Brunch finished, the guys cleaned off the table, put everything away, did the wash-up. Then they settled across from each other, holding their mugs of coffee, not making eye contact. There was definitely the overwhelming specter of an elephant in the room.
Austin returned to the table with his briefcase, pulled out his laptop and a blank incident report. He fussed with a pen, clicking it repeatedly.
Wallis felt she’d waited enough. “Okay, let’s have it. What happened? What are you trying not to tell me?”
Austin shook his head. When he answered, his voice was raspy. “We found her. Right where the so-called anonymous tip told us she would be. You know, and we know, that the lead did not come from a concerned citizen who happened upon the body. It was him. The killer. Gloating. Taunting. Screwing with us.”
“Would you have found her, otherwise?”
Michael took over. “Maybe not by us, but she would have been found before too much longer. Old logging road. Hunters or hikers would have discovered her, if the critters didn’t carry off her remains. She was left at the edge of a paved road, about a hundred yards before the roadway changed from asphalt to gravel. Smart move. Hard surface tough to pull up any discernible tire tracks. McGuire was with us—if anyone can get tire prints, she’ll be the one.”
Wallis’s gut lurched. Damn, shouldn’t have had brunch first. “How similar?”
Michael, brilliant at reading crime scenes, massaged his temple. “Same.”
“Tell me.”
Austin picked up the narration. “We decided to forego the LEO’s pissing contest regarding jurisdiction at the crime scene and took a quick look. Victim had strawberry blonde hair, a bit lighter than yours, not as long. Probably late twenties. Very pretty. Outdoorsy, all-American look. Naked. Limbs spread out. Shallow cuts with a very sharp blade, following the veins in her arms and legs, even her hands and feet. Maybe not enough to kill, but enough to hurt, terrify, maybe weaken. Blood trails all over her skin, but no puddling around or under her. Ground was clean. Best guess on our part? She was tortured and strangled somewhere else, then her body dumped and posed at the site. Won’t know for sure until the ME does her job. Maureen Hunt caught this one. No one better.”
He stopped for a breather, visibly disturbed by the memory. “When they turned her over, it looked like something had struck her from behind, across the shoulders. The same as the others. Maybe a length of two-by-four, or a baseball bat. Something solid—forensics isn’t back on the other samples. Probably intended to knock her down, overpower her, without the UNSUB personally touching her. I’m guessing she was bound with duct tape, like the others. The paper evidence bags stuck to her wrists, could be from the adhesive. The ME will know more after the autopsy.”
Wallis’s head dropped to the table. She really felt nauseous.
“Baby, do you want me to stop?”
“No. I’m all right. I need to know what happened. Guessing is worse than having the facts.” Her pen was poised over her notebook.
“Everything was consistent with what we saw at the last two sites. Her clothing folded under her head, like a pillow. Violated with a large, realistic, flesh-colored dildo, maybe a John Holmes wannabe, still in place. Trying to track down where it might have been purchased, and by whom. She appeared to be strangled. Small splotch of dried biologic material on her privates. Don’t know if the perp jerked off before or after he killed her. The only thing different—this time, the duct tape was left over her mouth. The other two times, only tape residue was found on their wrists, ankles, and mouths. Not the tape itself.”
“Maybe she was either screaming more to grab attention, or trying to talk him out of what he planned. He didn’t want to hear it. He either forgot it or left it to make a point.” Michael played with his coffee mug, turning it round and round in place. “Just saying.”
Wallis flipped to a new page of the steno pad in front of her, scribbled a few notes.
“Okay, so that’s one small change, but I’m thinking it’s insignificant. Whatever this guy is doing must be working for him. Serial murderers repeat what works. Whatever’s easier. Killers don’t necessarily have specific signatures, like on TV and in the movies. He’s been getting away with this, so why should he alter what he’s doing?
“The weird thing is leaving semen behind, which he must know will give the lab rats his DNA. Talk about cocky—he must be damned sure his DNA profile isn’t in CODIS.”
Austin nodded. “Yeah, but no fingerprints. None. Nada. Everything was wiped clean as my Aunt Mable’s kitchen, as far as prints go.”
Still fiddling with his mug, Michael shook his head. “I have a feeling that we’re missing the big picture here. Three women. One a month, in the middle of the month, for three months, in neighboring counties—at least, so far. Late twenties to early thirties, each one having some variation of reddish hair.
“Other than how he tortures, kills, then poses the bodies, the similarities end there. One woman married, one single, one divorced. Different occupations. Different times of the day. This guy is comfortable with what he’s doing. He’s not in a panic. He’s not making mistakes. At least, not yet. He called in the tip. I know it was him—the bastard is fucking with us.”
Austin nodded. “We don’t want vigilante groups out and about, but still think it’s a mistake not to announce the possibility that there’s a serial murderer in the area. Everyone should be more aware, taking precautions, especially young women. They should be warned to use the buddy system, at the very least.”
“That’s your job, hoss. You’re the liaison, that Texas twang so sweet during the media announcements.”
Michael grinned when Austin flipped him the bird.
Wallis underlined something in her notebook. “Whoever he is, this maniac suffers from some sort of serious, unholy rage. Some female pissed him off, majorly—mother, sister, girlfriend, fiancée, someone. Now he’s getting even. The attacks are personal, demeaning. He’s not just killing them, he’s mortifying them. Then he leaves them where they can be found. It’s like he’s doing them, then laughing at us. He’s getting a two-for-one deal.”
The doorbell rang.
Michael went to the door, returned with a puzzled expression.
“Wallis, it’s for you.”
When the large, black-haired wrestler answered the door wearing nothing except a pair of snug orange gym shorts that outlined a serious package behind the fabric covering his crotch, Theo resisted the urge to flee. After Wallis finally reached the front stoop, dressed as she was, he thought he’d faint at coming face to face with such overt sexuality.
Theo counted to five then slid his hand into the right pocket of his Dockers for his inhaler. He came up empty. The thing was in his cottage bedroom, on the nightstand. No reason to think he’d need it. His pulse raced like a runaway locomotive, which didn’t help the situation.
“Yes, Theo. What can I do for you?”
Count to five. “Uh, hmm, well, ah, yes—”
She stared at him, waiting. A tall, muscular blond man came up behind her.
He thought he would faint. Did I interrupt them? The thought, the image of her having sex with one of the men scrambled his thoughts.
Try again. One-two-three-four-five. “I was going into town and thought I’d stop by to see if you needed anything. I didn’t realize you had company. Oh, and I smelled something weird, like gas. The real estate agent didn’t answer her phone.” Of course, he never called the bristly old sow, so she couldn’t answer the phone, could she?
Both big men moved in close, directly behind Wallis. Towered over her, actually. Protective. Under their intense gazes, Theo felt like a mutant strain of bacterium in a petri dish.
“Theodore Carroll, these are my partners, Austin and Michael.”
One-two-three-four-five. Breathe. One-two-three-four-five. Breathe.
He couldn’t avoid correcting her. “Theo, not Theodore.”
“Sorry. Theo Carroll, our temporary neighbor.
Thanks for thinking of me, but I think we have everything under control. We’ll be out later, anyway, if we need anything.”
She turned her face away from him. “Michael, darling, would you pull on your sneakers, check the propane tank at the cottage?”
Austin moved first. “I’m already dressed, I’ll go.” He took off across the lawn at a smooth, athlete’s trot.
One-two-three-four-five—I really need my inhaler. “Miss Gardner, sorry to interrupt. I thought you were alone. I wouldn’t have bothered you if I knew you had company.” He’d walked past the big truck on his way to the door but hoped no one caught the gaffe. Keep your mouth shut, stupid, before you continue blithering like an idiot. Loose lips, and all that.
Before he’d headed over to the farmhouse, he’d taken a good look at the vehicle through his binoculars then looked it up on the Internet. Definitely a man’s truck, forged with a heady supply of molten testosterone. A Dodge Power Wagon 3500, mega crew cab, side boxes, Cummins 6.7L diesel, four wheel drive. Under the coating of dust, Deep Cherry Red Pearl paint. A macho man’s truck.
Yes, but my vehicle can carry a body without attracting attention. I slip right on by, no one looks, no one stops me, no one suspects. The perfect suburban development camouflage.
Wallis shrugged. “Not a problem. We were just catching up on the news.”
He shook his head. “Terrible, isn’t it? Another poor woman found dead.”
She sent a sharp look his way. “Yes, terrible.”
Damn. He choked up as his mind raced. How much information had been reported? “Well, you know how quickly everything goes viral on the Internet.”
Wallis leaned forward, balancing on her crutches. “Which woman?”
“What?”
“You said, another woman.”
Darn. She’s too curious. Why is she so curious?
“Sorry, a figure of speech. Seems like there’s always a story on the news about someone murdered. Something like two killings a day, every day.” And I'm doing my best to keep the numbers up.
Michael-with-no-last-name, the one who looked like a professional fighter, who would probably be known as The Incredible Hulk in the boxing ring, continued to stare at Theo as if he were an annoying insect.
The blond man, Austin, returned, ending the awkward moment. Wallis ran her hand up his brawny arm, through the pale blond hair. “What did you find, baby?”
A chill ran up Theo’s spine. That’s not right. Why must she touch him like that? Why does she call him that? I’m standing right here. She shouldn’t do those things, say those things, especially in front of me. It’s inconsiderate. Rude. Not very ladylike. She’s acting like a ho.
“Nothing, actually. No odor. Valve is snug. Lines appear solid. Wallis, weren’t all the propane tanks just topped off?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I thought so. That could be why there could be a slight odor this morning.”
The man named Austin turned to Theo. “Did you notice anything when you moved in?” He threw a questioning glance at Wallis. “Which was—?”
“Yesterday, after the propane truck left. He moved in yesterday. With the other excitement, I forgot to tell you.”
Theo didn’t expect the question. Counted to five. “Uh, hmm, no, I didn’t smell anything.” Not until this morning, you muscle-bound moron.
Wallis turned back to Theo. “The electric is on, so your refrigerator is fine. I’ll call the propane company to have the tank inspected since we’re on the same delivery ticket, but they probably won’t be able to come out until tomorrow morning, at the earliest. You should be okay until then.”
There it was, his opening. “How will I cook my meals? I’m on a very strict schedule.” Why, why would I be on a schedule? Quick. He shuffled his feet. Counted to five. “Ah, for my health. I take medication with my meals at precisely the same time every day. Breakfast at 7:30, snack at 10:30, lunch at 12:30, supper at 5:30, snack at 9:30. But I don’t need a kitchen for the snacks.”
Now they were really staring at him.
He shuffled again. “I, um, look healthy, but I have a condition. I don’t like to discuss it.” One-two-three-four-five. Then he remembered to breathe.
The blond man responded. “I checked the level of propane, which shows full. You’ll be fine.”
“But….” Theo was losing control of the conversation.
Wallis shrugged. “No problem. We’ll be out for the day, but the stove should keep you going until tomorrow.”
With no more than that, he was dismissed. They turned away from him as if he were of no importance, then they turned to the house. Wallis and the two men. Wallis and the two big, strong men. Men with big cocks. Men with penises that would respond immediately to her. Men who were going to fuck her. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—they were going to fuck her. Maybe both of them. Fuck.
His mother always said that cursing was the sign of a weak mind. Wallis was making him curse, and he didn’t like how dirty it made him feel.
I will not be ignored, do you hear me, you bitch? You’ll pay for ignoring me. I promise.
Chapter Three
Theo waited until he saw them leave. Counted to five. Made sure they were gone. Waited in his driveway for another five-count, just to be sure they didn’t forget anything and turn around.
It was almost too simple to jimmy the old lock on the back door, which opened into the kitchen. He left his bag of food items on the table then wandered from room to room. The farmhouse was magnificent, the interior furnishings an eclectic mix of styles added over the last two-hundred years, all of which blended seamlessly. He’d grown up amidst the money and trappings of old wealth, so he recognized quality when he saw it.
Wide plank floors throughout, covered by Oriental area rugs that looked like antique originals, not copies. High white ceilings, crown molding. Subtle, yet rich, wall coverings, gorgeous wallpapers above raised panel wainscoting throughout.
After checking at the front door again to make sure the trio hadn’t returned on the sly, he hurried upstairs. He counted ten bedrooms and two bathrooms on the second floor, each bedroom highlighted by a different, soft color. Over each door frame was a carefully hand-painted plaque done in what appeared to be oils, depicting a flower which identified the room décor. Each huge room had one or two full-sized beds. At least twenty, as many as thirty, guests could party in the dwelling.
He trotted downstairs again. Large eat-in kitchen. Morning room. Living room, formal dining room, another full bathroom. A parlor that had been turned into a work-out room, with weights and resistance-training machines. A study-office-library. Three more big rooms that were now bedrooms, each with an updated bathroom—Cabbage Rose in dusty mauve, blue Cornflower, and the Hosta room in light and dark shades of green. Each had a king-sized bed.
There was no doubt that the Rose room belonged to Wallis. He sat on the edge of the mattress, then lay back and spread his arms. He caught the scent of her subtle perfume.
She has sex here. She lets those men fuck her, put their things inside her, right on this bed. Right where I’m lying. He knew it. He could smell the pheromones in the room, picked up the energy. His heart raced, his cock stirred.
Eyes closed, he pulled his limp penis from his pants. Counted to five. Played with it. Counted to five, again. Nothing. No response. He tucked everything in and zipped up his pants. He found hand sanitizer in her bathroom, squirted a single glob in the palm of his hand, rubbed his hands together for thirty seconds.
Theo had decided to take advantage of the empty house. Back in the kitchen, he put on a pot of water to boil. Cooked the elbow macaroni al dente, poured a box of frozen peas into the still boiling water, shut off the heat. While the pasta and peas drained through a colander in the sink, he mixed the cheese sauce with a dollop of mayonnaise. Poured the hot pasta and peas into the mixture. Perfect.
He poured an eight-ounce glass of milk, counted out three Oreo cookies on a napkin, brought his feast to the living room. Of cour
se, big macho men would insist on having a big macho plasma screen television. Bingo. He slid out of his loafers, rested his sock-covered feet on the coffee table—his mother would never have permitted that—scrolled through the movie channels.
Oh, yeah, this works for me. Might as well enjoy the down time.
Theo thought about the anonymous tip he’d made two days before to the crime-stopper hotline. Such phone calls made everyone scurry like ants. Teams rescue the living, but recover the dead. How frustrating for them.
After lunch, Theo washed up meticulously, put away the cookware and utensils that he’d used. When everything had been returned to its place, he embarked on a more thorough search of the premises.
He finally reached the large mud room at the back of the house. Oh, no-no-no-no, it can’t be. How could this happen? He grabbed for his inhaler—he’d remembered to stuff it in his pocket.
The collection of coats and vests for all weather conditions hung neatly on pegs, some of them emblazoned with a large embroidered letters: BCI. Hard hats, ski hats, baseball caps, gloves, heavy socks, pairs upon pairs of boots were neatly arranged on open shelves. Coveralls like the clothing firemen wore on the job were hung on heavy hooks.
Firemen. Fire fighters in full gear, riding in their big, long fire trucks, lights flashing, sirens wailing. It had been exciting, when he was twelve, making false 9-1-1 calls from the few pay phones that were left in his hometown. He’d sit in the park across from the fire station, watch the big engines roll out. Then nosey Bobby Decker had nearly caught him making the last call. Darn Bobby Decker, the snoop, he spoiled all my fun. Theo had to stop, or take the chance of being found out. Of not being the perfect son.
Looking at all the gear surrounding him, Theo’s pulse hammered, echoed in his head. He didn’t understand how this could happen. Two of the very people he’d been taunting, teasing, ridiculing were here. Right here. Some of the clothing was obviously sized for a petite woman. That meant Wallis was not only a sex playmate for the two big men, she was also their teammate. He wondered how she’d gotten hurt.
Blade Dance Page 3
