Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “Dammit, don’t make me wait till tomorrow ta’ open the present, Chuck,” he said. “Tell me ya’ got this asshole in lockup.”

  “Actually,” she said, “I was kinda hoping for a stocking stuffer from you.”

  “Shit,” Ben muttered. “You got anything at all?”

  “Well, we’ve been lucky and gotten to some of these right away. Seems he doesn’t bother with condoms, and he’s a secretor, so we’ve got a blood type and the whole DNA pedigree. But I don’t have a warm body to hang the dog tags on because he’s not in the database.”

  “That’s more’n we’ve got. You chasin’ any good leads?”

  “Haven’t got much. He’s apparently got a kink about necks though.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Shithead sucks hickeys on these women the size of Rhode Island. Guys down in Sex Crimes are calling him Count Suckula.”

  “Fuckin’ lovely.”

  “Yeah, tell that to the victims.”

  “You got anything else? Any of ‘em able to give ya’ a description?”

  “Nope,” she sat back and shook her head, shifting in the uncomfortable seat. “Not really. Like I said, Roofies. Outta the eight, five of them went to the hospital within the first forty-eight hours, and they all tested positive. We’re guessing it would be the same on the other three, but they didn’t come forward right away. Lab says they can probably pick up trace amounts in hair if we have to go that route.

  “All of ‘em pretty much remember getting zapped. Apparently he’s got this stun gun jacked up pretty good, and it’s kinda hard to forget getting hit with one of those anyway. But as far as anything after that, they’re pretty sketchy until they wake up.”

  “How’s he grab ‘em? B and E?”

  “Only on one.” She shook her head. “So far he’s taken three of them from parking lots at shopping malls, two when they were leaving their places of employment, one that was jogging, and another who was leaving a doctor’s appointment. Now here’s the spooky part. He’s keeping them for a while.”

  “Whaddaya mean keepin’ ‘em?”

  “I mean all of them are pretty much missing anywhere from twenty-four to forty-eight hours out of their lives.”

  “So he’s gotta be takin’ ‘em somewhere,” Ben mused.

  “That’s how we’re looking at it.”

  “Is there any connection there?” Ben pressed. “Where are they wakin’ up? Is he dumpin’ ‘em in the same general area?”

  “Check this out,” she said. “The asshole is taking these women home.”

  “Ya’ mean like their home, home?”

  “Yeah, as in takes them back to their respective domiciles and leaves ‘em. Locks the door and everything. Even leaves their keys in the mailbox.”

  “No way.”

  “Yeah way. It’s like he doesn’t want ‘em to get hurt or anything.”

  “Except by him.”

  “Well, yes and no. I’m not trying to diminish the crime here by any means, but we’re not talking a typical rape scenario. There’s no real physical abuse to speak of, other than the stun gun and the hickeys. Other than that, it just appears to be sex. Statistically, as the assault goes, very non-violent. I’ve seen worse date rapes. We’re guessing that’s why he uses the Roofies on them.”

  “Bizzarro,” Ben replied.

  “Yeah, that’s what I said,” Charlee acknowledged with a knowing tilt of her head.

  “Any patterns we can do somethin’ with?”

  “We’ve run it all. Common acquaintances, ex-husbands and boyfriends, the whole nine yards. What we’ve got is that they’re all blonde, around five-four, five-five, good looking. Ages range from twenty-two to forty-one.”

  “Just City, or County too?”

  “That’s another squirrelly thing.” She frowned. “Not only is he pulling from City and County, but one victim is in Saint Charles, another is across the Mississippi in Godfrey. If that’s not bad enough for ya’, I just got a call from the sheriff’s department out in Jefferson County. They’re faxing us a report, but from what was said when we talked, it looks like they might be hosting victim nine as we speak.”

  “The motherfucker’s all over the map.”

  “Yeah, and these are just the ones we know about,” she said. “You know as well as I do the stats on unreported rapes. Especially where Rohypnol is in the picture.”

  “Yeah,” Ben nodded and frowned. “So Paige Lawson might’ve been an attempted rape gone bad instead of a robbery-assault.”

  “From what I heard it sounds like she fits the profile,” Charlee agreed. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I just got the facts on Lawson an hour or so ago.”

  “Yeah. Not surprised. You’ve had a lot on your plate.”

  I was listening intently to the entire exchange, keeping my mouth shut, and taking in the information. The jumble of puzzle pieces I’d been laboring over earlier was suddenly starting to make sense; for the first time in a very long while I had a feeling that a significant number of them actually belonged to the same picture.

  “It might be a good idea for us ta’ compare notes,” Ben told her.

  “Yeah, although I’m thinking I’ll be helping you more than you’ll be helping me.”

  “Yeah, maybe so, but ya’ owe me one.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I lost twenty bucks on ya’ when you showed up here in a skirt.”

  “You were in on that bet? Serves you right,” she laughed. “Oh yeah, before I forget, there were actually a couple of other things all the victims mentioned, although I don’t think it will help your cause any since it didn’t go very far.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Several of ‘em mentioned having quite a bit of makeup smeared on their faces. Kinda like it had been wiped off, but not very well. And they all remembered bright, flashing lights— I mean like blindingly bright.”

  There’s a funny thing about approaching storms and squall lines. Sometimes you can look out across the vast, empty plain of life and see them coming countless miles before they ever reach you. Then there are other times when there is so much clutter in the way that they are already battering you with gale forces while you are still trying to figure out if the sun just went behind a cloud or if you should seek immediate shelter.

  This particular tempest was on top of me before I even had a chance to look up.

  The calm was definitely over.

  CHAPTER 18

  Dead I am! Dead I am!

  D-E-A-D! Dead I am!

  The painfully familiar chant echoed in the back of my skull as a repressed memory from the night at the morgue revealed itself in halting disharmony. A ghastly feeling of disorientation began spreading outward from my brain in a frantic race to meet the abject panic that was vomiting upward from the pit of my stomach. They arrived simultaneously in the middle of my chest and proceeded to join forces in an attempt to bring my heart to a complete stop.

  I heard myself gasp loudly as I sucked in a breath. Then with no precursor, the memory became an explosion of light that burst directly in front of me. The sight stealing flash was accompanied by a muted pop and then followed by an electronic whine. Everything before me was immediately washed out, leaving me temporarily blinded. As the flare faded, after-images blurrily joined with a grey-toned reality that began repainting itself, only to be bleached out once again by a second bright strobe.

  I started and out of reflex raised my hand as I blinked and turned my head away from the source of the overbearing luminance. It didn’t help. A third and fourth flash followed quickly on the heels of the first two, and it was still as if I was staring directly into them, wide-eyed and oblivious.

  “Hey, Row,” Ben’s concerned voice met my ears. “You okay? What’s wrong?”

  “Debbie Schaeffer,” I muttered, or at least that is what my brain told my vocal cords to do. What came out was an unintelligible burst of syllables as I tried to force the words past a catch in my throat
.

  With the anticipated fifth flash not yet forthcoming, I slowly lowered my hand and directed my squinting gaze toward my friend.

  “What was that?” he questioned again.

  “Debbie Schaeffer,” I offered again, this time my voice winning out.

  I could still see brightly colored spots dancing against a backdrop of rapidly fading after-images, and it was making me a bit queasy. I blinked hard, trying to will them away. Fortunately, the blur was lessening at a quick pace, and this page of reality was starting to come back into focus.

  “What about her?”

  “That’s the connection between her and Paige Lawson,” I explained, suddenly as sure of myself as I’d been in months. “This rapist.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “The lights.”

  “This one of those Twilight Zone things or are ya’ just guessin’, Row?” He was interested but not yet convinced.

  “At the morgue the other night,” I continued. “When I made the connection with Debbie Schaeffer I kept seeing flashing lights.”

  “You didn’t mention anything about flashin’ lights then.”

  “I didn’t remember them until now.”

  “Row…”

  “I’m not just plucking this out of the air, Ben,” I snapped. “You know as well as I do how this works sometimes. Besides, if I’m channeling the memories of someone who was drugged with Rohypnol, then maybe I’m experiencing the effects of the drug as well.”

  “Okay, okay,” he held up a hand to stave me off. “Calm down. I wasn’t tryin’ ta’ say you were makin’ it up. I just wanna be sure we’re not chasin’ down a blind alley.”

  “Sorry,” I apologized.

  “S’alright,” he said. “Now, do ya’ remember anything else besides the flashin’ lights?”

  “Yes,” I nodded vigorously, “a popping noise and a high-pitched whine.”

  “Popping and whining?” Charlee speculated aloud. “Wonder what that could be?”

  “I know exactly what it is,” I answered as I realized I’d heard the sound many times before. Living with a professional photographer, it was hard to avoid. “It’s a photo strobe. He’s taking pictures of them.”

  “There’s a thought.” She nodded as understanding overtook her. “It would certainly explain the bright lights, and it’s not unheard of for a rapist to take an item from the victim. A keepsake that gives him a way to relive the act. That could also explain why he keeps them for a while.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “And the smeared makeup too. He may be dressing them up in some way to tie in with his personal fantasy.”

  “Well,” she volunteered, “I suppose pictures would be as good as anything else, but I don’t think they’re doing it for him anymore. The frequency of the attacks has been increasing.”

  “Whoa, hold on.” Ben was shaking his head. “Back the truck up for a minute you two. I gotta minor problem with this theory.”

  “What’s that?” Charlee asked.

  “Debbie Schaeffer,” he stated. “I’m willin’ ta’ accept Paige Lawson bein’ an intended rape victim. If we apply a little creativity to the coroner’s report, then we can assume that what we have is this asshole jammin’ ‘er with the stun gun. Zap!” He acted out the motion of pulling the trigger. “Then she falls and cracks ‘er head on the corner of the table. Sicko sees the blood, freaks and runs. That works. I’ve got enough on the physical side ta’ back it up, so in my mind, it’ll fit.

  “Now, Debbie Schaeffer, that’s a different story. We’ve got no physical evidence, and the way you’ve played this guy up, he apparently doesn’t want these women harmed. Schaeffer was murdered and dumped in the woods.”

  “Are you certain she was murdered?” I asked.

  He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Well just what the hell would you call it?”

  “Maybe her death was an accident too,” I offered.

  “Yeah, okay, so what if it was?” he offered. “Even if ‘er death wasn’t deliberate—which I’m not convinced it wasn’t by the way—it’s still murder if it occurred durin’ the commission of a felony. So yes, before ya’ say it, that makes Lawson’s death murder as well. But what sets the two apart is the fact that Schaeffer’s body was dumped in the woods. That indicates ta’ me that whoever did it was tryin’ ta’ cover it up. That’s the part that doesn’t seem ta’ fit with this guy’s established pattern of dropping the victims off at home. So I’m not sayin’ Schaeffer ain’t connected. I just don’t wanna jump ta’ conclusions.”

  “Absolutely,” Detective McLaughlin interjected. “But for sake of argument, what if that pattern hadn’t been established yet? What if it is a part of the recent escalation?”

  Ben gave her a thoughtful glance then nodded. “Okay…Okay, that’s possible. It might fit. Keep talkin’. What’s the date on the first case you’ve associated with this guy?”

  “November. The day after Thanksgiving as a matter of fact,” she said.

  “Nothin’ earlier?”

  “Not that’s been reported to us.”

  “Well, Schaeffer went missin’ late October,” he mused aloud. “So your theory could fit.”

  “That puts a month between her disappearance and the first reported rape,” I voiced my observation as I set my mind to the task of filling the blanks—and there were plenty of them, even taking into consideration my latest secular epiphany.

  “Okay,” Ben nodded. “That fills in that hole, but it still doesn’t give us anything concrete. Not to mention we still don’t have a suspect either.”

  “You’re positive Debbie Schaeffer didn’t have any ex-boyfriends?” I asked.

  “None that ‘er parents knew of, why?”

  “Well, this is just me speculating, so take it for what it’s worth.” I confessed the thoughts that had only now started to gel in the front of my brain. “But if everything we’ve discussed here actually pans out, then that would make Debbie Schaeffer the first victim, right?”

  “Still a big if, but yeah… Go on.”

  “Well, what if she’s the impetus for the entire string of rapes?”

  “You mean,” Ben looked at Detective McLaughlin then back to me, “like he’s tryin’ ta’ relive rapin’ her through these other women?”

  “I suppose, but that’s not exactly what I was thinking.” I shook my head. “I was approaching it more along the line that she was the actual object of his desire, and through whatever course of events transpired he accidentally killed her. So by acting out his fantasy with the other women, he is somehow bringing her back to life. In his mind anyway.”

  “Jeez, white man. Now you’re startin’ to sound like my sister.”

  I shrugged. “Then maybe she’s who we really need to be talking to.”

  * * * * *

  “Hello?” Helen Storm’s voice issued from the phone.

  We had regrouped in a conference room to allow for less distraction and more privacy. Ben had begun dialing her number almost as soon as the door was shut.

  “Helen, it’s Ben,” my friend spoke quickly. “You’re on speaker. I’ve got Detective McLaughlin and Rowan with me. You got a minute?”

  “Since you already have me on speaker, I suppose it would be rude of me to say no, would it not?”

  “Gimme a break, Sis.”

  “Oh, I suppose I can let it go this time,” she laughed musically. “What can I do for you, Benjamin?”

  Detective McLaughlin gave me a grin then turned to Ben and mouthed “Benjamin?”

  My friend fired back a wordless glance that said in no uncertain terms, “Don’t even go there.”

  “First off, everything we discuss here is strictly on the QT, right?”

  “Of course. I take it this is work related then?”

  “Yeah, it is. We’ve got a situation we’d like ta’ run past ya’ and get your professional opinion on.”

  “You understand that forensic psychology is not my primary area of expertise, correct?”r />
  “I know, Helen,” Ben said. “We ain’t that far yet. We just wanna see if the theory’ll fly.”

  “Aren’t.”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t, Benjamin. Or, are not. Definitely not ain’t.” She put an extreme emphasis in her tone when she repeated the colloquial contraction.

  “Jeezus, Helen… Not now, okay?”

  “All right, but your grammar is especially atrocious today. At any rate, I will certainly try to do what I can to help.”

  Ben rolled his eyes then proceeded to outline our recent discussion for her, up to and including the theory I had advanced about Debbie Schaeffer. When he finally finished giving her the run down, there was a long pause at the other end.

  “Ya’ still there, Helen?” Ben quizzed the phone.

  “Yes, Benjamin,” she answered. “I’m still here. Do you have any idea how Debbie Schaeffer died?”

  “Nothing conclusive back from the coroner’s office, so no, not yet. Why?”

  “It would certainly help to know if her death was in fact an accident or deliberate. Of course, I am sure you already realize that since this one fact is the lynch pin of your entire theory.”

  “Yeah, we know. We’re just battin’ things around right now,” Ben said.

  “All right then, let us assume that her death was accidental,” she outlined. “Emotional transference is not uncommon, especially if an individual is incapable of retaining a firm grasp on the realities at hand. But one does not necessarily need to be psychotic or possessed of severely diminished faculties for this to occur either. A classic example of this is very simply the proverbial rebound relationship when a couple parts ways.

  “However, as with any emotional upset, the severity can have a direct bearing on the outcome. If the individual directly affected by—or even in part responsible for—the upset is already unbalanced, then this could certainly tip the scales in a dangerous direction.”