by Debra Webb
He nodded, still not meeting her gaze. “Work is my significant other.”
“You know,” she ventured, “you can’t afford to keep two of your officers watching me 24/7 for God knows how long. Moving forward, we have to face the fact that I’m going to take care of myself.”
His dark eyes held hers for a long moment. “You know he’ll be back. He won’t stop coming until he has what he wants.”
He was right. If that wasn’t bad enough, Anna Addington apparently did intend to stay in Winchester until she had the answers she sought. Not to mention there was Detective Barton. And Agent Dressler. All eyes were on Rowan. If the world was lucky, Julian would come after her again soon, and Billy or Dressler or Barton would capture him.
Except she wasn’t so sure he could be caught.
Rowan bit her lips together and nodded. “I just have to be prepared for him next time, that’s all. I really can take care of myself, Billy.” She met his gaze, hoped he saw the certainty in her own. “You’ve trained me well. I did wound him, you know.”
Billy nodded. “You damned sure did. I’m proud of you, Ro.”
This surprised her. “Then you agree that I can take care of myself?”
He inclined his head and studied her. “Maybe, but you have to promise me that you’ll be extra careful, always watchful, and you’ll carry your weapon at all times. And come to the firing range with me twice every month.”
“I can do that.”
Billy made a face. “That was way easier than I expected.”
“I don’t intend to make whatever Julian has in mind easy.” She had no desire to end up another of his victims.
“We can start with a refresher course tomorrow if you like,” Billy suggested.
“You’re on.”
Dottie appeared at the door. “Enough shop talk, you two. Dinner’s ready.”
Rowan’s heart felt light as she and Billy followed his mother inside. He pulled out her chair and then settled beside her at the big family dining table. Mr. Brannigan did the same for his wife. They laughed and talked and ate and Rowan felt normal for the first time in a very long time.
Who knew how long that would last.
* * *
Dr. Rowan DuPont is back in
the next installment of The Undertaker’s Daughter
coming in October from Debra Webb and
MIRA Books. The heart-pounding twists will have you
rushing to turn the page! Julian Addington isn’t the
only serial killer watching Rowan and following her home...
The Undertaker’s Daughter
Contents
Twelve hours earlier
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Two hours earlier
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Twelve hours earlier...
Her chest threatened to explode but she couldn’t stop. She had to keep running.
He was coming.
It was dark...so dark. Her head felt thick and foggy. Couldn’t think. Mouth was dry. She tried to swallow. Impossible.
Where was she?
Didn’t matter...didn’t matter.
She was dead if he caught her. She understood this with complete certainty. He would kill her and that was all that mattered. The fact that she didn’t know him was inconsequential. That she was a good person was equally irrelevant. She had never purposely hurt anyone. She obeyed the law. Went to work. Was kind to her neighbors. Patient with kids and old people.
None of that mattered. He was going to kill her and she didn’t even know why.
Run.
Faster.
Her legs felt so heavy. Running in sand. Like on the beach. She remembered running on the beach. Vacation. A smile tugged at her lips. Just last summer. A long overdue week away from work...away from all the crap in her life. She could go back there this summer...or maybe she’d just go now.
All she had to do was close her eyes and float away.
She felt herself falling, falling. She went down on one knee, then collapsed onto the ground. Her eyes were too heavy to open. Her body would no longer cooperate no matter that she told herself to get up...to keep running.
Too hard.
The sand...
Her hand lay splayed across the ground. Not sand...not dirt. Carpet, or a rug. She was in a building...it was a house...something.
Her mind suddenly rocketed back to the here and now.
Her eyes still refused to cooperate with her brain. A new rush of fear fired through her veins.
She couldn’t move...could not escape.
Footsteps came nearer and nearer.
He was here. Standing over her.
She’d come to his home willingly. Images flashed in slow motion inside her head. She’d trusted him. Wanted him. He wasn’t like all the jerks her age.
Her heart thumped hard. No. He was worse.
He was a killer.
And now she was going to die.
One
Nashville, Tennessee
Monday, March 11, 10:00 a.m.
“Our killer chooses his victims and ends their lives basically by euthanizing them. He then meticulously prepares their bodies specifically for your discovery, Detectives.”
Rowan DuPont surveyed the group of homicide detectives seated around the small conference table. “Beyond the fear they suffer upon capture and during the hours before he fatally sedates them, they experience no true physical discomfort. These are soft kills, not intended for the gore or the violence.”
“You’re certain the perp is a he, Dr. DuPont?” Lieutenant April Jones, the only female detective in the room, asked. “We’ve found no evidence of sexual assault. With this sort of soft kill, in my experience this is a method most often utilized by a female killer.”
Rowan crossed her arms over her chest and considered the barrage of crime scene photos lining the storyboard. “The reason we can safely assume the unknown subject is male is, in part, based on the way he dresses his victims, the abundance of flowers he uses around the bodies. It’s almost like a courtship, but not. It’s more a ‘look at this—see what I’m doing.’ None of this careful staging is about these two women.” She gestured to the diagram of evidence she had arranged for this morning’s briefing. “Because neither of these women is his true victim—the one he really wants to take from this life.”
Frowns and grumbles worked through the team. No one wanted to hear that particular conclusion. But Rowan could only call it the way she saw it. Her instincts would not allow her to see these murders any other way. They were too clean, too soft. The unsub had gained no pleasure from these acts, shown no real passion.
Almost a decade ago while serving as an adviser on a case with the Metropolitan Nashville Police Department, she realized this was what she wanted to do when she completed her residency. Having graduated at the top of her class at Vanderbilt and spent four years of residency at the largest psychiatric hospital in Nashville and then an additional two-year fellowship in forensic psychiatry, Rowan had been handpicked for Metro’s new, elite Special Crimes Unit. Now, six years later, though she neither possessed a gold shield nor carried a weapon, she felt as much a pivotal part of the department and this unit as any of the detectives waiting expectantly for her to continue.
“I’m not sure I follow,” Jones admitted.
Jones was the senior detective in SCU. She was one of the first female detectives allowed into the formerly all-male territory of the worst crimes one human could commit against another. There had been a time when female cops were considered too weak and too emotional for homicide. No more. Det
ectives like April Jones and her peers had long ago disproved that theory. Still, their male counterparts outnumbered them. But that was changing. It was no longer a boy’s club by any means.
“We’ll get back to that in a moment,” Rowan assured Jones.
Another thing Rowan had learned well was that when she presented a more unusual aspect to an investigation, she needed to make her case first. The folks in this room were the cream of the crop at Metro—experienced and decorated. They knew how to conduct an investigation into the truly bizarre with one eye closed and one hand tied behind his or her back. When someone stood in front of this elite team and announced that their usual way of doing things wouldn’t work, there had to be solid reasoning behind the theory.
“You list his goal as revenge,” Detective Tom Bennett noted. “Revenge for what?”
“That, Detective Bennett—” Rowan moved toward the end of the board where she’d outlined her conclusions on this killer’s story “—is the sixty-four-million-dollar question to which we all want the answer.”
“Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” Lieutenant Jones corrected.
Though fifteen years Rowan’s senior, Jones likely wasn’t old enough to remember the 1940s radio quiz show or the television show that came later but most everyone knew the idiom. “Inflation, Detective, inflation.”
The older woman chuckled and gave her a nod of acquiescence.
Rowan turned back to her storyboard. “Our killer has a goal. And, yes, I believe the motive for that goal is revenge. He wants to make someone pay and these murders are a way of paving the path toward accomplishing that goal. His dilemma is simple—how does he achieve his ultimate goal without getting caught?” She turned once more to the avid listeners gathered in the room. “He has made it abundantly clear that he does not wish to be caught. We know this because he hasn’t left a single clue. Not one shred of evidence.”
“What makes you so certain,” Bennett pushed, “that our two vics aren’t just the type of women he likes to kill? Doing it softly or not, maybe murdering gorgeous blondes is the only way he can get off.”
The others, all but Jones, laughed. Jones glared at Bennett. No matter that she was older than any of those present and outranked the whole lot, Jones no doubt considered them dirty old men. Rowan certainly did. Bennett wanted an answer to the question Jones had asked moments ago and he hoped rephrasing the query and bullying it back into the conversation would force Rowan to alter the course she’d chosen to take. Patience was running out. In a homicide investigation every minute counted and Rowan had used up too many of those precious minutes. Sometimes she had to remind herself that not all on the team appreciated her long way of getting around to things. First, however, she intended to put the arrogant detective in his place.
“Detective Bennett, every man in this room has a penis,” Rowan said in answer to his comment, “does that mean they’re all dicks like you?”
The heat of humiliation spread across his face. “Yeah, yeah. Point taken.”
“Things are not always as they seem.” Rowan studied first one crime scene photo and then the next, mentally reviewing the art and language of the killer’s work. The way he’d poised the bodies was undeniably a work of art.
Two beautiful women in their late thirties had been carefully selected. Sandy Tyler and Karen Ross. Both had long blond hair and blue eyes. Each had a slim build and was medium height. These were well-educated women with enviable careers. Unmarried. No children. Upscale downtown apartments.
The epitome of the hip, sophisticated, urban woman.
Once their unsub had chosen his victim, he abducted her or lured her from a place she frequented, suggesting he’d familiarized himself with her routine. This took days or weeks and endless patience, unwavering determination. Within forty-eight to sixty hours after the abduction her body was discovered in a public place, staged as if she’d been prepared for burial. The meticulous attention to detail and the sheer intricacy of his staging required a great deal of planning. Compared with the short time he kept his victims, the timing was more solid proof that he had no desire to linger, to enjoy his work or any pleasures the victim’s presence might offer. These two women were a means to an end and nothing more. Not special or important to him in any way beyond making some sadistic statement only he understood at this point.
“He dresses his victims in simple cotton gowns,” Jones said, “arranges their hair over their shoulders, crosses their arms over their breasts and then surrounds their bodies with red rose petals. What’s the significance of the gowns? Purity? And the rose petals—blood?”
“The cotton gowns are plain, simple, that’s true,” Rowan agreed as she turned back to Jones and the others, “but that doesn’t mean the choice to use those particular gowns was a simple one. I believe these organic gowns were chosen for their quick decomposition rate. The cotton would decay fairly quickly.”
“I’ve narrowed down the orders that shipped to Nashville in the past six months,” Detective Lex Keaton, the newest member of the team, offered. “We’re still looking at forty buyers who walk into the shops that carry these particular ones. I’m whittling away at that list.”
“Why bother with a swift decomp rate if he wanted the bodies found quickly, which he obviously did?” Bennett remained unconvinced of Rowan’s working theory.
“He wants us to know that he could have masked that clue if he’d chosen to do so. If the bodies hadn’t been found for several months, we wouldn’t have a way to narrow down the type of gown worn by the victims or who bought them because that clue would have disintegrated.”
“I thought you said he doesn’t want to be caught,” Bennett countered, that smugness creeping back into his tone.
“He doesn’t,” Rowan reiterated. “Those forty buyers are purchasing the product from one of six shops in the greater Nashville area. If a customer walks into one of those shops and pays with cash, tracking him down is virtually impossible. He could be anyone, anywhere in this city. Our unsub knows this. He’s playing with us. Building up our hopes only to let us down.”
“The flowers,” Jones said, moving on to the second part of her question. “What is the significance of the flowers?”
“The flowers are fresh.” Rowan thought of the pungent scent of the roses at each of the crime scenes. The killer had chosen the type carefully—as he did all other details. He selected a rose with a strong scent.
“These are not petals bought in bulk, though there is a vast amount left with each body.” Yet another aspect of the killer’s need to play games. Rowan sensed his seemingly contradictory decisions were perhaps even intended as an insult to their intelligence. “We believe the roses are grown locally. The lack of preservatives and fertilizers found by the lab suggests a responsible grower. Someone who cares for the environment as well as the beauty and fragrance of the plant. Yet another aspect of his work designed to give us a glimmer of hope that we’ll be able to track him down, only to find it’s another dead end.”
“So do they represent blood?” David Wells asked.
Wells was the youngest of the four detectives assigned to the case. Rowan felt confident there was a reason—probably nepotism since he was related to the chief of police—he’d made detective so quickly and slipped right into the Special Crimes Unit. None of the others had complained since the young man carried his weight, but that pass would only last until he made his first misstep.
“Our killer carefully washes the bodies before dressing them and placing the flowers around them, even sprinkling a good number on top of the bodies. It’s my opinion,” Rowan said in answer to the question, “that he uses the flowers because the bodies are not embalmed.”
“To camouflage the stink,” Bennett said in his usual, coarse manner.
“Very good, Detective.” Rowan wished she had a gold star to stick on his nose. “Before the process of embalming came into wi
despread use, it was a common practice to surround the dead with flowers and other plants with strong fragrances to help mask the odor of the rotting corpse. By surrounding and sprinkling his victims with the rose petals, he’s depicting a burial scene. He wants us to recognize that he’s honoring the sacrifice of his victims. They’ve given their lives for him—to help him achieve his goal.”
“Honoring?” Jones questioned. “How do you figure that? He kills them. How is that honoring a person by any stretch of the imagination?”
“He regrets their sacrifices were necessary, a pleasant disposal ritual is the least he can do. Most killers simply dump the bodies of their victims. Our unsub is killing two birds with one stone, assuaging his conscience and giving us something to ponder.”
“He sure as hell isn’t giving us any usable evidence,” Bennett muttered.
“It’s true that he leaves no evidence to help us identify him or to narrow down where he commits these heinous acts, but there are some things that are out of his control,” Rowan reminded all present, particularly Bennett. “The human body tells us many things. Above all else it provides a distinct road map—a story, if you will—of the life lived, the bumps along the way. Injury, disease. It reveals how it was treated by the environment, the home or the lack thereof, in which it lived and by those taking care of it like spouses, children, caregivers.”
“The Language of Death,” Wells said with a grin. “I read your book, Dr. DuPont. You read the bodies like a story. The story helps you build a character sketch of the killer. You use that story to figure out his motivation and the conflicts involved with attaining his goal.”
Rowan was impressed. This was the first case for Wells as a member of this unit. He’d done his homework. Always a good sign. “Very good, Detective. Now you know my secret.”
It wasn’t rocket science or a part of the psychic realm. It was simply paying attention to what the body told her. Every victim had a voice that had been silenced, but the body still told the story loudly and, on occasion, quite clearly. Warmth spread through Rowan’s chest as she considered that her father had taught her this. As a fourth generation funeral home director and mortician, her father knew a thing or two about death. He swore by the adage that a person’s body at death told the story of their life. One only needed to pay attention. If that wasn’t enough, she’d grown infatuated with the psychopathy of serial killers when she chose her first topic for the pursuit of academic publication. It was that publication in a medical journal that first put her on Metro’s radar.
