A raspy laugh mocked his confusion. “For Chrissake take the stick out of your arse, Randall. Call me Hope.”
He blinked. She was drunk. Howling drunk. “Look, Hope, why are you calling me—?”
“Did you get the fucking notes?” she cut in.
He lowered his voice, “Yes.” He put the thought of Kate’s accusing eyes in the elevator out of his head. He did what he had to do. But it had been harder than he thought.
“What did you do with them?”
“I shredded them.”
“At your office?” Her voice rose a notch.
He sighed. “No. At home.”
“Phew.” She suddenly laughed. “I knew I could count on you.”
His face twisted. He got Hope’s number loud and clear: single, newly bereaved and isolated by both her family and her profession. It wasn’t easy being a judge. You had to keep yourself above your former colleagues.
“Is that all, Hope?” he asked briskly.
“No. No, it ishn…isn’t.” She took in a gulping breath. “You know, you were a great fuck. Did I ever tell you that?”
“Yes.”
Her voice caught a little. “Was I?”
Randall squeezed his eyes shut. He hated the note of vulnerability in her voice. He needed to end this, now, before she lost her last remaining shred of dignity.
“You were amazing.” He said it softly, but there was no question of his sincerity. He meant it. She had been amazing in bed.
He felt her relax over the phone.
“Now.” He resumed his brisk tone. “It’s time for some sleep. I’ll bet you have a full docket tomorrow.” He hoped this would remind Hope of her chosen station in life. Of her need to be careful of her conduct.
“Yes.” She sounded suddenly deflated. “It is time for bed…” Her voice trailed off, then it strengthened. “I made it and I have to lie in it.”
The phone buzzed in Randall’s ear for a full minute before he placed it back on its cradle.
The tiger had turned on itself.
29
Friday, May 11, 7:00 a.m.
The discovery of a third victim threw public relations at the police department into full damage-control mode. The media wanted to know what the police were doing to find this sicko and why hadn’t they already caught him?
It was a nightmare for Deputy Chief Forrester. Which meant it was a nightmare for the criminal investigations unit. Reporters were violating the crime scene tape and trying to steal photos of the bloody trail leading into the Arm.
When Ethan saw photos of the latest anonymous young female victim he felt sick. Angry.
Wednesday had been a sunny day.
They thought they’d have more time. Brown had been assiduously following the weather forecasts while the team scrambled to follow the meager leads from the first two homicides.
It was now 7:00 a.m. More than twenty-four hours had passed since an early morning jogger had made the grisly discovery at the boat ramp on Jubilee Road.
He picked up the crime scene photos from the boardroom table. The dismemberment of the latest victim’s limbs was the same. But the rest was different. She had long, fine, pale brown—almost blond—hair. It was in a ponytail. Wisps hung around her face. She was heavier, much heavier than Lisa or Krissie, with large breasts, and a stomach that had several rolls of puppy fat. She had one of those dangly belly button rings that seemed to be the latest trend with teenage girls. Her face had been heavily made up. Now the mascara was smudged around her eyes, and several smears of black ran down her cheeks. Her pale silvery lip gloss was a bizarre contrast to her waxy skin and petechiae-marked flesh.
There was one more difference between the killer’s most recent victim and the last: her face showed more terror.
The killer was amping up his game.
Ferguson walked into the war room and stood at the front of the boardroom table. The team quickly took their seats. “Okay, we’ve got to put a stop to this guy,” she said brusquely. “Brown, what have you come up with to profile this guy?”
Constable Liv “Copper” Brown was the resident profiler on the team. Before she’d joined the force, she’d done a master’s in behavioral sciences. At six-foot-one in her sock feet, with a lean physique and a coppery head of hair, Brown was used to commanding attention. She looked around the table. “All signs point to the usual basic profile for a serial killer—white male between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-four.”
Ethan thought of Judge Carson. “How can you be sure he is a man?”
“All the victims are young females. The first two even shared certain physical characteristics—slight build, longish hair. His fantasy is built around that.”
Unless the killer was one very sharp judge who knew that she could mask the killing of her daughter by choosing other victims like her. And that, by doing so, everyone would assume it was a guy who did it.
“Have you been able to pinpoint any habits we could use to find him?” Redding asked.
Brown grimaced. “None yet. He’s obviously highly intelligent. And highly organized.”
“And yet he picked a different physical type of victim this time…” Ferguson said. “Is he becoming less organized?”
“I think so. He also didn’t wait for the weather to turn, either. From the cases I’ve looked at, when the killer starts to deviate from his known M.O., it’s a sign the need to kill is driving his impulses.”
Everyone knew what that meant. They might finally get a break.
Ethan leaned forward. “What do you think is the killer’s fantasy?”
Lamond sniggered. “Why don’t you tell us yours and we’ll see if they match.”
Brown grinned, then said, “The victimology is crucial here. We need to know whether our guy is targeting certain physical types. So far we can see that he likes young women. But Lisa MacAdam and this unknown girl were very different physically.” She skimmed her notes. “This brings me back to the M.O.”
“They were the same,” Ethan said.
“And this is where our guy deviates from the typology.”
“In what way?” Ferguson asked.
“Normally, a power-control killer wants to inflict maximum fear and pain on his victims. He needs to magnify his self-worth by reducing the victim to worthlessness.”
Ethan nodded. “I know what you’re getting at. According to the medical examiner, the killer didn’t dismember the girls while they were alive. Nor were there any signs of torture on their heads or torsos.”
“So could the self-gratification come after death?” Ferguson asked.
“I suspect so.” Brown flipped her notepad closed. “And he’s using the LOL signature to send a message.”
“The last laugh,” Ethan muttered. “And it’s on us so far.”
Ferguson stood. “Right. So the killer doesn’t live in the south end. Maybe he works there?”
Brown nodded. “Yes.”
“At one of the hospitals?”
“Most likely.”
“Lamond, any success in IDing victim number three?” Ferguson asked.
Lamond shook his head. “No. No one’s called about her yet. Patrol’s been canvassing the neighborhood but Sergeant Wilkins says he needs to pull them in for foot patrol.”
Ethan glanced at Ferguson. They both knew the stress Wilkins was under. They needed patrol to do the canvassing, Wilkins needed more patrol to respond to the panic seizing the city. And not only to reassure citizens. Halifax’s criminal underbelly had seen the opportunity and had upped their game—there were several drug-related murders and an increase in vice activity since the first murder had splashed across the papers. As every cop knew, most crimes were ones of opportunity. And the opportunities had been huge these past two weeks.
“It’s been twenty-four hours.” Ferguson pressed her lips together. “She is probably another street kid. Walker, what did Vice have to report?”
“Vicky says she didn’t fit any of their kids, but these kid
s move around so much, she couldn’t be positive. The victim could be from out of town.”
Ferguson nodded. “We’ll have to wait it out. We can’t rule out that her family’s away.” She picked up her folder. “In the meantime, I want Walker and Redding to hit the streets. Warn all the regulars. There’s a pattern. They need to understand that they are at risk.” She turned to Ethan. “Any success with the ex-con lead?”
“Nothing yet. I’ve checked out eight suspects. None of them is capable of doing this. And all have alibis. Guess our halfway house system is working.” He smiled wryly.
“What about ex-cons who’ve been out for longer?”
“I’m getting to them next. I’ve got about five on my list.” Ethan pushed back his chair and stood.
“Let me know when you’ve tracked them all.”
“Right.” He left the station and got into his car. The list sat propped on his dashboard. Five more dead ends to go down. But, he knew—and Ferguson had reminded him—a good cop had to explore every avenue. Who knew what turd was going to be turned up in the process?
30
Saturday, May 12, 8:00 a.m.
When news of the third victim was reported by the media on Friday, the city had reeled in shock. The police upped their foot patrols in the north and south ends; residents were being advised to use extreme caution. Early-morning joggers banded together into running groups. There was a feeling of joining forces in the face of adversity, like after Hurricane Juan devastated the city in ’03. Parents carpooled their kids home instead of letting them walk.
Kate skimmed the day-old paper. The headline was yet another dramatic eye-catcher: Rain or Shine, Body Butcher Strikes Again. Who got paid for those headlines? One of the articles about “protecting the children” caught her eye. She sipped her coffee. These kids weren’t the ones in danger in the first place. It was the other kids, the kids no one cared about, the kids who bummed money, used drugs, got kicked out of school and generally fell through the cracks. These were the ones being chosen by the killer.
Despite the theme of strength in adversity that ran through the newspaper’s articles, it didn’t conceal the fear and anger. No one could believe that someone was getting away with ruthlessly picking girls off the street and brutalizing them. No one knew where a body would be left next. No one wanted to look out the window in the morning for fear of making a grisly discovery.
People were getting spooked.
Everyone had theories, and a lot of people thought they’d seen the guy—“he was in a big truck cruising down Barrington Street,” “he drove an old, broken-down Chevy…I saw him in the park,” “I think he’s a guy who used to work for the post office—he was really weird.”
If the newspaper was able to round up these witnesses, Kate could just imagine the number of people clogging the police hotline.
She wondered how Ethan was doing. This case was getting to him. She had seen it in his eyes. It almost made her forgive him for the way he treated her about the notes.
Alaska whined, pacing restlessly by the door. She put on her running shoes. It was time to take the new man in her life for a run. The problem was memories of the old one kept dogging her.
She ran for an hour. She was just returning to her house when a woman’s voice called, “Kate! Kate!” She threw a startled glance around her. From a sagging front porch, a woman waved her hand.
Kate smiled and tugged on Alaska’s leash to stop. “Hello, Enid,” she called from the sidewalk.
“Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” The sun had stroked silver on the water this morning.
Enid stepped toward her. “Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea?”
Kate hesitated. “I have Alaska with me.”
“Oh, tish, that’s no problem. I’ll keep the cats upstairs. He can come inside.”
“Well…” Kate thought of her empty house. All she had waiting for her was a vacuum cleaner and a duster. She smiled. “That’d be nice.”
“Oh! Lovely!” Enid said, sounding surprised.
“I’ll just leave Alaska on the front porch.” She tied his leash loosely to one of the posts. She could just imagine his reaction to being in a house full of cats. He’d think he was in heaven.
“Be good,” she said to his alert face. His tail thumped. He turned away and began sniffing the porch.
Enid held the screen door open for her. Kate noticed it was about the same vintage as her own door. She stepped inside the large foyer. It was dim, but not oppressively so. The old walnut floors gleamed discreetly with polish. She wondered what her floors would look like with a bit of elbow grease. She wished now she’d had them stripped and varnished before she’d moved in, but she had been too impatient.
On the far wall, a massive antique mirror caught the light from the old ship’s lantern that hung from the middle of the ceiling. She started. The mirror had also captured her reflection. She hadn’t recognized herself for a minute. Her figure was trimmer than it had been for a while, which pleased her, but there were sharper angles to her face. She wasn’t so sure about those.
“I’ll go make the tea,” Enid said, smiling. Her teeth were crooked but well kept. Her smile lit her fair skin with an inner glow. Why hadn’t Enid married? She had such a vivacious air about her.
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Why don’t you have a seat in the living room,” Enid said. “Muriel is in there.” She ushered Kate through a large arched doorway into a room that seemed empty. Then Kate realized that Muriel was sitting on the piano bench. Her back was to the keys.
“Mil, do you remember Kate? She lives in the Hansens’ old house.”
Muriel gazed at Enid earnestly. “Mother says we need to be home by five o’clock and not a minute later.”
“Yes, Mil. Don’t worry, we won’t be late.” Enid turned to the sofa. “Shoo, shoo, Brûlée.”
Kate threw a startled glance at the sofa. A caramel-colored cat lay curled on an overstuffed brocade pillow. The cat threw her a baleful look and jumped off the sofa. Enid gestured to Kate. “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be a minute.”
Kate settled herself gingerly on the sofa. There were a lot of pillows, covered in various shades of cat hair. She gazed around the room. Brûlée lounged under a brocade footstool, which looked too fragile to support anyone’s feet.
Sitting at right angles were a velvet-covered sofa and love seat in a beautiful shade of deep cherry red. Kate studied them. The color was so vibrant, so youthful, yet not at all out of place with the room. They looked fairly new. Only a few scratches marked the bolster.
Muriel blew her nose. Kate glanced over her shoulder and gave her a tentative smile. The old lady was dressed in a long plaid skirt with a heather-green cardigan. She looked like many of the elderly ladies Kate saw around Halifax, except she wore a pair of Scottie dog hair barrettes, the old metal type. They were upside down.
“Hi, Muriel,” she said.
Muriel stared at her, her gaze searching Kate’s face. “Mother says I have to be home by five o’clock today.”
“Okay.” Kate smiled tentatively.
“But I want to stay longer!” Muriel’s face twisted in distress.
“Now, we’ll just talk to Mother about it, Mil.” Enid walked into the room, her birdlike body stooped over a large tray. Kate jumped to her feet to help her lower it to the coffee table. “Thank you, dear,” Enid said. She prepared a cup of tea for Muriel. “Why don’t you come over here, Mil? I have some nice tea and those shortbread cookies you like.”
Muriel’s face brightened. She left the piano bench, lowering her tall body onto the red love seat. Her hand slid back and forth over the velvety seat. Brûlée jumped up next to her. She fed him part of her cookie and he slid onto her lap.
Enid poured Kate and herself some tea, then sat down on the sofa next to Kate. She lowered her voice. “I wanted to talk to you. I need some advice.”
Kate glanced at Muriel. She was humming sof
tly to herself, stroking Brûlée.
Enid followed her gaze. “She won’t notice. And if she does, I don’t think she’ll understand.” Enid put her teacup on her saucer. “Yesterday I went to a funeral home to make arrangements. For myself and for Mil.”
Kate guessed what was coming. She quickly ran through in her head the type of estate provisions Enid and Muriel should have: wills, powers of attorney, joint accounts.
“Is everything all right with Muriel?” she asked. She didn’t know much about Alzheimer’s.
Enid gave her a wry smile. “As can be expected. Mil is declining. But my doctor told me my heart is acting up. He tells me that every ten years or so. This time, though, he’s sent me to a cardiac surgeon.” She took a sip of her tea. “I haven’t decided whether I’ll go under the knife or not. But it seemed like a good time to get everything in order in case something happens to me.” She glanced at Muriel. Worry pulled down the lines of her face. “I contacted a nursing home and put Mil on a waiting list. Then I went to a funeral home to put in place funeral arrangements for when something happens to one of us.”
Kate noted she’d said “when something happens to one of us,” not if. She studied Enid’s face. Under those blue-veined eyelids were eyes that had seen a lot in their time. Right now they gazed at her with a look of calm resolution. Kate supposed if you live for eighty-odd years, uncertainties became less uncertain.
Enid leaned forward. “I spoke to the funeral director and she put all the paperwork in order. Then she asked if I’d like to donate my body to science. I must have mentioned I’d been a nurse, because she told me that she thought with my background I’d be interested in helping medical research.”
“Is that something you’d support?” Kate asked. She wondered how she’d feel if she was asked to give up her body in the aid of science.
“Well, once she told me that this research would help people with neuromuscular disorders, I was interested to learn more. She gave me the donation forms. I signed one for myself, because after the things I’ve seen, I’d like to know that this old bag of bones—” she waved a self-deprecating hand over herself “—might serve some higher purpose.”
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