by Cassie Miles
His expression was unreadable, and she didn't blame him for not wanting to take her along. She hadn't exactly been a paragon of stability. "Please, David. I need this."
He rubbed his hand across his chin, considering. "I won't put you in danger."
"We'll be safe," she said. "You're carrying your gun, right?"
"I intend to."
"And we're not going to meet anybody in a dark alleyway."
"No way," he said.
"And I'm not completely helpless." She pointed to her foot. "These are the first custom-made shoes I bought after the accident. I was really nervous about reinjuring myself by bumping my foot and ankle." She pulled up her trouser leg to show him the lace-up, high-top boot. "Not only is there a seven-eighths lift, but the heel and toe are reinforced with steel. Kicking somebody with this boot is like hitting them with a hammer."
"Remind me not to take you dancing," David said.
"I can dance." She twirled in a circle. "But I can also kick butt."
"Okay, Blair." His mouth hitched in a half smile. "Don't eat much breakfast. We're leaving for lunch in about an hour."
Blair grinned. She'd gotten what she wanted. But was that really so clever? A wise man once warned: be careful what you ask for, you just might get it. She might have bought a one-way ticket to danger.
Chapter Ten
For this interview, Blair dressed as if she were going into battle. In addition to her bionic, steel-toed boots, she'd strapped an innocent-looking fanny pack at the front of her black jeans. Inside the pack, she carried a small can of pepper spray and the cell phone in case she needed to call for emergency assistance.
She sauntered into David's office. She waited for him to finish his phone call, her hands poised above her fanny pack like a gunslinger.
When he looked up, she said, "Check out these accessories."
In a quick draw, she whipped open the Velcro strip, grabbed her thin canister of pepper spray and aimed it at his nose. "Gotcha!"
Her other hand held the cell phone. "Then I dial 911. Pretty nifty, huh?"
"Fearsome." David was armed with a more lethal weapon. Under his sports jacket, he carried his Glock automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. "That phone call was from Hunter. Instead of lunch, he wants to meet at Cheesman Park for a walk."
"That's close to where I live." The proximity worried her. If Justin Hunter was the Fisherman, he'd already made two appearances at her condo building: planting the dead fish in her car; and at the swimming pool. "Why there?"
"He said he missed his morning exercise, and this was more convenient."
"Changing locale is kind of a power trip," she said. "He's letting us know that he calls the shots."
"Or maybe it means nothing more nefarious than convenience," David said. "Let's go."
They parked near the Eleventh Avenue entrance to the park where a wiry man with black-framed glasses stood waiting in the shadow of a conifer. When he smiled a shy greeting, Blair wondered if perhaps she'd gone over the top with her weaponry. Justin Hunter looked more like a grown-up Harry Potter than a depraved serial killer.
He stared at .David with undisguised admiration. "We meet again, Mr. Crawford. Again, I have to say that your work means a lot to me."
"Please, call me David. And why?"
"Most crime reporters don't spend enough time with the details. They spew out the facts that the cops feed to them. Your stories give a real sense of, I don't know, the ambiance."
The ambiance of murder? Blair slightly revised her opinion. Hunter's fascination with these crimes was more than a little creepy. She studied him. Could he have been the person who attacked her at the swimming pool? Though she had the impression that her stalker had more bulk, it might have been this man.
When David introduced her, Hunter's dark eyes sparkled behind his glasses. He grasped her hand firmly between both of his and gushed, "I'm so honored, Dr. Weston."
"Really?" Blair couldn't wait to reclaim her hand, possibly to wash her fingers with disinfectant soap.
"When you were an M.E., your reports were always well considered and detailed." Hunter beamed at her. "Almost inspired."
She didn't often encounter autopsy fans and wasn't sure how to take the compliment.
"I studied you," Hunter continued.
Blair pulled her hand from his grasp. His intensity disconcerted her. "You studied me?"
Instead of responding, he checked his wristwatch. "I only have half an hour. We should start. Once around the park."
Walking three abreast with David in the middle, they followed a dirt path that led around the edge of the grassy inner-city park. Blair was well aware that they were only five blocks from her building. She often walked this very route. It was almost a mile in length.
She peered around David toward Hunter. "You said you'd studied me."
"Oh, yes." He rattled off a list of schools she'd attended and the titles of her three articles published in medical journals. "If I'd known you were coming to this meeting, I would have brought a box of Godiva chocolate."
Her heart thumped hard inside her rib cage. "How did you know I like Godiva chocolate?"
"I studied the Fisherman," he said. "I mean, it's one of the more compelling serial murders in Denver's history, and I'm right here where I can get firsthand information and—"
"How did you know about the Godiva?" Blair demanded.
"The autopsy reports indicated the presence of Go-diva chocolate in the gastric contents, and I knew it must mean something. So I asked around." He peeked over at her. His eyes widened in pseudo-innocence. "You love those chocolates. Their presence was a threat to you, Dr. Weston."
"Who told you?"
He placed his forefinger across his lips. "I have my sources."
She wanted to smack that smug little smile off his face. How dare he dig into her life without permission! "Don't ever do that again."
"What?"
"Invade my privacy."
"I'm sorry, Dr. Weston. May I call you Blair?"
"No," she snapped.
David broke in. "Tell us about your Web site, Hunter."
"It's been real busy, especially with this new Fisherman-type crime. I've had e-mails from as far away as Oslo."
"Psychos," she muttered under her breath.
David placed a restraining hand on her arm, but she wasn't calmed. Her stomach was churning. At the very least, Justin Hunter was an annoying snoop. At worst, he was the Fisherman himself.
Either way, he was obsessed with these horrible crimes. He continued to chat as they strolled past the entrance to the Botanical Gardens and the white marble portico. Why should Hunter's interest in the Fisherman be anathema to her? Since she and David were doing much the same thing, digging into the crimes, she had no right to be disgusted.
But their focus was different. She and David sought justice for the victims. Hunter's fascination focused more on the killer, identifying with him, glorifying him.
As they rounded the southern edge of the park, passing several dog walkers and joggers, David continued to ask questions as if he were seeking out new information on the Fisherman. He didn't treat Hunter like a suspect.
"You're an expert," David said "Do you think the murder of Pamela Comforti was committed by a copycat?"
"No way," Hunter said. "It's the same guy who killed the six other mermaids. The Fisherman."
"But the note to Ted Hurtado wasn't written exactly the same."
"A clever ploy," Hunter said. "You can't really disguise your natural handwriting, you know. So the Fisherman didn't even try. He wrote a couple of the letters different. To create doubt. To throw the police off the track."
"What about the five-year gap between prior crimes and this one?"
"Unusual, but not unheard of." He glibly cited several examples of other serial murderers. Hunter obviously relished this topic. "But I have another theory about the time gap."
"Don't keep us waiting," David said.
"The man who
was convicted, Edward Adderly, is dying in prison. When he goes, his secrets go with him. I believe the Fisherman started killing again to keep his legend alive."
Blair glanced at David. His own motivation for reopening an investigation was also based on the impending death of Eddy Adderly.
"You think Adderly is innocent," David said. "But his psychological profile fits the typical criteria for a serial killer. Abused as a child. A history of petty crimes. And he's the right age, turning thirty-three."
"Big hairy deal," Hunter said. "I'm thirty-one."
"And how was your childhood?"
"A little rocky," he admitted. Ironically, they had just come in sight of the playground where several children played on swings and slides. "My parents divorced. But Mom was great. Really pretty, you know. She had a lot of boyfriends."
Blair knew where David was headed with these questions. The typical behavior for serial killer during childhood included three aberrant aspects: fire starting, bed wetting and cruelty to animals.
"Divorce is tough on kids," David said. "I saw on your Web site that you had counseling when you were young."
"Lucky for me." There was a note of sarcasm in his voice. "Let's get back to Adderly. It's my theory that he's a sexual deviant and probably belongs in jail."
"But you don't think he's a killer?"
"He lacks the intelligence to pull off the Fisherman killings. I mean, these were really elegant crimes."
In spite of her revulsion, Blair found herself becoming interested. Elegant was an odd word to use in describing heinous murders. But in her autopsies she remembered being impressed with the killer's thoroughly clean kills, leaving not a trace of evidence. "Why do you say elegant?"
"Clean and smart. Everybody danced to the Fisherman's tune," Hunter said "For example, he targeted his victims, and they weren't easy women to catch. Two of them were cops, not counting Pamela Comforti. And he somehow convinced these women to come with him. That takes smarts."
"It doesn't take a genius to sneak up and shove a chloroform-soaked rag in the victim's mouth." Blair recalled her autopsies. "All of the victims were sedated."
"But you can't tell when. Did he sedate them to grab them? Or later when he had them tied up?" Hunter answered his own question. "Doesn't matter. My point is that he somehow got close enough to administer a sedative."
"You're suggesting that the victims initially went along of their own free will." Blair wasn't really surprised by his analysis. Though her autopsies showed that the victims struggled, the pattern of their injuries indicated that their wrists and ankles were bound with nylon ropes at the time.
Hunter glanced around David to give her a sly smile. "The Fisherman was clever enough to appear nonthreatening until his mermaids were safely in his grasp."
Nonthreatening? That word was a perfect description of Justin Hunter with his glasses and lean, boyish frame. "How do you think the Fisherman got his victims to trust him?"
"Something simple," he said. "Like offering assistance if their car wouldn't start. Or asking them to assist him in some way. Ted Bundy wore a fake cast on his leg and asked women to help him carry packages to his car."
"Another possibility," David said, "is that he might have dressed like someone in authority. A uniformed cop. Or a doctor."
"Or," Hunter added. "Maybe he was someone they all knew and trusted."
"Nope," David said, "I've cross-referenced all the acquaintances of the victims. There's no commonality."
Hunter shrugged. "Whatever he did, he managed to get close."
Blair thought of last night's attack at her swimming pool. If the Fisherman had meant to take her captive, all he needed to do was wear a bathing suit and get into the water with her. She didn't know everyone in her condo building and wouldn't have suspected another swimmer.
Last night he hadn't meant for her to be a victim. Grabbing her at the pool would've been foolish. There was too much likelihood that he'd be observed. Lots of people went in and out of her building. Lots of witnesses.
But why had he attacked her? To scare her? If that was his plan, it worked. And yet she was bothered by the discrepancy with the past. Blatant stalking didn't fit his routine. Never before had he shown such bravado. It was a different profile.
Maybe the person who attacked her was a copycat, after all. Maybe someone like Justin Hunter who was thrilled by these crimes and wanted to take risks, barely escaping the police investigative net.
While he talked to David, she studied him in glances. Was he muscular enough to commit these crimes? In every murder, including the most recent one, the Fisherman had carried his victims some distance to leave them by water.
In her mind, the act of arranging the bodies was a haunting image. According to crime-scene investigators, he'd worn plastic gloves to avoid leaving prints, and his clothing had been equally impervious, probably a plastic rain slicker with a hood and rubber boots that left obscure footprints. It was all too easy for Blair to imagine that frightening, hooded figure carrying the body of a dead woman.
A quiver of tension flicked across her shoulders. The hairs on the nape of her neck bristled. He could be anyone, could be here in the park, could be watching her at this very moment.
Or the Fisherman might be Justin Hunter.
She tuned back in to David's interview. He was talking about the DNA evidence linking Eddy Adderly to the sixth murder.
"Easy to explain," Hunter said. "Let's assume that Edward Adderly is a deviant. He found the dead body and violated her. Which also explains why witnesses saw him near the scene."..
"After he was arrested," David said, "the killing stopped."
Hunter frowned. "Yeah, I don't understand that part. Until then the Fisherman was playing a cat-and-mouse game with the cops. I don't know why he'd quit."
The cell phone in Blair's fanny pack buzzed, and she jumped. She wasn't accustomed to the electronic summons, and she fumbled before pulling the phone from her pack. "Hello?"
"It's Adam. Let me talk to David."
She held out the phone to him. For a moment they stopped walking. David stepped aside to take the call, leaving her in direct line with Hunter's bespeckled gaze.
"Dr. Weston," he said, "may I ask you a personal question?"
"Okay." But she might not answer.
"Why didn't you go back to work? I mean, you're great at your job. Why did you quit?"
She gave him the stock answer she used with everyone else. "I'm not ready. I have headaches. Not enough stamina to work full-time."
"But you could work part-time."
None of your business. "Why should my work schedule concern you?"
He leaned toward her. His voice lowered to a conspiratorial level. "Have you ever thought, Dr. Weston, that it might be all about you. The killings."
The shivers that had been marching up and down her spine coalesced into a frigid tension. "What do you mean?"
"Your car accident was about the same time as the police arrested Adderly. Maybe the Fisherman didn't quit because of the arrest. Maybe he quit because he wanted to match wits with you."
"That's ridiculous," she said.
"With you out of the picture, it wasn't as much fun for him."
"But I was never a threat to the Fisherman. My job as an M.E. didn't involve active investigation. I just did the autopsies."
"Think about it, Dr. Weston."
His mouth twitched in a sneer, and he removed his glasses to wipe them with a hanky. His dark, almost black eyes were burning in a weird, freakish contrast to his smooth baby face. It was obvious that he wanted to scare her.
But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Blair forced a laugh. "You've got a vivid imagination, Hunter. I'll bet you were a lonely little boy. Maybe a bed wetter."
"And a fire starter," he said. His voice seemed deeper, more menacing. "We didn't have pets, but I used to catch grasshoppers and pull their legs off. So, you see, I fit the profile."
"Of a serial killer?"
&n
bsp; "That's what you really wanted to know," he said. "You and David didn't arrange to meet me because you wanted my opinions or expertise. Oh no, not that. You don't respect my research. You suspect me."
His gaze lifted, and she realized he was staring across the park at the top of her fourteen-story condo building. The threat was subtle. Or was it?
She cleared her throat loudly, hoping to attract David's attention. She wanted him off the phone and watching this transformation. "Is there a reason we should suspect you, Hunter?"
"That's for me to know and you to find out."
He stuck his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. The psycho moment had passed. He was, once again, a meek and mild salesman of medical equipment with an odd hobby.
Unaware of the strangeness that had transpired, David ended his phone call and returned to where they were standing. "Adam has someone he wants us to talk with. I guess we should hurry."
She was more than ready to get away from Hunter, wanted to sprint the last hundred yards to the Eleventh Street exit. While David politely thanked Hunter for his time, she stalked toward the car and ducked into the driver's seat.
In a moment David joined her. "What's your problem, Blair?"
"While you were on the phone, Hunter turned into a drooling, mad-dog lunatic."
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Drooling?"
"Maybe not frothing at the mouth," she said, "but I swear he was different. Like Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde. Even his voice sounded different."
"And what did he say?"
"The real reason the Fisherman stopped killing was because of my car accident. Like the whole thing was about me? Hah! Like I'm the center of the universe? Hunter said the Fisherman wanted to match wits with me."
"And you took that comment as a threat?"
"Of course I did."
"I hate to say this. I've considered a scenario similar to Hunter's. But it's not all about you."
"Who is it about?"
"I'll talk while you drive," he said. "Back to the town house. Adam called to tell me that Weathers and O'Hara would meet us there in half an hour to discuss evidence they found at the swimming pool."
Warily he watched as she turned the key in the ignition. Blair had become the designated driver, and that was fine with him. Using her car was out of the question since the forensics team still hadn't returned her vehicle.
