by L E Fraser
A fan wrote to me yesterday and I wish to share his letter with you. He is a great admirer of a Dutch sculptor who creates images of naked young males. Since you remain undecided on the wisdom of visiting me, I suggest you view online photos of the statues. Ask yourself if his art reminds you of anything. Does the idea of the fan’s letter tantalize you? You’ll have to visit to discover the rest of the contents.
Some poor young man suffers at the hands of a cruel captor. Are you so weak that you’ll refuse his desperate plea for help because you’re scared to visit?
Forever yours, Incubus
It was ludicrous to suggest visiting him scared her, and she laughed aloud at the lame attempt to manipulate her into doubting Reece’s fidelity. In his last letter, Incubus had stated that the Frozen Statue Killer was a woman. In this one, he referenced a male fan. Was he suggesting that a duo had committed the recent crimes? Neither Hannah nor Bryce believed that a woman was capable of the physical strength needed to stage the frozen statues. A team made sense—the woman lured the male victims and the man disposed of the bodies.
Curious, she searched online for Dutch artists and Danish sculptors but uncovered nothing that resembled Incubus’s vague description. She widened her search and hit a contemporary gallery in Amsterdam. Under one of the artists’ names, Sam found statues of male youths. Maybe these were what Incubus’s “fan” had referenced. Without copies of the crime scene photos, though, she couldn’t tell if the victims’ poses mimicked the sculptures. Curious, Sam texted the webpage link to Hannah. The forensic pathologist called five minutes later.
“Why are you asking if the victims’ staging resembled these poses?”
Lying was pointless. “A fan sent Incubus photos of statues.”
Hannah was silent for a long time. “Bryce Mansfield made it clear that you’re to stand down. My darling, I’m begging you to stop interfering in his investigation.” She sighed. “He knows you came to visit. He was… displeased.”
The staff inspector of homicide had eyes and ears everywhere. She should have considered that someone would recognize her at the FSCC with Hannah and report back to Bryce.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you get in trouble?”
Hannah chuckled. “I did not get in trouble, but he was insistent on knowing why you visited. I reminded him we were friends.”
Sam doubted Bryce had bought that explanation. “What do you think about the poses?”
“All statues are posed,” she retorted.
“But are the poses of the statues on the website identical to the victims’ poses?” Sam asked.
“Absolutely not,” Hannah declared. “My darling, you’re a strong person, but your sister’s death broke you. Incubus doesn’t get to win again. Do not engage with him.”
“I have control, I promise.”
“That’s what manipulated people always think.” Hannah disconnected without saying goodbye.
Hannah was wrong. She had this. A year into her PhD didn’t make her an expert on profiling, but Sam knew Incubus better than most people did. If she kept her guard strong, she could find out what he knew—if anything—about the Frozen Statue Killer. When she had data, she’d share her findings with Bryce Mansfield.
She filled out the online visiting application and information form.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sam
SAM AND BRANDY were snuggling on the sofa, binge-watching HBO’s Westworld, when her cell rang. Reece’s face lit up the smartphone screen.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,” she said. “Where are you?”
“Toronto. Roadside assistance got my car running. Listen, Bryce just called. We’re to meet him at police headquarters,” he said.
Panic flood over her. She ran through plausible excuses for why she had been at FSCC visiting a forensic pathologist. Keep it simple. Best method of lying. She’d say she went to offer belated New Year’s greetings to an old friend.
“Now? It’s after ten.” She infused her voice with curiosity. “Did he say what it’s concerning?”
“Only that it’s urgent. Can you meet me?” Reece’s voice was tight with worry. “Christ, I hope it’s not about Bart.”
Consumed with guilt over Bryce interrogating Hannah, it hadn’t occurred to Sam that he might have information pertaining to Bart. If so, the staff inspector of homicide wouldn’t be inviting them to headquarters to deliver good news.
“I’ll find a cab.”
She tugged on her boots and wrapped a scarf around her neck. As she jogged down the stairs to the Queen Street exit, she stuffed her arms through the sleeves of her jacket. Outside, she glimpsed a woman in a black coat scurrying around the east side of the three-storey warehouse. Darting a look at the deserted street, Sam sprinted after her, but the alley was empty. In the frigid temperature, her eyes watered from the cold as she circled the building. Nothing. No one lurked in the shadows. Returning to the front of the warehouse, Sam stood where she’d spied the woman and gazed up. From this vantage point, she could see clearly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her loft. Gooseflesh crawled across her arms.
A cab idled at a red light on Sumach and she waved it over to the curb and climbed in, a sense of foreboding filling her veins with ice. As they drove, it occurred to her that if roadside assistance had fixed Reece’s car, he should have been home hours ago. Reece was hiding something. Given his devotion to honesty, it was a ridiculous notion. But where had he been? By the time she reached police headquarters and rode the elevator to homicide, she was convinced that Reece was indeed lying to her.
The elevator doors slid open to reveal Reece pacing. “Bryce is waiting.” He took her arm and tugged her toward the staff inspector’s office.
She dug in her heels and refused to budge. Plainclothes detectives and uniformed constables skirted around them. She stepped out of the traffic zone and leaned against the strip of wall between the two elevators.
“Where have you been for the past five hours?” she asked.
“What?”
“Where were you?”
He blew his breath out in an exaggerated sigh. “I had stuff for school.”
“Why didn’t you call or text?”
“My charger wasn’t working.”
“Then how did Bryce reach you?” she asked.
He studied her with a quizzical expression. “I borrowed a charger at study group. What’s going on?”
Before she could drill him any further, Bryce gestured impatiently from his office. Reece waved and headed across the bullpen, leaving Sam to follow.
Bryce had undone the top button of his wrinkled dress shirt and removed his tie. A rogue tuft of hair stuck up on his head, adding to his dishevelled appearance. A vein in his forehead throbbed, grey stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, and his pale blue eyes were bloodshot. His surly expression suggested he was in a toxic mood.
Bryce closed his office door. He circled his cluttered desk and sat, shoving aside a stack of file folders. “We have a suspect in the frozen statue killings. I’m sorry, but it’s not good news for your friend’s son, Bart Walsh.” A paper cup wobbled on the edge of the desk, and Bryce grabbed it before it tumbled to the floor. “The suspect is Angelina Stuart. Reece, I need you to tell me everything you know about her.”
“Bart’s girlfriend?” Sam sputtered, stunned.
“What evidence do you have?” Reece asked.
Sam couldn’t read his tone or expression but the slight slouch of his shoulders and the way he rested his arms on his legs conveyed sad resignation.
“She’s enrolled at the University of Toronto in third-year biochemistry,” Bryce said. “She was an honour student on the dean’s list but stopped attending classes in November and didn’t write her semester exams. She has the skill to convert potassium cyanide to a gas. The university has confirmed there is a quantity of cyanide and sulfuric acid unaccounted for in a lab she had access to.”
Sam frowned. “But Bart’s girlfriend w
as studying business.”
Bryce glowered. “Angelina Stuart is his girlfriend, correct?”
Sam nodded.
“The University confirmed she is… or was enrolled in biochemistry. She vacated her apartment without notice three months ago and no one has seen her since. We have confirmation that she bought a bag of twenty-five-millimetre black marbles online with her credit card. They were delivered to a mailbox service rented under her name.”
“A match to the black stones in the victims’ eyes?” Reece asked.
“Unconfirmed at this time,” Bryce said.
Something didn’t sit right with Sam. It was incredibly stupid to purchase the stones online and have them sent to a mailbox you rented. Serial killers were seldom complete idiots. Their high intellect and cunning were how they survived.
“What else?” Reece asked.
“Friends and family of Lester and Micha have stated that the victims had a relationship with Angelina Stuart,” Bryce said brusquely. “Including Bart, we’ve confirmed that four freshmen are still missing. They all met her on Bumble, a dating app.”
“That’s weak,” Sam argued. “If she’s also missing, there are too many unknown variables. And—”
“Sam, stop,” Bryce ordered. “You’re here as a courtesy because you brought Bart Walsh to our attention. I’ve said all I intend to say about the case. Neither of you has clearance in my investigation. You’re here to help me, not the other way around.”
“But—”
Bryce held up his hand to stop her from speaking. “I asked you nicely to stay out of my investigation, a directive you chose to ignore. Now I’m ordering you to stay out of it.” He crushed the paper coffee cup in his fist and held Sam’s eyes. “If you continue to seek confidential information about my case from your friends, I will view your actions as obstruction. Am I making myself clear?”
Reece turned in his chair and scowled at her. “What friends?”
She ignored him. “Have you told Bart’s parents?”
Bryce nodded. “Detectives spoke with them this evening.”
“Have you any idea where Angel is?” Reece asked.
“Not at this time,” Bryce said. “We’re withholding her name from the press.”
Police didn’t want to tip her off that she was their key suspect in the murders. That was the first thing Bryce had said that made any sense to Sam.
Bryce stood and walked to his office door. “I need a word with Reece.” He opened the door and waited for her to leave.
Dazed and embarrassed, Sam stood and exited the room with as much dignity as she could muster. So Bryce had summoned her to his office to deliver a scolding and a threat. But what did Bryce think Reece could tell the police about Angelina?
Before the door latched behind her, she overhead Bryce say to Reece, “What was Sarah’s relationship like with—”
The door closed, cutting off the rest of his question.
The only “Sarah” she knew of was Reece’s ex-girlfriend. He seldom spoke of her. All she knew was that he had met Sarah at university and that she had died of breast cancer eight years ago. She didn’t even know the woman’s last name. A cold shiver of dread ran up her back.
The second that Margaret had told them Angelina’s name, Reece had known exactly who she was. And her partner hadn’t whispered a word.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Reece
THE DRIVE BACK to the loft was wretched. Reece tried to initiate a conversation, but Sam sat rigid and silent in the passenger seat, glaring out the window. He should have told her the truth days ago. From Reece’s limited experience with deceit, after the person you duped discovered the lie, trying to justify your dishonesty never worked.
Before he’d even put the Camry in park, Sam was out of the car and stomping through a fresh blanket of ankle-deep snow. The door to the warehouse slammed behind her. He grabbed his backpack full of law books from the backseat and trudged to the entrance. His guilt and anxiety increased with each step.
In the loft, Sam was busy shutting all the window treatments across the south wall. In the two years he’d lived with her, he couldn’t recall her ever closing the electric-powered blinds. She stood with her arms clamped across her chest and watched them descend.
Reece dropped his wallet, cell, and keys on the antique church altar by the front door. He’d rescued the piece from a demolition site in Uthisca when they tore down a 1792 Quaker church. Bart had spent hours helping him refinish the maple to its original glory. Now Bart was gone and in danger. All because of a bad decision Reece had made in the past.
Keeping an eye on Sam’s unyielding back, he opened an expensive Riesling he’d been saving. He poured two glasses and crossed the open-concept space to the living area, where Brandy slept on the corner of a dove-grey leather sofa. He placed a crystal glass on an onyx table beside Sam, who stood motionless with her back to the room. Her jawline was stiff. She was grinding her teeth. If she clenched her upper arms any tighter, she’d leave bruises.
“You have every right to be confused, hurt, and angry,” he said.
She didn’t respond, but she picked up her glass and sipped the cold Riesling. He took that as a good sign. At least she was willing to listen.
“Angelina Stuart is my ex-girlfriend’s younger sister.”
She turned and met his steady gaze, and he cringed at the fury on her face.
“You’ve known this ever since Margaret arrived at our office.” Her green eyes shot daggers at him. “Is this how bad our relationship has become?”
She gulped her half-glass of wine and marched into the kitchen. “You made a fool out of me in front of Bryce.” Her voice caught. “Not once, but twice.” She swiped her knuckle against a tear-filled eye and the wine bottle shook in her hand as she poured.
He carried his glass to the kitchen and sat on one of the island stools. “I’d like to tell you what happened with Angelina. It’s going to change the way you see me.” A lump formed in the back of his throat.
She didn’t respond, but she topped up his wine and stood facing him across the island with her arms folded. Reece couldn’t look at her. Witnessing her repulsion would destroy him.
He licked his lips and swallowed. “I don’t know where to start.”
“At the beginning.” Her voice was acidic.
He kept his eyes glued to the top of the island. “I was with the OPP at the County of Wellington detachment in Rockwood. My parents and twin brother died in a car crash that summer. Sarah attended the University of Guelph.” He took a shaky breath.
“And?” Sam said.
“I wasn’t dealing with the death of my family. I was a jerk, enjoying lots of meaningless one-night stands. A buddy invited me to a party on campus and I went.”
He sipped his Riesling and tried to sort out the events from twelve years ago. “I was five years older than Sarah was. Too old to be messing around with a nineteen-year-old. But Sarah was mature and accomplished. At least I thought so, at first.”
None of this mattered. What mattered was Angel. But he was grateful that Sam didn’t interrupt. She was letting him narrate in his own way, which was more than he deserved.
“Sarah lived with her parents and we spent a lot of time in Guelph at her house. Her sister was thirteen. Angelina was… different.”
“How?” Sam asked.
He considered how to describe the timid girl with the wounded eyes. “She told stories and fibbed.” He sighed. “But that wasn’t why Sarah was cruel to her sister.”
“What do you mean, ‘cruel’?”
“She tortured her,” he admitted.
Sam frowned. “How?”
Reece focused his gaze on his folded hands. “One afternoon, Sarah asked me to sneak over and block the door of their downstairs bathroom when Angel was using the toilet.” The memory still made his stomach turn. “She said she wanted to play a prank on her. The bathroom had two doors. I was at the one that accessed the back-door foyer. The other door o
pened into the main floor corridor, off the kitchen. Sarah tiptoed over to that door. I had no idea what she was planning.” He took a sip of wine in a feeble attempt to stall.
Sam waited in silence.
“The bathroom door had a pop lock. I heard Sarah jam something into it to force it open,” he said. “Meanwhile, I held the second door closed. I heard Sarah burst into the bathroom, and a scuffle, and then Angel screaming. My door handle started to turn, and then I felt Angel throw her weight against it, trying to get out.” Reece had to stop. The memory of those screams overwhelmed him.
“You were an adult and a cop. She was a child. Why wouldn’t you open the door?” Sam asked.
“If I’d thwarted Sarah’s game, she’d have been furious. Going along with her was easier than the alternative. But I did open the door.” The ugly truth taunted him. “Angel was hysterical by then,” he admitted.
“Okay, Sarah invaded her sister’s privacy by going into the bathroom and embarrassing her,” Sam said with confusion. “Was there more to it?”
“Sarah had a can of wet dog food,” he said. “She’d bent back the sharp edge of the lid. While Angel was helpless on the toilet, Sarah smeared dog food over her sister’s face. When I jerked open the door, Angel fell into my arms. The dog food was up her nose and inside her mouth. She clung to me for a moment, but she suddenly realized I wasn’t on her side at all—I’d blocked her escape and let her sister attack her.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Angel’s expression haunts me. It was as if in that instant, she accepted that she was helpless to prevent people’s cruelty.” He drained his wine and reached for the bottle.
Self-disgust flooded over him. He took a sip of wine and then set down the glass. There was more to the story. He owed Sam honesty, if nothing else. “The lid’s razor edge had cut Angel’s cheek, hands, and forearms,” he whispered.
“Defensive wounds,” she said.
“The cut on her cheek required stitches.” His voice was barely audible. “She’d vomited and was choking. I had to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre. Sarah actually laughed when a chunk of dog food flew from her sister’s throat.”
