Carolina Rain

by Rick Murcer

  What a crock of shit. Throw lust onto that list, and you have the human race completely covered. People were self-serving morons and didn’t deserve a damned thing. You had to go get it . . . and at any price.

  “I-I was wrong. It wasn’t like me. The pressure. The hours. The ungodly murders we saw. It just all built up. I guess I wanted a way out of that world.”

  Her wide, unflinching eyes met his. He stayed the course. He knew she was probing, searching. His voice had been true, but that’s not what she was looking for. She wanted to dig deep into his heart, his soul, to see if he was indeed a changed man. That his behavior eighteen months ago was just a psychotic episode and not that he was psychotic, at least those were the words she used. She wanted to see true regret in his eyes and his body language. True horror at what he’d been a part of.

  Stroking his chin, he stared at the grungy blue carpet on the floor of her tiny office in the south end of the wing. He let her have her moment. Let her ego run berserk. That was the best part of this chess match. She was so sure she could tell every single thought that was truly going on in his mind just by some involuntary twitch or a quick clench of his teeth, or how the level of his head fluctuated with a lie versus a truth. Stupid bitch. Did she think he worked where he’d worked all of those years and didn’t understand any of those things? He knew about micro expressions, voice fluctuations, and nervous habits. He’d managed to fool the best profilers in the world with his act, including the best he’d ever seen. Did she think she was in that league?

  Good God. Stupid bitch didn’t cover it.

  Like most people, her ego was only good for making her world bearable, not others. Except in this case, her ego was going to make his life a whole lot better, and very soon.

  She’d begun having his shackles removed for their sessions more than a month ago. She told the guards that it made for a more trusting environment and that he’d open up to her more. She was half right; she was getting close to a full dose of “opening up.”

  “Do you think you needed a way out?” she asked, her voice as grating as ever.

  “I don’t know for sure but, looking back, I guess I did. I had those bill collectors calling at all hours of the day. I was working sixty to seventy hours a week and I didn’t have anyone to talk to.”

  “No one to talk to? No one?”

  Her eyes were still searching him. He almost laughed. His dad used to say that if you screw with the bull, you get the horns. He was pretty sure she was clueless regarding that one. No problem. He was in a teaching mood.

  “How about Alex Downs?”

  Max hesitated. He hadn’t really spoken that name for almost two years. Alex had been a friend even though he was in bed with the others so that made him no different. Still, they did understand each other, at least on a professional level. Alex had even come to visit twice, but Max had refused to see him. The idiot actually thought he needed support. How touching. Those misguided “feelings” wouldn’t save Alex’s ass when the time came.

  “I think so. He’s a good man and a helluva CSI. But I was already in too deep and I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve considered that I was worried about getting him involved, you know? He would have done the right thing and turned me in, and he would have been right.”

  Emma Holton uncrossed her legs and bent forward. “You’re using terms like worried, right thing, and a good man. Interesting. Are you stroking me?”

  He pushed his black-rim glasses up his thin face and captured her eyes with his. This was where the rubber hit the road. Where his thespian ability mated with his hatred to turn in a performance for the ages.

  “Look, Doctor Holton. I was wrong. I screwed up. I shouldn’t have gone down that road, and I can’t change that. I did it to myself. I had a great thing going and it took landing in here to figure it out. I miss Alex and the rest of my friends. I miss my job, my sense of purpose. Hell, I even miss the long hours.”

  The tears welled up and he actually felt some emotion rifle throughout his body. “I’d . . . I’d give anything to take back what happened. Anything. I . . .”

  He let his voice fade and stared at the floor. Waiting.

  His wait was shorter than he expected.

  “I still think you’re full of shit. I think you’ve learned how to play the game, albeit better than any patient I’ve had. I think your diversion-playing ability is off the charts. What do you have to say about that?”

  Lifting his head, he gazed past the barred windows and watched the tower from hell mock him, blowing him a kiss and laughing like only true tormenters can. This wasn’t unexpected. He would have said the same. Then again, she didn’t know what he knew. She might have messed her pants if she had. Looking at the clock, he saw it hit three thirty p.m. and could hardly contain himself.

  “I understand, doctor. I’ve not been here all that long and, as I’ve learned, trust is the most precious of commodities, especially in this institution. But, then again, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  Leaning even closer, the doctor searched his face intently. “What does that mean? That it doesn’t really matter?”

  “Well, it means . . . let me show you.”

  A split second later, he thrust the shank he’d made from a spare toothbrush deep into her throat, watching with a passing interest as the carotid spurted warm, rhythmic, crimson streams. He pulled it out, then ran it into her chest. Doctor Emma Holton slumped back in her chair, eyes wide. He was sure she hadn’t understood what had happened before she died.

  Forty seconds later, he had the barred pane open and the window-slide up. The alarm would’ve gone off, if it had been enabled. The guard in charge of such things had really needed the five-thousand dollars to save his home and, as he put it, what’s one more crazy on the street?

  Not hesitating, Max leapt from the second floor onto a low-hanging branch of a large silver maple, dropped down the last five feet, and sprinted to the backside of the shadowed building near the employee’s parking lot where a bag containing a guards uniform lay waiting for him.

  Dressing quickly, he made his way to the lot, found the Ford pickup belonging to his new “friend,” and climbed inside.

  It would only be another ten minutes or so before the dumb-bitch doctor would be discovered so he had no seconds to spare. He reached under the seat, found the keys, and started the vehicle.

  Rolling up to the gate, he pulled his hat down around his sunglasses and waved as he rolled onto Oakland Drive, made a left . . . and for the first time since Manny Williams and Josh Corner had handcuffed him in Ireland, Max Tucker was free.

  Argyle had been right; people would buy anything if it was presented correctly. The guard and that stupid ass doctor were no exceptions. Max’s left foot began to tap uncontrollably. He could hardly contain himself with the knowledge of his ensuing destination and what was just around the corner.

  CHAPTER-20

  “I think you’re on the shit list now,” said Sophie, hitting the on ramp and pushing the black SUV east on 496 toward Detroit.

  “I’d just like to have a day or two off that list,” rued Manny. “I’m either on the way to another crime scene, lying in a hospital bed recovering from a knife wound that should have killed me, trying to figure out where I’ve met that woman who tried to kill me, reading reports about sick murders with even sicker killers, or worrying about all of it. Maybe I’m getting too old for this junk.”

  “Oh stop whining,” said Alex, holding up his gloved hand. “You could have had one of these as a reminder.”

  Manny unbuttoned his shirt and turned to the back seat where Alex was sitting. “Yeah? How about this scar, Science Boy?”

  “Okay. I’m fine with a little skin but if you guys start comparing weenies, I’m pulling over, taking pictures, posting them on Facebook, and asking my three thousand friends to vote on their favorite one,” said Sophie. “And it’s still Dough Boy until further notice.”

  “Can she do that?” asked Manny.

>   “She can. And will. I defriended her after she showed her new boobs, in all of their glory, via a series of before and after photos,” answered Alex. “And you still have three thousand friends?”

  “Yep. Everybody wants to be my friend. But I bet you loaded the pictures to look at later, didn’t you?”

  “What? Hell no. Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’ve always had a thing for me, Dough Boy. Women know that stuff.”

  “You are a sick wench and I’ll leave all of that Asian worship illness to Dean.”

  “Illness my ass. The man has great taste in women,” said Sophie, snorting.

  “Why does this always get back to you or your anatomy?” asked Alex.

  “Cause that’s what you men are always thinking about. Admit it.”

  “I got your admit it right here,” said Alex.

  Sophie glanced in the rearview mirror, shaking her head.

  “I love Barb, but I still question your wife’s taste in men. Damn. They need to do classes on that stuff in high school.”

  “Kiss my—”

  “Whoa. Okay. I don’t even want to create that image in my brain,” Manny interrupted quickly. “Let’s talk about what’s going on in North Carolina . . . if you two can stand to actually go to work, that is.”

  Manny buttoned up his shirt as Alex began to lower his arm. Sophie stopped Alex.

  “Wait, Dough Boy. Leave the hand up. I’ve got a couple things to say. First thing is, if you ever want to talk about what happened . . . well, I’m a good listener.”

  A quick silence invaded the SUV. Manny found himself feeling proud of Sophie. She’d always be who she is, but he could tell she cared for her Dough Boy. No façade regarding that. Facades seemed to be the way of the world these days, however, we are all what we are when we sit alone in the dark, he thought. And he suspected Sophie was becoming more comfortable with the real her.

  “Fair enough and I appreciate it.” said Alex as he began to lower his hand a second time.

  “Wait. Before we leave the subject completely, there’s something I’ve been dying to say, okay?”

  Rolling his eyes, Alex pointed at her with his gloved-hand. “I don’t think I want to hear this.”

  “Stop it. Damn. I’m still trying to be serious.”

  “Really? All right. Is this going to make me cry?”

  “Maybe. It’s out of my character, so yeah, maybe,” answered Sophie.

  “Fire away, then,” said Alex.

  Sophie slowly raised her left hand off the wheel and turned it back and forth, and then covered her nose and mouth with it.

  “Luke, I’m your father,” she said in her best Darth Vader impression.

  Manny felt his jaw drop and quickly scanned Alex’s face. The CSI was stunned. Then slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes became alive. A new smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth. Then he snickered. That’s all Sophie, and Manny, needed. The inside of the SUV exploded with laughter.

  Manny reached for a napkin in the glove box to wipe away the tears. His chest hurt, but he didn’t care. He looked at Sophie. She was still laughing so hard he wasn’t sure how she was keeping the truck on the road.

  “You . . . you . . . Asian . . . heifer. That was totally uncalled for . . . but funny,” choked Alex, bursting into a howling fit.

  When he’d settled down, he slid up the seat and bent forward, kissing her on the cheek. “I needed that, in a way. Now can we move on?”

  Slowing her laughter, Sophie reached up to stroke the spot where Alex had kissed her. “Any time, Dough Boy, any time.”

  “Thanks . . . and don’t call me Dough Boy.”

  “You two never cease to amaze me. Are we done here?”

  “Yep, I am,” said Sophie.

  Alex nodded.

  Shifting in his seat, Manny took out the three files that Josh had given him from his leather case and flipped open the one with Garity’s info. “All right. What can you tell me about Garity’s death?”

  “Well, you read the report, at least the initial one,” said Alex.

  “I did and I know he was shot in the back of the head, twice, and then dumped somewhere off the North Carolina coast. The picture was a little fuzzy but I’d say it was a .38. And it was done execution style,” said Manny.

  “I’d say that was right. The thing that’s not in the report yet is some of the toxicology profiles. The ocean washed away a lot of micro fiber information, no doubt, but there was some residual materials in his pockets and, oddly enough, still lodged in his teeth and between his toes.”

  “Good God, I never knew you guys dug that deep. Come on, between his toes?” said Sophie, shaking her head.

  Alex shrugged. “It always depends on the victim. Most of the bodies we’ve seen the last few years have been nude, or almost. That changes my approach.”

  “TMI. I don’t want to know about your approach when they’re naked. Dean’s either.”

  Ignoring Sophie, Alex continued. “There were fibers and traces that didn’t fit with where the body was found.”

  “Like what?” asked Manny, sitting up a little straighter.

  “There was also a receipt from a restaurant that we couldn’t quite read. But we could see the first two digits of the zip code and it wasn’t a North or South Carolina zip. There was also a tag in his suit that belonged to a tailor exclusive to the upper Midwest and we’re running that down.”

  Manny felt his stomach jump. “You mean Michigan?”

  Alex sighed. “Yes. It could have been made in Michigan. But it also could have been Illinois or Indiana. So don’t jump to conclusions.”

  “But it’s possible he was in our state, isn’t it?”

  “Of course, but let’s do the legwork before we go there, okay?”

  “You’re right,” he answered, not feeling as confident as he sounded. Could Garity have been watching Jen and Chloe? If so, why hadn’t he made a move? Manny shook it off. Alex was right. Hell, maybe he’d even bought his suit at a second-hand store in the Carolinas.

  Alex continued. “The lab is still running the rest of the particles through the spectrometer and after that process is completed, we should know the most likely area of the country where the extracts from the compounds and samples could be found.”

  “Good work, but this is nothing new for you. What else did you see that made you think analyzing those samples wouldn’t be run of the mill?’ asked Manny.

  “Good question. When Dean and I put the third batch of samples under the microscope and increased the magnification, we noticed something unusual about one of the hair fibers. Something that we thought didn’t make sense. So Dean dug further and did a comparison test to see if we were on the right track.”

  “Were you? And which test?” Manny asked, feeling his unease grow.

  Raising his palms, Alex frowned. “We’re ninety percent sure we’re right, yet it still makes no sense. Hair types for all mammals and animals are different. Even human ethnicity dictates the strength and structure of head hair, as opposed to even arm or leg hair. At any rate, we found a hair lodged in a crack in the sole of Garity’s shoe. It was African-American.”

  “And . . . ?” asked Sophie.

  “We checked our internal database for a preliminary match. It looks like it belonged to Max Tucker.”

  CHAPTER-21

  Sitting in the stained chair, legs crossed, Lily waited for Scarecrow Man to show. He was already five minutes late and she was, after all, on a schedule. Not to mention, this rendezvous site had been his idea, his choice to extract “payment” for his perverted blackmail scheme. He wouldn’t elaborate on what he saw, or thought he saw, at the Krantz house. Instead, he wanted to do it in person.

  Running her hand over her knee, she considered her reaction to his revelation. Most people would have panicked or, at the very least, needed a moment to gather evaporated composure. But she had no such emotional response. No fear or apprehension. No devastating fall of her heart to her stomac
h.

  Standing, she walked slowly to the curtain-drawn window and searched the sparse parking lot. Part of her had almost wished something along those lines would have happened. It might have meant she was less broken—by the standards of normalcy most people adhered to anyway—and getting closer to some emotional Nirvana. But that wasn’t her destiny. She had, instead, sat down and asked her accuser why he hadn’t said anything to anyone, the answer already obvious, at least to her. This “meeting” arrangement had confirmed it; he wanted something. And perhaps that something was her.

  “Go figure,” she whispered.

  His hands had remained steady and he hadn’t flinched or hesitated while explaining his plan to meet and discuss his long-distance observation. In fact, he was entirely too calm too sure. It was as if he’d been through this type of situation before, and that, above all things, had piqued her curiosity. She’d studied her kindred spirits, other serial killers who had experienced the joy of what she was doing, and was sure she recognized one or two as they passed on the street or made eye contact in some store over the years, but this was something different. Her would-be tormenter carried a secret of his own and that was the true reason she was enduring the almost-rancid air of this pathetic excuse for a hotel room. Maybe it was as simple as never having slept with a woman before?

  The knock on the door interrupted her train of thought, but also prompted a gathering anticipation that she was quickly beginning to . . . crave.

  Pulling the neckline of her sheer blouse lower, she cracked the door, removing the tarnished chain from the latch, then swinging it open. She had just a brief look at Scarecrow Man before he pushed her with both hands, sending her sprawling. The door closed with a loud thump. He pounced on her, flipped her over on her stomach, then was on top of her squeezing her outstretched arms against the matted carpet with his wiry hands.