by Stacy Green
“Isn’t this case pressing enough to rush?” Beckett sounded impatient for the first time.
Temple leveled another heated glare at him. “To you and to this family, of course. But what about those other families who are desperately waiting for results? Who am I to tell them this case is more important than their loved ones?”
“Because this is the type of violent crime that sparks more killing,” Beckett fired back. “Rushing the results would be a preventive measure.”
Temple shrugged. “I’ll put in a request.” She jerked her mask-covered face at Erin. “I’ll put her name as requesting investigator. It might make the lab move faster.”
“Go ahead.” Most of the time, the Prince name was a hindrance. But every once in a while, it served a noble purpose.
Beckett leaned toward her. “Remember, Mary Kelly was pregnant.”
His low whisper sent fresh fear over Erin.
They watched the rest of the autopsy in silence, the results mostly unsurprising. Temple confirmed the throat wound as the ultimate cause of death and believed the entire assault lasted less than thirty minutes.
Temple seemed to be in better humor once the procedure ended. “I’ll tell the lab to rush the fetal DNA if at all possible. If we tell them it could help us stop a spree killing, they might be more inclined to listen.”
“Thanks.” Beckett left the suite.
Erin followed, desperate to shed her protective gear. She yanked it off and threw it into the bin marked toxic waste. “But Mary Kelly was the last Ripper victim.” Erin addressed his earlier comment. “If this person’s a fan of Jack’s, he’s picking and choosing.”
Beckett folded his suit up before throwing it away. “Since Merritt works for your father, we shouldn’t have any problem getting in to see him, right? If he knew about Bonnie’s pregnancy and cared about his reputation as much as you think, he’s got motive.”
Erin scrubbed her hands with the antiseptic soap. “Definitely. I want to ask him about the girl too.”
“We need to prioritize, so while we’re waiting for Sergeant Clark to get the warrant, I think we should start contacting the BDSM clubs. We might get a lead on the child there too.”
She hated to admit he was right. “It’s barely eleven a.m. I doubt many will be open.”
“Then we make phone calls. Email Bonnie’s picture to them. Describe her, whatever it takes.” Beckett held the door open, and they walked into the bright fall morning.
With the sun bright overhead and reflecting off the buildings, Erin’s eyes watered. She fished for her sunglasses and noticed the message light blinking on her cell.
“Daniel’s owner texted me back,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Modern technology eroding the human experience. But we’ve got Will Merritt in a lie. Bonnie never worked there.”
“She lied to her parents too,” Beckett reminded her. “So he might have been protecting her.”
“Why not help us find her killer?”
“That I don’t have the answer to.” Beckett donned his coat. “So let’s find some BDSM and then go talk to Merritt again. You drive. Traffic here is worse than Philadelphia.”
“Blame the tourists,” Erin said.
* * *
Only four of the ten known BDSM clubs answered their phones. Erin dutifully emailed the cell phone picture she’d taken from the printed one Carmen gave her, asking whether the owners knew Bonnie. None recognized her, but all of them promised to pass the picture around.
Erin ended a call. “The guy from The Black Rose claims ninety-nine percent of the BDSM porn on the major sites is fake. Put out by studios trying to cash in on its popularity.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Beckett said. “He give you anything else?”
“He thinks she probably did pay-per-view, like I mentioned last night. Which means we need to go deep into the web to find her, and it’s still a long shot. But get this,” she turned to face Beckett reclining in her passenger seat. “He ran through a list of the standard BDSM equipment. We didn’t see half of it in Bonnie’s attic.”
“Maybe she couldn’t afford it,” Beckett said.
“But it’s the stuff people who watch that sort of porn expect to see. It’s what they’re paying for.”
Beckett rubbed his temples. “Marie went through the entire house. We’ve got a list of everything she found.” He opened his little notebook and started flipping through. “Handcuffs, rope, a whip, the nipple clamps. Condoms. The knife and gun.”
“But no gag? No restraint? Any other BDSM stuff? Or a harness? Or a cock ring? What about any of the really painful stuff like spreaders?” Erin still shuddered at the idea.
“No,” Beckett said. “Something’s been bugging me about the attic scene. Maybe that’s it. I assumed BDSM when I saw the items, but I could be wrong. Maybe she just filmed rough sex. Most people do what’s familiar to them.” He rubbed his temples. “I’m not making sense.”
Erin’s heart palpitated, a fine sheen of sweat misting over her lower lip. She turned the heat off and the air conditioner on full blast. “You’re making perfect sense.”
“What?” Beckett asked.
“You said most people do what’s familiar.” Erin’s throat tasted like she’d inhaled a pound of sawdust. “Bonnie Archer was a victim of sexual assault. She kicked the drug habit, but we don’t know whether she really made peace—if there is such a thing—with her attack. Rape porn is one of the web’s dirty treasures. What if that’s the kind of porn Bonnie filmed? Her healing bruises make a lot more sense.”
Dizziness swarmed over her. She didn’t want to search through the dark web looking at rape porn. Even if it was fake.
Beckett considered this. “You could be right. I’m no profiler, but the BDSM culture isn’t about control or pain in the sense they want to hurt the other person. People enjoy the pain. And the goal isn’t to humiliate or degrade. But rape porn?”
Erin’s stomach lurched at the words. Get a grip, Prince. Be cold and analytical.
His thin upper lip disappeared into his mustache. “I’ve seen some, and it gets obscene. You’re talking an entirely different type of participant.”
“Who might lose his shit if he found out he’d gotten Bonnie pregnant?”
“We need to talk to the Archers again. Find out if Bonnie sought any kind of therapy,” Beckett said. “If she believed she wasn’t good enough, she might have been talked into filming by someone she thought was better than her. Someone who promised to give her a cut and help her get out of her current situation. Someone who had everything she wanted in life.”
Erin put the car into gear. “Someone like Will Merritt. Let’s head back to the CID and see whether Clark’s got the warrant.”
Erin kicked her chair, sending it rolling across the squad room floor and straight into Sergeant Clark’s bad knee.
“Goddamn, Prince! Watch it!”
Heat crept through her.
Fowler, who’d been immersed in paperwork, snickered. His riding partner Max Ramirez, a barrel-shaped firecracker of a man, burst out laughing. Ramirez ducked behind his files at Erin’s glare.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t get that little girl’s voice out of my head. She reached out to me, and there’s nothing I can do. This sick bastard must have put her up to it. She’s in danger.”
“I’d like to know how she knew to call you Princess,” Beckett said. “It’s not that original of a nickname, but it’s not known outside of work, right?”
“It’s strictly a Metro P.D. thing,” Erin said. “I can’t stand it. But it’s stuck with me since I was on patrol.”
“So how’d the little girl know your nickname and personal cell number?”
“Probably from the shitstain uniform who talked to Channel 4,” Clark said. “So far the media has only the basics, but an “unnamed source” is quoted as saying the Metro’s Princess is taking the lead. My guess is Beckett’s right, and the same asshole told the little girl about Buck’s Row. As
for the cell, you’re talking about cops with connections. Even if it’s unlisted, it’s not that hard for a cop to dig and find it. It’s all a prank to get under your skin.”
“Channel 4 referred to me as Princess?”
Fowler let a chuckle escape.
Erin wasn’t sure whether crawling under a rock or beating the reporter’s ass sounded like the better option.
Clark scowled. “We’ve got bigger issues. Have you heard back from Sarah Archer yet? If Merritt’s telling the truth and she and Bonnie were close, we’ve got to assume Sarah may be at risk.”
Erin already had Sarah on her list of people to worry about, for more reasons than one. “We’ve got two different stories on the cousins reconnecting. Sarah’s lack of response might just mean Will Merritt’s a liar. I left another message on the way here. Fowler, did you find out that information for me?”
Fowler stopped digging through the teetering mound of scattered notes on his desk. “Neil Archer works for one of the big insurance companies. Carmen’s a teacher. Quiet lives, private people, according to their employers. Other than speeding tickets, both are clean.”
As Erin expected, but she had to cross her t’s and dot her i’s. “And Neil’s brother?”
“You know how hard it was to find the guy’s name?” Fowler asked. “I had to go into the public records and search for birth records. Computers make it easier, but it still sucked. Screens give me a headache.”
She made a rolling motion with her hand, signaling for him to get to the point.
“Simon Archer. He also happens to be the executive counsel for the Republican Governors Association.”
Erin threw up her hands and sank onto her desk. “Well, isn’t that wonderful? Neil Archer will never tell us what the family fought over.”
“Fill me in?” Beckett asked. “What’s the Republican Governors Association?”
“It’s a national organization,” Clark said. “They work to elect Republican governors and help secure resources. Democrats have the same thing.”
“Translation,” Erin said. “They raise a fuck-ton of money in an effort to elect a Republican governor. And they put a lot into the presidential campaigns. Their legal counsel is probably the mother of all watchdogs. Fowler, you get an address?”
“Yeah. Chevy Chase. Richie-ville, second only to your neck of the woods.” He smirked at her.
“I don’t live in McLean,” she snapped, not in the mood. “I only grew up there.” She pushed off the desk, back aching from the awkward position. “No wonder Sarah isn’t calling back. She probably has to clear it all with her father first. We’ll visit her parents first thing in the morning if we don’t hear from Sarah.”
“I bet that’ll go over well,” Beckett said dryly. He made a face at his Styrofoam cup of thick coffee. “Sergeant, did you get the warrants?”
Clark sank into Erin’s chair, rubbing his knee.
She’d have to buy him a decent cup of coffee as an apology.
Clark handed her a wad of paperwork. “The warrants for Merritt’s DNA and Baker-Allen’s security footage. I already sent a uniform to the drug clinic with the warrant. Her phone company emailed the last three months’ records. They’re in that pile too. Pretty regular stuff. Calls to her parents, Merritt, her cousin. Her school. So far, looks like she lived as privately as everyone says. But,” he pointed a long finger, “she’s also got several incoming and outgoing calls to the same unknown number. Another drop phone, of course. Tech guys say they can’t trace anything.”
Erin’s adrenaline rush watered down to a pathetic stream. “So we serve the warrant and get the DNA. Then what?” If Erin’s next scene involved the body of a child destroyed like Bonnie Archer, how could she keep working? The kid’s death would be on her hands.
“Merritt lied about meeting Bonnie at Daniel’s,” Beckett reminded him. “After the autopsy, we head to Baker-Allen and hit Merritt with that and the pregnancy. If he’s innocent—and I think he is—he’ll talk. He’s hiding something.”
“Go to the Adult Learning Center after you finish at Baker-Allen,” Clark said. “Ferret out the administrator, teachers—anyone who knew her at all.”
Erin compartmentalized the tasks, regrouping. “What about ViCAP? Did you get a hit?” The FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program compiled information about major violent crimes across the country and was a useful tool in connecting similar crimes. But countless offenders still operated under the program’s radar.
“Nothing that matched,” Clark said. “Which is good, I guess. Nice to know there isn’t someone else in another part of the country doing this shit.”
“I’d rather he’d gone somewhere else.” Erin checked to see her gun was loaded and slipped it into the holster on her hip. She checked her Taser, making sure it had a full charge and could be easily accessed from the outside pocket of her bag.
The freak had her phone number. Could he get her address?
“How secure is your house?” Clark read her mind. “I still think we’re dealing with a prank, but you need to stay alert just in case.”
“My father had a security system installed. It’s military grade. A housewarming gift. I’m not on social media. But people can still find someone if they want to badly enough.”
“Always be suspicious,” Fowler said. “What about Abby?”
Erin’s heart lurched at hearing her daughter’s name, but she refused to consider the implication. “Brad is going to call her school and make it clear she’s to be watched at all times and a teacher has to hand her off to one of us and no one else.”
“Good,” Clark said. “You guys see anything that makes you nervous or you get another call, I’ll put a uniform on the house.”
“Thank you.” Erin put the warrant into her purse and motioned to Beckett. “Okay, Lurch. Let’s go talk to Will Merritt. See whether he knows any kids.”
“Merritt doesn’t strike me as the type to involve a kid. Or to play mind games,” Beckett said as Erin drove into McLean. “It’s calculating. Devious. He looked wrecked. And why Lurch? I’m not freakishly tall.”
“I’m five-five on a good day,” Erin said. “To me, you’re Lurch. And Merritt could be acting. Trying to throw us off.”
Beckett considered it. “Maybe. The killer probably wore gloves. But if Merritt’s involved in the porn, his prints should be in the attic.”
“Motive,” Erin said. “Along with Bonnie being pregnant. Merritt said himself he’s not attached.” The idea sounded better the more she thought about it. “Maybe she did tell him, and that was the final straw. He has a kid call me to fuck with me because I pissed him off and to send his own special little message.” But another idea latched into her tired brain. “Then again, if some woman found out her man got Bonnie pregnant while he filmed with her, she might snap.”
“And she’s trying to tell us that by the Jane the Ripper passage?”
Erin shrugged. “Maybe a part of her wants credit for her work.”
“There’s no indication the killer knew about Bonnie’s pregnancy,” Beckett said. “Her uterus wasn’t destroyed like Mary Kelly’s. It may be a coincidence. Or a motive for murder. It’s too soon to tell. And the kind of killer you’re talking about is usually disorganized. There aren’t usually signed notes left for the cops. None of this adds up, including the idea the killer is a woman obsessed with Jack being female.”
“It doesn’t have to add up for someone to become obsessed with it.” Erin kept hearing the little girl’s voice and interposing Abby’s face into the nightmare.
Beckett sighed and stretched his long legs. “But nothing about this case makes sense.”
“Murder is supposed to make sense?”
“No, but there are certain types of killers and certain types of kills. At first, I thought Bonnie’s was about rage. Passion. Overkill.”
“So?” She turned onto Prince Drive and hoped he didn’t notice the namesake.
“So that kind of killer doesn’t
usually taunt. He either feels remorse or justifies it and goes on. He doesn’t settle in for the long haul.”
Erin parked at the back of the enormous parking lot, unwilling to use the company spot she had clearance for.
“This guy doesn’t make sense. He’s not the remorseful or justified type of killer. And that scares the hell out of me.”
Erin ignored the rash of chills on her arms as they exited the car. She zipped up her coat—a black puffer style much less gaudy than the expensive Burberry from the night before—and they started the long walk across Baker-Allen’s parking lot.
Clouds muted the sun completely, making the sky match the pavement and Erin’s mood.
Baker-Allen’s main office looked like something from the future, all sharp angles and glass. It also boasted adjacent buildings which held various testing areas as well as a fitness center and daycare. Her father was nothing if not cutting edge.
“How many locations are across the country?”
Erin gripped the signed warrant like a talisman. “Just this one. But they have offices in a dozen other countries.”
“Do you and your father get along?”
The question took her by surprise, and she nearly tripped over her feet. “Yes. Why would you think we didn’t?”
“He’s obviously a powerful guy with a multimillion-dollar company. Instead of the family business, you’re a cop. Don’t get me wrong—I admire that. But since you didn’t follow in his footsteps ...”
“Billion-dollar company.” Erin didn’t add the Washington Business Journal had recently named her father as one of the most influential people in the District. “I had no interest. My father and I are fine. He’s a bit old-school, but he’s supported me.”
He’d probably find out all about her half-sister before the day ended. Lisa knew everything that went on at Baker-Allen, and Erin had little chance of escaping without having to deal with her.
They walked into the Baker-Allen lobby. Everything about the space represented sleek, controlled technology. Too much steel and digital contraptions for Erin’s taste. Some sort of sophisticated light display glowed on the wall instead of simple paint.
