Speak No Evil

by Allison Brennan

  He had wanted time alone with just her body, without her pleas, without her lies. Just her beautiful, exquisite body. She’d ruined it by waking up too soon. It wasn’t fair.

  His fingers moved down her breast, delicately brushed against her darker nipple. Down her stomach to her cunt. He spread her legs, looked at her, trying to see it all. Pink and moist.

  She jerked and moaned out a sob.

  “Hi Jodi,” he whispered. “Do you recognize me?”

  She shook her head back and forth on the bed. Anger followed the stab of pain in his heart. She didn’t know him. She’d seen him at least once a week for months, had said hello to him, had smiled every time she saw him. But she didn’t really see him. She looked past him, through him, around him, never at him. The phony smile, the phony hello. She didn’t care about him, she never really talked to him. She didn’t know him and didn’t know his name.

  Phony bitch. At least Angie had known who he was. She knew who killed her.

  He stared into Jodi’s eyes, willed her to remember him. He saw a spark, something…she did know him. Now she was trying to remember where. Where had she seen him…he could practically see her pathetic phony slut mind working, working on the puzzle.

  He slid off her body and retrieved the glue from the locked drawer in his desk. He took off the lid. The smell reminded him of last time, and his penis twitched.

  He walked over to her, took the large brush from the can. With one hand he removed the gag. She screamed and he slapped her. He painted glue on her mouth. She sputtered, gagged, tried and failed to scream as the glue clogged her throat. He tied the black bandanna tight around her mouth and held it there. It hardened with the glue. Her nostrils flared as she tried to draw a breath.

  “Calm down. If you fight it you’ll choke to death. And that wouldn’t be any fun. Just calm down.” He talked to her soothingly for several minutes, until he felt her pulse rate drop a bit, until her breathing became easier.

  “My mother warned me about girls like you,” he said after several minutes. “You tease men, lure them into your bed, fuck them, and then turn them in for rape. It happened to my father, you know. A woman, just like you, gave herself to him. He had sex with her and then she went to the police. Can you believe that? Lying bitch.”

  His dad had been in prison for four years and three months. And during that time his mother had brought other men into her bed. She was a liar as much as the woman who talked against his dad. Spreading her legs for men all the while telling him that sex was dirty and he’d get diseases and his dick would fall off.

  He turned away from Jodi. He missed his dad. He’d only been out of prison for a few months before he disappeared. Late one night he’d walked out the door and never came back.

  Mother chased him away. Daddy got mad at the way she treated him. Maybe he found out about all those men she let touch her. Why didn’t you take me, Daddy? I wanted to go. I hated her, I wanted to be with you.

  Then the police came a couple days later asking about his father. Where he was, when they’d last seen him. And that’s when everything became clear.

  Another woman had lied about Daddy and made him go away. He’d come back when it was safe.

  A sound startled him and he looked around his room. He almost didn’t remember bringing Jodi home, but there she was. Everything came back. He glanced at the clock. He’d been sitting there over an hour.

  He thought he’d have been excited to have Jodi with him, but right now he was sad. Thinking about his dad. Where was the thrill?

  He knew how to bring it back. “Watch this, Jodi.” He put a tape in the VCR and turned the television so Jodi could better see it.

  It was his favorite tape, the one where the guy strangled the woman with his bare hands.

  By the time it was over, the sadness was gone and he was ready. He turned to Jodi, not seeing the tears, her body shaking, not hearing the sobs deep in her chest.

  He shoved a beer bottle up her cunt and watched as she tried to scream.

  TWENTY

  HE WORE NOTHING but his hat.

  She wore nothing at all.

  “Come here, Carina,” Nick said in that slow, easy drawl that she now equated with rugged Montana.

  She walked to him. His blue eyes darkened, and he focused on her with such intensity that every muscle melted in her body. She reached for his face, pulled him down to her, touched her lips to his. His hard, lean body hovered over her, teasing, tempting, and she arched to meet him. Suddenly they were one, moving together, his hands on her breasts, her waist, wrapping her with flexing muscles, getting closer, but not close enough.

  “More,” she whispered in his ear.

  The phone jolted her from her erotic dream and Carina moaned.

  “I hate my job,” she muttered as she reached for the receiver next to her bed. “Kincaid.”

  As she listened to dispatch she sat up, now fully alert. “La Jolla Main Library? I can get there in forty minutes.”

  Carina flipped the switch on her coffeepot, took a two-minute icy shower, and with two travel mugs of hot coffee drove the two short blocks to her parents’ house and knocked on Nick’s door. It was four in the morning. He opened it almost immediately, wearing boxers and nothing else.

  Wow! Nick in person was even better than her interrupted dream. In an instant she took in his broad chest, flat stomach, narrow hips…and scars on both knees.

  No time for questions about old injuries, no time to enjoy his near-nakedness. “We have another one.”

  “Who?”

  Carina handed him one of the travel mugs of black coffee. “We don’t have a positive ID. A body, female, approximately eighteen years of age, was found in the middle of the parking lot of La Jolla Public Library. A patrol found her, thought it was either a drunk or hit and run. Until he approached.”

  “Same MO?” Nick zipped up his jeans and pulled a black T-shirt over his head. Threaded his holster through his belt, secured his gun.

  “Her head was covered by a garbage bag.”

  “Her head? Where’s the rest of her body?”

  She blinked, at first not understanding what he meant, then realizing he thought just her head was found. “It’s all there, but her body was wrapped in plastic wrap.”

  “Mouth?”

  “Don’t know. The responding officer didn’t remove the bag from her head. He checked her pulse and she was dead. He secured the scene, called it in. The crime techs are meeting us there.”

  Nick slid his feet into boots and picked up the coffee Carina had brought, took a sip. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “I don’t know about you,” she said as she headed down the stairs to her car, “but three hours of sleep doesn’t cut it for me anymore.”

  Since it was the middle of the night with no traffic, it took less than twenty minutes to reach the library. The crime scene van was already there, but they were still unpacking their equipment. Carina introduced Nick to Jim Gage and his assistant, Blair Duncan, who was fresh out of college. Jim pulled the case when he heard it might be related to the Vance homicide; Blair pulled the case because she had the misfortune of being the lowest man—or woman—on the totem pole and drew the graveyard shift.

  Another car drove up and Jim said, “Did you know Dillon was coming?”

  Carina glanced behind her. Dillon got out of his Lexus and walked over. “Yeah. He’s been consulting informally, though now…” she didn’t need to finish. Chief Causey had put together a small task force for Angie’s funeral; Carina would demand that they expand it after this. Two girls brutally murdered in less than a week. Carina was certain she’d win the argument this time.

  “I called Missing Persons on my way in,” Dillon said. “A seventeen-year-old intern has been missing since Wednesday evening. She left the library at eight but never arrived home. Her car was found here, in this lot, the next morning.”

  “Do you have a name?” Carina asked.

  “Becca Harrison.”

&n
bsp; Gage approached the victim first while his assistant photographed the scene. When she was done visually cataloging the body and immediate surroundings, she walked in a circle outward while Gage inspected the body.

  “Carina, look at this,” he said.

  She approached. A plastic garbage bag had been tied with white nylon rope around the victim’s neck. Her body had been wrapped with plastic wrap. Her hands were bound together by rope.

  “Could it be a copycat?” she asked, her voice unusually quiet.

  “One way to know for sure.” The press had gotten wind of the garbage bags, but they’d never released information about the glued-on gag.

  Gage carefully removed the rope and bagged it. Next, he gently pulled the bag from her head.

  Her mouth was sealed with a black bandanna identical to the one found on Angie.

  Carina turned to Nick. “Let’s find out if she had a sex diary and if Bondage or Scout commented on her page. And I’m going to wake Patrick up. We need something more to go on than two unknown profiles in cyberspace.” She motioned for Dillon to approach.

  Her brother stared at the body, his face long. “She’s so young.”

  “Do you have a description of Becca Harrison?”

  “Long dark hair, blue eyes, five-foot-four, one hundred five pounds.”

  “It fits. Let’s run her prints before we call the parents, just to be sure.”

  Dillon looked at her with compassion. Was he thinking about the day when the police came to the Kincaid house and told them that Justin’s body had been found? Every time she had to talk to her parents, she thought about the anguished cry that came out of her sister’s throat, a sound that could only be described as the voice of pain itself.

  “I’m sorry,” Dillon now said.

  “I’ll be okay.” She would, that was her job. And doing the job helped make her okay.

  “Look at her.” Carina pointed toward the victim’s body, harshly visible in the lights Gage had set up around the perimeter. “The MO changed. Why the plastic wrap?”

  “The media has always jumped on the similarities between crimes, the so-called signature of a serial killer,” Dillon said. “But in truth, killers are always trying to perfect their crime. With every kill they lose something, part of the fantasy. This is why they start killing in the first place—the mental fantasy is no longer enough to satisfy them. They escalate. Some might rape first, then rape and kill. But the kill itself, while it’s a momentary high, leads to depression when it’s over. So a killer will change things to keep the excitement high.”

  “But why plastic wrap?” Carina pushed. “Is this a way to keep evidence off the body?”

  “I think that’s one purpose, yes,” Dillon said.

  “And the other?”

  This time Nick spoke. “He wanted to feel her die, be closer to her when she died. The plastic wrap is thinner than garbage bags. And look how carefully he wrapped her. Not bulky. He could feel her beneath the plastic while still keeping trace evidence—his hair and skin fibers—off her body.” He looked from Carina to her brother. “I’m not a shrink, but I’d bet my pension that he had sex with her while she was dying.”

  Carina paled. “That’s—” she was going to say That’s sick, but the entire case sickened her. She pulled out her cell phone and woke Patrick up at home, told him about the murder. “Two hours, downtown.”

  Dawn had just crested by the time Carina and Nick entered police headquarters. The smallest interview room had been converted to the task force headquarters and Chief Causey had come in early so Carina and Nick could brief him privately, then he joined the task force meeting.

  After Carina brought everyone up to date on the case, Patrick took the floor.

  “I woke up the security chief at MyJournal as soon as Detective Kincaid called about the Harrison homicide. I told him we had enough for a warrant but if he wanted to pull together the information now we would appreciate it.”

  The chief interrupted. “I talked to Stanton this morning. He’s getting the warrant as we speak.”

  Patrick nodded. “The MyJournal people are pulling every comment both Bondage and Scout posted in the last three months, including the deleted comments that are maintained on the server for three months. Beyond that, everything is wiped unless archived on an individual MyJournal user page. There’s no way to retrieve it, but three months should be enough to establish any pattern.”

  “But is one of these people the killer?” one of the cops in the room asked.

  “We’re not sure, but it’s all we have to go on right now. One of the deleted comments scared the first victim enough that she believed someone dangerous knew where she worked,” Carina interjected. “We’re not only focusing on the first victim’s online journal. We also have Becca Harrison. The fact that she disappeared from the library Wednesday night and her body was dumped there thirty hours later is significant. We’re looking at any connection between Angie and Becca, but on the surface we haven’t been able to find anything other than they both worked in La Jolla.”

  “Becca has no online diary that I could find, but that doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist,” Patrick said. “Her parents have been notified, and I’m sending a team to retrieve her home computer this morning. I’ll also check the library network. When I get the unique user identification code from MyJournal for the two people we’re interested in, I can run it against any network and know whether they used the library to log on to the MyJournal site. I’ll go first to the library, then Angie’s place of employment, since they have a public network for patrons.”

  Chief Causey spoke. “I need something for the press. They’ve already sniffed out that these cases are connected.” He looked pointedly at Carina.

  “Sir, they showed up only thirty minutes after I did. The police scanner is not as secure as we would like.”

  “Point taken.”

  Office Diaz spoke up. “What happened with the evidence against Steven Thomas? Or the first vic’s boyfriend, Masterson?”

  “The evidence against Thomas was circumstantial at best, and we can’t find anything to link him to the murder. Thomas has been cooperating, turned over all his computer equipment and came down for a formal interview,” Carina said. “Masterson has a solid alibi for Angie’s murder, but we’re going to talk to him again to confirm his whereabouts on Wednesday between seven and nine, when Becca Harrison was kidnapped.”

  Chief Causey spoke, walking slowing around the desk to stand in front of his men and women. “Detective Patrick Kincaid is handling all computer-related aspects of the case, and Detective Carina Kincaid is heading the investigation. I’ve approved overtime on this case, so please give them as much time as you can.

  “As you may have heard, Detective Hooper was called up to the appeals court to testify again in the Theodore Glenn case. If you haven’t met Sheriff Nick Thomas from Montana, he’s over there”—he pointed to Nick standing in the far corner—“and I’ve brought him in officially as a police consultant. We don’t want the press or the defense attorney to have any reason to slam us when we nail this bastard. Sheriff Thomas has experience with serial killers, and he’s already been an asset to our investigation.”

  Causey turned to Dillon and nodded.

  Dillon spoke. “I’ve been working on this case with Detectives Kincaid and Hooper almost from the beginning. Angie Vance’s murder was disturbing and showed immediately that we were up against a vicious predator. Now that we have two victims, the evidence is clear: he’s not going to stop until we stop him.

  “I’m working up a more formal profile, but Detective Kincaid knows what we’re looking for. Going around now is a sheet of the basic characteristics of our killer, but remember: profiling is not a science. It’s using what we know of human nature and previous crimes to make an educated guess about the individual capable of these atrocities.

  “One thing I can guarantee: he will act again, and sooner rather than later. I suspect he already has his next victim in
his sights.”

  Dillon nodded at Carina, who handed out assignments. Two officers added to e-crimes to help Patrick; one officer to canvas the university; two officers to interview Becca’s friends and family; and two officers dedicated to reviewing like crimes and following up with outside jurisdictions.

  “Chief Causey is also issuing a warning through the media for young women in the La Jolla area to be cautious, not be out alone after dark for any reason, and to go through the standard safety checklist,” Carina said. “Any questions?”

  Finally, Chief Causey looked everyone in the eye. “Let’s get this guy before he strikes again. Dismissed.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  NICK WALKED WITH CARINA to the coroner’s office. “I’m glad Dr. Chen is willing to come in early and take care of Becca Harrison,” Carina said. “You don’t have to observe.”

  “I do,” he said. Of course he would observe. Knowing the victim helped know the killer.

  So far, law enforcement hadn’t come up with any similar crimes. Nothing in California matched, and so far the FBI database had come up dry.

  He couldn’t help but think about the Butcher’s first victim. If the investigators had followed up on every thread, talked with more people, did more legwork, maybe—maybe—the killer would have been stopped before claiming twenty-one additional lives. Because the Butcher’s first kill had been personal. Something starts the chain reaction. Something leads to the first kill. Going back to the first kill of the Butcher led them to the killer.

  If Angie was, as Nick suspected, the first victim of this San Diego killer, it was personal. Something about Angie had specifically set him off. What was it? Her double life? Something else?

  They walked into the overly air-conditioned laboratory and Jim Gage, who Nick had met at the crime scene the night before, approached.

  “I’m assisting Dr. Chen on this one.” He stared at Becca’s prepped body on the cold stainless-steel table, his expression unusually grim.