While the Savage Sleeps

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  Another monster.

  Like the grains of sand slipping through his hands, so too was the sense of comfort, of security everyone in Faith had always known, even taken for granted. Nobody was safe anymore.

  The sound of screeching tires jolted Cameron from his thoughts. He looked up to see a news van slamming on its brakes, skidding forward several feet, and almost plowing right into his car. He shook his head with disgust as he watched the crew pour out from the van.

  Once again, the vultures had landed.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Highway 10

  Faith, New Mexico

  Cameron watched as the side door of the news van burst open. A petite, blonde woman appeared, wearing a suit the color of a traffic cone. Pinned to her lapel, a gold number nine shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, the same one splashed across the side of the news van.

  As if executing a parachute drop, the tiny woman leaped from the vehicle with excitement, literally hitting the ground running. She immediately headed toward the crime scene with the determination and vigor of an Olympic sprinter, arms pumping, and clutching onto the microphone as if it were her torch. A chubby cameraman waddled behind her, barely successful in his attempt at keeping up.

  The reporter stopped abruptly at the edge of the embankment, staring down at the corpse, her expression more one of exhilaration than concern.

  “Psssst! Quickly!” she whispered loudly to the cameraman, poking her finger in the direction of the body, and oblivious of the crime scene investigation happening all around her.

  Deputy Avello moved in. Placing a firm hand on her shoulder, he pointed her to the area behind the yellow tape.

  Head tilted, mouth agape, and ego visibly bruised, she reached for her cell phone and called the station. Her cameraman stood faithfully behind her like a trained dog, waiting for his next command. Avello remained in front of her, arms crossed, determined, and immovable.

  Just then, another news van came sliding into place right behind the other. More people filed out and ran toward the scene. Confusion quickly turned to chaos, and Cameron decided enough was enough. He stepped directly into the TV reporter’s personal space, but with little effect; she continued her phone conversation as if he weren’t even there.

  He stepped even closer.

  Unable to ignore him now, she raised her index finger into the air in a just a minute sort of way.

  Cameron responded by shaking his head in an I don’t think so sort of way.

  She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and shot him a terse look. “Do you mind?” she demanded.

  “Actually, I do,” Cameron said firmly. “Please move back behind the yellow tape—

  that is, unless you’d prefer I arrest you for disturbing a crime scene.”

  She jumped back to her phone call. “I gotta go, Chris … Call you back in a few, hon … uh-huh … Yeah. Sure will. Okay.”

  Cameron cleared his throat, loudly, then pointed toward the yellow tape. “We’re conducting a murder investigation, and you need to step back.”

  “And you would be …?” she asked in a tone that managed to be both dismissive and condescending.

  “I would be Cameron Dawson, assistant sheriff, and I’m asking you to step back—now.”

  The reporter’s face suddenly changed, blossoming into a pleasant shade of kiss-up. Seizing the moment, she thrust her microphone into Cameron’s face. “Sheriff Dawson! Great to meet you! Can we get an on-camera with you right-quick?”

  “Actually, Miss …” He paused and waited for her to say her name.

  “Casey Gold, Channel Nine News,” she said quickly and eagerly, then pushed the microphone closer.

  Cameron was about to speak, but stopped and pushed the microphone away. “To be quite honest, Ms. Gold, I have nothing for you. We arrived here shortly before you did, so we’re hardly prepared to give any interviews. Please move aside now. We have a job to do.”

  Disarmed, but only for few seconds, her indignation rose. So did her tone of voice. “We have rights too, you know!”

  Cameron had more important things to do than deal with an overzealous reporter. He’d already wasted too much time here. “Miss Gold, listen to me very closely. Your rights end where that yellow tape begins. If you continue to be a nuisance here, I’ll arrest you on a variety of charges ranging from disturbing evidence to disturbing the peace. It’ll make great headlines, good video too … and just in time for the five o’clock newscast. Now get behind the tape before I put handcuffs on you.”

  Casey shot Cameron a dirty look, then, pivoting around on one heel, marched toward the crowd, shaking her head in disbelief. Other news people who had slowly crept around her followed closely behind.

  Cameron stood, arms crossed, eyes following them as they walked to the outer perimeter. He kept them trained on the group as he spoke.

  “Avello,” he shouted.

  The deputy looked up, giving Cameron his full attention.

  “Stay on top of these people, will you? Arrest anyone who gets in your way. This is a murder scene, not a damned circus.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Sheriff’s Station

  Faith, New Mexico

  “She was nineteen years old. From Ruidoso. On her way through.” Cameron told Frank.

  Frank looked up from the mound of paperwork on his desk with interest. “Coming from Ruidoso, or going to?”

  “On her way to Albuquerque,” Cameron said, “and headed for the University of New Mexico.”

  “A college kid,” Frank said with a nod. “Makes sense. But if she was driving, where’s the car?”

  “Found it shortly after we found her, just a few miles up the road from where she got dumped. Parked along Old Highway 80. Suspect probably ditched it there after getting rid of her, then headed out on foot. Nice car, too, a BMW. Purse and ID were inside.”

  “Find anything else in there? Blood? Hair?” Frank asked.

  Cameron shrugged. “Deputies are processing it.”

  “How ‘bout signs of a struggle?”

  “Some blood on the ground nearby.”

  “Could be our primary murder scene, then,” Frank agreed. He paused, rested his chin between his thumb and index finger, thinking for a second or two. “Who was she?”

  Cameron slid a manila folder across the desk. “She wasn’t just any college student. She was a college student whose mother just happens to be state sena–”

  “Senator Connie Champion,” Frank interrupted, reading from the report, then letting the folder drop onto the desk, “Christ … it can’t be.”

  “It is,” Cameron affirmed. “Felicity Champion was murdered within our city limits, or at the least, dumped here. Now she’s our headache.”

  “That’s one huge fucking headache,” said Frank. He removed his glasses, then rubbed his temples. “Jeez-us. This means the feds. Guaranteed they’ll be here, if they aren’t already.”

  “If they’re not, the media will sure as hell sound the alarm,” Cameron said.

  “And if we’ve got a serial-kill going on here,” Frank added, “they’ll have to step in.”

  Cameron shook his head. “Not so sure we do.”

  “Then what do we have?”

  “I was at all four crime scenes, Frank. While there’s similarities with a few, each one’s different in its own way. Alma’s killer was methodical, organized down to the last detail. Even the manner she was killed … it was very clinical … and he brought his own weapon.”

  “And with Witherspoon,” Frank added, “while he was also left hanging, the weapon and methodology are still very different.”

  “Exactly. The rage, the anger, and he improvised.”

  “And this one?” Frank asked.

  “This one’s at the other end of the spectrum. Utter chaos. A complete mess,” Cameron said. “Everything scattered, every which-way. Looks like she was strangled and that was it. No toying with the victim like we saw with Bradley and Alma. It was quick.”

&n
bsp; “Mercifully quick,” Frank observed, “compared to the others.”

  “Yep. Killed her then dumped her. Strangulation’s not a speedy process, but she died a hell of a lot faster than the others did, no question about that. The whole thing was about as disorganized as they get.”

  “Then we have the Foleys,” Frank said. “We knew that never fit in with any of this.”

  “A textbook case of mass murder.”

  Frank leaned back, scratched the side of his head. “The idea of a serial killer was never really a sure thing anyway—just one of the possibilities.”

  “And now we have more crimes to compare it to. I think we can safely rule it out.”

  “Okay, but what about Ryan doing Alma and the last one? Methods were different, but there’s still a common connection, both female.”

  Cameron gazed across the desk at Frank, thinking a few seconds before speaking. “It might have worked, ‘cept for one thing. The Champion girl was killed, then taken to another spot and dumped, right?”

  “Okay, I know Ryan wasn’t old enough to drive yet, but not having a license—that never stopped anyone here before,” Frank pointed out. “This is the sticks. Kids get behind the wheel long before they ever reach sixteen.”

  “But not Ryan. I checked with his grandmother, and she confirmed it. Remember, Frank, he has dyslexia. Don’t know if it affects driving, but granny tended to be a little on the overprotective side. He never set foot or ass behind the wheel of a car. She made sure of it.”

  Frank shook his head, apprehension spreading across his face like a slow moving shadow. “Four separate murderers.”

  “Dollars to doughnuts—I’d be willing to bet on it.”

  Frank stared at Cameron, dumbfounded. “Holy…Fucking… Shit.”

  “So the next question—”

  “Is who did this one?” Frank said. “And don’t forget Witherspoon.”

  “Witherspoon’s still the wildcard. But this … this one may give us our break.”

  “A break how?”

  “Well, for one thing, the killer was all kinds of sloppy—didn’t bother to cover his tracks. We’ve got a lot to go on here, lots of physical evidence.”

  Frank gazed out his window, rubbed his forehead, then frowned as if seeing something he didn’t like.

  Cameron noticed. “What?”

  “Dead bodies popping up like damned daisies around here,” he said, shaking his head, “and now a senator’s daughter…”

  “We gotta think fast on our feet here, Frank, gotta find a way to keep the media from crawling up our asses.”

  Frank put his glasses on, peered over the tops at him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, they’re already climbing up our asses. Motherfuckers get any further, they’ll be poking at my rib cage.”

  “Okay. What, then?”

  Frank paused for a moment, deliberating, tapping his pencil on his desktop. “I think it’s time for a news conference, let everyone know we’re running this show. Not the citizens, not the media, not the feds.”

  Cameron breathed deep, then let the air out while nodding. “Fair enough.”

  “But we need to figure out how much we want to release to the media. That’s always a slippery slope. We want to keep the bastards informed, but we don’t want to let them ruin the investigation. And they’ll not only ruin it— they’ll try to run away with it, if we let them.” He lifted his hand, looked down at his calendar. “Let’s say tomorrow … tomorrow night. That’ll give you time to prepare.”

  “Prepare,” Cameron repeated, suddenly realizing Frank had just slapped a bull’s eye on his back.

  “Relax,” Frank reassured, waving a hand, “it’ll be a piece of cake,

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Better get busy, Cam. We’re changing gears here, shifting into damage control.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Office of the Medical Investigator

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Felicity Champion’s murder gained instant and national media attention. In the process, it had the same effect on Faith, something nobody there wanted.

  More and more, members of the press—both television and print—were spilling into town. They were everywhere, in the grocery store, on the streets, and, much to Cameron’s dismay, parked outside the sheriff’s station, their newly designated command post.

  The problem wasn’t just that the press was there, more that they didn’t seem to understand boundaries. Nothing was sacred, not even places of worship. Church members were horrified Sunday morning when they filed out of services only to find a firing squad of television cameras aimed directly at them and recording their every move. Five murders in about a week—along with the constant fear that any one of them could be next—was bad enough. Living under this high-powered microscope only exacerbated the effect.

  With the press conference that evening, time was becoming Cameron’s worst enemy. He felt like he was racing against it and losing. In addition, he was tired. Unfortunately, there was no time for that, either.

  The latest victim being a senator’s daughter complicated matters further, adding more stress to the mix. All eyes were on him. As a result, he felt he had no choice but to attend Felicity Champion’s autopsy. That meant yet another trip back to Albuquerque. He wasn’t looking forward to that. He’d already seen her animal-ravaged, decomposed corpse once; he didn’t need to see it again.

  As it turned out, an overturned semi on the highway forced a sudden change in plans. With the road jammed for several miles, by the time he finally arrived at the medical investigator’s office, Russell Gavin was already wrapping things up.

  Cameron entered the autopsy room. Once again, the increasingly familiar smell of decomposing flesh, blood, and nonspecific cleaning agents flooded his senses.

  “We really have to stop meeting this way,” Gavin remarked with a hint of humor.

  Cameron returned a thin smile. His exhaustion prevented him from doing better. It had been a long trip. This was no picnic, either.

  The doctor got down to business. “We have a few interesting things going on here. You’re going to want to know about them.”

  Cameron nodded and crossed his arms, stealing a quick glance at Gavin as they moved toward the autopsy table.

  When they got there, Cameron stood and stared—wordlessly—at Felicity Champion’s lifeless, naked corpse. Long incisions, deep and bloody, crisscrossed her torso. One ran across her neck and chest, and another started between her breasts, then moved down, ending at her pubic bone—all stitched back together now, crudely, with what looked to be nothing more than common, household string.

  Cameron moved his gaze up toward her face and stopped there. With her mouth slightly ajar, eyes closed and relaxed, she looked so peaceful; all this in spite of being sliced by the medical examiner’s knife, ravaged by animals and by time, and worst of all, put here at the hands of a murderer.

  She shouldn’t have to leave the world this way: nobody should.

  Gavin was still talking. Cameron struggled for a moment, trying to find his way back to the present.

  “You were right,” the doctor said, nodding toward the body. “Your girl was strangled. That’ll be the cause of death. The broken hyoid bone was enough to confirm it … some pretty severe hemorrhaging of the neck muscles too. But it wasn’t done with a rope or any other device, for that matter. The weapon here was somebody’s bare hands.”

  “The marks on the neck?”

  “Yes,” Gavin replied, “and judging by their severity, death came slowly.”

  “Dead bodies don’t bruise,” Cameron said, his eyes pensively drawn on the corpse.

  Gavin glanced up at him. “Exactly. So we know those bruises were inflicted quite some time before she expired.”

  “What about thumb prints on the neck?” Cameron asked. “Able to pull any?”

  “No luck there, I’m afraid. It would have been nice—”

  “But a long shot, I know. Anything else?�
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  “Now here’s where it gets interesting,” Gavin said. “We did manage to find some other physical evidence.”

  “You did?” Cameron asked, brightening a bit. “What kind? Where?”

  “A very short fiber, actually two of them—nearly identical. One embedded under a fingernail, the other on the victim’s blouse, sticking through a button hole.”

  “Know anything about them yet?”

  “Not really. I’m afraid a fiber is just a fiber until it’s examined and analyzed under a microscope. We’re sending them off to the lab. But the color does appear quite unusual, which could turn out to be a decent break for you.

  “The color?”

  “Lime green. Real bright. Almost fluorescent.”

  “Not very common.”

  Gavin laughed. “I’m no fashion expert. I haven’t a clue what’s in style these days. But even I’d have to agree with you there.”

  “How long before we know something?”

  “Not sure. All depends on their caseload—you know how that goes—but since we’re dealing with such a high-profile case, I’m hoping we can streamline things a bit, maybe get an answer for you sooner rather than later.”

  “Perfect,” Cameron said. “Anything else?”

  “Actually, there is.” Gavin said, an inkling of apprehension creeping into his voice.

  Cameron sensed the tension, then waited for what had caused it.

  Gavin paused for a moment, cleared his throat. “What’s interesting is that she wasn’t just strangled.”

  Cameron’s confusion caused him to flinch. “Didn’t see any other signs of trauma—I mean—besides a few cuts on the arm and what the animals did to her. Did I miss something?”

  “Yeah, about that … those weren’t animal bites.”

  “Not animal bites?” Cameron said, confused “What then?”

  “Not what … who.”

  Cameron shook his head.

  Gavin studied Cameron’s face for a moment, thinking before speaking. “Those were caused by another human.”