At Rope's End

by Edward Kay

  He saw a muscle in Maclean’s jaw contract with anger.

  “This guy’s thing is all about power, domination, and control. The beatings were severe, but they were just preamble. He could have beaten the women to death if he’d wanted to, but that’s not what gets him off. Strangulation is what turns his crank. The reports suggest that he started by choking them with his hands, then switched to the garrote. That’s when his victims would have finally known what his true intention was. They would have realized they weren’t getting out of there alive. They would have begged him to stop. He would have taken special pleasure from their desperation as they realized they’d fallen into his trap. That’s the moment that excited him most of all: when he wound that cable around their necks and started tightening it. If deception was his foreplay, this was his climax.”

  Verraday could see the knuckles of Maclean’s right hand turning white as she unconsciously balled it into a fist. He saw that her face had turned white too, not from fear but from fury. It was more unconscious semiotics of the human mind. At the most extreme stage of anger, the blood flows away from the body’s extremities and into its core, as preparation for physical combat. Verraday knew from Maclean’s unconscious display that if the killer had suddenly materialized in the café at this moment, she would have gone after him with her bare hands. He knew what he was about to tell her wouldn’t do anything to soothe that instinct.

  “If strangulation is the climax, then the disposal—the act of getting away with the crime itself—is the cigarette in bed afterwards. It gives him a feeling of superiority to get attention in the headlines, that the authorities are apparently powerless to stop him. He feels like he’s tricked everyone. He feels smart as hell.”

  “I want to get this son of a bitch,” said Maclean. “I want to nail his ass to the wall and put him away forever.”

  “So do I,” said Verraday. “So do I. But this guy’s cunning. He’s highly organized and, typical for those profiles, his abductions, crimes, and disposals are played out in multiple locations as part of his system.”

  “So what is his system?”

  “He lures them. Because of the BDSM context, we know that sex was used openly as the pretext for their association. And since both victims were engaged in the sex trade, using the cover of a transaction to draw them to the kill room would have been easy. He would have done it in a way that left virtually no evidence trail. He probably contacted them in what appeared to be a spontaneous, last-minute way, so there would be less chance that they’d tell friends, coworkers, whatever, where they were going.”

  “What about the location?”

  “The kill room would have to be a place that he had absolute control over, at least during the time that he committed the murders. It would be somewhere that he either built especially for the job, or that just happened to suit it perfectly. Few if any other people would have had access to it. This guy’s so concerned with not alarming his victims until it’s too late, with how everything looks to his victims, that the kill room is probably stylish and luxurious. The girls would feel like they were somewhere exclusive, pampered even. Then, once he killed them, he would move them to a different location to clean them and remove any traces of himself.”

  “Not the same location?”

  “No. I mean, he’s got to persuade a total stranger to strip off her clothes, prostrate herself, and allow herself to be bound by her wrists and ankles. Nobody in their right mind is going to do that in a tiled room with drains in the floors. That would come later.”

  “Where? Like in a bathroom?”

  “Maybe. But this guy kills when all the conditions are right and he feels sure that he can get away with it. So I think he would use a location that allows for a highly efficient cleanup and that would be unlikely to have his DNA in it.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  “Someplace that he’d never use for any of his own personal hygiene. An industrial cleaning basin, for example. He would place the bodies in the basin. Use soap and water to remove all traces of semen or other sources of DNA, except for the ones he wanted us to see to throw us off. He enjoys washing the bodies of his victims almost as much as he enjoys killing them. Psychopathic killers always prolong contact with the bodies as long as they can. So he would take his time and be thorough, not just to destroy evidence, but to savor the experience.”

  “That’s probably when he took the jewelry off them too?”

  “Most likely. He probably stores his trophies in some special container that he keeps well hidden and only brings out when he’s either fondling the jewelry or taking new prizes off his victims.”

  “And after that? How does he dispose of their bodies?”

  “The fact that he has twice left bodies in publicly accessible locations suggests to me that he feels his property is safe enough to kill on, but not safe enough to dispose of a body on. He has enough time to kill them and clean them, but he can’t keep them around because wherever he’s doing this, he fears that other people—public or family members—will find out. So he gets rid of them somewhere else.”

  “What’s his process?”

  “He would plan that out meticulously too. He uses some sort of vehicle that would be easy to load and unload from, something like a van. It would have some sort of liner, like heavy vapor barrier plastic, that he can remove afterwards and then dispose of in some way that wouldn’t attract any attention, like in an incinerator. The loading area is also some place where he feels safe, where he’s certain that he can take his time without being observed.”

  “So either indoors or shielded from view.”

  “Yes. And the vehicle would be nondescript. Something that wouldn’t attract attention.”

  “What about the choice of dump sites for the bodies?”

  “So far we only have the two to go on. Both were fairly secluded places where there was little chance of him being observed. He left Alana Carmichael’s body in a dumpster behind a school, not only late at night, but over the Easter long weekend.”

  “So it’s a holiday and there isn’t going to be anybody there to see him.”

  “Exactly. He would have scouted the locations, learned the habits of the people around there. Knew when it was least likely that he’d run into police or anybody else.”

  “But there was no attempt to hide the bodies in the long term,” said Maclean.

  “Exactly. Ditto for the cranberry bog. If he did his research—and I guarantee he did—he knew that the bog would be drained once the cranberries were harvested. He’s so confident that he can remove any evidence tying him to the bodies that he doesn’t need the bodies to disappear forever.”

  “Just long enough for him to get safely back to wherever he operates from.”

  “Exactly. And that’s something that bothers me about all this. I mean, beyond the fact that young women are being murdered.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s no serial killer who starts out this polished. Pickton, Dahmer, they all made mistakes. They were just lucky enough that the local cops were even more incompetent than they were, otherwise they would have been caught.”

  “But you said this guy’s methodical and intelligent. Couldn’t our killer just have done a lot of research? If he’s as organized and painstaking as you say he is, maybe he just knew exactly what he was doing from the get-go?”

  “That’s the part I still haven’t sorted out,” replied Verraday. “I don’t care if you’re Stephen Hawking or Usain Bolt. There’s a learning curve to everything. Nobody’s this flawless right out of the gate. Alana Carmichael was not his first victim.”

  “So why are we only finding out about him now?”

  “He may have lived somewhere else and moved to the Seattle area recently. Or he may have lived in Seattle all his life and is now just getting so confident that he doesn’t care about the bodies being found.”

  “You’re saying there are more bodies out there.”

  “I’d
say the chances against it are almost nil. And unless we catch him, there will be more.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Verraday was in the lecture hall preparing for his afternoon class in criminal psychology and behavior when he heard his cell phone buzzing in his briefcase. For a moment, he considered ignoring it. But he rarely received calls on his cell during the day and guessed it was Maclean. Students were still trickling in, and the computer he used for his PowerPoint presentation hadn’t quite finished booting up. So he reached in to retrieve it and answer the call.

  The soft leather briefcase had been a birthday present from his sister Penny and had a cleverly designed array of internal pockets to keep items separated—perfect for a highly organized person like Penny. Verraday’s problem was that he did not share his older sibling’s predisposition. He’d forgotten which pocket he’d placed the phone in, and its vibrations were spread out evenly, seeming to come from every part of the case’s dark interior at the same time. Verraday fumbled around blindly in pouch after pouch and found nothing. He reached down into one large pocket and, too late, detected the edge of the burlesque house flyer. He’d forgotten to take it out of his briefcase the previous night, and a corner of the sharp, crisply guillotined stock slid in under his index fingernail and gave him a nasty paper cut.

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed, managing to keep it down to a stage whisper.

  On the fifth ring, he located the cell and finally answered. He could hear the excitement in Maclean’s voice as soon as she began speaking.

  “We’ve got a lead. I found a PayPal transfer to Rachel’s bank account, which showed that it came from some place called The Victorian Closet. I Googled it. It’s a store downtown. I checked the phone number, and it matches one of the numbers in Alana Carmichael’s cell records. I got her bank statements and it turns out there’s a payment to her there too. There’s a solid connection to both victims.”

  Verraday turned his back to his students so they couldn’t see or hear him.

  “Good work, Detective.”

  “I’m heading down there now. Want to come scope the place out with me?”

  “Love to, but I’m just about to teach a class. I’ll be done in two hours. I can join you then if you can hang on.”

  “Sorry, can’t wait that long. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thanks.”

  Verraday ended the call and shut off the ringer. The last of the stragglers were taking their seats.

  “All right. Since everybody seems to be ready now, let’s begin. Today we’ll be talking about biological theories of criminal behavior.”

  A hand went up. It was a student named Koller. Verraday remembered Koller’s name only because the kid was so annoying, frequently interrupting Verraday’s lectures with inane points and irrelevant questions. Worse, he was in both classes that Verraday taught, so Verraday had to see him four times a week.

  Verraday ignored him for a moment, then gave in to Koller’s persistent eye contact and raised hand.

  “Yes, what is it?” he asked, betraying his slight annoyance.

  Koller pointed toward Verraday’s hand. “You’re bleeding, dude.”

  Verraday looked down. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more. To see drops of blood on the lectern or to have a student call him “dude.” Koller was irritating even when he was trying to help, thought Verraday.

  “Thank you, Mr. Koller,” he replied.

  He felt inside his blazer for a tissue and realized he didn’t have one.

  “Um, anybody got a clean tissue or a wipe that I can have?”

  The frumpy girl in the baggy jeans and big sweater made her way toward him. Janzen or Jensen or Johansen. He still couldn’t remember. She took a small travel-size package of sanitizing wipes from her purse.

  “There you go, Professor,” she said timidly, hunching her shoulders as she handed it to him.

  “Thank you,” he replied as he took one from the package. He pressed the alcohol wipe against the cut. It stung but absorbed the blood on his fingertip and staunched the flow.

  “And there’s a Band-Aid too if you need it,” she added, handing him one from her purse.

  “You come fully equipped,” he said.

  She smiled shyly but said nothing.

  “Thanks,” he replied.

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Even with her slightly olive-hued skin, he could see that she was blushing. She returned to her seat somewhat self-consciously. She was smart, but not the kind of person who liked being the center of attention, he thought. She’d probably go into the research side of the profession, he mused, become a number cruncher for a polling or marketing company. She had an eye for detail that would serve her well in that role. Verraday cleaned the few drops of blood off the lectern and tossed the wipe into a nearby wastebasket. Then he wrapped the Band-Aid around his finger.

  “All right, now that the medical emergency is over, let’s carry on, shall we?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Maclean cruised past Pioneer Square, went a couple more blocks then made a right-hand turn. She pulled the unmarked Interceptor up to the curb a couple of doors short of The Victorian Closet so the vehicle wouldn’t draw attention from within the store. She walked back to the cruiser accompanying her and leaned in to speak to the uniformed officer behind the wheel.

  “Wait here. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

  As she surveyed the front window, Maclean tried to look like a casual shopper. Or as casual as you could look surveying a window display that included a female mannequin dressed in a nineteenth-century whalebone corset holding a riding crop with which she was spanking a winged taxidermy monkey that wore a gold-tasseled fez and a salacious grin.

  Maclean drew in a deep breath and entered. A small brass bell chimed. She didn’t immediately see the proprietor or any other signs of life. The shop was musty-smelling and crowded with the sort of antiques that would appeal only to customers of extremely particular tastes. There were more vintage corsets, Victorian spanking mechanisms, antique paddles, and several cast-iron “Naughty Nellie” boot jacks, their 120-year-old legs spread wide, at the ready to accept a gentleman’s heel. There was a nineteenth-century sex swing. Maclean pretended to browse what appeared to be an entire case filled with antique vibrators, creaky-looking, alternating-current affairs to be used at one’s peril.

  At the end of another aisle, in a place of honor within a glass case, was a phallic-looking carved wooden object. Its handle was decorated with a crudely fashioned diamond pattern. The business end consisted of three long prongs the length of a large human hand, gradually curving inward until the tips almost met. Maclean didn’t know what to make of it, but it looked utterly depraved.

  “It’s probably not what you think it is,” said a male voice from behind her. “It’s probably worse.”

  She turned to see a man in his forties, with a thick moustache and deep-set eyes. His hair was long and slicked back, some of it pulled into a topknot. He appeared to be the only other person in the store.

  “Would you like to hazard a guess?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking a utensil of some sort, but not for anything I do on a regular basis.”

  The man chuckled and smiled at Maclean lasciviously. “It’s a Fijian cannibal fork. It was the personal property of chief Ratu Udre Udre. He was the greatest of the Fijian rulers, the most prolific cannibal in the history of the islands, and the last one to consume human flesh. At least officially. According to the Guinness Book of World Records, he devoured eight hundred and seventy-two men. That’s the very fork with which he held the remains of his last victim, a rival chieftain named Lahelahe.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Oh, it’s not for sale. But I do bring it out for what you might call ‘private ceremonial occasions.’ Is there something in particular that you’re looking for?”

  He leaned in uncomfortably close until she could feel his breath and smell some sort of industrial cleaner or disinfectant on
him.

  “I’m just browsing, really.”

  “Well, if you need any help, I’ll be at the counter. Just got a new shipment of Peruvian shrunken heads in that I need to sort through. The exporters will try to pass off capuchins as Aguarana tribesmen if you don’t keep your eye on them.”

  He stood close to her a moment longer than necessary, then slipped back behind the counter. There, he perched on a stool and began extracting shrunken heads from a wooden crate.

  Maclean spotted a windowless door at the back of the shop. She moved toward it slowly, continuing to peruse the aisles, feigning interest in a rack of Victorian erotic postcards. In one sepia-toned picture, a pair of women were naked except for the horseheads they wore over their own heads and the harnesses around their necks and waists. Another featured a staged variation on an Upstairs, Downstairs–type discipline scenario. In it, a stern-faced house steward in a tuxedo was meting out corporal punishment to three contrite-looking maids. They knelt before him, their long skirts pulled up to their waists to bare their impossibly white buttocks, which received the steward’s wrath in the form of a spanking with a twig broom. In another postcard, a bare-chested brute in boots, wrestling tights, and a black executioner’s hood was strangling a young woman dressed like a pre-Raphaelite water nymph. The nymph’s eyes bugged out in alarm and her mouth was open wide like a koi gasping for air. Her petite arms pulled ineffectually at the garrote that was wrapped tightly around her throat by her attacker, his huge, hairy biceps bulging. The photograph had one of those explanatory titles that Victorian pornographers felt a compulsion to use, as if it somehow elevated their prurient wares to the level of high art. “The Death of Innocence at the Hands of Lust.” Maclean thought about Verraday’s description of the killer’s climactic moment and the ligature marks on both Rachel Friesen’s and Alana Carmichael’s necks. Despite the slightly curled edges of the paper and its patina of age, Maclean found the photo extremely disturbing. She wondered what sort of depraved mind would have any interest in it, in this or any other era.