“I was at the morgue last night. They asked me to view a woman’s body. It wasn’t Beth.”
“It must be the unidentified woman they mention in the article.”
“And now they think what? That Beth is her match?”
“Her bookend is the term they use.”
He was suddenly alarmed. “Now that you mention it, there was a slight physical resemblance.”
“I’m not trying to scare you, Gus. The police don’t come out and say anything about Beth directly. That was my inference. All the article says is that they have two male victims, both strangled, both a lot like each other, very similar crime scenes. Now they have a female victim, also strangled. What they don’t have is a second female victim. Only fears that the killer might strike another woman who resembles her.”
“Who might be Beth.” Gus snatched up the phone and buzzed his secretary, calling for a copy of today’s paper. In a matter of seconds she entered, dropped it on his desk, and left without a peep. Gus devoured the lead story in silence. Finally, he lowered the paper and looked at Martha.
“I can’t believe this. I was just with the FBI last night. They never said a word to me about a serial killer.”
“That’s probably because they don’t think Beth is a bookend.”
“How can you read this article and say that?”
“Because I don’t think Beth is a bookend either.”
“So you think all this talk of a serial killer is what—premature speculation?”
“I didn’t say that. There may be a serial killer in Seattle. He may be killing in pairs. I just don’t think Beth is one of his victims.”
“And on what crackerjack investigative expertise do you base that opinion?”
She hesitated, then answered. “I’m sorry. But if anyone was to ask me, I’d say Beth probably left you.”
He leaned forward. “Have you talked to her?”
“No.”
“Do you know something I don’t know?”
“Just call it gut instinct.”
“Instinct?” His voice had a dubious tone.
“More than that, really. It’s an opinion based on observation. You and Beth have a history that can’t be ignored. It wasn’t that long ago that she accused you of abuse.”
“That was over five years ago.”
“Whatever. A woman doesn’t make false accusations without some agenda. With Beth I think it was a classic case of a wife crying out for her husband’s attention.”
Gus moved nervously in his chair. Their marriage counselor had said the same thing. The accusations weren’t malicious. They were an act of desperation. “What’s your point?”
“Obviously, she couldn’t make you listen. So she finally left you.”
“That’s so simplistic.”
“Maybe. But I’m one of those people who tends to think the simplest answer is often the right answer. Sure, it’s wise to consider all the possibilities. Based on what I’ve heard this morning at the watercooler, people have already written Beth off as victim number four of this serial killer. But for me, it’s clear. Beth is fine. Wherever she decided to go.”
“She wouldn’t just leave without Morgan.”
“Maybe she’ll come back for her.”
“Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”
“I’m not trying to make you anything. I just want you to know all the facts.” She looked him in the eye, her tone softening. “I never told you this before. I never told anyone this before. The last time I saw Beth was at the firm holiday party. I’ll never forget the way she looked at me. Death rays all night.”
“For what?”
“For being the other woman.”
“Other woman?” he scoffed. “Hold on there, Martha. This may come as news to you, but as far as I’m aware, you and I have never had sex.”
“There are other levels of marital infidelity.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Intimacy. It’s not just a physical thing. It’s a matter of who you make time to talk to every day. Who you call first to share good news. Who you turn to for advice, who helps you solve your problems. True, we’ve never seen each other naked. But on every other level, I understand you better than your own wife. In every room but the bedroom, I’m the woman you would rather be with. Two people don’t have to jump in the sack to be soul mates.”
He smiled awkwardly. “Martha, I like you. I like you a lot. But we’re a far cry from soul mates.”
She looked sad for a split second, then angry.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re not soul mates.”
“Fine. If labels make you uncomfortable, drop it. But you don’t have to insult me by acting like it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.”
“Oh, please. Don’t get thin-skinned on me now.”
She checked her watch, rising. “I better go. Before you really say something you regret.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve always stood by you. When Beth accused you of abuse, the executive committee was primed to dump you from the partnership before the story hit the papers and tarnished the firm’s image. Some people saw it as an opportunity for a change in firm leadership. They saw you as vulnerable.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Quite possibly nothing. But if it turns out Beth finally did walk out on you, don’t be surprised if the rumbling starts all over again.”
“People will think what they want to think.”
She leaned forward, her palms resting on the edge of his desk as she looked him straight in the eye. “All I’m saying is be careful. Now more than ever, you can’t afford to lose friends.”
She turned and headed out, letting the door close behind her.
Gus took a deep breath. He’d seen her angry before, furious in fact. This was different. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. All he knew was that he didn’t need another problem to solve.
He faced his computer. The cursor was blinking on the screen, still asking him to enter a new password—still waiting on his wedding anniversary date. He searched his memory, but the date didn’t come. In his mind he heard Martha, his self-proclaimed soul mate, expounding on her own brand of marital infidelity. A tightness gripped his chest. For all his marital problems, the one thing he’d clung to was that he had never cheated on Beth. He never would. For the moment, however, he felt as though he had.
He stared blankly at the screen, trying to remember the anniversary. It was hopeless. In a flurry of frustration he entered a new four-digit password.
It was the date Beth had disappeared.
Andie drove Victoria straight from the airport to the downtown police station. She had been invited by the locals, so it was only logical that the FBI would meet on their turf.
They entered through the main entrance on Ninth Street. Andie shook the rain from her umbrella onto the green tile floor. A pair of detectives hurried in right behind them, their trench coats soaked from the cold morning drizzle. Cops in blue uniforms crisscrossed the lobby. A half dozen suspects were handcuffed and waiting on a bench along the far wall. The oldest one was an aging relic of the sixties with long, stringy gray hair. He had dried vomit on his shoes and an annoying determination to sing Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” to the female officer who had dragged him in for disorderly conduct. Amazingly, his screeching voice was nearly drowned out by the general noise and commotion echoing off the high ceilings. With a quick check of her watch, Andie realized the station was buzzing with the early morning change of the guard. It was easy to tell who was coming and who was going. There was no face more telling than that of a cop coming off the midnight-to-eight shift.
Victoria went straight to the duty officer to announce their arrival. Andie’s beeper chirped. She recognized the number. Gus had given her his private line last night.
“We’re a few minutes early,” she said to Victoria. “I’d like to return this
call.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” She went down the hall to a pay phone and dialed. She pressed the receiver tightly to her ear and put a finger to the other, blocking out the noise from the lobby.
“Gus?” she said into the phone. “It’s Andie Henning. You paged me?”
“Why did I have to read about this serial killer in the newspaper?”
Her heart sank. All morning long she’d been worried about Victoria’s reaction. That paled in comparison to the way Gus’s voice made her feel. “I’m sorry this happened.”
“Sorry it leaked? Or sorry my wife is dead?”
“No one said your wife is dead. The bookend theory is just that—a theory.”
“Why didn’t you tell me last night?”
“Because it’s very preliminary.”
“Not too preliminary to make front-page news.”
“Believe me, I was just as surprised as you were to read about this in the paper.”
“Excuse me?”
“I never intended that theory to hit the newspapers.”
He scoffed. “That’s reassuring. Sounds like you’ve really got things under control.”
“It’s—” Andie struggled. At this point, it seemed the more she told him, the deeper she dug her hole. “I wish I had time to explain. But I don’t right now.”
“Explain this much for me, will you please? I’m still curious as to why the FBI even has a hand in this. I’m not a criminal lawyer, but homicide isn’t normally a federal crime. Do you think Beth was kidnapped and taken across state lines? Is that why the FBI is involved?”
“No. The FBI is involved only to support local law enforcement.”
“What does that mean?”
“You really want to know?”
“My wife is missing. I have a right to know.”
Andie couldn’t argue. A few details might help put him at ease. She glanced back toward the lobby. Victoria was waiting. “I have to make this fast,” she said into the phone. “One of our agents from the Investigative Support Unit arrived this morning. She and I will meet with the local homicide detectives.”
“To do what?”
“First off, we’ll try to determine whether we even have a serial killer.”
“Then what?”
“If we think we do, we’ll probably take steps toward organizing a multi-jurisdictional task force.”
“Led by the FBI?”
“Not exactly. It can get complicated, the more agencies that are involved. The best way to sum up the arrangement is to say things generally don’t work the way you see them on television. The FBI doesn’t conduct the investigation. That’s the job of local law enforcement. We help organize things and make sure the locals get the services they need—crime analysis, formulation of investigative strategies, technical and forensic resource coordination, use of the FBI Evidence Response Teams or FBI laboratory services. Our experts will also review the evidence to construct a psychological profile of who the killer might be. It helps police sharpen their investigation, helps them zero in on certain types of people. It basically gives them somebody to look for when they don’t know who they should be looking for.”
“So, who are you looking for?”
“There’s no profile yet. That takes a little time.”
“These profiles—you can tell a lot about the killer from them, right?”
“They get fairly detailed, yes.” She glanced again toward the lobby. Victoria was pacing. “I’m sorry, Gus. I really have to go.”
“Wait, wait. There’s one thing I’m particularly interested in.”
“What?”
“In this profiling stuff, is there any way to know if the killer keeps his victims alive? For a while, I mean.”
“I told you. We don’t have a profile yet.”
“I’m asking you.” His voice was loud, desperate. “I need some information. Just something to go on, okay? If there is a serial killer, and he does have Beth…how much time have we got?”
“I wish I could answer. There’s just no way to say for sure.”
“There must be a rough estimate you can give me.”
“Guessing wouldn’t be productive.”
“Then damn it, give me the facts. You have three victims so far. How long was it from the time the victims disappeared until the estimated time of death?”
“We don’t know on the woman. We don’t even have an ID yet, so we can’t say how long she was missing before she died.”
“What about the men?”
She hesitated, fearful of the inference Gus might draw. “The crime scene was the death scene.”
“Talk English, please.”
“Both men were murdered in their own homes. The killer didn’t transport the victims before killing them. As far as we can tell, he killed them exactly where he engaged them. They were ambushed.”
“So, you’re saying…what?”
“Nothing for sure.”
“You’re saying it’s too late for Beth, aren’t you?”
“It’s important we act fast. That’s true in any case.”
“You’ve written her off for dead.”
“That’s not true.”
“I hear it in your voice. You’re already thinking about the next victim. Beth’s a statistic.”
“No,” she said sharply. “If you knew the kind of people who do this work, you would never say that. You’d know they don’t forget the victims. Not ever.”
“So Beth is a victim.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“In your own mind, she is. You just said so.”
“You’re twisting my words. Stop acting like a lawyer.”
“How else should I act?”
“Like the intelligent, rational man I’m sure you are. Please, Gus. I’m on your side.”
“Okay. You want me to act rational, I’ll be rational. Just tell me one more thing.”
“What?”
“How is my six-year-old daughter supposed to act?”
Andie was silent.
“Be sure to call me when your multi-jurisdictional task force figures that one out.”
The line clicked, which was just as well. Andie couldn’t think of anything to say.
Ten
The first meeting of task force leaders took place in a windowless office in the Seattle Police Department. The long, rectangular table was too large for the room, making it impossible to move unless someone stood up to let the other pass. A droopy brown plant stood in the corner. A detailed map of King County stretched on one wall. Blue push pins marked the spot of two homicides. A red pin marked the spot where the third body had been recovered, as the actual site of her murder was unknown. Three bulging case files were arranged neatly on the table like an imposing centerpiece.
Andie sat beside Victoria Santos, their backs to the map. On the other side were Detective Kessler and his direct supervisors, both sergeants in the homicide division. Behind them, seated against the wall, were the patrol officers who had been first on the scene at each of the three homicides, as well as the ID technicians who had been dispatched to each crime scene. Also in the room were homicide detectives from the King County Sheriff’s office, a pathologist from the medical examiner’s office, and a rep from the Washington state troopers. They weren’t likely to contribute much to the construction of the profile at this early stage, but involving certain key people from the get-go was an effective way to build inter-agency cooperation.
Lieutenant Ethan Wile of Seattle P.D. entered the room at precisely nine a.m., the oldest man in the room but easily the most handsome. It was Wile who had personally contacted the FBI and pushed for the creation of a multi-jurisdictional task force.
“Good morning.” He was speaking to the group, but his eyes were on Victoria. She smiled back. It was the first time Andie had seen her smile that way, with sparkling eyes that bespoke true affection, possibly an old romance. The age gap between Victoria and Wile was like the one
between Andie and Isaac, though Andie wasn’t exactly sure why that thought had popped to mind.
It was no surprise Victoria had come to know Wile. The FBI’s criminal profilers generally covered certain geographic regions, and the Pacific Northwest seemed to draw more than its share of serial killers. Maybe it was the mysterious rain and fog that drew them, an eerie shroud for the victims of their unspeakable violence. Maybe it was the challenge of a worthy adversary, a well-trained police force that had understood the psychopathology of serial murderers since Ted Bundy moved from a spot on the Washington governor’s 1972 reelection campaign to the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. Whatever the reason, travel to Seattle had earned Victoria enough frequent-flyer miles for a trip to the moon.
Wile said, “I can’t stay for the whole meeting, but let me highlight some of the things that prompted my call to the FBI.”
“Please,” said Victoria.
“We’ve got three victims. All strangled. All three received multiple stab wounds, but the medical examiner puts all invasive wounds as postmortem. In each case the victim appears to have died from strangulation before the killer ever unsheathed his knife.”
“So you have serious overkill.”
“Not just overkill, but a killer who degrades his victims. All were left in demeaning positions. The latest unidentified woman was found hanging naked from a tree in a public park. The men were found at home, but they were also nude and positioned on the floor in such a way that their bloody body was the first thing you’d see when you walked in the door. And they both had foreign objects inserted in their rectums.”
Kessler scoffed. “Foreign objects? Are you trying to say the knives were made in China?”
Wile glanced at Andie as if she were his daughter. “Yes, there were knives.”
Victoria said, “You don’t have to soft-pedal things in front of Agent Henning. She looks young, but she’s seen a lot worse than you’d imagine.”
Andie wasn’t sure if she was supposed to thank Victoria for coming to her defense, or perhaps belch and spit on the floor to show she was one of the boys.
Under Cover of Darkness Page 7
