by L E Fraser
Unlike the white lily that tormented her.
“Your imagination is running amok and it stops here,” Bryce concluded.
Refusing to back down, she asked, “Who did the autopsies? Was it Dr. Morgenstern?”
“Enough, Sam. We’re done here.” Bryce stood. “Police will undertake the search for Bart Walsh. The two of you stand down.” He pointed his finger at her. “Three years ago, you chose to resign rather than defending your actions to Internal Affairs. You are not a cop. You are not involved. We’ve got this.”
Reece glared at her. “I need a minute with Bryce. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“Excuse me?”
Reece stood and opened the door. “See you downstairs.”
For a second she stood motionless in shocked embarrassment. Reece matched her stare with a hard scowl.
“Fine,” she said tersely. “I’ll see you at home.” It came out as more of a threat than a statement.
She stormed out of the office and marched across the bullpen, ignoring the greetings from some of the cops she knew. Blood rushed to her face and tears burned at the backs of her eyes. At the elevators, she pounded on the button and lowered her head.
That loving, supportive talk she’d planned was off the table now. She was getting answers, even if she had to pull them from Reece by force.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sam
RATHER THAN GOING home to brood over Reece’s disrespectful behaviour, Sam went to the gym. A high-impact mixed martial arts class was about to start, so she suited up and joined, planning to use the class to release some of her anger. An instructor paired her with a woman the same height and weight as her for some sparring, and Sam was confident she’d win easily. It took a hot minute for her opponent to get her in submission. Not even five minutes into the fight, she had to tap out to concede the match. With a smug grin, her challenger held out a hand and suggested Sam take some intermediate lessons before hitting the advanced mats again. At least the physical pain was dampening her distress about her souring relationship, but the humiliation just added to the sting of Reece’s insulting behaviour at police headquarters.
She limped home and found the loft empty—a blessing, considering how beat-up she was. Brandy gazed up from her dog bed and thumped her tail, but stayed where she was. Sam tossed a stack of mail on the kitchen table and knelt beside her dog. She petted the silky head and kissed the cold nose, blinking back a sudden rush of tears. The thought of never bundling her beloved dog into bed for snuggles or hearing the tap of her toenails against the floor was too painful to consider. Not now. Not with Reece acting distant and contentious. She reached for the treat jar and gave Brandy a dehydrated chicken strip. Relief flooded over her when the dog gobbled it in a single bite.
She gave Brandy another kiss on the head, stood with a groan, and went upstairs to stand under a hot shower. An ugly bruise on her side hurt, but at least her face wasn’t marked. Today was the kind of day when you found solace in small things because everything else sucked.
Feeling slightly restored, she pulled on a soft T-shirt and sweatpants, descended the ladder staircase, and went into the kitchen to grab a glass of wine. Their friends, Lisa and Jim, had given her and Reece a bottle of Chardonnay from a case they’d bought last summer during a Pelee Island wine tour. Sam grabbed a glass from the cupboard, uncorked the bottle, and poured herself a generous glass. Sitting at the table, she sipped wine and savoured the cool liquid flowing down her dry throat. Hints of honey lingered on her tongue. Maybe she’d cork the bottle and save it for dinner. Reece was a wine connoisseur and he’d appreciate the velvety feel of the golden Chardonnay.
He hadn’t called or texted her, so she assumed he was coming home for dinner. Since he hadn’t come home after meeting with Bryce, he’d probably headed straight to that damn study group that was hogging all his time. Still sipping her wine, she considered how to approach him about his behaviour. From experience, she knew that an act of kindness was a better way to open a difficult conversation than indignant aggression was. She’d make dinner. Reece was a fantastic cook. Her, not so much. But her dad had taught her to make chilli and she could handle peanut butter cookies for dessert.
Leaving her wine glass on the table, she dug around the kitchen cupboards and it delighted her to find all the ingredients she needed for dinner. After popping her iPod onto the docking station and cranking up the volume, she set to work. Brandy perked up and followed her around the kitchen to munch on dropped morsels. An hour later, fragrant chili bubbled on the Viking range and cookies cooled on a rack. Fabulous aromas filled the warm loft and sunlight flooded through the windows.
Sam turned the chili down and picked up the stack of mail, flipping through it absently. She put a service reminder from Reece’s car dealership on the centre of the table where he’d see it. Underneath the hydro bill, she found a white envelope with a Millhaven Institution return address. She dropped the letter on the table.
Her inner psychologist voice warned her that Incubus was trying to worm into her head and mess with her. She’d tried to kill him, after all. She’d put him in jail for the rest of his disgusting life. Best to leave it alone, whispered that voice.
The investigator half of her was curious. Antisocial personalities like Incubus understood other psychopaths’ deviance better than behavioural scientists did. If the monster held some insight into the recent murders, Sam owed it to the missing students to compartmentalize her personal feelings and investigate. Two young men were dead and police couldn’t confirm the location of the other missing freshmen. As she’d grudgingly realized this morning, Bart fit the victimology of the dead students.
Spinning the letter on the tabletop, she chewed her lower lip. Procrastinating wouldn’t change the outcome. She opened the envelope and removed the sheets of paper.
Dear Samantha,
A second victim. How delightful that I predicted the subsequent murder and the media’s unimaginative “Frozen Statue Killer” placeholder. I’m certain our forthcoming visit excites you. Together we will thwart this inept copycat’s attempts to disparage my talent.
If it perplexes you why I’d bestow the lavish gift of my collaboration upon you, let me clarify. As I lay in agonizing pain having my burns scraped with a wire brush, I grew to revere your acumen and luck. By God’s celestial grace, the fire only deformed your hands. Most women would wear gloves to hide such repulsive scars. Of course, most women are more feminine, aren’t they?
Before we discuss your trifling favour in reciprocation for my generous assistance, I offer congratulations. I learned of your mother’s battle with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. As Grace’s memory rots, do you witness grief wash across her face each time you remind her of your sister’s death? Do you assure her that Joyce dances on angel wings amid the clouds? I think not. I believe you whisper in her ear that Joyce burns in perdition as Lucifer’s minion.
On to my proposition. The idea took root after I had weeded through a multitude of requests from the tedious psychiatrists, psychologists, and graduate students who grovel to spend time with me. Conversing with pedantic scholars is unfulfilling. Where is my recompense? And then, last year, I had an epiphany. The masses have an insipid fascination with serial killers. My brilliance will enthrall them. As will be evident to you from my letters, I’m a gifted writer. I have penned a true-crime novel entitled The Adventures of Incubus. The dilemma is Canada’s law prohibiting offenders from profiting by recounting their crimes. You, then, will take credit for the masterpiece. Prior to submitting my manuscript to a publisher, you will insert moralizing dashes of psychological babble to appease the critics. Our novel is sure to be a bestseller. In exchange for my generosity—with the book and with my assistance on this case—you will convince your friend, Jim Stipelli, to defend me pro bono at my appeal. With the assistance of the best criminal defence lawyer in Canada, I’m certain to emerge victorious.
To whet your appetite and as a show of goodwill, I will tel
l you that the Frozen Statue Killer is not a man. That should be obvious. Poison is the fairer sex’s weapon of choice. Obtuse criminologists will contend that a female cannot execute the labour-intensive preparation and staging of the body. They will argue that women sociopaths seldom work alone. They will be wrong on both counts.
I venture to guess (and I’ve been correct so far) that she has additional victims in her grasp. Unlike me, she enjoys psychologically torturing them prior to killing them. She is a pedestrian creature, rather than an artist. Much of her gratification comes from witnessing her victims break mentally. That requires time. Intelligent ones cling to mental acuity and deny her pleasure. She will have one whom she plays with to terrorize the others. Anticipatory stress is a powerful tool to induce fear.
If you identify the primary kill zone, you’ll find survivors. I can help you attain that goal. Assuming, of course, you consent to meet me and bring with you a letter from Jim Stipelli agreeing to represent me at appeal. Otherwise, the Frozen Statue Killer may exceed my number of victims and undermine my fame.
These young men depend on you, Samantha. If you refuse my help, their innocent blood will coat your hands.
Forever yours, Incubus
PS: It might be best to keep our association secret from your betrothed.
The wine turned sour in her stomach and acid bubbled into her throat. Incubus’s intimate words danced behind her eyelids and a fresh wave of nausea rolled over her.
“Their” book, as if she was his best chum. Mixed with her repulsion was stone-cold fear. How did he know her mother had early-onset Alzheimer’s disease? And his assumption that she took pleasure in torturing her mother by reminding her of Joyce’s brutal murder appalled Sam. She was not a monster. She was nothing like him.
She held the foul letter between the edges of her fingernails and burned it in the sink. After gathering up the charred remains and putting them in the trash, she scrubbed her hands with dish soap and scalding water until the puckered skin across the burn scars stung. The aroma of chili made her stomach flip-flop again. She knelt and searched through the liquor cupboard, grabbing a bottle of Kentucky bourbon.
“Compartmentalize and focus,” she whispered.
She poured two fingers of bourbon into her empty wine glass and threw it down her throat, choking as the fiery alcohol travelled to her stomach. Her heartbeat slowed in response to the warmth that blanketed her belly.
Could the Frozen Statue Killer be female? It was improbable because the killer would have to subdue each victim during abduction. Micha Washington had had military training. He would have fought an assailant.
Leaving the glass and bottle on the kitchen table, she crossed the loft and stood in front of the windows. Delicate condensation on the interior glass testified to the brittle cold temperature outside. She drew an infinity sign through the moisture and wrapped her arms around her waist, wincing when her fingers nudged the bruise on her side.
If it was a woman, she could have drugged her victims. Rohypnol, GHB, and ketamine were all club drugs that would mentally incapacitate a victim without rendering him unconscious. Alternatively, the killer could have orchestrated an impromptu meeting with her victims. Most men would willingly approach a woman, confident they weren’t in danger. A promise of sex was an influential incentive. But how could a woman transport a frozen male corpse to a remote area of waterfront park without leaving evidence? The more Sam thought about it, the more convinced she was that the perpetrator was male. Incubus was a gifted manipulator and she wasn’t playing his deranged game.
Her phone chirped and she took it out of her pocket and read the text.
Study group. Assign due am. CU 2moro. Talk then. Luv U.
Reece was staying out all night again. She tried to squash her resentment. All third-year law students coveted a position in that study group because the members excelled and caught the eye of prestigious law firms. If Reece didn’t adhere to the group’s gruelling schedule and strict attendance rules, they’d kick him out. It was time to pull up her big-girl panties and give Reece space to figure out how to balance school, work, and their relationship. He’d done it for her last year when she was struggling with her PhD. Now that she’d found work–life balance, her fiancé didn’t have any.
She packed the home-baked cookies into a container and turned off the burner under the pot of simmering chili.
Karma was a bitch.
CHAPTER NINE
Reece
THE ALL-NIGHT study sessions were driving Reece nuts. Most groups stopped when the law library locked its doors at eleven p.m. But the students in his group were night owls and insisted on meeting late and working into the wee hours of the morning. Reece had spent all night hunched over a rickety kitchen table in a freezing basement apartment that reeked of urine and pot.
It wasn’t just the timing of the study sessions. The kids in his group irritated the hell out of him. He was stuck in a generation gap where he was the old codger. When they weren’t on their phones, they were quibbling over semantics and engaging in lengthy debates on strategy. Whenever Reece pointed out a law enforcement inconsistency in their argument, they’d freak out over the criticism.
Getting kicked out of the group before he secured an articling position for next year would be tantamount to career suicide. And he needed their help to keep his marks high, which wounded his pride. At thirty-eight, law school should be a cakewalk for him. It wasn’t. And it upset him that he was taking out his frustration on Sam, rather than finding a constructive way to deal with the issue.
Concentrating last night had been a nightmare because of how he’d left things with her at police headquarters. He’d acted like a total jerk. Confessing in private to Bryce had removed a weight from his shoulders, but it hadn’t done his relationship any favours. He’d intended to go home after class and admit his deception to Sam. But after class, he’d received an urgent text to meet the study group. If he hadn’t gone, he would have failed the assignment. Things were spinning out of control.
At least he’d had the sense to reach out to Margaret and warn her about the police involvement into her brother’s disappearance. He’d called her the second he left Bryce’s office. Margaret had promised to talk to her parents before detectives arrived to question them, but Harry and Betty Walsh were good friends and Reece had to disclose what he knew about Bart’s girlfriend. And he couldn’t do that until he told Sam. School was messing up every relationship he valued. Major damage control was in order, and it began with confessing to Sam.
When he trudged into the loft at a little past seven in the morning, he heard the shower running upstairs. He shuffled to the kitchen and popped an espresso disc in the Tassimo. Beside the coffee machine was a container of homemade cookies. Sam never baked. Confused, Reece opened the fridge and lifted a red cover off a plastic container. Piled inside was homemade chili. She’d cooked a nice dinner and he hadn’t come home. He was a total dick and a cowardly liar. Filled with self-disgust, he flipped through the mail on the kitchen table. His hand paused at an empty envelope with a Millhaven Institution return address.
He crushed the envelope in his fist and threw it. It hit the corner of the marble countertop and bounced to the hemlock floor. Reece knelt beneath the sink, opened the cupboard, and flicked aside a wet paper towel from the top of the garbage. Perched on an onionskin he spied a corner of charred paper. After she’d read the psychopath’s letter, she’d burned it. So long as Incubus lived, Sam would never be free of his evil.
With calculated coldness, an unbidden thought drifted through his exhaustion. Pay an inmate inside Millhaven to shank the psychopath.
Jesus, what the hell was happening to him? He wasn’t the kind of person who considered hiring a killer. He gulped his espresso and the scalding liquid burned the roof of his mouth.
Reece tried to focus on why Incubus would write Sam now. He considered her insistence in Bryce’s office that there were similarities between the new murders and Incubus�
�s crimes. His gaze dropped to the wrinkled envelope on the floor. It clicked. This wasn’t the first letter. Reece dumped the kitchen garbage and rifled through the pile of rubbish. At the bottom, he found a second envelope and checked the postmark. So the animal had originally written following the police’s discovery of the first victim. Then he’d written again, when authorities found the second body. Incubus was fucking with Sam’s head and she was keeping it a secret.
“What are you doing?”
He continued rummaging through the heap of trash. “Searching for the letter.”
It wasn’t there and he turned to stare up at her, challenging her to deny the letter’s existence.
Her eyes darted to the crushed envelope in the middle of the kitchen floor. “I burned it.”
Reece tidied the garbage off the floor and grabbed a fresh bag for the can. “And the first one?”
“I… I burned it, too. Please don’t make a big deal out of this.” She snatched the envelope, opened the bag he’d finished tying, and disposed of the envelope.
He squeezed soap on a dishcloth and cleaned the floor. “Did you read it?”
“I don’t read them.”
“Don’t lie to me.” His tone was sharper than he’d intended. Shame rolled over him. What a judgemental hypocrite he was. He was concealing a major secret and had the nerve to accuse her of lying.
She leaned against the edge of the sink. “You look terrible. How was study group?”
“What did the letter say?” he inquired calmly.
She sighed. “He sees a similarity between these new crimes and his work. He thinks it’s a copycat.”
“Why didn’t you keep the letter and show it to Bryce?” Reece was sure he knew the answer. Incubus was his fiancée’s obsession. Sam held onto her wrath and hate, refusing to admit to anyone—including herself—the power those emotions gave her nemesis.
She grabbed cream from the refrigerator and prepared a mug of coffee. “You heard Bryce yesterday. He denies any connection. Besides, Incubus will only share his theory in person.”
