by Debra Webb
Rowan hurried to keep up with her as they moved back toward the car. “Do we have an address?”
“Got it. He worked at the funeral home the Kendricks bought until the previous owner died.” Before climbing into the car, she jerked her head to her right. “Got that security detail in place.”
Rowan spotted the Metro PD cruiser. “Good.”
When Jones had settled behind the wheel and Rowan had pulled on her seat belt in the passenger seat, she asked, “Did Mrs. Kendrick remember anything else about him?”
Jones hesitated a moment before easing away from the curb. “Only that he left under a cloud of suspicion that he’d been messing around with some of the...ah...bodies.”
“Jesus. No charges were filed?”
Jones shook her head as she moved into the flow of traffic. “The previous owner’s wife couldn’t make the charges stick. It was her word against his and her husband was dead—heart attack—so he couldn’t back her up.”
Rowan took a breath. “I almost hate to ask this question, but did he have a specific type?”
Jones glanced at her, a cold certainty in her eyes. “Blondes. He liked blondes.”
Eight
Hydes Ferry Road, 1:35 p.m.
The small bungalow left a lot to be desired in terms of curb appeal. The roof had been patched multiple times, always with shingles that didn’t quite match the existing ones. The siding was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Shrubs were overgrown, the grass hadn’t been cut in weeks and a pile of newspapers rotted on the sidewalk near the front steps.
A decade-old sedan sat in the driveway. Jones ran the plate to confirm the vehicle belonged to Greg Ames. The Kendricks had bought the funeral home a year ago. Ames could have moved or died since then.
“The car is his.” She turned her cell screen toward Rowan, displaying the DMV photo of Ames.
Rowan’s tension shifted to the next level. He was a perfect match to the sketch artist’s rendering of the man who had visited her father. “If we’re lucky, he isn’t aware we’ve gotten so close.”
“If we’re lucky,” Jones echoed.
Rowan shifted her attention back to the house. “Blinds are closed tight. It’s possible he’s holed up in there, maybe taking a nap after his latest kill.”
Some killers stayed high on the act for hours or days after a fresh kill. Others crawled into their safe place and crashed. On the other hand, if Ames was their unsub, it was possible he’d merely gotten up and gone to work this morning as if it were any other day. So far they hadn’t located a new employer. Tracking down what he’d been up to for the past year would take time.
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Jones agreed. “Let’s knock on the door and see if he’s interested in playing nice.”
On the drive over, Rowan had contemplated the potential motives for the unsub’s actions. Without any additional details she could only conclude that he’d grown obsessed with her somehow—perhaps through the book—and that had led him to go to such extreme measures to draw her attention.
Still, the fact that he’d made no move to contact her directly niggled at her. She should have at least received an anonymous letter or a phone call. Something to indicate he was building toward this level of violence. Slipping over that edge was rarely done without some impetus. He would want a reaction—some sort of feedback to fuel his ego.
Beyond the occasional impulse kill, murder rarely happened without a motive and some amount of planning—even if it was only the decision to pull the proverbial trigger. The unsub who had abducted and murdered three victims so meticulously so as not to leave a single shred of evidence had planned his work down to the last detail had a complex motive driving him.
Jones called in their location and requested backup as they exited the vehicle. Rowan glanced around the yard as they climbed the steps to the porch. The killer had been exacting in his work. Precise. Careful. Nothing on the surface of Greg Ames’s existence could be defined by any of those terms.
Jones banged on the door with the side of her fist. The silence beyond the front door had Rowan’s heart sinking. No one was home. It was too quiet.
“Mr. Ames.” Jones pounded again. “This is Metro PD. We need to speak with you, sir. It’s urgent.”
Still not a sound inside.
Rowan’s hopes deflated completely. “If he’s in there, he’s not coming to the door.”
Jones reached for the knob, her gaze latching on to Rowan’s. “Does this door look ajar to you?”
The door was unlocked, and sure enough when she turned the knob it opened a fraction. “It does. Very strange that he would leave it open like this.”
“Wait.” Jones frowned. “Did you hear something?”
Rowan narrowed her gaze. “I think I did. Someone calling for help, maybe.”
Jones readied her weapon and gave a nod. “I’m going in, Doc. Step back and wait for backup. They’re right behind us.”
Rowan backed up, braced against the wall to the right of the door while Jones called out to Ames and cautiously entered his residence.
With three women murdered so close together, it stood to reason that he could have another one in there...if he was their guy. However, without exigent circumstances what they were doing was illegal—if anyone found out.
As Jones moved deeper into the house, calling out to Ames with each step, Rowan ventured across the threshold, careful to maintain a proper distance.
The interior of the house needed as much TLC as the exterior. Big box television, well-worn sofa and a coffee table. Typical single male furnishings but completely lacking in the obsessive details associated with their unsub’s work. A small table with only one chair was tucked into the space that ninety-degreed from the living room into the kitchen. Cabinets were mostly bare. Fridge was stocked with beer and bologna and little else.
“Dr. DuPont!”
Rowan moved back through the main living area and into the hall that led to the bedrooms and bathroom. Jones stood in the hall, staring into the open door on the left. Judging by the look on her face, what she’d found was not what they had hoped for.
As Rowan approached Jones called in the address and the code for a body. Holy hell. They were too late.
Jones stepped aside for Rowan to see into what turned out to be the bathroom where a nude male—presumably Greg Ames—lay in the claw-foot tub, his right arm dangling from the side. Blood pooled on the dingy white tile floor. A message had been left in blood on the white-tiled wall that surrounded the tub: This is the way you should have done it in the first place.
Her heart pounding, Rowan tugged gloves and shoe covers from her bag and slipped them on. The painted parts of the walls in the room were a grimy white, the same as the tile. A single window with a yellowed shade overlooked the tub from the wall behind it. A pedestal sink was cluttered with deodorant, a razor, toothpaste and brush. The toilet lid was closed as if he’d intended to lay a towel there but had forgotten or changed his mind. Or perhaps he’d sat down for a moment before climbing into the tub.
His left arm lay in the crimson-tinged water next to him. His knees were bent since the tub was only about four and a half feet long and he was at least six feet. His head lay back on the porcelain rim. Skin was ashen. Mouth and eyes open. Based on his DMV photo, it was definitely Greg Ames. And the same man who had visited her father.
Considering the coagulation of the blood on the floor and the state of lividity, Ames had been dead more than twelve hours, perhaps as much as twenty-four. Taking care not to step in the blood, Rowan went down on hands and knees to look under the tub. Right away she spotted what she was looking for: the straight razor he’d apparently used to end his life. Blood smeared the stainless steel blade and handle.
Then she shifted into a crouching position and studied the injury to his right arm. A horizontal slash had been made acr
oss the wrist, but the one that likely helped him to bleed out sufficiently for his heart to stop beating was the vertical slash that cut even deeper into his flesh. The right arm had without question suffered serious damage to important anatomical structures. With an injury that deep, there was scarcely any doubt. Rowan tried to visually evaluate as much of the other wrist as possible but the blood-tinged water prevented her from seeing well enough to determine if both slashes were present on that one, as well.
She stared at the cross Ames had made with the two intersecting slashes and a memory rammed hard into her brain.
During college, before she’d gone for the handful of sleeping pills, she’d considered doing exactly this. Except she knew that once she slashed one wrist this way, the ability to slash the other would be taken from her. The damage to nerves and tendons often left the hand nonfunctional. Without help, it was nearly impossible to do the job right. If the injuries to his left arm were equally severe, she doubted he had done this alone.
Was it conceivable there was a second killer? A partner?
There were cases, of course, where two or more killers worked together, but this didn’t feel like that kind of kill.
She reread the message. Beyond the puddle of blood that had dripped from his right arm the floor was clean of blood, suggesting Ames hadn’t written those words himself. He would surely have left blood drops and smears everywhere while attempting to write the words.
“Crime scene folks and the ME are en route,” Jones said.
Rowan blinked. She pushed to her feet and faced the detective. “Where are his clothes?”
Jones glanced around the room, her eyebrows arched upward. “Good question.”
They moved from room to room, picked through the dead man’s meager belongings but they didn’t find any discarded clothes, not even a laundry hamper with whatever clothes he’d worn since the last time he did laundry. There was no washer and dryer in the house and none of the clothes in the closet or bureau appeared to have been worn. Jones even checked his car.
More importantly, they didn’t find anything related to the other three victims. In fact, what they found was evidence of a lonely, unhappy life lived by a man still drawing unemployment and using a government food card. There were no photos of family or friends, and no cell phone.
“Whoever helped him do this and left that message took his phone in addition to his clothes,” Rowan announced as official vehicles piled up in front of the house.
Jones waved a card—a gift card or credit card—she’d found in the bedside table. “He would have used this on one of those pay-as-you-go phones. I’m calling the carrier now.”
During the next hour and a half the evidence techs searched the house, tore apart the sofa and anything else that might conceal evidence.
“Got an appointment card,” one of the techs announced.
He passed it to Jones, who sent Rowan a surprised look. “Apparently, Ames was a patient of your friend Addington.”
Rowan moved to the detective’s side and had a look at the card. There had been an appointment with Julian yesterday.
“You think there’s any chance you can get your friend to talk?”
“Probably not without a warrant.”
“The guy is dead,” Jones reminded her.
Though that was of little consequence, Rowan said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Jones tucked the card into an evidence bag. “I’ll go with you.”
Rowan waved her hands in protest. “I should do this alone. If he’s willing to talk, he’s more likely to talk to me alone.”
Jones tossed her fob to Rowan. “Take my car. I’ll catch a ride with one of these guys. I want that security detail watching Addington’s office following you.”
Rowan started to argue but she wasn’t a fool. She put in a call to Julian and this time he answered. He wasn’t home. He’d decided to spend the weekend at his lake house and urged her to join him. Since Hendersonville was only a half hour away, she agreed. Her father was safe. Ames was the only lead they had in the case; anything Julian was willing to share could prove useful.
She had nothing to lose.
Rowan gave Jones the address and promised, “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
She called her father as she pulled away from the crime scene. Maybe it was foolish but she just needed to hear his voice and to let him know she would be home in time for dinner...hopefully.
Rhoades Lane, Hendersonville, 4:35 p.m.
The chalet sat on the very edge of the lake in a private wooded setting that was breathtaking anytime of year. Rowan had been here a few times over the years. Julian often held small, intimate parties at his lake house. Everyone loved the place. On first look the rustic logs and aged rock of the facade suggested old and rugged but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The home had towering windows overlooking the water and every imaginable amenity. The distance from the city—from civilization in general—assured peace and quiet.
Rowan parked in the drive, immediately noting the security detail parking on the street a dozen or so yards away. She waved to him as she walked toward the house. When she left she intended to instruct him to stay behind. If Jones was intent on assigning Rowan a personal security detail she would need to call in someone else.
Julian met her at the door and gave her a hug. That was the moment when she realized how very tired she was. This week had been far too long.
“I’m so glad you came.” He closed the door behind her. “Did your father return to Winchester?”
“No, he’s still at the office.”
She left her bag and her shoes at the bench near the front door. Julian firmly believed that one brought into their home whatever they’d encountered each day, physically and spiritually speaking. Rowan had no desire to bring the bad vibes from a crime scene into her friend’s home.
A frown marred Julian’s smooth brow. “Oh. I thought perhaps he’d gone home since you found time to visit me.”
“I can only stay a little while.” Rowan made a face. “I’m sorry. This has been a really tough week.”
“You need a drink.”
She started to decline but decided one couldn’t hurt. “That would be lovely.”
Rather than follow him to the bar, she wandered to the wall of windows that overlooked the lake and the setting sun. It was so peaceful here. Everyone should have an escape like this.
“Any news on the case?” He brought the gin and tonic to her. She hadn’t realized what a refreshing drink it was until Julian introduced her.
She savored a long swallow, hoping to make the answer a bit more palatable. “Not really.”
“I saw your face and name splashed all over the news.”
She sighed. “I suppose they’ll torture me that way until this case is closed.”
“You’re a strong woman.” He smiled and tapped his glass to hers. “You can handle it.”
“I like to think so.” She might as well get this part out of the way first. Julian did not tolerate secrets well. “I forgot to mention that I was worried about you so I asked Lieutenant Jones to assign a security detail to keep an eye on you. I hope that was okay.”
He smiled, the expression as caring as that of any father. “It warms my heart that you worry about me. Though I have to say, I haven’t noticed one.”
“He was waiting at your office.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know where you were until I called again a few minutes ago.” It hadn’t occurred to her until just then that Julian hadn’t returned her call from earlier. She shook it off. Perhaps he hadn’t gotten around to checking his voice mail.
Another substantial swallow of her drink and she dared to broach the actual subject that had brought her here. “What can you tell me about Greg Ames?”
The whole drive over she kept thinking of the way the man’s arms
had been mutilated—in that cross-like pattern. As a college freshman determined to end her misery, she remembered thinking that if she had done it right the second time, she would have been left with a cross on each wrist. Not that it would have mattered since she would have been dead. Rather than take the chance of not being able to finish the job she had opted to swallow the sleeping pills. It was far more painless and didn’t require anyone’s assistance. Certainly didn’t leave such a mess.
Still, the message on the wall at the Ames crime scene could have been written for her.
This is the way you should have done it in the first place.
She had not mentioned anything about considering that route for her departure from this life in the book. It was one of the few things, despite her editor’s urging, she had decided was too personal. She supposed the message could be coincidence, but so much of these four murders appeared related to her past—to the damned book—she doubted that was the case.
“He’s a patient,” Julian said slowly, “which, as you know, limits what I can tell you.”
His words brought Rowan back to the here and now. “True, but at this point you can choose to disclose under exceptional circumstances. Your patient is dead and he may hold the key to answers related to three murders. Frankly, there’s a possibility his own death was a homicide.”
They hadn’t found a single piece of evidence at the Ames home linking him to the three murders or anything concrete to suggest he hadn’t committed suicide. Except the idea that it was highly improbable that he’d written that message and then cleaned up the mess or that he’d disposed of his clothes while bleeding to death. Ultimately, he could be just another lead that turned out to be a dead end—no pun intended...except he didn’t feel like a dead end. The message felt like an even more solid link...to her. Something he shared with Julian could seem completely unrelated but might ultimately break the case.
“He was a very confused and depressed man. It’s a shame he had to die.”
