by J. R. Rain
Our desk phones both beep at the same time.
“Wimsey, Santiago, need you in here,” says Captain Greer over the intercom.
I know the tone. Fortunately, I’m probably not about to get yelled at for visiting Waters. Unfortunately, someone’s probably dead. And since Rick and I are both being called in, it could only mean…
“This killer is really pissing me off,” mutters Rick.
“Yeah.”
We cross the room past a sea of grim looks. Once inside Janet Greer’s office, I shut the door.
“Another victim?” asks Rick.
Greer nods. “I’m afraid so. The description I got from patrol seems like your guy’s MO. Check it out. It’s yours if you think it’s the same guy. If not, let me know and I’ll throw it to Gonzalez and Washington. Of course, if it is your guy, then you know what that means.”
I nod, sighing. “We have a serial killer in Olympia.”
“Bingo. But let’s not panic just yet. Let me have a look at your report from this crime scene and then we’ll worry about getting the media liaison involved.”
Dammit! I grumble in my head, mentally kicking myself because we couldn’t find this guy.
Rick takes the scrap of paper with the address from her. “Copy that, Cap.”
We nod, and hurry out the door.
“We’re gonna nail this bastard,” says Rick, fast-walking past the water cooler. Papers lift up and fly from Mike Washington’s desk in my partner’s wake.
“Hey!” he yells.
“Sorry,” mutters Rick.
Once out in the hall, I shake my head. “We should’ve stopped this.”
“Hey, now. None of that. We’re doing everything humanly possible.”
We rush down the corridor to the garage, neither of us talking until we get to our car.
“Yeah…” I open the door. “But I’m not doing everything, umm, inhumanly possible.”
He hops in and starts the engine. “I won’t say no to a bit of help from powers beyond my mortal understanding.”
I can’t tell if he’s serious or teasing me. Either way, I lack the urge to reply, and get in. Eyes closed, I lean my head back in the seat and ask the Goddess for help.
***
A swarm of patrol cars floods the street in front of a single-family home just north of Watershed Park. A small crowd of curious neighbors gathers at the corner, drawn by the array of flashing lights. The place appears well-maintained, and my eyes go straight to a scattering of toys on the front lawn, including a small pink bicycle with white tires.
“Oh, no,” I whisper, closing my eyes and thinking, Please don’t let it be a kid.
My heart wriggles up into my throat as we get out of the sedan and wade into the sea of red and purple glimmers. None of the patrol officers in sight look severely distraught, so I cling to a little hope.
“What’ve we got?” asks Rick to a patrol sergeant named Catelli, according to his shirt.
“Victim’s name is Angela Cortez, thirty-six. Married with a daughter, but there’s no sign of the husband or the child in the house or nearby. His vehicle is also missing. Looks like signs of forced entry downstairs. Could be the husband faking it to look like a break in, but it might be legit.”
Rick and I jot down a couple notes.
“Thanks,” says Rick.
“Any luck with the usual canvassing?” I ask.
Catelli, an older man with bits of grey in the black over his ears, shakes his head. “Not yet. My guys are still checking on it, but nobody saw or heard anything.”
“All right.” I thank him and head for the front door.
Two days of mail have accumulated in the box, yesterday and today.
“Sergeant Catelli?” I ask, turning back toward him.
He jogs over. “What’s up?”
“Who called this in? How’d you guys know to come here?”
He cringes. “Next-door neighbor. Kids were playing in the backyard, ball went over the fence… One of the boys must’ve seen the victim. Poor kid.”
“Oof,” says Rick.
“Yeah.” Sergeant Catelli shakes his head. “That’s gonna be a few grand in therapist charges.”
“How old’s the kid who found the body?” I ask.
Catelli scratches at his head. “Uhh, twelve-ish I think? Around that.”
I point at the house to the right of this one. “There?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“We’ll talk to them in a bit,” says Rick, while snapping on the usual blue gloves.
He pats the doorjamb twice and steps in. “Let’s do this.”
I follow into a neatly kept place. Fairly standard middle-class suburbia. Pictures on the wall and on a decorative table mostly depict a young girl at varying ages, eight or nine at the oldest. A few show her parents. In their wedding photo, they resemble high school kids. The frame’s got an engraved plaque: Eternal Love - June 10, 2001. Hmm. Married in their late teens. Guess I’m slow to the marriage party.
“Married in oh-one,” says Rick. “Kid looks maybe eight… guess they wanted to enjoy married life for a while before they said goodbye to a full night’s sleep.”
“Huh?” I ask.
“Baby. If you ever go there, you’ll forget what it felt like to sleep.”
Aww, crap. I’ve been so wound up over the case and the shadow that I still haven’t called home to tell my parents I’m engaged. Ugh. Not that I dread doing that, but I’m going to hear it for not telling them immediately.
We make our way deeper into the house, exchanging nods of greeting with a few patrol officers. One points us to a stairway leading down. The house is on a bit of a hill, with its finished basement patio door opening out to the backyard, lower than the front.
Brown shag carpet covers the stairs that bring us to a landing. Straight in front is a closet with louvered sliding doors. Within seconds of my foot touching the rug at the bottom, a strong bleach smell assails my nostrils. That’s not a good sign. The killer must’ve thought he had plenty of time to clean up afterward.
An entertainment room on the right faces a mostly open space on the left decorated in wood-paneled walls. That room holds a bunch of workout equipment: a treadmill, free weights, stationary bike, and a weightlifting bench in the corner near a glass patio door. A patrol officer stands watch right outside the glass with his back to us.
Angela Cortez is draped on the weightlifting bench in a tank top and loose pajama pants stained with urine in the crotch. She’s petite, tan, and blonde, clearly dyed as her brows are still dark brown. Her arms extend out to both sides, wrists bound with heavy-duty zip ties to a barbell she couldn’t possibly move. I doubt Rick and I together could even lift it, given all the weights on it.
More cable ties hold her ankles to the bench frame, dried blood caked around where the plastic gouged her skin. Careful not to step on anything that looks like a discoloration in the brown carpet, I approach and pull the mini Maglite off my belt.
I hold the flashlight in my teeth and fish out a pair of blue gloves while he prods the victim’s bicep.
“Rigor’s set in. She’s been here a little while.”
Once I’ve got my gloves on, I nod, take the flashlight from my teeth, and spot it on her face. Strange burns cover her mouth and nose area, and it appears her septum has partially disintegrated. I brush some of her blonde hair away from the side of her neck, checking for incisions, but find nothing except some finger bruising.
Cuts and bruises ring both wrists as well. Picturing this smallish woman struggling to move what’s got to be a 500-pound barbell sends a shiver down my spine. No, actually, picturing myself in her position is what makes me shiver.
“One sick freak,” mutters Rick.
I crouch next to her, holding my breath since she’s starting to get fragrant and the pee isn’t helping that. A thorough look over her body turns up no obvious cause of death. Except for the damage the cable ties did, the only marks on her appear confined to the area
around her mouth and nose.
“Killer must’ve forced her to drink something,” I say.
“Maybe.” Rick leans closer to her face. “Ugh. The bleach smell’s coming from her.”
Horrified, I edge in for a sniff, and, sure enough, my eyes water at the caustic fumes.
“Force-fed her bleach,” says Rick. “That’s a new one.”
“Serial killers sometimes evolve. Maybe he’s new at it and he’s not yet found the routine that ‘does it’ for him yet.”
“Fuck this guy,” mutters Rick.
“Don’t think the husband did this?” I ask.
“Not really. Do you?”
I look over the body again, shaking my head. “No. There’s something impersonal about this. Husband would’ve used a knife or a gun, or just beat her to death… and he wouldn’t have staged her like this to be found.”
Rick chuckles. “Unless this guy is the serial killer. Maybe the wife caught him with evidence or something?”
“I doubt it, but I suppose we should keep an open mind.”
We move around the basement, photographing everything. I let Rick focus on the body close-ups this time.
“Wonder where the husband and daughter are,” I say while taking pictures of the patio door mechanism. Someone clearly crowbarred it open from the outside.
“Good question,” says Rick, his camera clicking over and over again.
When I slide the door open and step out to get some shots of the exterior, the officer clears his throat. I look up at him.
“Afternoon, detective. We didn’t spot anything out here in the yard, ’cept that broken door. Sarge said some boy found her like that. Poor kid.”
“Yeah…” I snap a couple close-ups of the latch, zooming in on the damage. To me, it looks like a genuine break-in, not a murderous husband setting up a bullshit story. “Any idea where the husband and daughter are?”
He shakes his head. “None of the nearby residents knew.”
Hmm. I take two steps back on the concrete patio, snap a couple more shots of the door, and get a few of the yard. Wonder if the patrol guys simply missed something significant.
My hair flops over my eyes.
Or not. Guess the yard’s a dead end. I pull my hair back off my face, and sigh.
“You know, they have these things called hair clips,” says the cop.
“I know. She’s on a diet. Eats too many of them.”
He tilts his head, grinning.
I step back inside, looking around while Rick makes his way past the stairs into the entertainment room with a giant TV and couch. The instant I look again at Angela Cortez, a sudden sense of darkness engulfs me. I brace for the shadow entity to spring out at me, but the eerie mood passes as abruptly as it started. Damn. I’m too distracted by that thing Elise brought over. That had nothing to do with this. No, I’m feeling the horror of what happened here. We did everything we could, but didn’t stop this man before he killed her. Guilt’s a heavy bitch to carry on my back, but it’s hitching a ride whether I want it to or not.
Even Captain Greer would say we couldn’t have done anything more than we did, but she’s not quite right. There is more I can do.
I approach Angela’s body, rest my gloved hand on her shoulder, and close my eyes. In my mind’s eye, I see a circle forming around us. Blazing dots trace a pentacle out of spiritual energy. Elemental runes flare up at the points in my imagination.
“Ceridwen, I call to thee.
“Beckon sight of prophecy.
“Deeds upon such wicked night
“To me, reveal, and make right.”
Desire to let my thoughts float up and away, surrendered to Ceridwen’s touch, leaves me floating in a void of darkness for a few seconds. Metal rattling and muffled screaming echo from far away. I picture Angela straining to escape the bench, trying to scream, but something covers her face. The sound stops. Total silence surrounds me. A flash of silver light. Someone’s following me. The glint becomes a car’s side mirror. Headlights make me squint and flinch away. A blast of ammonia goes up my nose. I can’t breathe. I try to grab my throat, but my arms won’t move. I know I’m going to die.
Arms close around me from behind, startling me into a scream.
“Mads?” asks Rick, his mouth beside my ear. “You okay?”
“Huh? What?” I stop freaking out once I realize it’s Rick who’s grabbed me. “Yeah, fine.”
“You started wheezing and gagging.” He lets go and spins me around to face him. “Sounded like you needed the Heimlich.”
“Umm.” I rub my throat, coughing on the overwhelming power of ammonia up my nose. “Do you smell ammonia?”
He shakes his head.
“Ugh.” I cough, and almost spit on the rug, but manage to resist. “I can taste it.”
“You shouldn’t lick random objects at crime scenes.”
“Jackass,” I mutter, and pull my phone off my hip to call in a forensics crew. “This woman died a horrible, torturous death.”
Rick nods, flicking his thumbnail over the camera hanging around his neck. “House is clean. Doesn’t look like anything was disturbed or taken. Not even rifled through. I think the boss is right. We’ve got a serial.”
“You willing to consider unexplainable information?” I ask, my voice raspy from the too-real fumes the spell showed me.
“At this point? Especially after that ruby thing a few months ago? Sure. I’m open to anything that’ll help.”
I step closer to the door for some air. “I think the killer followed her home at night. Possibly from work. We should find out where that is and maybe we’ll get lucky and dig up some video surveillance.”
He nods, patting me on the back. “Why do you look like you huffed turpentine? Your face is all red.”
“The killer forced her to drink ammonia or something like it. Took a while for her to die.” I shudder. “She knew she was going to die and couldn’t do anything about it.”
“Sounds like Gibson,” says Rick in a half-whisper. “Sounds like an MO.”
I look back at Angela. “I’m sorry we were too slow.”
Rick squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mads. We’ll nail the son of a bitch.”
Chapter Fourteen
Attack Helicopter
Tuesday Early Evening – July 18, 2017
Amanda Sui from the ME’s office arrives a few minutes before the forensics crew. She, too, photographs the body before conducting an on-site examination, focusing on the face around the burns. I try not to look at the victim’s permanent expression of panic.
Eventually, she gives the all clear to move the body, and a couple of patrol officers help transfer the dead woman to a gurney and wheel her outside. Forensics techs swarm the place like bees. I give Rick a ‘come on’ nod, and head upstairs from the basement. Patrol’s provided the info on the family of the eleven-year-old boy who found the body, Aaron Hughes. His friends have already gone home, though none of them live too far off.
Rick follows me over to the neighbor’s house.
I ring the bell, and a minute or two later, a forty-something woman with dark hair answers, wearing a Seahawks sweatshirt over jeans. She looks hesitant until she notices our badges.
“Mrs. Hughes?” Rick tugs a notepad out of his pocket. “Do you have a few minutes?”
“Oh… police.” The woman opens her door the rest of the way.
“Is Aaron all right?” I ask.
The woman makes a ‘what can you do?’ face. “I suppose. I mean, how all right can a kid be after finding someone dead?”
“How much did he see?” I keep a straight face, but wince mentally.
“Umm. Just her leg tied to the bench with one of those plastic things. She didn’t move at all when he called her name to ask if she was okay, so he ran home. I don’t think he saw anything too grisly. Was there much blood?”
“No, Mrs. Hughes,” says Rick. “No blood at all actually.”
“Did you notice anything ou
t of the ordinary a night or two ago? Even something small you dismissed at the time could be helpful.” I take my notepad out as well.
“Well, no, not really.” Mrs. Hughes shakes her head. “Just the usual screaming the night before last, around eleven.”
“The usual screaming?” asks Rick. “Was there a domestic situation going on?”
“No, not like that. The couple got along well.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So wouldn’t screaming be out of the ordinary?”
“No. The couple didn’t fight, but that woman yelled at her kid a lot. Like every day. Sometimes, she got so loud we could follow along. That poor girl. A few months ago, she lit into the kid over getting a B in one of her classes. I couldn’t believe it. She lost her damn mind and dressed that little girl down like she’d caught her coming in at three in the morning pregnant and high.”
“If I had a daughter that age walking in the door pregnant and high, I think I’d just drop dead,” says Rick. “Isn’t the daughter like nine?”
Mrs. Hughes sighs, shaking her head. “I meant it as an example of how screamy that woman got. I mean one B on a report card, and this woman exploded as if the girl was a total failure.”
“Wow.” Rick chuckles. “I’ve heard of helicopter moms, but that woman sounds like a damn Apache.”
Mrs. Hughes tilts her head. “What’s Native Americans got to do with it?”
“I meant Apache like the Army helicopter,” says Rick.
“Oh.” Mrs. Hughes nods. “Well, she was certainly quiet last night.”
“Do you know where the husband and daughter are?” I ask.
“Yes. As far as I know, they went to visit Miguel’s sister in Nevada.”
Rick scribbles on his pad. “I don’t suppose you have any contact information for them, or know why she would’ve stayed behind.”
“I don’t, sorry. Maybe he wanted to give the kid a break from the pressure,” says Mrs. Hughes. “I mean, the little girl seemed reasonably happy whenever I saw her, but I bet when she turns eighteen, she’s going to join the military just to relax.”
