by Brenda Novak
There was a slight pause. He thought he heard the sniffle of tears. “What if I can’t hate you?”
His chest suddenly tightened so much he couldn’t have taken a deep breath if he’d wanted to. “You should. It would make everything easier for you,” he said gently. Then he hung up and turned off his phone so he wouldn’t be tempted to call her back. If he accepted all the blame for what he and Adriana had done ten years ago, the two women would patch up their friendship and move on, just as they had before. In another few months, Francesca would probably have new pictures sitting on her wet bar and mantel, pictures of her with another man similar to Roland Perenski.
She’d be happy, smiling, maybe even thinking about getting married….
When the phone rang, Francesca couldn’t help hoping it was Jonah. She wasn’t sure what was left to say, but somehow it didn’t feel as if their conversation was over.
As she grabbed her phone, however, she saw her father’s name on caller ID.
Trying to rein in her disappointment, she made an effort to put some life into her voice. “Hi, Dad.”
“Francesca? I didn’t wake you, did I?”
She glanced at the alarm clock on her nightstand. “It’s not quite eleven, Dad. What’s going on? Are you and Mom okay?”
“We’re fine.”
“Good. What’s up?”
“I’ve been doing those background checks for you.”
With everything else that’d been going on, Francesca had almost forgotten she’d asked him to do some research. Now that he was calling to report, she didn’t have the heart to tell him she’d been kicked off the case. It wouldn’t hurt to hear him out. If what he had to say seemed significant, she’d pass it along to the task force—anyone other than Finch or Hunsacker—just like she planned to do with the DNA results on the panties. If Walt’s contribution didn’t seem significant, at least she could thank him and make him feel she appreciated the time he’d spent. “Right. On Butch Vaughn,” she said.
“And that other fellow, Dean Wheeler.”
She pulled back the covers on her bed so she could wriggle beneath them. “What have you found?”
She heard the shuffle of papers on his end of the line.
“Butch Vaughn was born and raised in Queen Creek, first by his mother, and then by a friend’s family.”
“What happened to his parents?”
“His real father took off before he was born, never paid any child support, and Butch didn’t get along with his stepfather—or his younger half siblings, for that matter. When his stepfather was laid off, Butch’s mother had to go to work, and the situation became untenable. According to one of Butch’s school counselors, who agreed to chat with me off the record, he had severe behavioral problems, anger-management issues and he was failing most of his classes. He improved once he went to live with the Stathams.”
Francesca immediately noted the name. “Was the father Harry?”
“No, but Butch’s friend was. Why?”
“He’s used ‘Harry Statham’ as an alias. Now I know where he got it.”
“His half sister, a Marcie Reed, told me he never forgave their mother for turning him out, for choosing her husband over him. He still has no contact with his siblings. His brother refused to talk to me, said as far as he was concerned Butch died the day his mother did.”
She whistled. “That’s harsh. How did the mother die?”
“Drowned in the bathtub.”
“Any evidence of foul play?”
“There was an investigation, but it was an open-and-shut case. Her blood-alcohol level was sky-high, suggesting she passed out. Her death was ruled an accident.”
Francesca rearranged her pillows to make herself more comfortable. “How old was she?”
“Thirty-six.”
Could the police who’d performed the investigation be wrong? Was that when Butch first began his killing spree? “Did Butch attend the funeral?”
“No. Once he went to live with the Stathams, he never contacted his real family again and they never contacted him. He played football in high school, then went to ASU on an athletic scholarship, which lasted for a year—until he blew out his knee.”
Francesca pictured Butch striding to his office. “These days, he doesn’t even walk with a limp.”
“Maybe the doctors managed to fix him up. I’m guessing he’s had several operations. In any case, the injury was bad enough to end his football career.”
“Is that where he met Paris? At ASU?”
“No. Without the scholarship, he didn’t have the money to continue his education. By this time he was estranged from his adoptive family, too. I hung up with the father, John Statham, a few minutes ago. He said they did everything they could to help Butch, but Butch got into a fight with their son Harry and broke his jaw, and that was the end of their patience. Butch had just graduated from high school and would be eighteen within a few weeks. They felt they’d done all they could for him. He was too volatile for them. So they asked him to move out.”
Francesca knew that conversation couldn’t have been an easy one, not with someone known to be violent. “Did he go peacefully?”
“Apparently he did. He packed up and left without a word, and they haven’t heard from him since.”
“Not keeping up with previous relationships seems to be a pattern.”
“Fortunately, no one in this other family has died.”
The air-conditioning came on so she burrowed deeper under the covers while toying with the pepper spray Jonah had insisted she keep close at hand. “How did he meet the Wheelers?”
“According to the guy who owns the property adjacent to the salvage yard—”
“Whoa, whoa, wait. There’re no other houses close to the salvage yard.”
“I said ‘property.’ It’s raw farmland, but the owner works it himself, so he’s out there regularly, growing alfalfa—I found him through county records. Anyway, he said Butch answered an ad the Wheelers placed in the paper. They were looking to retire and wanted someone to run the salvage yard for them. Butch was looking for a job. I’m guessing he met Paris once they hired him.”
That made sense. Paris seemed young and rather naive, as if she’d never had the chance to experience life beyond the salvage yard, where she’d been raised. “What brought him to Prescott?”
“I can’t say. I get the feeling he was rambling around a bit, looking for the right situation. I also spoke to an old girlfriend who still lives in Phoenix,” her father went on.
Francesca smiled at his diligence. “I’m impressed. How’d you find her?”
“His football coach is still at ASU. He told me about her, said she lives down the street from him now and gave her my number. She was nice enough to call.”
“Wow. That was lucky. Was she any help?”
“Definitely. She said he has the worst temper she’s ever seen. That he’s egocentric and insensitive. She also told me he had an insatiable sexual appetite.”
Francesca had overheard Paris mention Butch’s sex addiction, but she hadn’t passed that detail along to her father. “Did she volunteer the sexual appetite information?”
“You think I asked about it?”
She laughed. “No. It’s just…not what I would’ve expected a woman to blurt out.”
“Shows you how marked that behavior really was.”
“Did she say whether he ever grew violent or tried to force her to have sex with him?”
“She said it never went that far. But he used his desire for sex as an excuse to chase other women, so she broke up with him.”
Considering his track record with Paris, Butch’s cheating didn’t surprise Francesca. “Were you able to find any connection between him and Bianca Andersen?”
“Not yet. I’m still working on that. But Dean is where it gets interesting.”
Francesca had thought it was interesting from the start. “How so?”
“He has a morbid fascination with death and vio
lence.”
“Who told you this?”
“Several of his classmates. They said he was drawing grotesque pictures of cadavers and devils with knives and things like that from the third grade on.”
Definitely a red flag. Francesca had read enough about profiling to know that. “Did he have any friends?”
“None. He was a loner. The other kids considered him weird, maybe even dangerous. He once asked a girl at school to come over for his birthday party, said he ‘needed’ to show her to his mother. He promised to pay her if she’d agree.”
“And?”
“He made her too uncomfortable. She refused. When she returned to her locker after the next period, she found blood all over her books. Then she heard that Dean had been sent to the hospital after slitting his wrists.”
Francesca tried to fit that into her impression of Dean. “How’d he get her locker combination?”
“He was so obsessed with her he’d stand in the hall and wait for her between classes. Sometimes, he’d seem lucid. Other times, he’d rock and mumble to himself. But he watched her so closely he probably learned the combination.”
The conflict Francesca felt over whether or not to continue this investigation suddenly grew by leaps and bounds. The culprit was somehow connected to that salvage yard. She felt it in her bones. “Maybe you were getting to this, but Dean has schizoaffective disorder.”
“I’ve got his entire medical history. You still want it?”
Despite everything, she had to feel sorry for Butch’s brother-in-law. It wouldn’t be easy to deal with his problems. Neither would it be easy—especially since he was already suffering a mental handicap—to live with Butch. Had it twisted Dean? Made a killer out of him? She’d heard similar backgrounds attached to a number of serial killers. Dahmer, for instance, murdered to stop people from abandoning him and had been trying to figure out a way to preserve their bodies; he’d thought eating their flesh might satisfy that desire. “Of course I’d like it. Would you mind faxing it to the office?”
“I’ll send it along with the other stuff I’ve noted as soon as we hang up.”
“Great. Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate your help.” She wasn’t sure what to do with the information he’d uncovered, whether or not to use it herself or turn it over to the as-yet-unformed task force, but she was genuinely grateful for his research.
“One more thing,” he said.
She could tell by his voice that whatever he was about to reveal was important. “What’s that?”
“It’s about Dean.”
“Yes?”
“He worked at the post office for a brief period of time five years ago. As far as I can tell, it’s the only real job he’s ever held. I guess his parents know the postmaster or someone else who put in a good word for him, so he was given a shot at being gainfully employed.”
“I take it this arrangement didn’t work out?”
“No. While he was there, he got involved with a fellow employee, an older woman—older by fifteen years—named Sherrilyn Gators.”
“When you say involved…”
“They were lovers.”
“So it was serious.”
“It seemed to be leaning that way. They weren’t together all that long, only a few months, and yet Dean wanted to marry her. But Sherrilyn had three children, one of whom, a boy named Neal, was only a few years younger than Dean was. Neal didn’t like the idea of his mother as a cougar and began poking around and asking questions about his potential stepfather. Once he discovered that Dean had severe mental problems, he went to his mother and convinced her to end the relationship.”
“How did Dean react?”
“As you might expect. He was heartbroken, wouldn’t let it go. For months afterward, he peeped in their windows, left gifts at the door or in her car, called her constantly, followed her home from work.”
“He stalked her.”
“Basically. That behavior cost him his job.”
“Wasn’t he taking his meds?”
“Who knows? He was supposed to be on them.”
“Did she ever get a restraining order?”
“She did, but he went over to her place even after that, the last time with wine and flowers. Sherrilyn was too afraid to let him in, but—”
“Why do I have the feeling this doesn’t end well?”
“Because it doesn’t. When she refused, he threatened to kill her. Said he’d come back one night and kill the whole family, that he could get into the house anytime he wanted.”
Francesca slowly rose to her feet. “He threatened her life?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, God. Tell me she’s still breathing.”
“No one knows. She’s been missing for four years.”
26
Dean stood in the side yard of Francesca’s house, hopping from foot to foot while he waited for her to go to bed. Constant movement helped him cope with the anxiety that was making him itch all over. Maybe he should’ve taken his medication this morning. It’d been too long since his last dose. He was heading into withdrawal. But if he’d taken his meds, he wouldn’t be able to do what needed to be done. That was the reason he sometimes pretended to take them but threw them away. They made him feel as if he was living inside a bubble, looking out at life instead of experiencing it. When he was drugged, he didn’t care deeply about anything, and he had to care about this, had to be able to fix his mistake. Like his mother said, he should never have put those panties in the jockey box of Butch’s truck. If not for that, they wouldn’t have fallen into the wrong hands, and he wouldn’t be here, so far from the places that were comfortable and familiar to him, so far from his family.
Too bad Francesca had capitalized on his mistake. He’d returned her purse. He’d returned her pictures, too, even though he’d desperately wanted to add them to his growing pile of treasures and pretend to be part of her life. Why couldn’t she have left well enough alone? Was it because she wanted to cause him problems?
Maybe not. But she didn’t care if she did. Francesca was like every other woman he’d found attractive. None of them liked him. Look at the way her friend had treated him. Adriana wouldn’t even give him a drink of water.
He didn’t have to feel bad about what he was going to do because Francesca had earned it….
“It’s for Mom,” he mumbled to himself. He’d been saying the same thing ever since he’d left Prescott, and that was hours ago—so many he’d lost track in the fog of panic and preoccupation. He’d been so upset he’d gotten confused, taken the wrong bus and wound up in Casa Grande. He’d had to backtrack an hour and a half.
But he was here now. And he knew what he had to do.
Thank God it was dark. Hiding calmed him. He’d always enjoyed standing in the background, watching….
Finally, the light gleaming around the edges of Francesca’s blinds disappeared. Taking his lock picks, mini-flashlight and flathead screwdriver from his backpack, he imagined himself as invisible, a moving shadow, and slipped silently through the gate and around to the back door.
Fortunately, Francesca had a pin-and-tumbler-style lock, just as he’d expected. Most residences had these, so he’d encountered them before, numerous times.
All he had to do was rake all the pins, then pick any that remained. Getting in would take him two minutes, tops.
“What are you doing?”
Butch froze at the sound of his wife’s voice, coming from behind him. Hoping she was asleep and hadn’t heard his truck, he’d entered the salvage yard through the gate instead of the house. A gruesome task awaited him. He didn’t want her involved in it.
“Don’t worry about it.” Determined to see his decision through, he marched toward the back corner.
It was warm enough that Paris didn’t need a robe, but she was wearing one. Eyes wide, skin chalk-white, she looked small and frightened as she caught up to him. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you get the panties?”
Feeling like a failure
for dragging his family into his addiction, he allowed her to stop him. “No.”
“Francesca Moretti didn’t have them?”
“I didn’t go to Chandler.”
“Why not?” she gasped.
“What would be the point?”
Obviously smelling the alcohol on his breath, she sniffed. “You’ve been drinking.”
“Two beers. I’m sober. Listen to me.”
“I don’t understand why you didn’t go to Chandler!”
“Because even if Francesca took those panties, who knows whether she still has them? Maybe she gave them to someone other than Finch or Hunsacker, someone like that consultant. It’s been more than twenty-four hours. She could’ve shipped them to a lab herself. And if she does have them, it’s not as if she’d hand them over to me. I’d have to force her. Then she’d really think I’m a killer and the cops would believe it.”
Paris hugged the collar of her robe to her chin. “But…we can’t let those panties be tested. Not if they belonged to who I think they did.”
She knew. Butch could tell. “How’d you figure it out?”
“The way you’ve been acting.”
After that little confrontation with Dean, he’d explained the situation to Elaine. He shouldn’t have. Paris’s mother must’ve told her.
Placing his hands on her shoulders, Butch tried to reassure her with a squeeze. She had to put up with so much because of him. He felt bad about that. If only he’d curbed his appetites when he had the chance. If only he hadn’t been so careless! “Paris—”
“We should’ve gone to the police,” she whispered. “Right when it happened.”
He lowered his voice. “And tell them what? That you accidentally killed a girl I was having an affair with?”
“Yes! Why not? It was an accident!”
“You were upset when you pushed her. That’s manslaughter. A felony.”
