix shrugged and poured the amber liquid into his coffee. He lifted his mug and tapped it against Colby’s.

  “Here’s to justice being served,” he said. “One more time.”

  Knox glanced at his watch. Five-oh-nine. The conference didn’t begin for almost two hours, and Norton’s speech wasn’t scheduled until eight. Knox removed the black nylon bag from the trunk, placed it on the front passenger seat, and removed his laptop and make-up bag.

  He opened his laptop and looked up the file labeled Employee Information Files. After a few deft clicks, he found the section where Norton’s personal information was listed, including his credit history. He copied the credit card numbers, closed the file, and selected another program. After entering Norton’s card number password, Knox clicked on recent purchases. A list filled the screen giving dates, locations, and amounts.

  Knox quickly found the one he was looking for: a reservation at the Royal York, Toronto, Canada.

  That meant Norton would have to travel from his hotel to the convention center.

  Knox shut down the laptop, slipped it back into its case, and pulled on his thin, black leather gloves, the kind he used for driving and special jobs. Next he took out the second laptop he’d purchased for this assignment—the same model as Norton’s, and stuck it into the brown leather valise Knox had taken from Norton’s office at New Genesis. It would suffice if he had to make the exchange in a crowded place. The old magician’s dodge: keep the audience focused on something else, while you accomplished your switch.

  It would be better to intercept him before he got to the conference. Less of a challenge, of course, but also less chance of getting caught.

  He unzipped his make-up bag and took out his hairnet and wig. After tucking his ponytail up under the net, he adjusted the gray wig on his head and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Close, but something more was needed. He took out a pair of round, wire rim glasses, put them on, and studied his reflection again. Nondescript, average, unremarkable looking…Perfect. All that he had to do now was add the gray to his mustache and beard.

  Matthew stretched the girl’s body out on top of the bed. She’d struggled a bit, but he was a lot stronger. The pleading expression on her face almost caused a twinge of regret. Regre
t that he couldn’t spend more time screwing her. He wondered it if would keep on getting easier. If he’d reach the point, like Morgan had described, where he wouldn’t feel any remorse. The chase this time had proved to be an elementary exercise after finding the suitable target. He’d followed her from the commuter train, watching her walk to her fancy car. She was one of those do-nothing automatons who worked downtown at some office building each day, probably toiling away at some meaningless job in front of a computer, doing non-essential busy work designed to keep the mundane economy moving. No more than an insect, an animal in a maze, a guinea pig.

  Matthew had shadowed her as she went into the grocery-store and picked up a few small food items. Obviously buying for one. That sealed it. He wondered, as he watched her in the aisles, if Morgan had used a similar hunting technique. No, he had been more spontaneous. More hit-and-miss, selecting his targets as the opportunities presented themselves, which explained why he was eventually caught.

  Too much serendipity. Matthew smiled. His own game required more planning, thinking several moves ahead, like a game of chess. He was smarter than Morgan, even though they were cut from the same cloth. He was better, and he’d prove it.

  He’d timed it perfectly, coming up the walk just ahead of her. She jostled a bag of groceries as she fished for her keys, smiling and murmuring a “Thanks” as he held the door for her. She hadn’t even given him a second look, with his clean-cut appearance. Like he was a non-entity to her, the stupid bitch. Too self-absorbed to realize his real importance, and that angered him. He wondered if Morgan had felt a similar rage rising within him before it spurred him to action.

  But that was the difference between them: emotion versus intellect, spontaneity versus planning, hot versus cold. Impulse versus revenge. And, as they said, revenge was a dish best served cold.

  He paused to admire his handiwork before removing the crime scene photo from his pocket to study it again, although its subtleties had been etched in his mind. Her leg was wrong. Too much bend at the knee. And her face wasn’t turned at a sharp enough angle. After correcting these minor things, he paused and took out the pack of cigarettes. Pall Malls, just like Morgan had smoked.