“So you’re saying it’s not killing the women that satisfies these monsters, but how they kill them?”
He met her eyes, saw the horror in them and wished he could protect her from the truth. “Exactly. Serial killers are a different breed of criminal. They don’t kill for the typical reasons, jealousy, greed, hatred or anger. And the way they kill is as individual as a fingerprint. Copycatting a killer to divert suspicion for a single crime, to get rid of a lover or business partner, for example, I could buy. But a serial adopting another psychopath’s fingerprint for a series, it doesn’t work that way.”
“So, what do the police have on Mark? It must be something more than the fact he knew both women and was at the scene the night of Tara’s murder. Don’t you need more than that to arrest someone?”
“Yeah, you do. My guess is they found something damn incriminating in his room.”
“The weapon?”
“No. Because now they’ve turned their attention to Stephen-”
“Who was in possession of a knife similar to the one used to kill Tara and Naomi Pearson,” she filled in for him. “If they already had the weapon, that wouldn’t be such a big deal.” She let out a long breath. “Do you think it’s possible Stephen’s the one?”
“Could Stephen go over the bend and kill someone, sure. Anyone can snap that way.” He stopped pacing and swung to face her. “Once again, I come back to the similarities to the Taft murders. Stephen’s lived on Key West his entire life and reads at maybe a second-grade level. A guy like Stephen doesn’t cruise the Internet. He doesn’t read the newspaper and he sure as hell didn’t work with the man. Any way I look at it, he had zero opportunity to study Taft.”
“Val asked me if Stephen and Mark knew each other.”
“They’re both suspects. He’s wondering if they could have done this together. At this point he’s exploring all possibilities.”
“I didn’t answer, but I think he knew. I had this feeling he could see right through me.”
Rick thought of his friend, of the way his mind worked. “Val’s smart. Real smart. And for as much as I believe he’s not handling this investigation correctly, he’s a good cop. Don’t ever underestimate him.”
“What about Pastor Tim?” she asked.
“What about him?”
“Mark told me that Tara didn’t like him. That he scared her. He suggested Pastor Tim might have planted the Bible and the knife. Geographically, he had as much opportunity as Stephen to kill Tara.”
“Tim?” Rick repeated, tone doubtful.
“You know him?”
“Sure. I played high-school ball with him, though he was two years older. So did Val.”
She made a sound of confusion. “He’s from Key West? I thought he only arrived after my sister disappeared.”
“No, Tim grew up here. In fact, he was pretty much a hero around here his senior year. He took the Fighting Conchs to the state football championship.”
Rick slipped his hands into his pockets. “He left to play ball for Florida State, then was drafted by the NFL. He only played a couple years, then dropped out to go to seminary. Said God called him. Could have knocked all of us over with a feather. I mean, who makes the NFL then voluntarily leaves? And to become a pastor?”
“What team?” she asked.
“Miami Dolphi…”
Rick’s voice trailed off. He did the math.
Tim had been in Miami about the time Gavin Taft had been on his killing spree.
He could tell by her expression that she had done the calculations, too. “He told me he didn’t know my sister. That he’d never met her.”
“That could be true, though it’s difficult to believe. His parents are members of the Paradise Christian congregation, or at least they used to be, and he visited quite often. However, your sister wasn’t on the island that long. He may have had an interim position somewhere that I’m not aware of.”
She glanced down at her hands, then back up at him. “There’s something I haven’t told you or anyone else.”
She held up her right hand. “See these bands? They were my mother’s. Eternity bands. Before she died, she gave one to me and one to Rachel. She asked that we never take them off-they would link the three of us for eternity.”
He drew his eyebrows together, confused. “Then how did you get Rachel’s?”
“Pastor Tim had it.” She drew in a deep breath. “I found it on the floor of his bedroom closet.”
“The floor of his…what were you…” His voice trailed off, realization dawning. “You broke into the parsonage?”
“Yes.” She tipped up her chin, expression defiant. “The parsonage was Rachel’s home, most probably the place she spent her last hours. I just had to see for myself that she-”
“Was really gone?”
She flushed. “I knew she wasn’t there, but I…I had to see for myself.”
Rick passed a hand over his face, recalling what Val had said about Liz. “She has issues, my friend. Serious emotional issues. That she’s not playing with a full deck right now makes her a little scary.”
“Why didn’t you just explain to Tim who you were and why you wanted to look around? That would seem the most rational approach.”
“I felt like he was lying to me. That he knew more about my sister than he was saying. There was something about his demeanor…something about him that wasn’t adding up. I had to do it, Rick. And just as I’d thought I would, I found something.”
Rick acknowledged that he wanted to believe her. On some emotional level he did. Her answers made sense, even when they shouldn’t.
“Desperate people do desperate things. They lie. They manufacture evidence. And they can be pretty goddamned convincing.”
“Rachel could have taken the ring off.”
“She never took it off.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But I knew Rachel.”
“It could have slipped off one day while she was dressing. By the time she realized it was gone, she wouldn’t have had a clue where she had lost it.”
Liz met his gaze. “Or, Tim Collins is the killer and the ring’s a trophy. I read that serial killers do that, take some memento of each victim. Often a piece of jewelry.”
“Dammit, Liz! Slow down.”
“He lived in Miami during the time Gavin Taft was butchering those women. He’s the right age, he had my sister’s ring. Things he said are questionable. He’s the one who called the police about Stephen.”
Rick swung away from her and strode to the windows. He inched up one of the slats and peered out at the street. The typical Monday crowd made their way along Duval. Every night was party night in paradise.
He frowned. Why did she make so much sense? Everything she proposed was the stuff of blockbuster fiction, far from the open-and-shut reality of most murder investigations.
And entirely too possible.
Sometimes, fact proved more far out than fiction.
He turned to face her, resigned. “And how does the Horned Flower fit in?”
“Pastor Tim is one of them. Maybe the leader. Who better to attract young and impressionable people? Who better to woo adults in search of life’s meaning? A former football star, a big, handsome charismatic man. And from a church pulpit, no less.”
Motive. Means. Opportunity. Son-of-a-bitch. “And why did they leave the rat?”
“As a warning. If I don’t cease and desist, I’m going to end up like that rodent.”
“A gruesome thought,” he muttered.
“It doesn’t make my day, I’ll tell you that.”
The image of Tara filled his head, with it the stats associated with her murder. Throat slit. Postmortem mutilation of genitalia, torso and thighs. Abdomen split wide open; fetus taken.
He had to tell her.
“There’s something I haven’t shared with you. About Tara’s death.” He paused. “It’s really bad.”
She went stone still. “What is it?”
>
“The killer cut open her womb. And took the baby she was carrying.”
The blood drained from her face. She looked at him, expression anguished. “You don’t mean…took.”
“I do. The fetus…it wasn’t at the scene, Liz.”
She brought a hand to her mouth. He saw that it shook. “But why…I don’t understand…why would he do…”
Her words trailed off. He crossed to the couch and squatted in front of her. “Tomorrow, I take you to Miami. You catch a plane home to St. Louis. I sort this out and keep you apprised of the situation. Agreed?”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“I’m trying to play it smart. And keep you safe.”
“You’re starting to believe me, aren’t you?”
God help him, he was. He drew her up and into his arms. “Go back to St. Louis, Liz.”
“I can’t do that.” She tipped her face up to his. “I won’t let Rachel down again. And I won’t let Tara, Mark or their unborn baby down. You’ll just have to keep me safe right here on Key West.”
Rick thought of Jill. Of how it had felt to bury her. He bent and pressed his mouth to Liz’s. She melted against him, fingers curling into his pullover.
With a groan, he broke the kiss. “How early can you clear the sheets in the morning?”
“Pretty darn early when I’m motivated.”
He bent and rested his forehead against hers. “I worked with a guy on the Miami-Dade force…He was one of the lead detectives on the Taft investigation. He lived, ate and slept that case. Was obsessed with it. I think I’ll give him a call, see if I can pay him a visit, pick his brain a little.”
She wound her arms around his neck. “While you’re with him I’ll go to the library. Do a little research on Taft. I might find something everyone’s forgotten. Or overlooked.”
“Mmm.” He kissed her again, deeply, acknowledging that he didn’t want to stop. He did anyway, with a sound of regret. “And when we get back, I’m going to find out what Val has on Mark.”
“All this romantic talk. It could sweep a girl off her feet.”
He sobered. “I’m afraid for you to be alone, Liz.”
“Then don’t leave me.”
Rick searched her expression, an ache of arousal in his gut. It was an invitation, he knew. They were already lovers, it would be easy to be together. Easy to fall into her bed and arms and to forget, even if only for a time, that a murderer walked the streets of Key West, mutilating young women and taking unborn babies. That he might have chosen Liz to be his next victim.
But to be with her in the shadow of the day’s events felt wrong. As if the darkness around them might infect what was growing between them. He didn’t want that to happen.
He told her so.
Her expression became impossibly soft. She stood on tiptoe, cupped his face in her hands and kissed him softly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll make up the couch.”
CHAPTER 42
Tuesday, November 20
3:00 p.m.
Rick hadn’t seen Bill Hunter-Wild Bill, they used to call him-since he quit the Miami force. The man hadn’t changed much-still chain-smoked, still called waitresses “honey” and still had the most direct gaze Rick had ever encountered.
“Thanks for taking the time to see me,” Rick said, speaking up to be heard above the din of the busy coffee shop.
“No problemo. How’ve you been?”
“Traded in my badge for a bar. Rick’s Island Hideaway.”
“Catchy name.”
“Thanks.” He smiled. “You ever come down to Key West, stop in. The drinks are on me.”
“Apparently, you’ve forgotten how much cops can drink.” The other man’s smile faded. “I heard what happened to your boy, Rick. I couldn’t be more sorry.”
Rick looked away, then back. “Thanks, Bill. I appreciate that.”
The waitress stopped by their table and refilled their coffee. Bill watched her walk away, then turned to Rick. “You say you’re looking into the Taft murders?”
“That’s right.”
“Seems you’ve got some kind of copycat operating down there.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Mind telling me why you’re so interested? You’re not a cop anymore.”
Rick hesitated, uncertain how to respond. He decided on the direct approach. “I’ve got a feeling about this case. The local boys are missing something important and…I don’t want anyone else to die.”
“Still the cocky cowboy, I see.”
“Yee-hah.” Rick leaned forward. “You worked on the investigation. I figured if anybody could offer insight into how that son-of-a-bitch thought, it’d be you.”
The other man didn’t deny it. “I put together a file for you. Some official stuff, my personal notes. A half-dozen pictures.” He inched the legal-size envelope across the scarred Formica tabletop, then shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit up. “It’s all public record now.”
“Thanks, man.” Rick opened the envelope, sifted through the contents, then looked at his friend. “You one hundred percent satisfied that Taft’s the one.”
“Absolutely.” Bill drew in a lungful of smoke, then blew it out. “Taft was the creepiest SOB I ever had the pleasure of busting. Bar none.”
“In what way?”
“He was proud of the way he had mutilated those women. Proud, Rick.” He shook his head, expression faraway. “He liked telling us about it. Got off on it, you know? Like he was reliving it through us. Told us where all the bodies were.” His mouth curled with remembered distaste. “I used to shower after being in the room with him. The evil…it was like it oozed out of him.”
The man took another, final drag on the cigarette then tamped it out half-smoked. “But it wasn’t just that,” he said, leaning closer. “It was his eyes, man. They were dead. Flat and lifeless as a shark’s.”
A shark. A killing machine. A creature with an insatiable appetite.
In Taft’s case, an appetite for killing.
“He scared the shit out of me.” Bill paused for a moment to light another cigarette. “I never told anybody that before. But it’s true.”
The hair on the back of Rick’s neck prickled. “What about an accomplice? Anything ever suggest he may not have worked alone?”
The detective narrowed his eyes, though whether with thought or against the smoke curling up from the tip of his Camel, Rick didn’t know. “He could have had an accomplice, though nothing in the evidence supported that. Taft always maintained he had a spiritual adviser who offered divine help.”
“Any connection to football or the Miami Dolphins?”
“Not that I know of. He may have been a fan.”
“He go to college?”
“Did a semester at Florida State in Tallahassee. It didn’t last. Flunked out.”
Rick’s heartbeat accelerated. “What year?”
“I’d have to check.”
“I’d appreciate it.” He cleared his throat. “Any markings on Taft or his victims?”
“What kind of marks?”
“Tattoos. Maybe of a strange-looking flower. Like a horned flower?”
Bill shook his head, and Rick shuffled the papers, digesting all that his friend had told him. “As far as you know, were any of Taft’s victims pregnant?”
The other man’s expression altered subtly. “Why do you ask?”
“One of our victims was. The bastard took the fetus.”
“Shit.” Bill took a long drag on his smoke. “Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “Two of ’em. One six months along.”
“Did he-”
“Yeah, he did. Sick prick.”
Silence fell between them. Rick pulled a picture of Taft out of the file. The killer stared out at him, movie-star handsome. “I didn’t remember that he was so good-looking.”
The other man smiled without humor. “Evil takes many forms, my man. And if you’re dealing with any
one associated with Taft, I suggest you don’t forget that.”
CHAPTER 43
Tuesday, November 20
3:30 p.m.
The main branch of the Miami-Dade library was housed in the Cultural Arts Center in downtown Miami. The coral-faced and stained stucco building all but screamed fun-in-the-sun, and Liz suddenly realized that St. Louis was going to seem awfully tepid after the fanciful pinks, corals and palm trees of south Florida.
The second floor housed microfilm issues of all the local newspapers, including the Miami Herald. Gavin Taft had been headline news starting in 1998. A look at the microfilm index revealed a wealth of articles on both Gavin Taft and the New Testament Murders.
Armed with a legal tablet, pen and plenty of money to pay for copies, Liz began with the oldest article and moved forward in time. She took a few notes, but for the most part learned nothing new. The first victim had been found in June of 1987. Between then and October of 1998, eleven other women were murdered. All had been killed the same way.
No connection between the women had been found.
A stupid mistake had led to Taft’s capture. During a routine traffic stop for a burned out taillight, the officer thought he recognized the stains on Taft’s hands and arms as blood. A thorough search of the vehicle had revealed more blood and a knife. Unbeknownst to the officer, he had caught Gavin Taft on his way home from his most recent slaughter-Jennifer Reed, a twenty-two-year-old coed and the last New Testament Murder victim.
End of story until Tara turned up dead on Key West ten days ago.
Disappointed, Liz stared at the microfiche screen. She had hoped she would see a connection between the victims that no one else had. She had fantasized finding a mention of a tattoo, one of a strange horned flower.
As she moved to flip off the machine, an article at the bottom of the displayed page caught her eye.
Dead Run Page 24
