Under Cover of Darkness

by James Grippando

  “You promise you’ll let me see the tape? Please?”

  “I promise to think about it,” he said, then closed the door.

  It was exactly five o’clock when Gus returned to the room.

  “Good evening,” said the newscaster. “Tonight’s top story…”

  It wasn’t Beth. He felt let down, though no one had told him it would be the lead story. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that his was the important story, far more important than the latest flap over political campaign fund-raising.

  He plugged a tape into the VCR, as he promised he would. He felt cold as he waited, doubtful he would let Morgan watch the recording any time soon, dead positive he could never have prepared her for the live broadcast. He wondered if he was prepared.

  Finally, the news turned local. “In other news, the wife of a prominent Seattle attorney is reported missing…”

  Gus went numb at the sight of Beth’s photograph on the screen. It was worse than he had anticipated, seeing his wife on television with the dramatic graphic MISSING displayed alongside her.

  The young anchorwoman said, “More on this story from investigative reporter Vince Daniels.”

  Gus was taken aback. He had never talked to a Vince Daniels. It had been a woman who had come by the house to interview him. The story was taking an unexpected tack.

  The screen flashed to a stocky reporter standing live outside the state courthouse. He had a microphone in one hand, papers in the other.

  “Judy, this is not the first time alleged acts of violence have touched the Wheatley family. In court documents obtained exclusively by Action News, Beth Wheatley filed this domestic-violence complaint against her husband, Gus Wheatley, the managing partner of Seattle’s most respected law firm. The report was filed five years ago, at a time when insiders tell us the couple was contemplating divorce. Although the Wheatleys did reconcile, in this explosive report Mrs. Wheatley alleges a pattern of spouse abuse that lasted over a year. Abuse that didn’t end, she says, until he physically struck her.”

  “Vince, is there any indication that police are investigating a possible connection between the abuse and Mrs. Wheatley’s disappearance?”

  “So far police aren’t talking. But we will be watching this story very closely.”

  A stunned Gus grabbed the remote control and switched off the television. He was already shaking as a voice startled him from behind.

  “That’s why you didn’t want me to watch.” It was Morgan.

  He hadn’t heard her sneak out of her room, but it was too late to scold her and tell her to go back. “Morgan—”

  “Did you hit Mommy? Did you make her go away?”

  “Morgan, no.”

  He saw hatred in her eyes, then fear. She ran from the room. Gus hurried after her. “Morgan, please.”

  She only ran faster, straight to her room. The door slammed in Gus’s face. He tried the knob. It was locked.

  “Morgan, let me explain.” He knocked and tried the knob again.

  “Go away!” she shouted.

  He wanted to tell her it wasn’t true—that he had never hit Beth, that she had withdrawn the complaint. Crucial details that a sensationalist newsman hadn’t bothered to report.

  “Morgan?”

  “Just go away!”

  He pressed his ear to the door. His mind whirled, then stopped, as though he’d hit a stone wall at full speed and was crushed beneath the fallen rubble.

  Inside, he could hear Morgan crying.

  Fourteen

  Even the rain looked cold. Tiny droplets sprinkled the windshield, where they huddled together on the brink of freezing until the intermittent wipers cleared them.

  A light rain had been falling all day, classic winter weather in the Pacific Northwest. In any given year, dozens of American cities got more precipitation than Seattle—Miami, Atlanta, even New York City. But it seemed nowhere did the rain come down so continuously, so steadily for hours, days or even weeks on end.

  Colleen Easterbrook adjusted her wipers. The rain was falling harder. The wet road ahead glistened beneath the long reach of her headlights. She had left the Red Lion airport hotel at nine-thirty, after an exhausting ten-hour shift. As assistant manager she was used to overtime, hardly able to remember the last time she’d worked an eight-hour day. Today had been the usual stressor. Five bus loads of rowdy Rotarians all trying to check in simultaneously. It was always some group coming or going. Her interstate commute was a welcome daily ritual, almost like therapy. That precious time alone in her car was her only chance to unwind.

  The radio shifted from pop to news on the half hour. She was about to change stations, but the lead story caught her attention. More mention of a possible serial killer from the baritone newscaster. Her finger froze on the button as she listened.

  “Unidentified police sources say the killer may be striking pairs of victims in rapid succession, killing one and then another who bears a stunning resemblance to the first.”

  She switched it off. She’d read the same story in this morning’s newspaper with only passing interest. “Bookends” was what the paper had called it. The first two were men, neither of whom struck a chord with her. The third was an unidentified white woman. She was a brunette, in her mid-thirties, roughly five feet five inches tall. Like her. And probably like twenty thousand other women in the metropolitan area. Back at the bustling hotel, the vague resemblance she bore to some unidentified victim had barely caught her attention. With a quick dismissal she’d moved on to the Arts section and checked out the latest movies. Driving alone at night, however, was a different story. The thought of a missing bookend and a potential fourth victim gave her serious pause. The similarities seemed closer to home. Too close.

  Traffic slowed beneath the overpass. A string of blinking red taillights dotted all five lanes ahead. Probably a fender bender. Her Mustang slowed to a crawl. Nearly every night for the past two years she’d driven past this exit. Tonight was the first time she’d encountered a traffic jam. It was a chilling coincidence. She was suddenly reminded that the Green River Killer—Seattle’s worst serial killer—had dumped one of his victims not far from here. More than a decade had passed, but that unforgettable television newscast was still ingrained in her memory—the police pulling that poor woman’s naked body from the grassy field, her lifeless left arm dangling from beneath the blanket.

  She glanced at the radio. It was off, but she could still hear the newscaster talking about the bookend killer. Another thought interrupted: the Green River Killer had never been caught. Forty-nine probable victims, and he was possibly still going strong.

  Her car came to a complete stop. She was trapped at the exit. She checked her fuel gauge. Less than an eighth of a tank. Not enough to sit through a long traffic jam. Her mind flashed with fears of running out of gas somewhere down the road. The doors were locked, but that would hardly keep a madman from running through the rain, smashing her window, grabbing her around the throat, and dragging her into a ditch. The need to keep moving soon overwhelmed her. At the first opening she turned into the far right lane, the only one moving. She weaved recklessly through the jam, cutting off cars and eliciting angry horn blasts. She passed the wreckage on the highway and broke into the clear with a final, quick lane change. One last rubber-necker had to swerve his van to the shoulder to avert a collision. She glanced in her rearview mirror. He was flipping her the bird. She drew a deep breath, surprised at herself. She was normally the most courteous driver on the road.

  Damn, what the hell’s gotten into you?

  It was just nerves, she told herself. She switched the radio on and found some music. Traffic thinned over the next few miles. She was speeding without realizing it, pushing past seventy. Her exit came quickly. As she steered down the ramp, she considered a stop for gas at the station on the corner, then decided to keep going. She had enough to get home. She’d fill the tank in the morning, during daylight. Blessed daylight.

  She was eager to
get home, but she didn’t speed. The traffic lights were synchronized. If she went too fast, she’d hit red lights. She held exactly at the limit and sailed right through each intersection.

  Her house was on Carter Street, third from the end. Every house on the block was built in the 1950s and looked just about the same. Gabled roofs, clapboard siding. Some neighbors had distinguished their yards with impressive gardens of shrubs, rocks and flowers. Colleen barely found time to mow the lawn. As she pulled into the driveway, she wished she had taken the time to install that low-voltage landscape lighting that was so popular in her neighborhood. Her house was too dark. She hadn’t even left a porch light on. Not a smart way to live with a serial killer on the prowl.

  She opened her car door and headed up the rain-slick walk. Her house key was firmly in her grasp as she cut briskly through the chilly night air. Instinctively, she checked over her shoulder a couple of times, then climbed the stairs. It was crazy to think that with all the women in the Puget Sound area, she might be the killer’s next victim. Why would a serial killer target an attractive, thirty-five-year-old woman who lived alone, came home every night at exactly the same time without an escort, and had no dog or alarm in her dark house?

  Why wouldn’t he?

  Her hand shook as she inserted the key. The tumblers clicked. The lock disengaged. She pushed the door open and hurried inside. Her heart was racing. She didn’t even take time to flip on the light before she threw the lock and hooked the chain back on the door. It was all in her mind, surely, but she’d felt she was being chased. She leaned against the door, relieved to be safely inside.

  A floorboard creaked in the middle of the room. She turned, startled. She saw nothing in the darkness. She waited, listening. She heard nothing, but she was afraid to switch on the light. Slowly, her hand reached for the wall switch. She flipped it. The foyer lit up. Her eyes filled with fear. Standing right before her was a man in a black body suit, his face covered by a ski mask. His arms extended outward, like an eagle about to pounce on its prey.

  She was about to scream, but the man moved too quickly. A swift blow silenced her. His arms came together in a lightning-quick motion, palms open, slamming against her ears in a simultaneous blast to either side of the head. It took only an instant, but he seemed to move in slow motion. The stunning blow, the pop in her ears. It was louder and more violent in the left ear, the blow from his right hand. The deafening explosion knocked her nearly unconscious. She fell to the floor. Her vision was blurred. Her sense of balance was gone. She looked up, helpless. The man’s mouth was moving, as if he were speaking, maybe even shouting. But she heard not a word. She heard absolutely nothing. Her hearing had been destroyed.

  Her eardrums were ruptured.

  In another quick motion she was pinned flat on her stomach, her attacker’s knee squarely in her back. The pain in her ears worsened, leaving her too disoriented to resist. Her arms lay helpless at her side until he grabbed her by the wrists and cuffed her hands behind her back. Her body stiffened. She tried to scream but couldn’t. She was unable to fight, yet she was strangely aware of everything that was happening to her. A nylon rope slipped over her head. A tightness gripped her throat. Her larynx was crushed, robbing her of speech. Her eardrums were shattered, so she couldn’t hear.

  Yet somewhere deep in her mind was the piercing sound of her futile screams.

  Part Two

  Fifteen

  Gus had been up most of the night trying to decide the best way to tell Morgan the truth. He didn’t want to corner her in her room and ambush her into conversation. He’d wait patiently at the breakfast table until she came out. But she didn’t come.

  The doorbell rang around eight-thirty. It was Carla. She was Morgan’s ride to school.

  “I can take her,” said Gus.

  She gave her brother a knowing look. “She wants me. She called twenty minutes ago and said she didn’t want to ride with you.”

  Gus shrank inside. No need to explain to Carla. She’d undoubtedly watched the news last night and probably believed every word of it.

  Morgan walked straight from her bedroom to the front door, dressed and ready for school. She didn’t even look at her father as she passed him.

  “Morgan?” he called.

  She stopped halfway down the steps, but she didn’t turn around.

  “Have a good day, sweetheart. Daddy loves you.”

  Her head turned slightly, but not enough to meet his eyes. Carla led her by the hand to the car.

  Gus watched them pull away, then locked up the house and got in his car. He hadn’t planned on going into the office, but Bonnie, his secretary, had called to tell him she had organized a support group at the office. Nothing formal. Just some secretaries and staff who wanted to help. The meeting was in the main conference room at nine. Gus misjudged the commuting time, so he arrived a few minutes late, dressed in coat and tie. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone with the power look, but he figured any change in appearance—such as dress—would only feed rumors that he was losing his grip on the emotional slide. He didn’t need that.

  His secretary met him at the elevator. “Gus, thank God you’re here.”

  She was out of breath, as usual, undoubtedly having run from door to door, gathering people for the meeting. “The Road Runner” was her nickname because she was always in a hurry. Guinness Book of Records didn’t know it, but the land-speed record had actually been set by the amazing Bonnie DeVreeze in the hallowed halls of Preston & Coolidge.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She caught her breath, leading him down the hall. “Everyone’s waiting.”

  They stopped outside the conference room. Muffled conversations hummed behind the closed door. “How many are there?”

  “Close to a hundred.”

  “Wow.”

  She smiled. “Yeah. Wow.”

  “What should I say to them?”

  “Just thank them. They really want to help.”

  “That’s very nice. But I’m not sure what they can do.”

  “I had the copy center print up flyers and posters. Thousands of them. We can pass them out here and get volunteers to post them in grocery stores, malls, all over.”

  He was once again grateful that at least one of them was organized. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He started for the door, then stopped. “About that newscast last night. The abuse allegations—”

  She cut him off. “Isn’t it enough that all these people showed up to help you? Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

  For the first time in days he felt good inside. “It tells me a lot. Thank you.”

  He gave her a hug and headed inside.

  The seventh floor of the Federal Building buzzed with the usual level of morning energy. It wasn’t the chaotic kind of bustle that filled big-city police stations. A quiet dignity permeated the halls of an FBI field office, a sense of importance and efficiency. Still, there was the occasional outburst, like the jubilant group at the watercooler celebrating last night’s drug bust in Port Angeles. Normally, Andie would have gone over to get the details, but today she just closed her office door and tuned it all out.

  Earlier that morning Victoria Santos had called her at home. Andie wasn’t exactly sure how she’d found out about Gus Wheatley’s appearance on the nightly news. Perhaps she and Isaac had spoken. Whoever the source, Victoria wasn’t happy. In her eyes, Gus’s contacting the media without even telling Andie showed a complete breakdown of trust and communication. It was Andie’s job to get it back.

  Andie didn’t want to be knee-jerk. She needed to talk to Gus, but she had to get her facts straight first. One thing was clear about last night’s television broadcast, with its emphasis on the old abuse allegations over Beth’s recent disappearance: Gus hadn’t steered the story in that direction. That left the question: who had?

  She feared he would think it was her. Gus had told her about the abuse the other night at the medica
l examiner’s office. The possibility that the FBI had leaked that information to the media must have crossed Gus’s mind, especially after the serial killer leak to the newspapers. She wanted to assure him it wasn’t the FBI, and she wanted to go even further and say it wasn’t law enforcement, period. Problem was, she wasn’t sure.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Seattle homicide.

  “Hey,” said Detective Kessler, “I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”

  “You saw last night’s newscast?”

  “Sure did.”

  “What did you think?”

  “Didn’t surprise me.”

  She paused. “Is that because you had something to do with it?”

  “You mean, all that abuse talk?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Not me, sweetheart.”

  “You were pretty fixated on the alleged abuse when we interviewed Mr. Wheatley. Are you saying you’ve let it go?”

  “I never let anything go till I have my killer.”

  “Does that mean Gus Wheatley is a suspect in your eyes?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Look, I don’t need to tell you that if Gus Wheatley is a suspect, that changes everything about the way we have to deal with him. So I’d like to know: Are you or are you not exploring a possible connection between the abuse and Beth’s disappearance?”

  “Depends on what you mean by exploring.”

  “I don’t have time to play word games with you.”

  “No games. No suspects. Let’s say it’s just a theory at this point.”

  She closed her eyes, frustrated. “I think you’re getting sidetracked.”

  “I think you’re overstepping your role. I don’t need the FBI to play Sherlock Holmes. So far all we asked for was a psychological profile of the killer from one of your experts.”

  “And I can tell you that when Victoria Santos completes her profile, those abuse allegations aren’t likely to fit anywhere in the FBI’s thinking.”