Cassie McGraw Box Set: Books 1-3

by David Archer

  Niles was glaring, but I don’t think it was aimed at me. “Actually, no,” he said. “They didn’t bother to share that little detail. Any idea what kind of evidence it was?”

  “A cop who talks too much in bed told his girlfriend that a witness saw one of the abductions. The witness claims the woman was dragged into a van, but that she tried to climb out the back as it was driving away and was pulled back inside by a second person, other than the driver. That’s all I got on that.”

  Niles nodded. “We suspected as much, because there’s one bit of security video showing one of our victims dragged into a van. The van pulled away pretty quickly afterward, so we wondered if there might be more than one perpetrator. That’s good work, Cassie. It helps us out, because we can proceed to rule out a single perp.”

  “Thanks,” I said, basking for a moment in the semi-official praise. “Now, something else I learned. It looks like all of the hotlines, or at least most of them, use Internet-based phone systems. The calls come in through computers; callers can dial the main number, and a computer routes the call to other computers set up to receive them. There can be as many callers on the line at one time as there are computers that are set to receive calls. You know how that works?”

  Both detectives nodded. “Yeah,” Niles said, “I sat through a lecture on it the other day, down at Harvest of Hope. They claim that’s how they know that recording isn’t one of theirs, because their computers are all set to record the calls on their hard drives, as well as the main recordings on the server. None of their computers have any recordings matching the timestamps on the ones you gave us. It looks like they might be correct, and those recordings came from somewhere else. Then I just want to know why your anonymous informant wanted us all to think they came from HOH.”

  “Because they probably did,” I said. “You see, since the calls are coming through an Internet-based system, any halfway decent computer nerd could hack into it. It wouldn’t be hard to have some calls directed to his own computer, and he could even set it so that certain callers always come to him. That would explain how some of these women seemed to know his voice as soon as he answered. He had probably programmed the system to direct all calls from their numbers to him and only him.”

  Niles was staring at me. Alicia’s eyes were bouncing back and forth between the two of us.

  “Good Lord,” Niles said. “Tucson PD was on to that and didn’t bother to tell us?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I got this from a woman who runs one of the hotlines out there. Her brother is a computer nerd, and he’s the one who came up with this theory. They tried to tell the police about it, but I guess her brother has been in trouble in the past, so they wouldn’t listen.”

  “So, the server would still record the calls that went to the perp’s computer, but apparently he can go in and erase them, right? That would explain why we can’t find them now, and what you just told us explains why the people there don’t know that voice, and why none of the computers at HOH have matching recordings. We’re not just dealing with serial killers, but with extremely sophisticated ones.”

  Niles looked at Alicia for a moment, and there was some kind of question in his face. She shrugged, but then she nodded and he turned back to me.

  “You’ve done us a couple of big favors with this,” he said. “Alicia said you got your PI license the other day; am I correct in assuming you don’t plan to back down now?”

  “Damn straight,” I said. “This bastard decided to make it personal with me. Now he can pay for that mistake.”

  “In that case,” Niles went on, “I’m going to share some things with you, as well. Bear in mind, this is not for public knowledge. The FBI put us in touch with their profilers yesterday. They’ve worked on each of the cases so far, and we’ve asked them to help in this one. They say we’re looking for a man in his early to mid thirties, possibly with an accomplice, which we now know is true. They think he’s intelligent but not financially stable, and he probably moves around a lot. Based on things he said to you and the girl in Arizona, they believe he is fanatical about his religious beliefs, and he may actually think he is doing God’s work. They said that if he does have an accomplice, it is probably a younger man, someone not terribly intelligent who needs direction in order to achieve anything. This accomplice would be very submissive, and probably even apologetic to the victims.”

  “Well,” I said, “all of that makes sense based on what we know. I don’t see how it really helps us a lot, though. Tulsa gets a lot of transitory people, so the only thing it gives us is the likelihood that we’re looking for two males, one of whom is submissive to the other. Forgive me, but that’s not much different than looking for a particular pair of needles in the proverbial haystack.”

  Niles shrugged all the way to his elbows. “That’s what they can give us, at the moment,” he said. “We’re going to spread this to all officers in the area, but all we can do is hope that somebody sees something that fits.”

  “I’m just curious,” I said, “but why isn’t this profile going out to the public? You know, on TV, those guys usually hold a press conference when they give their profiles. Why are you keeping it in-house?”

  “It’s too vague,” Alicia said. “As you pointed out, it’s like looking for a certain pair of needles in a haystack. If we put it out to the public, we wouldn’t be able to do anything because of the thousands of phone calls that would come in every hour.”

  “Okay, I guess that makes sense.” I took a deep breath, and thought twice before I went on. “I’ve decided to see if I can draw this guy out. I’ve come up with a plan to see if I can make him come after me.”

  Alicia’s eyes narrowed. “After you? But he’s already identified you as the caseworker he’s singled out. You even tried to make him come after you when he was threatening to hurt one of the victims. I don’t think…”

  “Let me rephrase that,” I said. “I have a prosthetic mask that makes me look normal. Anyone who has ever seen me like this wouldn’t even recognize me without my scars being visible, so I would seem to be someone else as far as appearance goes. I can also,” and here I demonstrated by raising my voice an octave and using my country girl accent, “change my voice considerably, when I want to. What I’m planning is to rent an apartment, maybe one of those little motel apartments, and start calling the HOH hotline. With my mask in place, I’ll be exactly his type, a petite little blonde. If I can get on the line with him, I’ll do what each of these women must have done, I’ll give the impression that I’m lonely and looking for my Prince Charming. I’ll know the voice if I hear it, and I already know that he stalks his victims for a while, so I’ll stay in character as long as I need to. Each time I talk to him, I’ll have someone watch me afterward. This guy usually strikes three days after his last call with the victim, so we’ll know when to expect it.”

  “Cassie, that sounds crazy,” Alicia said, but Niles waved a hand to shush her.

  “What about your eye?” he asked. “And your hand?”

  “I have a glass eye, I just hate to use it. And it’s wintertime, so I can keep my hands covered with gloves. I even have a pair of gloves that were made special for my left hand, because of the two fingers being stuck together. Trust me, I can look perfectly normal when I want to. I just usually don’t feel like going to all that trouble.”

  Niles looked at Alicia, and she shrugged. “It’s up to her,” she said. “The only thing I’ll say is that I want to put a tracer on her. Something she can wear, like a necklace or something. Can we get something like that?”

  “I’ll try to find something,” Niles said. He turned back to me. “To be honest, I really doubt this is going to work, but it has just enough potential to make me want to give it a try. There’s just one thing, though. You are not a police officer, so we are limited on what we can do. I can see if I can find a tracer for you, something we can track if you do get snatched, but I don’t know how much actual coverage we can give you.” He
hooked a thumb at Alicia. “She and I can take turns keeping an eye on you, and I think I can get one other detective to help us, but this operation is strictly off the books. You’re a civilian, PI license or not, so the department can’t be directly or officially involved.”

  “I understand,” I said. “In fact, I wasn’t planning on trying to involve you at all. This is my idea, and I already had some notions about backup. I work with another private eye who happens to be very tech savvy, so I was going to talk to him about some way to keep track of where I’m at, and I’ve got a good friend who will be more than willing to watch my back.” The thought crossed my mind that I would catch hell trying to keep Dex out of this, anyway, so I might as well just come right out and ask for his help. Knowing him, it would be like giving candy to a kid. I think he just about lives for the opportunity to show me I’m not as tough as I think I am.

  “Back it down,” Alicia said. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. Jerry is right, Cassie, you need us to watch over you as much as we can.”

  “Absolutely,” Niles said. “Like I said, I doubt this will actually work, so you’re probably safe anyway, but on the off chance you really do get his attention, we’ve got to be able to move fast. If he were to grab you and then find out that it’s you he got, well—let’s just say I wouldn’t put any bets on your life expectancy. To be honest, he’d probably kill you immediately and then get rid of the others as fast as he could. If he realizes it’s you for a moment, then he’s going to know it’s a trap.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Then, thanks. I’m planning to get started on this today, so let me get to it and I’ll be in touch later. Might be early afternoon, so just be patient.”

  Niles and Alicia looked at one another, then turned back to me. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Niles said. “You’re not a police officer, it’s not your job.”

  I smiled at him, probably the first real smile I’ve ever given him. “No, I’m not a cop, but it’s definitely my job. I do what I can to protect women like these, mostly from the abuse their own husbands and boyfriends give them, but there’s nothing that says it has to stop there. They are in danger, and I think I can do something about it. If I don’t, I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

  THIRTEEN

  “Are you out of your freaking mind?” Dex yelled. We were at his place, during his lunch break. He had done a double-take when he saw me, but it was nothing compared to the look on his face when I told him about my plan.

  Maybe I better back up. I had left Denny’s that morning and gone straight back home, then got on my computer and started working on the details. I found a few small apartments in some of the lower class neighborhoods and was trying to figure out how to rent one without tying my own name to it when I ran into my first stumbling block. As it turned out, I didn’t have a clue how to do some of the things I was trying to do, so I called Alfie.

  “Who let the dogs out?” Alfie said, by way of answering the phone. Just for the record, his habit of using a different stupid phrase every time is annoying.

  “I did, and I’m siccing them all on you. I need your help with something.”

  I’ll say this for Alfie; he doesn’t waste a lot of time arguing about whether something is a good idea or a bad idea. Once I explained what I was trying to do, he jumped in to help. Within twenty minutes, he had created a whole new identity for me. Suddenly, I was Emily Keeler. I had just moved to Tulsa and was about to begin working as an order picker for a mail-order company—Alfie actually arranged for the job, through one of the lawyers that he often worked for; I guess the guy was one of the owners of the company—and I lived with my boyfriend, Darrell. Darrell, as it happened, bore a very strong resemblance to Dex.

  “Okay,” Alfie said after a bit, “I’ve got your drivers license ready except for a picture, Social Security card, and a Tulsa library card made up for you. Just remember that these are forgeries, only for show. Don’t try to use them with the police or anything official. And if you get caught with them, I have absolutely no idea who you are, don’t forget that.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I won’t do anything stupid with them. They’re just for show, like you said. I’ll come by in a while to pick them up, and thank you.”

  “I want more than a thank you,” Alfie said. “I want about six hundred dollars for this. And don’t complain, that’s with your discount; it’s actually about a quarter of what I would charge anybody else. I’ll get some kind of tracking device set up today, too, that won’t be very hard. See you then.”

  And then it was time. I had been putting it off as long as I could, but it was already past ten. I went into my bedroom and took the box down from the top shelf of my closet. I set it on the bed, but then I had to stand there for a moment before I got up the nerve to open it.

  I lifted the lid and folded it back, and took a good look at the missing part of my face. The prosthetic mask was designed to fit perfectly over the scarring on the left side of my head and face, even though the skin there was uneven and bumpy. I had practiced with it enough times to know that I could put it on, but that was back when I first got it. I hadn’t even touched it since moving to Tulsa, although I’d considered it a few times back before I met Dex.

  I carried the box into the bathroom and set it on the counter, then took the two blue glass bottles out and set them beside the sink. One of them, the bigger one, was a special cleanser that I had to use on the scar tissue. It would remove any impurities that might be on my skin, impurities that could cause the adhesive in the other bottle to fail. I opened the cap and poured a little bit onto a clean washcloth, then wiped that entire side of my face and head and neck, even down onto my upper chest and shoulder. The mask was designed to cover everything that would show if I were dressed normally, and could even handle a neckline if it wasn’t too deeply plunging. When I had finished, I had to let it dry for five minutes before doing anything else.

  Then it was time to take a deep breath. I reached into the box and opened a small compartment where my glass eye was kept. I hated the thing, because some of the scarring around my eye socket was pretty tight and contracted, so it took a little more effort to get it into place than if my tissues around it were normal. It’s not that it hurt, exactly, but putting it in and taking it out was uncomfortable, and it makes this yucky popping noise when it goes in. Just sort of creeps me out, I guess.

  Most people think a glass eye is a round ball with the iris and pupil painted on. There may be some out there like that, but the only ones I’ve ever seen are shaped more like a small bowl. Sometimes they’re perfectly round, sometimes they’re not; mine is sort of a rounded diamond shape, and hollow in the back. I insert it into the gap where my eye should be by sliding it in behind the top of the eye socket, where the eyelid used to be, then pulling down the skin under the socket and pushing it into the hole. It sort of scrapes across the tissues there, and then it pops into place, which is when it makes that sound I hate. The sound, incidentally, comes from the fact that it’s suddenly pushing a lot of air out of my eye socket, so it’s a little like filling your cheeks up with air and then poking it with your finger. Try it; hear that little foof noise? Almost like a tiny little fart? That’s what it sounds like, and I hate it.

  I got it in, shivering slightly when it made its little noise, then looked at myself in the mirror. It would probably surprise most people to know that there are still muscles in the eye socket even after the eyeball is lost the way I lost mine. The surgeons sort of stitched them together, but they still move around whenever I move the other eye. What that means is that, when the glass eye is in place, it moves right along with the real one, so it looks pretty normal as far as that goes. In my case, the worst part is that I don’t have a left eyelid. It was burned away in the fire, so that one never blinks.

  Then it was time to put on the mask. I opened the other bottle and poured a little bit of the adhesive onto a sponge applicator that comes with it. I use that to app
ly the adhesive to the entire inside of the mask, making sure to get it all the way to the edges. It’s absolutely necessary to be sure there are no air bubbles under it, because that will create a weak spot. If there are any weak spots, the mask will start to slowly come away from the skin. Imagine how embarrassing it would be if it suddenly decided to fall off in the middle of dinner or something.

  The adhesive is designed to dry in about fifteen minutes, so I can’t waste a lot of time. As soon as I had it spread all over the inside of the mask, I picked it up and started pressing it against my face. This is a lot trickier than it sounds, because I’ve got to make sure the edges align perfectly with where the good skin begins on my face. The mask actually overlaps just a little bit onto the good skin, and it’s really thin on that edge. I carefully worked it into place, starting up on my forehead and working down my nose, across my lips, down my chin and up underneath it, and then on to my neck and shoulder. That’s the front edges, which is what I can see.

  Next, I had to put the rest of the mask into place. That’s mostly just a matter of slowly pressing it back against all the burned skin, but I had to reach up and pull my hair out of the way while I was getting the side on, then reach around the back of my head to keep that hair out of the way, as well; if I ever get into wearing the thing, I should probably buy some hair clips to help, but I hadn’t thought of it while it was hidden away on the shelf.

  Once I had the hairline pretty well in place, I continued pressing all of it tightly to my skin. The ear fit snugly over the little stub that remained of my real one, and then I just had to keep working it to be sure there were no air bubbles. The whole process actually took about twelve or thirteen minutes, and then I just had to let the adhesive finish drying in place.

  My mask was only the third one ever made that was so detailed, and had cost over a hundred thousand dollars. It was covered by the city of St. Louis, who paid all my medical bills as part of their compensation for the fact that some of their police officers had known what my fiancé was like, but had looked the other way for several years. Had they not done so, the lawyers my father had hired argued, he would never have been free and I would never have been burned. When I had first gotten the mask, I had been excited at the prospect of looking like my old self again, but between the glass eye and my own stubbornness, I had finally decided to simply let the world see me the way I was.