Evil Never Dies (The Lizzy Gardner Series Book 6)

by T. R. Ragan

  Whatever. Get a grip, she told herself.

  Just then, Salma cried out in pain. The high-pitched shriek hit every nerve ending in Kitally’s body.

  Salma was in a fetal position; her eyes were squeezed shut, her teeth clenched.

  “Help is on its way,” Kitally told her between Salma’s squeals of pain. “Logic tells me you probably shouldn’t push yet.”

  “Get out!”

  “OK. Jeez. Just trying to help.” Kitally looked across the street, relieved to see Hayley heading back their way. She ran to the front of the car and waved her hands. “Salma has gone into labor. An ambulance is on its way.”

  Hayley jogged across the street. “She’s having a baby in my car?”

  “Hello? She’s having a baby. And by the way, your car is a dump. A little amniotic fluid isn’t going to hurt anything.”

  Hayley opened the hood and plunked her hands on her hips. “I need to call a tow truck.”

  “A tow truck? There’s a baby being born in the backseat of your stupid car, you selfish bitch. What don’t you get?”

  Hayley gave her a quizzical look before she walked over and took a look inside. Her gaze connected with Salma’s. “That baby of yours isn’t going to wait for the paramedics, is it?”

  Salma grunted. “I need help.”

  “You got it,” Hayley said as she climbed in.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Thanks for letting me come along for the ride,” Jessica said as soon as they drove off. “I really need to talk to you.”

  Lizzy stiffened. “She’s not a killer.”

  “Who’s not a killer?”

  Shit. Lizzy figured Detective Chase or Jimmy had talked to Jessica about Hayley. Wrong again. She needed to calm down and get her act together. Hayley was not a killer, and therefore Lizzy needed to stop freaking out about it. “Nothing. Never mind,” she said. “What do you want to talk about?”

  She could feel Jessica’s eyes on her.

  “Are you OK?” Jessica asked.

  “I’m fine. Just spit it out. What do you want to talk about?”

  “The Sacramento Strangler.”

  “What about him?”

  “The killer works quickly. He strikes without leaving any evidence or witnesses. He appears to be getting more brazen, killing in broad daylight and in public places where lots of people are around.”

  “So why are you telling me this?”

  “Because it’s becoming clear the killer had a connection to Jared.”

  “How so?”

  “The night before what was to be your wedding day, Jared talked to the deputy assistant director and told him he was close to having a name. They were set to meet the following week to talk about it.”

  “Are you saying the Sacramento Strangler could have something to do with Jared’s death?”

  “No, I don’t think so. My point is Jared was killed before he had a chance to reveal what he knew about the Sacramento Strangler.”

  “I see. Is Jimmy handling the case?”

  “No. He’s involved, but Kenneth Mitchell is the man in charge.”

  Lizzy said nothing. The name Kenneth Mitchell didn’t ring a bell, and she’d been too wrapped up in her own problems to worry about the Sacramento Strangler.

  “They want to talk to you,” Jessica told her.

  “Who? Jimmy?”

  “And Mitchell.”

  “It would be a waste of all our time,” Lizzy said. “Jared rarely talked about the cases he was working on. Mostly because I think he preferred to leave work behind when he stepped through the front door, since we both dealt with the darker side of reality all day long.”

  “We need to find this guy, Lizzy. He’s now been linked to more than a dozen victims.”

  “What have you found?”

  “It turns out he’s been leaving a mark. His signature. He’s probably gotten a good laugh that nobody has figured it out.”

  “What does his signature look like?”

  “A symbol, a Z or an N with an extra line through it. It’s this mark that has allowed us to connect the older victims with the newer ones.”

  “Sounds pretty obvious. What took them so long to connect the dots?”

  “The killer’s mark isn’t always so apparent. Sometimes it’s so small, it’s hard to see. For instance, on one body, he left a tiny mark behind the victim’s ear. Recently, though, they have requested bodies be exhumed, and in many of the cases they are finding the mark on the scalp under the hairline, between toes, inside the mouth.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It’s exciting,” Jessica said. “A real game changer for this case. It turns out he didn’t just strangle his victims; sometimes he drowned them or cut their throats. Victims are mostly female. Recently, though, he’s picked up the pace, killing much more frequently and more randomly. And that tells me he’s either gotten bored or he’s decided to have fun with investigators.”

  “Any witnesses at all?”

  “Not so far. Nobody credible anyhow. And no forensic evidence, either. Mitchell believes there is more than one person involved.”

  “And you?”

  “So far, I’m betting on one man, aged thirty-four to forty, considering how long he’s been killing. He probably started at a very young age, maybe as young as twelve years old. I believe we’ll be digging up bodies for years to come.”

  “What’s your reasoning for believing he started at such a young age?”

  “The typical serial killer is male, between the ages of twenty-five to thirty-five. Our guy’s been at it for eighteen years, at least. Because of the changes in his MO and the lack of lust involved in the earlier killings, I believe he was very young when he first started killing.”

  “Twelve years old,” Lizzy said, shaking her head.

  “It’s not unheard of. Look up Mary Flora Bell and Norma Bell, no relation. They were caught before Mary could be considered a true serial killer by definition, but still, ten years old.”

  “I don’t know why any of this would surprise me,” Lizzy said, “but it always does. In any event, it sounds like the guy’s getting reckless. At some point, they always do.”

  Jessica kept her gaze on the road. “I think you’re right. The girl he found on the American River trail was probably his first attempt at getting messy.”

  “He’s trying to get messy? Why do you say that?”

  “Everything was still too precise.”

  Lizzy said nothing as she waited for Jessica to elaborate.

  “I’ve been examining pictures from the crime scene for days. It seems obvious the killer is trying hard to do things differently, but the mark isn’t the only thing he leaves behind. In fact, if he didn’t have the one thing most serial killers have, he might have thrown us completely off track.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A larger-than-life ego.”

  “So what is it? What’s he leaving behind?”

  “It’s peculiar, and I can’t possibly remember them all, but to give you an idea, he’s left a clock, a book, a candleholder, even a fasces.”

  “Fasces?”

  “A bundle of rods, usually around the handle of an axe. A symbol of power.”

  “That is strange,” Lizzy agreed. “What did he leave with the latest victim?”

  “At first they came up empty-handed, but I figured if it were the same killer, there had to be something in the vicinity. You see, he doesn’t always leave the object on the body. Sometimes he buries it nearby or hangs the item from a tree. Mitchell wasn’t happy with me, but hell, I didn’t ask for this, so Jimmy finally talked Mitchell into sending crime scene technicians back to the scene. Sure enough, they found a vintage mirror buried deep under the soil a few feet away from where they found the woman’s body.”

  “
A mirror? Do you know what that means?”

  “Not a clue.”

  There was a moment’s pause before Jessica said, “So, will you consider coming with me to talk to Jimmy?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Lizzy said as they turned in to the parking area of an apartment complex.

  They climbed out of the car. It was getting dark, and a cold breeze swept across Lizzy’s face. She pulled out her cell and read the note she’d made earlier: Olimpia Padula. Apartment 6D.

  They headed up more than one flight of stairs before they found her apartment. Lizzy knocked on the door and waited.

  “Who is it?”

  “Lizzy Gardner. We talked on the phone thirty minutes ago.”

  “Who is that with you?”

  If she told the woman Jessica was with the FBI, she’d never talk to her. “This is Jessica Pleiss, my assistant.”

  The door opened a crack. Olimpia Padula took a long look at both of them before she removed the chain and gestured for them to come inside.

  Once they were seated, Olimpia said, “I heard through the grapevine that you were on some sort of personal vendetta to see Wayne Bennett pay for what he’s done to me and others.”

  “Vendetta?” Jessica asked, though she was looking at Lizzy when she said it.

  Lizzy raised her hand, letting Jessica know that now was not the time to butt in. “Call it whatever you want,” Lizzy told the woman. “I want to see the man behind bars where he won’t be able to hurt anyone else.”

  “Amen to that,” Olimpia said. “Where should I start?”

  “Anywhere you’d like.”

  Olimpia took a breath. “I thought I was the luckiest woman on earth,” she began. “Not only had I made it into Wayne Bennett’s prestigious program, I was selected for an interview with Tom Lungren, the president of a million-dollar consulting firm right here in Sacramento. Mr. Bennett called me the day of the interview and told me specifically to take a shower, do my hair, and dress up nice.” She made a face. “The idea of the man calling me to remind me to take a shower was off-putting, to say the least, but I was too excited about the interview to worry about it much. I did exactly what he asked me to do. Do you have any idea how much a new dress and shoes cost?”

  Before anyone could respond, she added, “It cost me my entire paycheck. I can hardly afford food, let alone rent, but I spent my paycheck on a dress and shoes.”

  Lizzy made notes as the woman spoke. There weren’t too many people willing to talk about Wayne Bennett. She didn’t want to miss a thing.

  “Mr. Bennett picked me up in his nice shiny black sedan,” Olimpia continued. “He was wearing a dark suit and tie. The man even got out of the car to open the door for me.” She took in a breath. “I can’t deny it. He looked good. He was wearing some sort of spicy aftershave, and he smelled good, too.” She locked gazes with Lizzy. “I thought I was on my way . . . know what I mean?”

  Lizzy nodded, anything to keep her talking.

  “Have you ever heard Wayne Bennett give one of his speeches about poor girls like me being the future?”

  “No,” Lizzy said, “I haven’t. But I’ve seen and heard him enough times to know he can charm the lollipop right out of a little girl’s clutches.”

  Olimpia fidgeted. “I thought it was strange when he brought me to some old dilapidated house with shingles falling from the roof. Who does interviews in a run-down, low-rent shack with a rusty mailbox?” She shook her head. “Nobody does. But did I listen to my instincts and run off? Did I tell him I’d changed my mind and wanted to leave? Nope,” she said, her voice trembling now. “I followed the man inside, and then I took the drink he offered me. After three sips, I began to feel woozy.”

  Olimpia buried her face in the palms of her hands and began to cry.

  Jessica moved next to her on the couch and patted her hand. As Lizzy watched Jessica, she felt a sense of pride she didn’t really understand. From the beginning, Jessica had been a lot like Jared. She believed there was more good in the world than bad. She was compassionate and caring, and when it came to her principles, she’d never wavered. Not once.

  “I’m so sorry,” Olimpia said as she sat up straighter. “I thought I could do this without crying. I guess I was wrong.” Mascara trickled down her face as she said, “Wayne Bennett raped me. He did other things, too. Horrible, unspeakable things. At some point during the evening, I passed out. When I woke up, he was hovering over me. He told me to get dressed. We left the house and climbed into his nice car. On the way home, he explained what would happen if I ever told anyone about what went down.”

  “Did he threaten your family members?”

  She smiled then. “He sure did. He threatened to do to my sisters what he had just done to me. He went into great detail about the fate of every family member if I talked to anyone at all. And then he pulled his car to the curb. But this time he didn’t bother getting out. He just smiled at me as if we now shared a unique bond. And then he told me I was special and that he couldn’t wait until next time.”

  “Did you go back into the program after that night?”

  “Not a chance in hell. I called the rape crisis center and did everything they told me to do. I went straight to the hospital and filled out a police report. That same week, I heard you were spending a lot of time and energy trying to find someone to speak in court against Wayne Bennett. And I knew it would have to be me.”

  “I have to be clear about something,” Lizzy told her. “Bennett is a very dangerous man, and I don’t have the resources to provide round-the-clock protection for you.”

  “I’m not worried about him. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “What about your family?” Jessica asked.

  “That’s the best part. He must have mixed me up with some other poor girl, because I don’t have any family.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Where are you going?”

  Nora Belle pulled her hoodie up around her head and face. “Out. I’ll be back.”

  The fat slob, Michael, told her he’d like a kiss first, which she knew meant a blow job.

  Fuck, she thought, as she headed back over to the couch, where she was always sure to find him if he wasn’t working construction. It was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, but she liked having a place to come home to and food to eat, and it was the price she had to pay.

  She didn’t even bother looking at him as she unzipped his pants and got to work. Having his penis in her mouth was like sucking on a rubbery, slimy carrot. Maybe it was time to find someone else to keep a roof over her head. Guys like Michael were a dime a dozen.

  “Hey, not so much with the teeth, OK?”

  Fucking asshole. She thought about biting his dick right off. She might do it, too, just not this time. When she was done, she went to the kitchen sink and cleaned up, then walked out the door without another word.

  The night was chilly. She rubbed her hands together as she made her way through the streets of Sacramento.

  An hour had passed by the time she found the Naomi bitch. The woman was tucked away for the night in her red sleeping bag in the doorway of a long-shuttered discount store. Red bag, red hair. When Nora Belle first met her, the woman talked about how she used to be somebody, as if anyone fucking cared. How she went to college and used to have a job with the state.

  Big fucking deal.

  Nora Belle hated the woman like nobody else. Plopping down astraddle her now, she wrenched the sleeping bag down and started pummeling away. Every time her fist made contact with the woman’s face, she felt a jolt of electricity race through her body.

  Beneath her, Naomi struggled.

  Someone shouted from under her. It was not Naomi’s voice. She stopped what she was doing, climbed off, and pulled the sleeping bag all the way down so she could see who was in there.

  “What the
hell are you doing?” the guy asked, his nose bleeding all over the place.

  She was on all fours, staring at the man. “Where’s Naomi?”

  “Who?”

  “This is Naomi’s sleeping bag. Where did you get it?”

  “I found it on the side of the road.” His hands were covering his nose. “I think you might have broken my nose.”

  She looked around, pushed herself up, and started searching through his shopping cart.

  The loser staggered to his feet. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” She grabbed a few of his things, including a picture that looked as if it might have sentimental value and ripped it into tiny pieces. “You’re being inducted into the Ghost Hall of Fame.”

  The man had long red hair, just like Naomi. She was going to have to pay closer attention next time—not that it mattered. They were basically all the same.

  He grabbed hold of her sweatshirt and yanked it down over her shoulder as he tried to stop her from going through his things.

  She backhanded him, and he staggered back, leaving her to gape at the damage he’d done. “You broke my zipper! You just ruined my favorite sweatshirt.”

  She jumped on him then, bit his hand, and clawed at his face. All she could see through her blinding rage were the whites of his eyes as she ground her knee into his nuts, determined to show him what happened when someone like him dared to lay a hand on someone like her.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Claire sat up and tried to figure out where she was. The room was dark. Her head was spinning. Her tongue kept sticking to the roof of her mouth. She needed water.

  Where am I?

  She felt around, using her hands to search in the dark. She was on a thin mattress covered with a sheet and a scratchy wool blanket. Her heart raced, pounded against her chest.