Haunting Whispers

by V. K. Powell

  She couldn’t bear the anguish on Audrey’s face or her resulting Pavlovian response to come to her rescue. Audrey looked like a child who’d come home and found her family moved without her. Rae felt capable only of doing her job, but that wouldn’t address the other desires that Audrey Everhart conjured up in her.

  Rae felt the attraction between them, the edge of interest every time they were near. But the look in Audrey’s eyes each time she avoided Rae’s touch had been one of shock and maybe a bit of fear. Still, the current that sparked between them was real, desire so thick it was almost edible. If Rae couldn’t maintain a professional distance, perhaps she was as inadequate a cop as she was a partner.

  Audrey Everhart sparked suspicion in her like a match in dry timber. Audrey’s soft voice made Rae irrationally want to believe anything she said. But Rae’s twelve-year career had taught her that people always had a motive for their behavior.

  As Rae approached the door to leave, she remembered her reason for the visit. She’d forgotten all about Jeremy Sutton and hated to bring him up now. She couldn’t return to Sergeant Sharp without answers.

  “Audrey, I’m sorry. I have to ask about Jeremy Sutton. Did you go to his place?”

  The pained expression returned to Audrey’s face. Her shoulders slumped and she appeared exhausted. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you, I wanted to handle it myself. I thought he might be connected to my assault. Obviously I was mistaken. We chatted a few minutes and I left. Why?”

  “He was murdered yesterday.” Rae had delivered death notices many times and could read the range of emotions from barely fazed to totally debilitated. Audrey Everhart seemed completely shocked. She paled and grabbed the door for support. She clearly had no idea and absolutely nothing to do with Sutton’s death.

  “How…what…why?”

  “His throat was slashed. No idea why. The homicide squad is investigating. Someone will come by to question you later, I’m sure. They found your prints at the scene.”

  “Was this my fault? Because I went to his house?”

  What a strange question. Why would Audrey’s visit endanger Jeremy Sutton? Did she also know more about his death than she was saying? An uncomfortable gnawing sensation settled in Rae’s gut again. She expected suspicion when dealing with suspects, but not with victims. It always surprised her when it happened.

  *

  Arya hadn’t planned to kill anyone. He was supposed to watch over her, protect her, and eventually claim her. He followed her to a stranger’s house and stared in disbelief as she went inside. She didn’t know this man. During his weeks of surveillance, she had never visited the location before. Why did she constantly place herself in danger, first at the community center and now this? She needed him more than he’d realized. When she walked into the house, Arya resisted the temptation to break down the door and rescue her. Instead he’d crept to a side window and watched their interaction, ready at any moment to defend her.

  They talked about him. She was trying to find him but didn’t know it. He smiled, happy that she sought him even without knowing who he was. She sensed him, just as he’d imagined the first time they’d met. Their lives were intertwined, of that he was certain. Soon she would understand why they had to wait, why he couldn’t go to her as they both wanted. In the meantime, he kept constant vigil, keeping her safe and unspoiled.

  Then it happened. As she walked out the door, the man stopped her. He captured her small, delicate hand and clung like a predator. The familiarity of the image seared into Arya’s brain like a brand. His blood pounded fast and hot. No one could touch her except him. This man dared to violate the sanctity of his agreement with her. He would be held accountable.

  Arya escorted her home and made sure she was safely inside before returning to the man’s house. When darkness came, he knocked on the door. As it opened, Arya struck, one quick slash across the throat at the precise spot. He spun sideways, avoiding the scarlet spray, and watched as his prey staggered backward and slumped to the floor.

  “You should not have grabbed her. She is mine.” Arya whispered loud enough for him to hear. The dying man’s eyes grew wide, lost their shimmer, then clouded over. He debated severing the man’s hands for touching her, but the longer he stayed the greater the chance of being seen or leaving evidence. Arya waited until death was his only companion in the room then slipped out.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning Rae sat in the university coffee shop, Ken Whitt’s choice, not hers, waiting for him to arrive. People darted through the small café securing their early fixes of caffeine, sugar, and news before heading to work or school. Faculty members stuck out from students, each in their personalized version of the academic uniform, each making her uncomfortable in a different way.

  She’d spent her youth working instead of getting an education. Her decision often made her feel out of step with her more educated peers. The professors evoked deeper, more personal responses—inadequacy and failure. Janet had left their relationship for one of her own kind. Rae evaluated each person and imagined what he or she possessed that she didn’t, besides a degree.

  Such thinking only confused her and kept her rooted in the past. She sipped her bitter, almost-cold espresso and read the class notes her advisor, Mrs. Cowan, had forwarded. Her professors had agreed to let her take finals if she made up the work she’d missed. Exams began in a few days, and she was nowhere near ready.

  “Heard you missed a few classes. Is everything okay?”

  This is why she hadn’t wanted to meet Ken Whitt here. She’d reasoned that it was Janet’s day off so the likelihood of running into her was minute. So much for reason. Janet’s voice contained a hint of concern, which elicited conflicting emotions. Rae took a few seconds, calmed her breathing, and finally looked up.

  Janet looked as beautiful as ever. Her tailored business suit clung to her curves, and an open-necked blouse flashed a tasteful exposure of flesh. Her jet-black hair was closely trimmed and accented high cheekbones. The brown of her eyes shimmered with flecks of gold that Rae associated with excitement. In spite of her mental protests, Rae’s body responded as it usually did to Janet, with arousal. And, damn, Janet knew it.

  Without asking, she sat down next to Rae, laid her hand over Rae’s forearm, and squeezed. “I miss you.” She’d always admired Janet’s ability to get to the point, but now she hated it. She didn’t want or need to hear that, true or not. “I’m serious, Rae.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed my phone ringing constantly since you left.” Rae regretted the angry sarcasm in her voice, a dead giveaway that Janet’s betrayal still hurt.

  “I know you’re upset and I don’t blame you. I handled the situation badly. Will you give me a chance to explain? Can we talk sometime? Not here.” She looked around as if someone might overhear. If this campus mirrored other microcosms of society, everybody already knew they’d broken up and why. The gossip probably made the grapevine for a day or two before the academic community became bored.

  “We don’t have anything to talk about, Janet. You made it clear I’m not what you want.”

  Janet raised Rae’s hand to her lips and lightly kissed the backside. “That is so not true. I’ve always loved you. You were never there for me.”

  “My job is unpredictable and so are my hours.”

  “It wasn’t all about the job, Rae. Even when you were there, you weren’t. It’s almost like you stopped feeling, stopped caring. I don’t know if it was your work or me.”

  Why couldn’t she tell Janet the truth? She’d felt left out of a relationship that used to sustain her. The nagging about college felt more like criticism than encouragement—more a validation of Janet’s stature than Rae’s self-improvement. Maybe she’d used that as an excuse as her feelings waned. As much as she wanted a scapegoat, it wasn’t fair to blame Janet entirely for the failure of their relationship.

  “It was both, the work and us.” It surprised Rae how easi
ly she’d given up, yet the anger and disappointment over Janet’s betrayal remained. Janet cheated for months, and Rae hadn’t seen it. Maybe her anger was self-directed.

  “Can we talk about this? Please, Rae.” Her grip on Rae’s arm tightened.

  “Excuse me. I’m obviously interrupting.” Ken Whitt stood behind Janet, eyeing her hold on Rae’s forearm.

  Rae didn’t bother explaining. She’d been open with her squad and her sexual preference had never been an issue. The guys had just become less guarded in their discussions about women. Ken Whitt, though, was always a gentleman—watching, appreciating, but seldom commenting. “It’s okay, Ken, we’re finished here.” Rae stood and shook his hand before turning back to Janet. “I’m sorry, this is business.”

  She could tell by Janet’s expression that she wanted to fling a sarcastic comment. Instead she said, “I’ll call you…about that talk.”

  Rae didn’t respond.

  As Janet walked off, Ken gave her an appraising once-over and nodded at Rae as if to say nice choice. They engaged in small talk about mutual acquaintances and sized each other up for several minutes. The ritual resembled a gut polygraph—establishing a baseline to determine normal responses before moving on to challenging topics. While they knew each other, they’d never worked closely together on a case. The feeling-out process was a must.

  Whitt looked like an average man by conventional standards. He’d be unremarkable in a lineup, as likely to be identified based on his similarities to everyone else than by any differences. The two things most often associated with Ken Whitt were his newsboy-style cap and his devotion. Behind his back the guys affectionately referred to him as Mother Ken. He worried about everything: cases, victims, fellow officers, and his family and friends. He would fret about all his unsolved cases after retirement, especially the serious ones.

  “How did you get so unlucky to draw the Whisperer cases?” The question seemed innocent enough. Was Whitt implying she wasn’t qualified, or was her insecurity showing again?

  “Maybe Not So wants somebody to blame when it all goes sideways.”

  “Not even that self-serving douche bag would be so stupid. You’re a good detective and he at least knows that much.” Rae relaxed a little. Ken Whitt was investigative royalty, and his comment was as close to a compliment as she’d ever get. “Now, what can I do for you? All my notes are in the case file.”

  “But we don’t always put everything in our heads in the file, do we?”

  Whitt pushed back his cap and scratched the top of his balding head. “See, like I said, smart. Where do you want to start?”

  “What did your instincts tell you about this guy, things you couldn’t prove?” Rae had read the file several times and wasn’t interested in the facts now. She wanted the intangibles that floated around the edges of a case, the bits that stuck in a cop’s mind and often led to arrests. These details were never written down, could never be used in a court of law, and would be completely useless in the hands of a rookie; yet they were investigative gold.

  “The obvious thing, he’s a flaming psychopath.”

  Rae smiled at his choice of words. In the two years she’d worked with Whitt before he retired, she’d never heard him say one curse word. That alone made him an anomaly in law enforcement, and she admired him for it.

  “He’s got to have some type of ploy to get close to these women. They don’t walk up to him and offer to be kidnapped and mutilated. It takes a sick person to do what he does to them. But I never understood why he didn’t kill them. He came close enough.”

  The same question had occurred to Rae. Rage or passion seemed to fuel the injuries, but those types of suspects were often impulsive and disorganized. It was as if an apparition had committed the crimes, the scenes entirely scrubbed of evidence. That took planning and a tremendous amount of control.

  Rae nodded her agreement. “He might kill soon. He’s getting more violent.”

  “I always thought this guy was military. I never had any concrete proof, just a gut thing.”

  Rae’s skin dimpled with expectation. She relished this part of the job, the speculation and hypothetical scenarios. They provided the foundation on which every case was built. Once she established a workable premise, she proceeded until the evidence disproved that theory and she needed another. Locating the culprit’s slimy trail and following it—that was the challenge. Whitt apparently worked the same way. “Why did you think military?”

  “First, we got nothing. If it walks like a ghost and acts like a ghost, it’s probably a freaking ghost. What organization trains people to get in and out of places without leaving a trace—the government? Aside from the medical profession, what other career instructs in torture without killing—the military? What beats the humanity out of young men and women until they act like zombies—war training? And who provides reacclimation and coping skills for these folks when they return? You guessed it, not a flipping soul.”

  The resentment and emotion in Whitt’s voice told Rae that he’d been a recipient of the military’s proficiency and incompetence. How had the experience colored his premise? On the other hand, everything he said had theoretical merit. The Whisperer wouldn’t be the first serviceman returned from the war damaged beyond repair. “Did you find anything to support your idea?”

  Whitt hung his head like a scolded dog. “Not So wasn’t fond of my hypothesis. I tried to work the angle in my off time. Do you have any idea how many vets have returned from combat in this area over the past couple of years? I needed something to narrow the field and never found it.”

  Rae’s earlier excitement evaporated. “Everything else is in your notes.”

  “Yeah. I checked out everybody in each victim’s circle and came up empty. I couldn’t even find a connection between the victims.”

  “Maybe there is no connection. Maybe they were victims of con-venience, wrong time and place, whenever the urge struck,” Rae said.

  “He seems too organized for that.”

  “Or else he’s in a constant state of readiness, which lends credibility to your military theory.”

  “Could be, Rae, but I think something else is going on with him, and I’d bet my badge that it stems from his combat service.” Whitt seemed to be deciding whether to verbalize his thoughts.

  “Whatever you’re thinking, say it. Can’t hurt.”

  “This whispering thing—always bothered me. Usually if a perp disguises his voice, it means the victim knows him. And the things he was saying sure sounded personal to me.”

  Rae flipped through her notes and reviewed the whispered phrases: liar, unclean, destroyer, poison. “I wondered about that too. The language is a bit stilted but definitely personal. And you got nothing from friends and known associates?”

  “Nothing, and I grilled every guy even remotely connected to these women. No one was the least bit hinky.”

  Rae’s thoughts bounced around like pinballs. One of Whitt’s comments would elicit a checklist of possibilities, and the next one would dash them. The path to a criminal arrest was never straightforward. “How do you think he subdues them? Some kind of drug?”

  “Would have to be, and that would require at least some pharmacological knowledge. The amateurish slicing sure doesn’t seem like anyone with medical experience. So where does that leave us?”

  “Wondering what type of drug can be administered without leaving a trace, can knock a person out temporarily, and can’t be detected in the bloodstream.”

  “Apparently he wants them unconscious long enough to restrain them but not long enough to miss the cutting. He wants them fully aware of what’s happening. He gets off on the control and the fear. Filthy freak.”

  “Why does he do it?” Rae wondered aloud.

  “You know that’s usually the last thing we find out, if we ever do. Maybe somebody stole his teddy bear when he was a child. Maybe he was mentally or physically abused. Maybe his mother didn’t breast-feed him. Or maybe he’s just a warped in
dividual.”

  Rae cringed at this part of her job—getting inside a criminal’s head. She couldn’t imagine what motivated such depraved actions. If she allowed herself to dwell on it, poking around in the mind of such an individual could depress her.

  Across the table from her, Ken Whitt clenched his big fists until the knuckles turned white. “Sorry I can’t be more help. This one eats at me every day.”

  “I can see why.” When he rose to leave, Rae shook his hand and offered a final promise. “I’ll find this bastard, and thanks for the help.” Officers were often cut out of the information loop when they retired. The omission seemed cruel—trusted and included one day and excluded the next. Whitt had given his life to public service, and she respected and honored him for it. She hoped someone would do the same for her one day.

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.” As he walked away, Rae felt compassion for Ken Whitt and a deeper need to solve this case. Neither of them would get much sleep until she did.

  *

  On her way to work Audrey thought about Yasi’s visit and wished she could have stayed longer. Two nights was barely enough time to settle a baby kitten in her new surroundings, much less catch up with a lifelong friend. Yasi had a way of putting things in perspective. She even pointed out Rae’s protectiveness when Trevor had touched Audrey’s back unnecessarily. Audrey had been too distracted to notice. This time, Yasi’s usually sage advice wasn’t so easy to follow—leave the investigating to the cops.

  Maybe she was finished with amateur detecting. After Jeremy Sutton’s death, she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling of responsibility. She wasn’t cut out for the uncertainty and guilt of a cop’s world. Letting Rae help her was another issue entirely.

  When Audrey entered the mayor’s complex, a couple of shorthaired cops rose to meet her. Nerves knotted in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t deal with another interrogation. It was a big day for the mayor, and she needed to be at her best. Their expressions made it clear she wouldn’t have a choice.