The moment he turned onto Willard, he spotted the squad cars and the Crime Scene Unit van that were parked at the curb in front of a row of town houses.
The inevitable crowd of onlookers had already gathered on the sidewalk. A few of the more aggressively curious pressed against the police cars and shouted questions to the officers manning the yellow-ribboned perimeter, but most of the neighbors kept their distance. They huddled in small groups beneath the catalpa trees or stood alone in their doorways as they watched with a mixture of excitement and fear.
Crime was hardly a stranger in Montrose. The area had more than its share of robberies, domestic disputes and even homicides, but the violence was usually confined to the less sophisticated fringes. The town houses and renovated bungalows were supposed to be a haven for the young, hip professionals who either had no desire to live in or couldn’t afford the more conservative and pricey neighborhoods of West University and Memorial.
So the lawyers, technical consultants and midlevel executives hung back, not wanting to get involved. Not wanting to sully a pleasant morning with the messy reality of murder.
Cahill pulled to the curb behind the Crime Scene Unit and got out. It was late September, but the steamy humidity of a Gulf-coast Indian summer enveloped him like the cloying heat of a South American jungle. There were no orchids here, however. No exotic birds twittering in the treetops as he walked down the street. Just the murmur of voices mingling with the distant spit of a water sprinkler.
He stepped over the crime scene tape and flashed his credentials to the two officers guarding the perimeter. They gave him a curious glance before waving him through, and Cahill headed up a walkway lined with terra-cotta pots of purple bougainvillea and, in the shady areas, African impatiens.
As he approached the front door, he noted the telltale residue of fingerprint powder that still clung to the bronze knocker where the metal had been dusted for latents.
He stood on the stoop, hesitant, for some reason he didn’t understand, to turn the knob and walk inside.
Or maybe he did understand. After fifteen years of chasing monsters, maybe he’d finally had enough. But the apathy wasn’t new. It had been building since Jessie’s attack.
Seeing her in the hospital, so wounded and frightened, had shifted the battlefield for Cahill, and he had found himself confronting a whole new army of monsters—guilt, rage, helplessness. And the knowledge that, for all his skill and training, he hadn’t been able to keep his own daughter safe.
But the other monsters—the sadistic predators who hunted the innocent—refused to give him a reprieve. They kept crawling out of the sewers, drawing him back into the fight, and as Cahill placed his hand on the doorknob, he felt the familiar dread that clutched like a fist around his heart.
Glancing over his shoulder, he scanned the quiet street beyond the small group of spectators gathered near the patrol cars. His attention briefly caught on a man standing on the sidewalk across the street. He carried a newspaper under one arm and a brown paper bag in the opposite hand.
His features were hidden behind aviator-style sunglasses and the bill of a baseball cap, and his head was turned in such a way that Cahill had only a brief glimpse of his profile. Cahill didn’t recognize him, and yet in that one brief moment, he had the uncanny notion that he knew the man.
…I don’t fit any of your profiles because I’m not like any killer you’ve ever known.
The voice on the tape whispered through Cahill’s head so clearly that for a moment, it almost seemed as if he were connecting with the man telepathically.
The man put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. A small, brown terrier shot out of a nearby alley and dashed toward him, leaping and barking excitedly at the bag in the man’s hand.
He reached down and patted the dog’s head as he clipped a leash to his collar. Then the two of them strolled away.
Cahill watched until they were out of sight, then he turned and stepped inside the town house.
THE FIRST THING he noticed was the chill. The thermostat had been set so low that he found himself shivering as he gazed around. Two patrolmen stood at the bottom of the stairs chatting quietly with one another, and from somewhere nearby—the kitchen, he presumed—he could hear the muffled sound of sobbing.
The town house had an open, airy layout and a cool modern decor in beige and steel-blue. Silk draperies covered the windows, and a crystal chandelier hung over a mahogany dining table that had been set for two.
The place was tidy except for the candle wax that had dripped onto the table and the trail of wilted rose petals that led upstairs.
Cahill’s gaze moved from a champagne bucket in the living room to the burned-out candles on the table to the rose petals littering the stairs. The seductive “props” were identical to the photos Lieutenant Mayberry had sent him a few days ago.
The rumble of voices drew him upstairs and, avoiding the petals, he paused once again on the landing to glance around. A set of double doors stood open at the end of the hallway, and from inside came the brisk, professional tone of a CSU investigator as he narrated the setting.
Cahill started down the hallway, his gaze moving over the walls, floor, even the ceiling. The trail of rose petals led straight back to the bedroom, but nothing else seemed out of place except for a faint, exotic scent he couldn’t quite place.
Inside the bedroom, two people—homicide detectives, he assumed—stood at the end of the bed, their gazes locked as one on something Cahill couldn’t yet see.
The woman, a slender brunette dressed in a navy blazer and snug-fitting jeans, spotted him first, and a frown flicked across her brow before she shifted her focus back to the bed. She looked to be in her mid to late thirties, well-dressed, well-groomed, extremely attractive. And she had attitude.
She said nothing to her companion to alert him of Cahill’s presence. It was almost as if by ignoring him, she could pretend he wasn’t there.
“Special Agent Cahill? Sorry I’m late.”
He turned to see Bill Mayberry trudging up the stairs. He was a tall, muscular man dressed in a suit that looked far too heavy for the sticky weather outside, and in spite of the meat-locker temperature inside, sweat glistened along the police lieutenant’s receding hairline.
Cahill knew Mayberry slightly. They’d worked together a few years back on the infamous Boxcar Murders, and his impression of the man was of a hardworking, dedicated cop, seemingly without the ego that sometimes made dealing with local law enforcement personnel a nightmare for federal agents.
“No problem. I just got here myself.” Cahill glanced toward the bedroom. “You’ve got another one, I take it.”
Mayberry nodded, his lined face registering the inevitable weariness of a long career in law enforce ment. “It’s the same deal. Right down to the rose. That’s why I asked you to meet me here.”
“Okay,” Cahill said. “Let’s have a look.”
As they stepped through the bedroom door, the two detectives finally peeled their gazes from the bed and glanced up.
Mayberry waited for the CSU investigator to finish videotaping the crime scene, then he made the introductions. “Sgt. Janet Stryker, Sgt. Barry Reed, both Homicide. They caught the first case, and I’ve put them on this one because they’re familiar with the particulars. This is Special Agent John Cahill with the FBI. He heads up a team in SKURRT that specializes in this kind of thing.”
“SKURRT.” Janet Stryker gave him a cool assessment. “Serial Killer Unit Rapid Response Team, right?”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“You’re a profiler.” The contempt in her voice punctuated the resentment flickering in her eyes.
So here was the ego, Cahill thought. And not testosterone-fueled as he might have imagined. “I’m not a profiler. I’m an investigator. I beat the bushes just like you do.”
Her lip curled in what might have been a sneer before she returned her attention to the bed.
Mayberry had preceded C
ahill into the room, and now he stepped aside to allow Cahill an unimpeded view of the dead woman.
The covers had been stripped away, and she lay on top of a pink satin sheet, her pale, nude body positioned in a funeral pose—legs together and straight out, arms folded over her breasts, hands on top of one another.
A long-stemmed rose had been slipped between her cold fingers, and there were ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. A wider welt encircled her neck.
Her eyes were open, and her long, blond hair was spread so artfully against the pillow that Cahill suspected it had been arranged. She wore makeup—eye shadow, blush, and a deep red lipstick that seemed garish, almost grotesque, against her pale skin.
She wouldn’t have been easily subdued. She was slim, but Cahill could see the hard definition of muscle along her forearms and calves. If she’d known what was coming, she would have fought back, but he couldn’t detect any defense wounds. Her nails were unbroken, and her pallid skin appeared flawless except for the ligature marks and the faint abdominal discoloration of decomposition.
Her clothing—dress, panties, bra—had been discarded on the floor near the bed, but she still wore her high heels. Candles had been arranged all around the room, and like the tapers in the dining room, they’d burned themselves out.
By all indications, she’d been a willing participant. She might even have agreed to the bondage, but by the time she realized it was getting out of hand, it had been too late.
Mayberry muttered an oath. “Do we know who she is?”
“Clare McDonald,” Sgt. Reed supplied. “She was an attorney with Linney, Gardner and Braddock. Their offices are in the Texas National Bank Building downtown. Twenty-eight years old, single, lives alone.”
“Who found her?”
“A friend…Tiffany Beaumont.” Reed was younger than his partner, probably just under thirty, with a boyish face and a nervous demeanor. He kept running his hand up and down his tie. “She came over this morning and persuaded the property manager to let her in. According to Beaumont, she tried to reach McDonald at work yesterday and was told she’d been out for two days without calling in. That wasn’t like her, so Beaumont got worried and started trying to reach her. She left messages on the machine and with McDonald’s voice mail, but McDonald never called her back. When Beaumont got home from a business meeting last night, she started calling again. By morning, she’d worked herself up into a panic, so she hightailed it over here and got the property manager to let her in.”
“Has she been interviewed?”
Sgt. Reed rubbed the corner of his mouth with his forefinger. He seemed to have a lot of nervous mannerisms. “I spoke with her for a few minutes. She was incoherent, for the most part. We’ve got someone with her now trying to calm her down.”
Cahill studied the body and the crime scene, careful not to let his feelings show on his face. Wouldn’t do to let them see how disturbed he was by what he saw. He’d witnessed worse, of course. Much worse. Victims who no longer resembled human beings. Relatively speaking, Clare McDonald had been lucky. She didn’t appear to have been tortured before she died, but Cahill was still deeply affected. It might have been Jessie lying there.
“So what do you think?” Mayberry asked him. “Same guy?”
“Could be,” he murmured.
“Could be?” Something glinted in Janet Stryker’s eyes that Cahill didn’t like. She seemed a little too excited by the prospect of a sensational case, and he thought he knew why. The publicity could do a lot for an ambitious detective’s career, put her on the map, especially if she cultivated a relationship with the media. And Stryker’s gender would certainly work in her favor—a female cop tracking a serial killer.
As if reading his mind, she gave Cahill a contemptuous look. “It has to be the same guy. The setup is identical. Candles, champagne, rose petals leading to the body. That can’t be a coincidence. Obviously, he fancies himself another Casanova.” Her voice turned slightly mocking. “Of course, I’m not the expert here. So why don’t you tell us, Agent Cahill? Are we dealing with a copycat or what?”
Cahill ignored her scathing tone and took a mo ment to gather his thoughts. “As you say, certain aspects of the crime scene are identical to Casanova’s, but with one glaring exception. Casanova raped his victims before he strangled them. I’ve looked over the files you sent me, Lieutenant. There’s no evidence that the other two victims—Ellie Markham and Tina Kerr—were sexually assaulted. We won’t know until after the autopsy, but I’m willing to bet you’re not going to find evidence of penetration here, either. Unlike Casanova, this guy may not be a lust-motivated type of killer. He may not be killing for sexual gratification.”
Janet Stryker lifted a perfectly arched brow. “Oh, no? Then why does he kill?”
“That’s the intriguing part. A copycat may adopt another killer’s modus operandi, even his staging and signature, but make no mistake. He has his own compulsions. His own need to kill. He may be drawn to emulate the other killer for a number of reasons, but ultimately, it’s because it somehow plays into his own fantasy. But this guy…” Cahill paused, frowning. “He could be something completely different. What we call a surrogate.”
Stryker glanced up. “Meaning?”
“He’s not succumbing to his own compulsions. He’s killing to satisfy someone else’s.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?” Stryker moved up beside him, and as she bent over the body, Cahill could smell her perfume. The scent was heavy and intense. Not particularly appealing, he decided. “If he kills, as you say, to satisfy someone else’s compulsions, what’s in it for him?”
“Acceptance. Praise.” Cahill shrugged. “Why do seemingly nice, ordinary women marry death row inmates? They get something from that relationship the rest of us can’t understand.”
“And because they have a screw loose somewhere,” Barry Reed offered from the foot of the bed. He was still rubbing fiercely at the corner of his mouth.
“That, too.” Cahill glanced at Mayberry. “Has anyone spoken to John Allen Stiles since these killings started?”
Stryker turned, her eyes cold, sharp, almost accusing. “You’re not suggesting Stiles is somehow orchestrating these murders from a maximum security prison, are you?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. There’s a thriving subculture created around inmates. The amount of contact they have with the outside world would shock most people. We need to find out if Stiles has had any visitors lately. If he has access to the Internet.”
Mayberry ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Look, if you’re right about this, the press will bury us in a PR nightmare as soon as they start sniffing around. We need to try and keep a lid on this thing until we figure out what we’re dealing with here.”
Cahill nodded. “I agree. The less publicity you give this guy, the better.”
Mayberry turned to the detectives. “I want you two working this case full-time. I’ll get you some help, but I want every lead chased down, I don’t care how slim it seems. Make sure you cross every T and dot every I, you got me? You’re going to have to bust your asses on this one. I’m also making a formal request for assistance from SKURRT. They’ll be able to facilitate anything we need from VICAP and NCIC, as well as offer investigative support,” he said, referring to the FBI’s Violent Crime and Apprehension Program and the National Crime Information Center. His expression grew even sterner. “I expect Agent Cahill’s team to have your full cooperation, understood?”
Reed nodded, but Stryker merely gave Cahill a dismissive glance before turning back to the body. He wondered if she ever got tired of carrying that chip around on her shoulder.
“Another thing. This goes for all of us,” Mayberry continued, but Cahill had a feeling he was mainly addressing Stryker. “No interviews, under any circumstances. Keep your mouths shut and your egos under control. We can’t afford to let this get away from us. The last thing we need is a full-blown panic on our hands.”
It
has been said that murder is the perfect seduction.
I believe that to be true, but far be it from me to offer a sociological analysis of why others take lives. I can only speak for myself in that regard, and as I’ve stated previously, I don’t fit any of your profiles. I’m not like any killer you’ve ever known. I do, however, offer an intriguing observation: The more society turns serial murder into an object of fascination, the more seductive the act becomes.
In other words, the more attention you give us, the more we want to kill.
Think about that while you hunt me.
In a very real sense, you’re searching for a monster of your own creation.
Chapter Three
One week later…
The elevator doors opened and Pru found herself staring up into the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. Not black, as she’d previously thought, but a rich, deep chocolate fringed with jet lashes.
And they were intense. Man, were those eyes intense.
He nodded briefly as he stepped onto the elevator and then turned to face forward. The doors slid closed and as the elevator engaged with a slight jerk, Pru’s heart fluttered, not because of their ascent, but because of John Cahill’s nearness.
After all this time, she couldn’t believe she was still so intimidated by him. She’d first met him five years ago in a criminal investigative analysis course he taught at the academy and, like all the other students in that class, Pru had been fascinated and more than a little awestruck. Cahill had been aloof, intense and, in spite of his youthful appearance, had already spent ten years on the front lines, tracking and apprehending some of the most violent criminals in the country.
Pru had been drawn to him immediately, but to Cahill, she was only one of dozens of fresh-faced, eager agent trainees who’d hung on his every word. He hadn’t given her the time of day back then and, truth be told, Pru would probably have lost a great deal of respect for him if he had. For one thing, the FBI frowned on such fraternization; even more important, he’d been married at the time. Pru had never had much use for husbands who strayed, and she certainly wouldn’t have risked her career for one.
Matters of Seduction Page 3
