Most of the trip was interstate at high speed. She played no radio, no books on cassette. She was alone with her thoughts, mostly about Beth Wheatley. Her mind did wander somewhat. Exit signs for connections to Route 101 reminded her of the trip she and Rick had taken along the coast, Washington to San Francisco, the long and scenic route. She had hoped it would be romantic, but Rick kept brooding over the fact that she had vetoed his preference for nude beaches in Jamaica. In hindsight, she should have seen the early warning signs of a guy who wanted to put his girlfriend on display, as if to show the rest of the world what he was getting. So intent was he on going that it took a threat to settle the matter. She vowed to dissolve copious quantities of Viagra—the miracle cure for impotence—into his piña coladas. Rick backed off immediately. Nothing was more uncool than a cheesy-grinned tourist on a nude beach with a permanent erection.
The gray fog thickened as she crossed the bridge over the Columbia River, a far cry from sunny Jamaican beaches. Rain fell, then stopped, then started again as she drove through Rainier to a more remote area outside town. According to her technical agents, the call to Morgan’s line had come from a pay phone along the highway. A public rest area, to be exact, just west of Rainier and situated at the foot of a forested preserve. She hadn’t mentioned anything to Gus, but a pay phone was the last place she had expected the trace to have led them. With three dead women who looked so much like her, the thought of Beth Wheatley at a pay phone punching out “Mary Had a Little Lamb” just didn’t add up.
Unless by some miracle she had escaped.
Rain gathered on the windshield, and the image in her mind was suddenly vivid. A desperate woman leaping from her captor’s van as it rounded the corner. The rough pavement ripping at her flesh as she rolled into the parking lot. The mad dash to the pay phone, her attacker in pursuit. Her hands shaking as she frantically punched the buttons. The excitement of the call going through. The frustration of finding she couldn’t respond to her own daughter’s voice, couldn’t speak at all. A gag, possibly. Or a rope around her neck. Her attacker grabbing her, pulling her back toward the van, but she hangs on long enough to bang out a tune her daughter would recognize.
Andie shook off the disturbing image and turned into the rest area.
It was a typical looking highway road stop, a flat roof perched on brown-painted cinder blocks. A bank of three pay phones was in the middle, flanked by men’s and women’s facilities to the left and right, respectively. The entire building, parking lot, and neighboring curtilage had been marked off as a crime scene with yellow police tape. A forensic team was already at work. Two men were casting a mold for a tire track near a puddle. Another was scouring the pay phone for fingerprints. Four teams had fanned out in all directions, searching the surrounding area for articles of clothing, footprints, blood, weapons—anything of interest.
Andie parked near a squad car on the opposite side of the highway. She stepped out, shocked for a moment by the cold wind. The tall stand of pines behind the building blocked any view of the river, though it was near enough to feel its damp chill.
Andie cinched up her trench coat, crossed the highway and started toward the shelter. A deputy sheriff stopped her before she could duck under the tape. She identified herself and flashed her credentials. He was expecting her.
“This way,” he said, then led her around back the long way, outside the yellow-taped perimeter. The wind was blowing harder. Her nose started to run. She stayed a half step behind him so he wouldn’t notice.
“Anybody see anything?” she asked, still walking.
“We got the word out to local news asking people to come forward if they were near the rest area this morning. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
They stopped at a ridge about fifty meters behind the rest area. The stand of pines was behind them. A steep cliff was at their feet. Thick, gray clouds moved slowly through the valley like the ghost of a glacier.
The deputy offered his binoculars and pointed to an area deep in the valley. “Down there. Through that clearing.”
With the naked eye she noticed a team converging near the bank of a winding stream. She trained the binoculars toward a wooded area that had shed its leaves for winter. She peered intently, though by now it was a scene she could have described without looking.
Through the tangle of branches, the ravaged body of yet another nude brunette hung limply from a tree.
For Gus, the minutes passed like hours. Andie had been gone for more than two hours, and he had yet to hear anything. It was a long drive to Rainier, he knew, but he had hoped for more frequent updates. Finally, the phone rang.
Gus started in his chair but didn’t answer. It rang again.
Carla snapped, “Answer it.”
He was frozen for a moment by the possibility of bad news. He grabbed it on the third ring.
“We found a body,” said Andie.
“Oh, my God.”
“It’s okay. It’s not Beth.”
Gus was relieved at first, then felt guilty about it. True, it wasn’t Beth. But it was someone.
Carla was nearly draped over him, concerned. “Did they find her?” she asked.
He covered the mouthpiece, quickly told her what he knew, then continued with Andie. “Who is it?”
“We don’t know yet. Identification might take time. Another one exposed to the elements.”
“Let me guess. She looks like Beth.”
“Not quite as much as the others, but yes. In a general way, there’s a resemblance.”
“Do you know anything about her?”
“Really nothing as yet.”
His head was pounding. “I guess there are a couple of things we’ll never know.”
“What’s that?”
“Whether she has Morgan’s number. And whether she knows how to play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ on the phone.”
There was silence on the line, as if Andie didn’t know what to say. “I gotta go, Gus. I’ll keep you informed.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and looked straight at Carla.
She asked anxiously, “What’s going on? Is Beth okay?”
“They sure as hell don’t know.” He looked away, focused on nothing, really. But his gaze intensified. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to wait around for them to find out.”
Thirty
Late Monday afternoon Andie drove to the airport Hilton to meet with Victoria Santos and Isaac Underwood. It wasn’t a scheduled meeting, but Victoria diverted from her case in Sacramento for a much needed brainstorming session. Isaac brought Alex Gould with him, a retired special agent who had served as profile coordinator for the Seattle field office. Gould was trained at the FBI Academy and had done some impressive work in his day. But for his personality, he might well have been selected to join the profilers in Quantico. The unit was too small and too elite to reward another insufferable know-it-all, however talented.
It was an unusual move, dusting off a retired agent. That made Andie a little nervous. She wondered if Isaac still deemed her up to the task. To his credit, he made a point of pulling her aside before the meeting to reassure her.
“Just wanted another perspective on this, Andie. Don’t get paranoid on me.”
She wanted to accept that, but it wasn’t just Gould who had her nervous. It seemed strange that Isaac would personally attend a meeting like this—a little too hands-on for the office ASAC. Perhaps he was trying to show Victoria how important this case was to the office. Perhaps he wanted to evaluate the performance of his former protégé firsthand. Either way, Andie felt under the microscope.
For Victoria’s convenience, they met in a hotel suite right at the airport. An occasional commercial jet streaked across the sky outside their seventh-floor window, but not even the space shuttle would have broken their concentration. Victoria sat in an armchair near the television. Isaac sat across from her, preferring the desktop itself to the chair behind it. Andie was seated on the couch with Gould. They were
at opposite ends, but Gould was such a large man they were still closer than Andie would have liked. For a man who had joined the FBI in the height of the image-conscious Hoover era, he had certainly let himself go in retirement.
Andie updated them on the latest victim outside Rainier. The group listened and fished little goldfish crackers from a bowl on the coffee table, the bulk going to Gould. When she had finished, Isaac took over.
“The basic question is, why would the killer lead us to the recovery site with this strange phone call to a six-year-old?”
“Let’s take a broader look,” said Victoria. “We have two contacts. The latest one is to Morgan Wheatley. But the first was to the Torture Victims’ Institute.” She glanced at Andie. “How is your follow-up in Minneapolis coming?”
“It’s pretty much done.”
“Excuse me,” said Gould. He brushed the gold layer of cracker crumbs from his bulging lap onto Andie, as if she were a dustpan. “I went over the whole file just this morning and didn’t see anything to suggest it’s pretty much done.”
“Maybe you missed it.” She brushed the crumbs back at him.
“Maybe it isn’t pretty much done.”
She glanced at Isaac, as if to say, You invited this jerk? “Mr. Gould, I assure you I’ve worked very hard on this case.”
“I’m sure you’ve done your best.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Isaac interjected. “Andie, what’s happening in Minnesota?”
She let it go. “The Minneapolis office put two agents on it. They reviewed records, interviewed current staff. To the extent possible they interviewed former staff and even some former patients. They focused especially on people who were fired or disciplined, anyone who showed any bitterness toward the institute, any individuals or organizations that opposed the type of work that was going on there. They’ve also done follow-ups with certain victims to determine whether any of their torturers might currently be in the United States.”
“Any leads?”
“Nothing promising.”
Isaac said, “We have to look at everyone who was ever an employee of the institute. Not just the ones who were fired. Check everyone.”
“We did,” said Andie. “But I’ll double-check.”
Victoria asked, “What about the International Center for Victims of Torture in Denmark? Have they received any messages that might be from our killer?”
“None they’ve identified.”
“You’ve actually checked, then?” said Gould.
“Yes,” said Andie. “I checked. There’s nothing.”
Gould rose and started to pace, his look pensive. He moistened his finger and gathered the last few specks from the cracker bowl. “That may tell us something in and of itself.”
“Like what?” asked Isaac.
“From what I saw in the file, Miss Henning’s initial theory was that his e-mail to the national institute in Minnesota was simply his way of telling us that his signature is torture.”
“That was actually my theory,” said Victoria.
Gould said, “That’s quite all right, we all make mistakes, Vicky.”
“It’s Victoria. And where’s the mistake?”
Gould was still pacing, stroking his double chin. “Think about it. If our killer was simply trying to convey the message that torture is what gets him off, why would he limit his e-mail message to the torture institute in Minnesota? Why not the international center in Denmark? It’s every bit as accessible on the Internet. It seems more likely that he has a connection of some sort to the national institute. All the more reason to turn up the scrutiny there.”
Isaac said, “Maybe he just doesn’t know about the international center.”
“That’s possible, too,” said Gould. “In fact, that fits neatly with my own preliminary take on this guy. He’s got no time to do any homework. He’s too rushed. That’s what I see here. A guy in a hurry. He’s showing signs of a spree killer, like that young fella who killed Gianni Versace.”
“Cunanan.”
“Right. Andrew Cunanan. Someone who’s killing people in rapid succession, no cooling-off period. Usually these types are at the end of their run when they kill this rapidly. They know they’re going to be caught. They want as big a splash as possible when they check out.”
“It’s a fine line,” said Victoria, “spree versus serial. Serial killers often have shorter cooling-off periods toward the end of their run too.”
“Let’s not get hung up on labels,” said Isaac.
“It’s not just semantics,” said Victoria. “It’s a whole different psychological profile. If we have a serial killer—even one at the end of his run—we’re still talking about a psychopathic sexual sadist. That’s what serial killers are, and that’s what I see here. As much as Hollywood likes to cast them as clever geniuses who enjoy a deadly game of cat and mouse with law enforcement, the truth is, they kill because they’re driven by uncontrollable sexual fantasies and a warped sense of values that makes their own ten-second orgasm more important than the life of the average thirty-five-year-old woman. A spree killer is different. Who the hell knows what drove Andrew Cunanan to kill Gianni Versace?”
“Spree, serial, whatever,” said Isaac. “Let’s get back to my original question. What’s the point of phoning Morgan Wheatley and dialing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?”
Gould said, “With all due respect for Agent Santos, I believe this phone call is indeed the game of a spree killer who’s looking for a showdown. He’s dropping little bread crumbs as clues along the way, luring us closer, bringing this thing to a head.”
“I disagree,” said Andie.
Gould smirked. “Oh, that takes courage. Jumping on the Santos bandwagon.”
“I’m just thinking logically. If the killer wanted to taunt us with clues on how to find him, he could have simply picked up the phone and called us himself.”
“I didn’t say he was trying to make it easy for us,” said Gould. “He knows that Mr. Wheatley has been dealing with the FBI, and he assumed the phone lines in his house were being monitored. Maybe he feared voice identification.”
Isaac said, “He could have let Beth speak.”
“Too risky,” said Gould. “She could have talked too long, ensured a trace.”
“We got a trace anyway,” said Isaac.
“Which is exactly what the killer wanted,” said Andie.
Gould scoffed. “What, now you’re on Isaac’s bandwagon? You’re all over the map, Henning.”
“I’m not on anybody’s bandwagon, you blowhard.”
He backed off, indignant. “Hey, I’m here as a favor. I don’t need your grief.”
The room was silent. Andie said, “I’m sorry. I admit I don’t have the experience of the rest of you, but I’ve thought about this case more than anyone on the planet, with the possible exception of Gus Wheatley. I feel like I have something important to say about it.”
“Then say it, Andie.”
“As I see it, this breaks down to two questions. First, why did he call from that pay phone? The answer: he wanted us to find the body.”
“Why would he want that?”
“If you look at the pattern on the map, these recovery sites keep moving south. Seattle. Issaquah. Now Oregon. Maybe he’s just trying to point us in the wrong direction.”
Victoria nodded, which energized her. Andie continued, “Which leads to the second question. Why didn’t he just dump the body on the highway where somebody would quickly find it? Or if he felt the need to use the phone, why didn’t he just call 911 or the newspaper and tell them where the body was? Why did he call Morgan Wheatley and play a tune on her phone? There’s only one explanation I can come up with. He wants us to know he has Beth Wheatley. Really has her.”
Isaac asked, “You mean sexually?”
“I’m talking beyond the realm of the physical. He wants us to know he’s been inside her head, knows everything about her. Right down to the secret c
ode she uses to communicate with her daughter. He wants us to know he controls her.”
They exchanged glances in silence. No one challenged her. It made sense.
Andie continued, “This isn’t a spree killer looking for some suicidal showdown on the evening news. He’s a serial killer asserting his control. He doesn’t want us to catch him. To the contrary. He doesn’t think we can.”
The silence turned uneasy. It was the familiar fear that lurked in the mind whenever a killer fancied himself un-catchable: He might be right.
“The question is,” said Victoria, “does he still control her?”
“Meaning?” asked Gould.
“Meaning, is it purely the memory of Beth Wheatley that fuels this psychopath’s fantasy?”
“Or,” said Andie, “is he keeping her alive?”
A sudden chill swept over them, as if no one were quite certain which would be worse.
Thirty-one
Gus met his private investigator at Café René. Despite the French name, it was about as continental as French toast and French fries. It was a dive of a joint, with dank walls of exposed red brick and hanging light fixtures that looked like they might drop from the ceiling at any moment. The sagging wood floor was in such disrepair that years of foot traffic had worn paths in the polish. Private booths and bottomless cups of coffee, however, made it Dexter Bryant’s favorite meeting place. That, and the fact that they never enforced the rules against cigar smoking.
Dex was a former Seattle police officer who had specialized in child abductions and teenage runaways while on the force. As a P.I. he was a reputed crackerjack at finding missing persons. To look at him, you’d think he was a missing person. He hadn’t shaved since retiring, and he’d grown back the ponytail he’d worn as a teenage hippie, before he’d sold out and joined the police force. In his own mind, however, he had never completely sold out. His heart went out to the lost souls he searched for.
They took an isolated booth in the back, where Gus gave him the latest. Dex lit up a cigar and listened. He didn’t just smoke his cigar, he admired it, checking out the burn as his client talked on. He took a long, slow drag when Gus had finished. Thick gray smoke poured from his lips as he spoke.
Under Cover of Darkness Page 18
