by Karen Rose
Scarlett suppressed a sigh. The woman was within her rights. She gave her badge and cell phone numbers. ‘Thank you. This is very urgent. I appreciate any expediency you can muster.’
Getting in her car, she buckled up and relaxed into the seat. So tired. She hated Halloween weekend. A goddamned serial killer would have to pick this week to act. Just when we’re so tired we all just want to sleep.
Maybe that was it, she thought wearily. Maybe he’d picked this weekend because he knew the police force would be busy with partying college kids.
She’d started to note it in her log when her cell phone rang. ‘Bishop.’
‘It’s Carrie Washington.’
Now we’re cookin’. Washington was the ME, and a damn good one. Maybe we’ll finally get something useful. ‘You got something for me? Please say yes.’
‘Oh yes. You and your partner need to get down here as quickly as you can.’
‘I’ll let Agent Novak know. We’ll be there ASAP.’
Cincinnati, Ohio, Tuesday 4 November, 1.20 P.M.
Deacon found Bishop pacing outside the autopsy room. He’d come directly from Greg’s school, bringing his brother along and leaving him to scowl in the waiting room. ‘What’s up?’
‘Don’t know yet.’ Bishop tossed him goggles and a mask. ‘It ain’t pretty in there.’
‘I didn’t think it would be,’ he said as he covered his eyes, nose and mouth. ‘Not with ten bodies in various stages of decomp. I can smell it from here. Ready?’
She nodded, a little green around the gills. ‘On three.’
Deacon followed her in, grateful that the eggs he’d eaten for breakfast had already digested. Mostly. He hated the morgue almost as much as he hated the thought of more unmarked graves.
Both autopsy tables were occupied. Dr Carrie Washington was examining a body on the table closest to the door. The victim’s dirty, tangled blonde curls looked familiar. This victim was the third they’d uncovered. She’d been under the floor of the room with the cot.
Washington looked up, her dark eyes unnaturally large behind the magnifying goggles she wore, the white of her mask a stark contrast to her dark brown skin. ‘We’ve identified two of the bodies you sent us from the basement. This victim is Roxanne Dupree, twenty-two years old, Caucasian, a senior at the University of Miami. She’s his most recent kill of the bodies we’ve found so far. She’s also been—’
‘Wait,’ Bishop cut in. ‘You mean Miami U, right? Miami of Ohio. The University of Miami is in Florida.’ She glanced at Deacon. ‘Miami U is in Oxford, not far from Dayton.’
The back of Deacon’s neck itched. ‘I know all about Miami of Ohio,’ he murmured, studying the face of the victim. ‘I got my undergrad there.’ She can’t be from Florida. Can’t be from the city of Miami. That put this killer way too close to Faith. Again.
‘I meant what I said, Detective Bishop,’ Washington said. ‘This victim was alive and enrolled in school in Miami, Florida, as of three weeks ago.’
‘How did you ID her?’ he asked. ‘And how do you know she was alive three weeks ago?’
‘I submitted her fingerprints and AFIS came back almost immediately with her name. She has a record for shoplifting. She spent a night in a Miami jail three weeks ago.’
‘She got jail time for shoplifting?’ Bishop asked, incredulous.
‘We can ask Vega to get us her background,’ Deacon said. ‘We need to know if her path crossed Faith’s at any point. God, I hope not.’
‘Vega is a Miami PD detective we’ve been working with,’ Bishop explained when Washington’s brows lifted in question. ‘Should we be asking her to check on IDs for the other bodies Tanaka found? Maybe the killer took them together, like he did Corinne and Arianna.’
‘You can and should try,’ Washington said. ‘But I can at least tell you that Ms Dupree wasn’t taken with the others. At least not with this one.’ She moved to the next table. The next blonde whose life had been brutally stolen. ‘Susan Simpson went missing two summers ago.’
Both Deacon and Bishop stared, first at Washington, then at the body. Decomp looked nowhere near that advanced. ‘Are you sure?’ Deacon asked.
‘Maybe she just ran away,’ Bishop added. ‘Maybe she went on a long vacation and crossed paths with Dupree down in Miami.’
Washington carefully lifted the woman’s hand and pointed out the faded orange stamp. ‘She went to the Wild Wave water park and their season ended on Labor Day, so time of death would have been no later than that. Except that Wild Wave discontinued this ink two years ago.’
Deacon frowned at the body. It looked far too good to be that old. ‘How did you ID her?’
Washington laid the victim’s hand down with a gentleness that earned her Deacon’s respect. ‘She was a cop. Had just started with Butler County Sheriff’s Department.’
‘I remember that case,’ Bishop said. ‘Her photo was on every TV station, every station wall . . . But she doesn’t look like she’s been dead for two years.’
‘That’s why I called you in. These women have something in common.’
‘Yeah,’ Deacon said. ‘They’re all blonde, in their twenties, and they’re all dead.’
‘They’ve also all been embalmed and expertly prepared for burial – including a viewing.’ Washington went back to Dupree’s body and pulled the sheet down. ‘They’ve all been autopsied as well, but the sutures are small and expertly done.’
Bending closer to the body, Deacon could see the tiny stitches that ran up Dupree’s torso, forking into a Y on her chest. ‘Someone knew what they were doing.’
‘Exactly. Every organ has been removed, including their eyes. Did you find them?’
‘No,’ Bishop said. ‘We didn’t find anything like that. Yet. He’s either thrown them away or hidden them somewhere.’
‘I doubt he threw them away,’ Washington said. ‘I don’t know if the internal incisions are of the same quality as the external ones, but even if they’re half as good, this guy is a pro. If he took so much care in removing his victims’ organs, he’s unlikely to destroy them.’
‘Why take them?’ Bishop asked. ‘Why remove them to begin with?’
Washington pulled the sheet up to cover Roxanne Dupree’s face. ‘Because he could? Because he wanted to? Because he liked looking at them? To slow decomp so that he could look at them longer? Take your pick.’
Deacon stepped back, stilled his racing mind. ‘Faith’s uncle Jeremy is a surgeon,’ he said.
Bishop nodded. ‘I was thinking that. Did he call you back?’
‘Left me a voicemail saying that he’d make himself available for a meeting.’
‘Make himself available? That’s cold. Did he ask about Faith?’
‘No. I want to see how he lives, then talk to his colleagues and students at the med school. Can you determine cause of death, Dr Washington?’
‘Not yet. Susan Simpson has a scar on her calf. Probably a GSW. It wasn’t listed as a finding in the physical she took when she started her job with the sheriff’s office. She also has identical scars on the back of both of her thighs. Deep cuts. None are cause of death, though.’
‘He hamstrung her,’ Deacon murmured. ‘Maybe shot her to slow her down first, then hamstrung her to keep her from running.’
And this was the monster who was after Faith, he thought grimly. Over my dead body.
‘He’s taken three college students so far,’ Deacon said. ‘Roxanne, Arianna, and Corinne.’
‘But Arianna isn’t blonde,’ Bishop said. ‘So why her?’
‘I think he grabbed Corinne first, but Arianna came after him to help her friend. He shot her, then grabbed her too. Arianna’s abduction may have been unplanned. Circumstance.’
‘Makes sense,’ Bishop said. ‘We know that Corinne was military and has an exemplary record. I found certificates and medals when I went through her things. So Corinne and Susan are law-abiders, but Roxanne has a record. The only things the three have in common are that t
hey’re all single, blonde and in the same age group. Beyond that, we’ve got nothing. We need college majors, hobbies, religion.’
‘And how and where he took them,’ Deacon said. ‘There must be a pattern, something connecting these victims.’
‘I’ll inform you as I make identifications,’ Washington said. ‘And once I know what caused their death.’
Deacon nodded. ‘Thank you. As a heads-up, I’ve got a ground-scanning expert arriving this afternoon to check the O’Bannion land for more bodies.’
‘I pray you don’t find any more. For the obvious human reasons, of course. But we’re running out of room.’ Washington gestured behind her. ‘Even the cold room is filling up.’
Deacon made himself walk to the cold room door, his feet protesting every step. His gut protesting even more loudly. He opened the door and stepped inside, barely feeling the chill.
He wanted to close his eyes. Wanted to run away. But he planted his feet and made himself look. Made himself see. Let himself feel. And let his heart break for the senseless waste.
Eight more stretchers filled the room. Eight more bodies, all blonde, young. Nude. In various stages of decomposition. Eight more young women who’d been robbed of their lives.
He heard the door open and close behind him. ‘Can I help you with something, Agent Novak?’ Carrie Washington asked softly.
‘Why aren’t they draped?’ he asked, immediately wishing the words back. He’d sounded accusatory, which he hadn’t meant.
But Washington didn’t sound offended. ‘We haven’t prepared these victims. I’ve called in help from Butler and Warren counties. Butler is eager to help because of Officer Simpson.’
‘We haven’t notified her family,’ he said hoarsely, taking a few steps further into the cold room so that he stood in the middle of the stretchers, four on each side of him. He looked at their faces. Committed them to memory. ‘The MEs can’t make any family notifications or public statements until we’ve cleared them.’
‘The MEs know to keep confidentiality,’ she said quietly, still unoffended. Then she earned his total respect with her next words. ‘Don’t worry, Deacon. We’ll take good care of them. As soon as they’re prepared, they’ll be draped. They’ll have the dignity that was stolen from them.’
‘Thank you, Carrie.’ Deacon’s eyes stung, his nose burned, partly because of the stench. But mostly because of the tears he’d only allow himself to shed here and now. Once he left, he’d have to focus on bringing their killer to justice. ‘You’re running out of room, and we’re running out of time. If we haven’t already.’
‘You think the Longstreet woman is dead?’ Washington asked.
‘If he feels threatened with exposure, it’s highly likely. My only hope that she’s still alive is this.’ He swept his arm to take in all eight of the bodies. ‘He’s a creature of habit. He’ll want his things around him. His tools. He’ll want to be able to torture her.’
‘And prepare her body after she’s dead,’ Washington added in a murmur.
‘Exactly. But the reality is that he can’t have his things around him right now and Corinne becomes a liability if he gets stopped, assuming he’s still on the run. He may have killed her and dumped her body somewhere, just to get away cleanly.’
Part of him hoped so, for Corinne’s sake. Which, frankly, scared the shit out of him. That he considered a quick and painless death to be the best of the possible outcomes told Deacon just how tired and emotionally ragged he’d become. He needed to sleep. To recharge.
I’ll be waiting. He drew strength from the knowledge that Faith was sleeping safely in his bed. Waiting for him to come home. It was just enough to enable him to step away from the victims. Because they were already sucking him in to their pain. They always did.
‘I’m ready to go,’ he said, and followed Carrie Washington from the cold room. If he wasn’t careful, he’d become too overwhelmed to think. And he needed to keep thinking.
‘I’ll keep in close contact,’ Washington said. ‘Don’t worry about them, Deacon.’
‘Thank you.’ He held the door open for Bishop, both of them stripping mask and goggles off as soon as they were back in the hall. He sniffed the sleeve of his suit jacket and winced. ‘Dammit. I just had this suit cleaned. I need to go home to shower and change again.’
‘Same. But there are showers at the precinct. It’s a lot closer.’ She gave him a look that spoke volumes. ‘I saw a spare suit in your locker. You don’t need to go home.’
But he did. Because he didn’t turn off the grief when he walked out of the morgue. He wanted to, but never did. It was pushing at him, a weight on his shoulders, an ache in his chest.
I’ll be waiting. He needed to see Faith. Just see her. And he didn’t need to justify that to Bishop. Still, he was glad to have an excuse his partner would accept. ‘Yes I do, actually. I have to take Greg home. I brought him with me, because you said we should hurry.’
‘He’s in the waiting room?’ Bishop looked sympathetic. ‘What happened at school?’
Deacon thought of the mess his brother had gotten himself into. And of the pain he’d tried to save Dani. ‘Too long to tell right now. Let’s meet at the precinct in four hours.’
She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. ‘Four? Why?’
‘Because I don’t know about you, but I need a few hours’ sleep.’
She shook her head. ‘We can’t stop. We still haven’t interviewed the creepy uncle yet.’
‘I know. But I also know that I’m not sharp enough right now to truly hear anything he says. I don’t want to miss something crucial because my brain’s turned to mush.’
‘I am tired,’ Bishop admitted grudgingly. ‘I’ll crash at the station for a few hours.’
‘Good. After that, we’ll interview Uncle Jeremy, and then I want to go over the O’Bannion house, top to bottom. There are probably a million places he could have stored their body parts. And we still haven’t found his souvenirs.’
‘Are we sure he kept any?’ Bishop asked.
‘He kept their bodies under glass, Scarlett. He wanted to see them. Relive the experience in between abductions. I have to believe he kept souvenirs.’
‘What did the serial in West Virginia keep?’
‘Wallets. Drivers’ licenses. Jewelry, clothing. Anything and everything.’ And Deacon had handled each and every item with care, making sure they were returned to the families. ‘Nearly all of his victims had some form of ID, which made identification a lot faster.’
She stood there for a moment, studying him. ‘You identified them all, didn’t you?’
‘With a lot of help, yeah.’
‘Who talked to the families?’
‘I did.’ He turned on his heel and started for the front entrance, Bishop was beside him.
‘All by yourself?’
‘No, not always. Sometimes one of the other agents worked with me. Sometimes my boss went with me. I think his involvement was more to assess my psychological state, though.’
‘You liked your boss?’
Some of the tension in his body unwound as his lips curved at the question. ‘Not at first. He didn’t like me either. But I grew on him.’
‘I heard Isenberg tell one of the head honchos that your old boss didn’t want to let you go. That you were his right hand.’
Deacon glanced over at her. ‘Thanks. Even if it’s not true.’
Bishop shrugged. ‘I don’t like you well enough yet to try to make you feel better.’
His lips curved. ‘Thanks. I needed that too.’
‘You went into the cold room. Why?’
‘I needed to see them. I needed to know their faces.’
Bishop sighed. ‘If you let the dead mess with your head, you’ll burn out too fast.’
‘I didn’t let them mess with my head at first. Then I realized that I wasn’t seeing the dead as people, just victims. One just like all the others. That scared the hell out of me, because it put me that much c
loser to the monster who’d hurt them. He sees them as victims, too. One just like all the others.’
‘That’s not the same at all,’ she protested. ‘We don’t look at them as objects or as conquests. We don’t get off on their pain.’
‘No, of course we don’t. But to keep myself separate from their pain, I had to distance myself from the victims as people. If I burn out, I’ll do something else. But I won’t do this job by stripping the victims of their humanity. It was stolen by their killer. I won’t do the same to them, or to myself.’
Cincinnati, Ohio, Tuesday 4 November, 2.55 P.M.
Voices. Someone is here. Instantly awake, Faith lifted her head from Novak’s pillow cautiously, her hand sliding beneath the pillow to close over her gun. She heard the louder, agitated voice of a female and the quieter, more muted voice of a male. The male didn’t sound like either of the FBI agents. And it wasn’t Novak. Of that she was certain.
She crept down the stairs, the hand clutching her gun at her side. A peek into the living room had her eyes growing wide. Dani stood with a tall, burly young man who looked just like her and Novak. The boy’s hair was as black as Dani’s, with a white streak just as wide, but the style was spiky like Novak’s.
This would be the troubled Greg. Who was evidently hearing-impaired, because he and Dani were signing to one another furiously, with loudly spoken cursing interspersed between the hand signals. Whatever Greg had done, it was bad. Tears streamed down Dani’s face, her expression a mix of anger and fear. Mostly fear, Faith thought, at a loss how to help.
Where was Novak? Why wasn’t he here to referee?
Finally Dani threw her hands into the air in frustration, before flinging her arms around Greg, holding on tight. ‘You stupid idiot,’ she choked out, brokenly. ‘I love you.’ She pulled back and held the boy’s face in her hands. ‘Why did you do it? Why would you ruin your future like this? I’d’ve been all right.’
He drew back to sign his reply, making Dani weep harder. Then he pulled his sister into his arms and the two of them stood there, rocking together, comforting one another.
Faith’s eyes stung at the sight. The two were clearly close, leaning on each other for support. They were family. But where is Deacon?
