by D P Lyle
“You know what I mean. He created this. He wants credit.”
“Then he should come on down to my office and say so. I’ll give him lots of credit.”
Cain smiled. “I didn’t say he wanted to be caught. He just wants to be known.”
“This young lady’s a tiger,” Rankin said. “Rose Sanders a zebra or something. What’s next?”
“Whatever he wants,” Harper said. “But there’s a theme here.”
Cain wanted to believe something else. Not what he knew to be true. Not what the evidence clearly stated. Some guy was transforming women into exotic animals and hunting them. He could find no narrative that said otherwise.
“You have any big game hunters around here?” Cain asked. “Ones that travel to Africa for trophies?”
Rankin’s brow furrowed as he considered that. “Not that I know. I mean, we got hunters of all kinds. I’d say half the folks in town. But other than deer and boar heads I haven’t seen anyone with trophies like lions and tigers or anything like that.”
Cutler stepped closer to the corpse. She lightly touched one leg, examining the tattooing. She turned back to Cain. “You ever heard of anything like this before? Some psycho creating his own prey and then hunting them?”
Cain nodded. “There was a case a few years ago. Kentucky, wasn’t it?” he asked Harper.
“Yeah. His name was Peter something. I forget.” She snapped her fingers. “Peter McCormick. He picked up hitchhikers and then hunted them.”
“Did he do any of this kind of tattooing?” Rankin asked.
“No,” Harper said. “If I remember correctly he went down in a shootout with the police.”
“Good riddance,” Rankin said.
“I guess it means we’re looking for someone who has tattooing and hunting skills,” Cutler said.
“Good bet,” Cain said. “Could be a team but I doubt it. Team killers aren’t that common, and this is personal. This guy sees himself as some kind of god.”
“Creates and destroys?” Cutler asked.
“Exactly,” Harper said. “It’s all about power and control. And his omnipotent narcissism.”
Cutler massaged her neck, twisted her head right and left, as if working out a kink. “I’ve read about those kinds of miscreants but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Few people have,” Harper said.
“You think he’s a local?” Cutler asked. “Someone from around here? Or some drifter?”
“Local,” Cain said. “Both victims were found in your backyard. Means it’s his backyard, too.”
“Yeah, but if this is Cindy Grant, she’s from Nashville,” Cutler said.
“Not that far away,” Cain said.
“We don’t have any tattoo parlors around here,” Rankin said. “There’re a couple over in Lynchburg. I’ll see if they recognize the work. If not, we’ll have to expand the footprint.” He tugged at one ear. “Maybe all the way up to Nashville.”
“I’ll go over and chat with Lucas at the gun shop,” Cutler said. “See if he knows anyone around who likes big game trophy hunting.”
“Hard for me to believe this is the work of anyone around here,” Rankin said. “We know everybody in town, hell, the whole county, and for the life of me I don’t see this being any of them.”
“Serial killers don’t have scarlet letters,” Harper said. “Many seem as normal as you and me. Bundy, Gacy, even Dahmer. Not all look like Manson.”
Rankin shrugged.
“This guy knows the lay of the land,” Cain said. “You can’t just turn someone loose and hunt them anywhere. You have to know where the roads and the farmhouses are. The killer would need to know the victim couldn’t escape. Or reach help.”
“We got so much open land around here the hunting ground could be anywhere,” Cutler said. “I wouldn’t even know which direction to look.”
“That’s what they pay you the big bucks for.” Cain smiled.
Cutler huffed out a breath. “I knew there was a reason I was rolling in the dough.”
The next hour dragged by. They tossed around ideas, potential suspects—of which Cutler had exactly zero, and said so.
“There isn’t a single person around here that would be capable of this,” she said.
“There’s one,” Cain said.
Cutler sighed and shook her head.
Harper said that due to the organized nature of these crimes—the planning, the execution, the patience—the killer wasn’t likely a teenager. At least mid-twenties, could be into his fifties. Those were her thoughts.
Finally the ME’s van with two techs arrived. While they photo’d and examined the body, then with the help of Rankin began to loosen the rope that suspended the girl, Cain called Marv McBride, his FBI contact. Cain had sent him the pics earlier along with a note that he’d call soon. McBride’s initial impression lined up with Cain’s and Harper’s. They had a very bad, very narcissistic, power and control driven dude. And he was nowhere near stopping.
After Cain disconnected the call, he told Cutler of McBride’s initial thoughts. Cutler wasn’t thrilled.
“Why the hell’d he have to choose my domain?” she asked.
“He had to choose somewhere,” Cain said. Cutler frowned. “And, like I said, the odds are this is his domain, too.”
“Great. Just fucking great.”
“The tarps were a good idea,” Cain said. “I suspect you want to keep this under wraps. No details.”
“You got that right. Last thing we need is a media circus to break out.”
“Not to mention all the cranks that’ll come out from under the rocks,” Harper said.
Cutler sighed. “I don’t even want to think about that.”
“Unfortunately, it’s coming,” Harper said. “Something like this can’t be kept under wraps for very long.”
Cutler seemed to consider that. “We’ll do our best to keep the details out of the official reports.” She shook her head. “For a while, anyway.”
“What the hell’s going on in there?”
Cutler spun. “Mother, don’t come in here.”
“What you got in there?”
Cutler pushed through the gap in the tarps. Cain and Harper followed. Jean craned her neck, trying to see past them.
“Mother, go away.”
“That’s no way to talk to your mother.” Jean looked at Cain. “I raised her with better manners but she don’t seem to follow them all the time.”
Cain smiled. Cutler didn’t.
“This is a crime scene,” Cutler said. “You can’t be here.”
“Sure I can. It’s free country.” Jean tried to move past her, but Cutler grabbed her arm.
“If you don’t leave, I’ll arrest you.”
“Arrest your mother?”
“No, someone who’s trying to contaminate a crime scene.”
Jean’s jaw tightened. “If that don’t beat all.”
Cutler directed Jean several steps into the lot. “Go home.”
“When you tell me what’s going on. Not before.”
“I swear to God I’ll lock you up if you don’t leave.”
Jean glared at her but spun on her heels and marched to her car, muttering, shaking her head. They watched as she drove away, launching another withering glare at her daughter.
“She’ll be the death of me,” Cutler said. “Unless I kill her first.”
“She is a trip,” Harper said.
“No. She’s a circus of one.”
Cutler’s cell rang. She answered, walked away with the phone to her ear.
Cain helped the techs and Rankin cover the body and load her into the rear of the van. They secured the door, climbed in, and drove away.
“This’s going to get uglier, isn’t it?” Rankin asked.
“You can bet on it,” Cain said.
Cutler walked up. “That was the Nashville PD. The prints match Cindy Grant.”
CHAPTER 26
“What the hell were you thinking?”
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Cindy’s captor shrugged. He sat at the table on his patio, across from his fellow hunters. The pair stone-faced. He took a sip of lemonade.
“You hung her up at the Post Office, for Christ’s sake.”
“Isn’t that the purpose of trophy hunting? Display your conquests?”
“You cut her fucking head off.”
“A personal trophy.”
They stared at him, speechless.
The captor continued, “If memory serves, both of you have a few trophy heads on your walls.”
“Not this.”
“Game is game.”
“Are you trying to get us caught?”
The captor shook his head. “Never happen.”
“Do you even know who she was?”
“Sure. Some working girl. Cindy something.”
“Cindy Grant.”
“Okay,” the captor said. “Cindy Grant. Big deal.”
“It is a big deal. A very big deal.”
“Don’t see how.”
One of the men leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You know who General William Kessler is?”
“Sure. Why?”
“She was his granddaughter.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know people. Down at the PD.”
The captor hesitated, digesting that. “Okay, so what? No way she can be traced back to us.”
“That’s pretty arrogant thinking.”
“Did you enjoy last night? Wasn’t it the ultimate thrill?”
The two men stared at him.
“The perfect prey. Not some dumb animal. A human. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Sure. It was great. But, I don’t know that this kind of boasting will turn out well.”
“It’ll be fine.” Another sip of lemonade.
“I don’t like it. Why didn’t you bury her like you did the other one?”
“The first one,” the captor said, “the school teacher, wasn’t complete. Not worthy of being displayed. Or even to hunt.” He smiled. “Not like this one.”
The two men exchanged a glance.
“Besides, she escaped. Changed everything. Won’t happen again. Those mistakes have been corrected.”
One of the men took a long, slow breath. “It’s the mistakes that worry me. The unpredictable.” Another breath. “I can’t believe you’re so calm about this.”
“There’s no need for concern here.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am.” More lemonade. “In fact, the next one has already been selected. Same source. Completely anonymous. No connection to any of us.”
The taller man rubbed his neck. “I don’t know about this.”
“If you want out, that’s fine.” The captor smiled. “But I don’t think you do. Either of you. I saw it in your eyes last night. The thrill of the hunt.” He waved a hand. “Not to mention the thirty grand.”
Silence ruled.
“If either of you want to walk away, it’ll be okay. You have a good week or so to decide. It’ll take that long to get the next one in hand and prepared.”
CHAPTER 27
The Kesslers were broken. In a profound way that few could imagine and even fewer had ever experienced. Deep fractures that would never completely mend. Parents were not meant to outlive their children, much less their grandchildren. For the Kesslers, their only grandchild.
A thick layer of guilt clung to Cain. Guilt from being the one to deliver the blow. Messengers might not be responsible for the news, but they do bring the pain.
It had started with a phone call. Cain’s first thought had been to simply show up at the Kesslers’ home. Deliver the anguish cold. Like ripping off a bandage. But a two hour drive lay before he and Harper and he needed to be sure it wasn’t a wasted trip.
He and Harper had business in Nashville. Cain had Adam Parker in his crosshairs and was anxious to get the hook in him. That he was involved in this was a given. Cain could see no scenario that didn’t include Parker. Carlos Campos, too. They had roped Cindy into the business and had set up the date. Cindy’s last. Whoever they handed her off to was the one Cain wanted. And the path to that person ran straight through Parker and Campos.
So as they pulled away, leaving Cutler to handle her end of the investigation, Cain called. It went like this:
General Kessler: “I take it you have news.”
Cain: “I do.”
Kessler: “From your tone I assume it’s not good.”
Cain: “It isn’t.”
Kessler: “Tell me.”
Cain: “When I get there.”
Kessler: “That bad?”
Cain, after hesitating to consider how to say it, deciding that clear and succinct would be best: “As bad as it can get.”
Kessler: His jaw tightened. “I’ll prepare Miriam.”
And who will prepare you? Cain thought.
Now, he and Harper sat in General Kessler’s study facing him over his desk. The room with the soaring windows and breathtaking views. No one was admiring that. Not now. Maybe never again.
Miriam stood behind her husband as Kessler stared at his large iMac, eyes drowning, cheeks slick with tears. Neither had moved, or said a word, for several minutes. After Cain laid out the scene, and after Kessler demanded to “see for myself,” Cain emailed him the photos of Cindy. Kessler had opened them on the screen. Twice he raised a shaky hand and gently touched the image. Sobs racked Miriam as she clutched his shoulders with white fingers.
“Give me the details,” he finally said.
Miriam took a ragged breath and then retreated to the sofa to Cain’s right. She sat down heavily, her torso doubled in pain, gaze directed at her feet.
Cain rattled off what he knew. Or at least suspected. Two gunshots to the back. One just left of the spine, probably to the left lung, maybe the heart, the other along the right lower rib margin. No exit wounds so ballistics was in play. Feet torn and gouged—like the school teacher. The beheading seemed to have been post-mortem. Cain didn’t know that for sure but felt the need to cast some sort of lifeline.
“Was the other girl treated similarly?” Kessler asked.
“We don’t know,” Harper said. “They only found partial remains.”
“But the two are connected,” Kessler said. A statement, not a question. “The tattooing, the damage to the feet. Both over near Moss Landing.”
“That’s likely,” Harper said.
Kessler glanced at Miriam, then toward Cain. “They were hunted.” Again. Not a question.
“I believe so,” Cain said.
“Who would do that?” Miriam asked. “What type of sick person would do that?”
“A sociopath,” Cain said. “One who split from humanity along the way.” He looked at Miriam. “That’s my take, anyway.” He now turned to Kessler. “I reached out to a friend. An FBI behavioral analyst. Sent along the photos. He agrees.”
Miriam squared her shoulders and stood. She walked to her husband and gave him a kiss on the top of his head. “I’ll leave you to talk.” As she walked by Cain, she squeezed his shoulder. “Do what you do.” Her grip tightened. “With extreme prejudice.” Then she was gone.
Extreme prejudice. Talk about a loaded term. Means different things to different people. Miriam was a soldier’s wife. To her, only the military definition mattered.
Harper stood. She gave Cain a knowing look. “I’ll go check on her.” She left.
Cain knew what was coming. Knew Miriam and Harper left the room so there would be no witnesses to the words. Only he and General Kessler would ever know what was said. At least first-hand.
Kessler’s fingers touched the screen one last time before he closed the image. He wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands, adopted an erect posture, his face stone. Then he spoke. “You know what I’m going to say.”
Cain nodded.
“You remember Afghanistan? Juarez?”
Another nod.
“Whatever it takes. As
long as it takes.” Kessler stood, leaned forward, elbows locked, hands flattened against the desk top. His ice-blue eyes hardened. “Cindy was tormented, tortured, and murdered. Apparently in the most heinous manner.” He took a deep, ragged breath, releasing it slowly. “I want the same visited on whoever was responsible.” His chin came up. “With the most extreme prejudice.”
Sir, yes sir.
The mission parameters were now set.
#
Harper studied Bobby. They were winding their way along the back roads toward Nashville. She twisted slightly in her seat to face him. His hands gripped the steering wheel, not exactly white-knuckled, but firm. His gaze, focused yet unfocused, on the roadway. Silence settled in for a good twenty minutes.
Growing up together, sharing the same bed or tent or sleeping bag under the stars, Bobby had been a happy, carefree child. Whether throwing knives or breaking into homes or helping her run a scam, he had always done so with a sense of fun, play. Nothing mean spirited. A game to him.
The military changed him. From what she had learned about his career, he had completed his missions efficiently. Coldly. Doing the jobs few were willing or able to do. Afghanistan, Iraq, Beirut, wherever he was needed. But those paled when compared to Juarez. His military ops had been sanctioned, for God and country. Juarez had been personal. Deeply so. And it changed him profoundly.
How many nights had she heard him roaming their condo, unable to sleep? How many times had she found him standing at one of the massive windows, staring out toward the dark river? They rarely talked about such things. There was no need to do so. Each understood.
“Where are you?” Harper finally asked.
“You know.”
“Afghanistan?”
Cain shrugged, glanced her way. “Don’t forget about Juarez.”
CHAPTER 28
Bobby Cain, Age 27
After his SERE’s training stunt, after his AWOL charges were imposed and then miraculously rescinded, Cain found himself in the DC area. The Pentagon, CIA headquarters, various NSA facilities. He was poked and prodded and put through an endless series of medical tests, including evaluations by three different military psychiatrists. Apparently he passed, since after a few months, he landed at Fort Benning, Georgia. Ranger School. For the next year he trained. It was hard, grueling, even dangerous, but he thrived.
