Speak No Evil

by Allison Brennan

  Her eyes were half-open, looking at him through slit lashes. Did the dead see? No, that was his imagination, his mind playing tricks.

  He’d come home, risked everything, to finish it. He only needed an hour. And she ruined it. How could she die on him? Before he was done with her? It wasn’t fair!

  He was breathing fast, too fast.

  Calm down. Think.

  He turned away from her body, looked at his hands. The skin across his knuckles was red and broken. Had he hit her that hard? Why didn’t he remember?

  Think.

  He had to get rid of her. As soon as possible. But not stupidly, he couldn’t be stupid about it. He was smart, he could think this through.

  He had planned on dropping her someplace near her apartment after work tonight. But he had to get rid of her now. The thought of her, dead, in his bed until tonight made him ill. She had died without anything to stop her body from spreading its sick germs and fluids all over his stuff. The smell was awful, her urine and shit. Seeping into his mattress.

  Damn bitch. She stole what was rightfully his—her life!

  He had to wash the body, but it was getting late. Did he chance dumping her without a proper cleansing?

  No, no, that would be dumb. He had to do it.

  Jodi was heavy and he struggled. Sweat poured from his body, dripped onto hers. He was panicking, he felt it, knew it, could do nothing about it.

  He ran the water over her body and left the bathroom to collect his thoughts.

  Sitting heavily in his chair, he looked around. Okay, maybe things weren’t as bad as he feared. It was just the sheets he’d bought for her. His mattress, maybe he could buy a new one. Tomorrow morning, first thing. Burn this one. Yes, that was right, burn it. Good, good.

  He collected all of Jodi’s clothing and bundled it in a garbage bag with the sheets and soiled blankets.

  Deep breath. Calm. It hadn’t gone according to plan, but he was smart. He could improvise. As he worked through the new plan, his breathing evened out. He deliberately took time washing her body. Made sure anything that connected to him was gone. He used antibiotic ointment on his knuckles. He hoped no one noticed, but if they did he would have an excuse. Something believable.

  He dried her off and branded her. Slut. Right across her breasts. Just like Angie.

  Her body was stiff, hard to bend—it took some effort to force it into the bags. Tied them with rope. He was taking a chance driving her during the day, but he had to. The garage was behind the house, and trees partially obscured the yard from nosy neighbors. The old biddy with the cat on the right might be home, but she wouldn’t be able to see anything. On the left, the guy would have a view of the side garage door if he was at his kitchen window and looked way over to the left. But it didn’t look like he was home.

  It was a risk. But it was always a risk. His heart beat mostly from exertion as he picked up Jodi’s body. Angie had been lighter, but he thought maybe because she’d only been dead for a few minutes when he’d put her in his trunk. Jodi’s body didn’t bend or move as easily, and he did contortions getting her out the back door and into the garage.

  Inside, he took a minute to catch his breath. Okay, okay. Everything was fine. No one had seen him.

  He put her in the trunk and left. He only had ten minutes to get to work, and he was going to be a little late.

  He didn’t think anyone would notice.

  TWENTY-THREE

  PATRICK CALLED CARINA with an update on his efforts to locate Bondage and Scout through the MyJournal corporation. “We’re running in circles right now, but we’re getting somewhere. MyJournal dumped all the data on us—millions of bytes of data—and we’re going through it. We’re running a program that compares the data with the IP prefixes of the Shack’s network and the La Jolla library.”

  “You’re talking nerd again,” Carina teased.

  “Essentially, every computer connection has a unique IP number. Like a home address for computers—anyone in the country can find it. An ISP—Internet service provider—has a set of IP numbers that it assigns to its subscribers. The Shack and the library have one prefix, like an area code, and every connection in their network has a unique number. Individual computers, like Thomas’s, have a unique number assigned by their ISP. An ISP may have multiple prefixes, but no other ISP will share a prefix. For example, one company might have eight unique prefixes. No other company will have those prefixes.”

  “I think I get it. So you’re telling me that you’re comparing the data and at some point you’ll get a match and know who sent Angie that message she deleted?”

  He laughed. “I wish it were that easy! If we get a match to one of the Shack’s computer connections, for example, we’ll know which computer sent the message to Angie. If we get a match to the library, we’ll know that someone at the library sent the message. If someone logged onto the library’s network, we’ll be able to see that.”

  “But we won’t know who.”

  “True. But we have one more program running. We’re running the Bondage and Scout messages against all assigned IP addresses in southern California. If we get a hit there, we can get a warrant and obtain the personal data for that specific IP connection.”

  “And that’ll lead us to his house?”

  “If it’s a private account, like you have at your house, where you pay a fee to access the Internet. If it’s a public account, like the library, then you’ll be led to the library.”

  “You’re giving me a headache.”

  “I can find out where they sent the message from. Then it’s up to you.”

  “Thanks, Patrick. Did Kyle Burns contact you about the Shack’s computers?”

  “Yes, I’m good to go with them. When I finish setting up the programs to run I’m going to take my team and go on-site.”

  “Great.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I inspected the webcam Gage found at Jodi Carmichael’s apartment.”

  “And?”

  “It has a wireless connection. The end user would be able to log onto the frequency and see whatever it was aimed at. Gage thought it was motion activated, but it’s not. It’s always on.”

  “Can you trace it?”

  “I wish. If he was logged onto the frequency, I could trace it. But it’s like a one-way street—he knows the access codes and can view the stream. The stream isn’t being sent anywhere. The battery has a seventy-two-hour life. I tested it and there’s about twenty hours of juice left.”

  Carina thought back. “Which means he was in Jodi’s apartment sometime on Wednesday.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you put it back?”

  “You think he’s going to go for Abby?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe next time he logs onto the computer his computer will try to access the stream or something.”

  “I think that’s unlikely, but I can put it back.”

  “No prints?”

  “None. And there’s nothing unique about it. He could have bought it anywhere. There’s a serial number and we’re tracing it, but all it’ll tell us is what distributor had the unit.”

  “Dammit.”

  “Be careful, Carina. I’ll call you when I know anything.”

  Carina and Nick never made it back to the Sand Shack during the day, but Patrick called to say that he was on-scene so she was heading back there when her cell phone rang.

  “Kincaid.”

  “It’s Jim. We found Jodi.”

  “And?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Carina’s jaw clenched. “Where?”

  “Her apartment. In the carport.”

  Carina made a U-turn and headed back to Jodi’s apartment. The entire carport area was sealed off, and several dozen onlookers stood behind bright yellow crime scene tape.

  She and Nick put on gloves and shoe protectors and went into the crime scene.

  “How did the killer get here unseen?” sh
e asked the two cops who had spent all day in the area interviewing residents.

  “We were across the street at the other building. We’ve talked to eighty-one people, and no one saw anything last night that seemed out of the ordinary.”

  You’re too late.

  They were in the carport of Abby and Jodi’s apartment building. Jodi’s body was next to her car, discovered by a resident at nine p.m.

  “Go back and get a time line. She couldn’t have been here long.”

  Jim Gage was already processing the scene, barking orders to his staff, his normally calm, methodical demeanor frazzled by the brazen disposal of Jodi’s body by her killer. His team finished setting up perimeter lights, and he began to inspect her body under the artificial brightness.

  Jodi had been tied in the garbage bags, but during transport they had loosened and her arm had fallen out. The responding officer had partially removed the garbage bag, revealing her face and the telltale black bandanna glued to her mouth.

  Her nose was broken, twisted at an odd angle, surrounded with dark blood. Jim carefully unwrapped the body, bagging and preserving evidence as he went. The process was laborious, but necessary.

  Jodi’s wrists and ankles still had ropes attached, cut with a sharp, nonserrated knife. Her legs were streaked in dried blood, slut was scrawled across her chest in black marker, but what really drew Carina’s attention and horror was Jodi’s stomach. It looked like pulp underneath blue skin. Her skin was also red and splotchy in places, like a bad sunburn.

  “He beat her up?” she asked Jim.

  “It’s postmortem. In fact, all the injuries except gluing her mouth shut and the sexual assault were made postmortem.” Jim looked up. “She’s been dead for over twelve hours.”

  “Since this morning?” Carina asked, incredulous.

  “I’m guessing between seven and nine. The postmortem damage happened several hours after her death, three to six. Her muscles had already started to stiffen, but not enough for full rigor, which occurs at eight to twelve hours.” Jim looked from Carina to Nick. “Want to know my guess?”

  Nick said, “She died on him and when he found her, he was angry.”

  Jim looked surprised. “Exactly.”

  “How’d she die?” Nick asked. “Shock?”

  “She choked to death or suffocated. Dr. Chen will know for sure. I have her medical records, and she has a history of allergies to latex, and mild asthma. But shock or stress may have triggered an asthma attack, and she couldn’t breathe.”

  Jim shook his head. “But,” he continued, “see the discoloration of her skin? It looks like hives. She may have died from anaphylactic shock. Maybe he wore latex gloves when he assaulted her, and she had an allergic reaction.”

  “She could die from that?” Nick asked.

  “Absolutely. You’ve heard of people dying from bee stings and peanuts, right? It can take a few hours, but repeated exposure can increase the reaction. I had a case where a guy died ten minutes after a wasp sting. He couldn’t find his epi pen.” Jim looked at them. “Jodi had an epi pen in her purse, which was left in her bedroom when the killer abducted her.”

  “Not that she would have been able to tell him with her mouth glued shut.” Nick’s voice was laced with anger and frustration.

  “There is good news,” Jim said.

  “Tell me there are hidden security cameras.”

  “Can’t do that. But by these wounds I think he beat her up with his hands. There is likely biological evidence on her from the killer.”

  “DNA.” It was their first real hope at solid evidence.

  “And here—” he pointed to the ropes.

  “What?”

  “There’s some fabric attached to the rope. Possibly a cotton sheet, but we can test it.”

  “Did he wash her body, too?”

  “Yes, but not as thoroughly as the others. There’s more blood here than with the first two victims. She was dead, heavy, awkward to move around.”

  “But the killer is strong,” Nick said.

  “To carry a dead body? Absolutely. Someone who works out and is physically fit.”

  “Unless there are two of them,” said Nick.

  “Two killers?” Jim asked, uncertain.

  Carina thought about Nick’s comment. “It’s possible. We can’t rule anything out yet, but Dillon didn’t mention the possibility of a killing team.”

  “Just an idea. I’m not even sold on it, but I wanted to mention it.”

  Carina turned to Jim. “How fast can you get DNA?”

  “DNA takes months, Carina. You know that.”

  “I also know that this is a priority case.”

  “I can’t even get a sample until the autopsy and we sift through the trace evidence. She’s been washed, he may have cleaned off any evidence. It’ll take a couple days. Then, if I rush it and have no court-mandated tests, I can do it in two to three days.”

  “We can send it out.”

  “Private lab?” Jim frowned. “Yeah, but Causey has to sign off on it.”

  “I’ll worry about the chief.”

  San Diego County had its own DNA laboratory, a onetime purchase by the board of supervisors. The city shared it with the sheriff’s forensic department, but they were backlogged, as usual. Too many crimes, not enough resources. When a case was particularly high-profile, they could sometimes get approval to hire an outside lab for DNA testing.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Jim said, “but it’ll still take at least thirty-six hours for the autopsy, collection of evidence, and preparing the chain-of-evidence paperwork. Maybe I can clear a machine in the lab and work it myself. If there’s even any DNA to analyze.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “I know.” Jim stared at Jodi’s body. “I’ll be at the autopsy in the morning.”

  “Saturday?”

  “I talked to Dr. Chen on the way over here. He’s taken this case personally. He wants the killer as much as we do.”

  The dinner hour long past, Carina and Nick ate cold pizza late Friday night in the SDPD conference room while running through their notes. Patrick and Dillon came in with a stack of papers. Both looked as tired as Carina felt. Even Dillon, the clean-cut, immaculately dressed doctor, had the sleeves of his button-down shirt rolled up, and the waves he tamed every morning with gel now fell loose across his forehead.

  “Both these guys are winners,” Patrick said as he dropped the papers on the conference table.

  “I’m tired,” Carina said. “What guys?”

  “Bondage and Scout,” Patrick said.

  Nick pulled the top sheet. “These look like comments off MyJournal pages.”

  “Bingo,” Patrick said, sitting down backward in a chair and grabbing a slice of cold pizza. “This is part of the huge info dump we got from the MyJournal corporate office. Every archived comment made by Bondage and Scout.”

  Dillon interjected, “I think we need to focus on Scout. Both may be dangerous, and we’re going to continue to look into Bondage for possible underage solicitation issues, but I think Scout killed Angie.”

  “Based on what?” Carina asked, looking at the comments herself. They weren’t exclusively posted on Angie’s Web page, but a variety of MyJournal pages.

  One comment from Scout on a page dedicated to cats: My cat Felix died last week. Someone hit him with a baseball bat. He died in my arms.

  “You think being upset about a cat dying makes Scout the killer?”

  “Scout posted seventeen different times over the last two years that his cat Felix died. Hit by a car, hit with a baseball bat, drowned by his neighbor. All to women who then started an e-mail relationship with him. Interesting, none appear to still be talking to him.”

  Carina sat up and grabbed one of the pages. “The cat. Midge at the library said that the man Becca was talking to the night she disappeared told her his cat had been shot to death.”

  “That’s a better connection than I have,” Dillon said.


  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not the cat that tipped me off, though it’s suspicious. Read this.”

  Dillon handed both Nick and Carina copies of key comments. Carina frowned as she read them.

  Women are beautiful. Soft. Delicate. I’m careful with women, because I don’t want them to break. You can’t put them back together.

  My girl isn’t broken and I’m being careful. Very careful. When we make love, it’s beautiful. I made love to her three times tonight. She likes it when I use a dildo. Because deep down all women are sluts. I wonder what they think about when men shove their dicks in them. How it feels. What they really want. Why they lie all the time, saying one thing and doing another. Doing one thing, then lying about it. Why can’t people just tell me the truth? Why does everyone have to lie?

  I’m the best liar out there. It takes one to know one, know what I mean? I can lie and no one knows. Even people who know me can’t figure it out.

  The next was just as disturbing.

  All women lie. Even the ones who are nice to your face, they lie behind your back.

  You’re all sluts.

  In a response to a guy who’d posted a journal entry about how he learned his girlfriend was cheating on him and how he wanted to strangle her, Scout wrote:

  All women are cheating cunts who need to be shut up. Whores. Bitches. Sluts. Lying whores should be thrown out with the trash.

  Kill your bitch.

  “There’s a lot more like this,” Dillon said. “But read this one dated Sunday late afternoon.”

  “Angie was still missing but alive.”

  “But Scout had time to go online and write this.”

  I’ll be bathing my girlfriend soon, cleansing all the impurities from her body so we can unite as one. It’ll be like her first time, and her last time.

  Nick said, “Why won’t the MyJournal people do anything? This is obviously threatening.”

  “Misogynistic, true, but not threatening to any specific woman. No one with a MyJournal account has filed a report against Scout for any threatening posts or e-mails,” Patrick said. “Even Angie. She banned him, but didn’t use the MyJournal service, which allows members to file complaints.”