by Jo Robertson
Marconi, Sanderson, Borem, and Wendt in archives – if Slater believed Kate Myers’ allegations, any one of them or a dozen others could’ve been involved in the cover up of a murder twenty years ago.
Chapter Nine
Slater found Myers at Matt Bauer’s desk, her chair pulled close to him as they read through the murder book on the Johnston case. It was a thin file, but Slater knew by the time they closed the case, it’d be as fat as a blood-engorged tick.
Myers’ winter-white skirt hiked up as she crossed her legs at the knee, showing smooth, tanned skin halfway up her thigh. Slater felt irrationally irritated as he watched Bauer lap up her attention like a puppy dog. When Myers caught Slater’s eye, a light flush started at her neck and spread across her high cheekbones. Bauer averted his eyes and played with the report in front of him.
Remembering Borem’s words, Slater snapped, “Christ, Myers, if you want to seduce the kid, do it in private.”
She went rigid in the dingy office chair, whipped her head around, and glared at him. “You’re way out of line, Detective.”
“You’re out of line using one of my team members like that,” he retorted.
“We were just, uh, you know – ” Matt offered.
“Get us some coffee, will you, Matt?” Slater asked as he sat down in his chair across from them.
Damn, what was wrong with him? He was acting like a jealous adolescent.
“Are we going to have a problem working together, Detective?”
“Not as long as you take my lead on the case.” He held her gaze steadily across the two desks. “Not as long as you know who’s boss.”
“Oh?”
“Oh,” he repeated crossly. He thought she’d argue, but she seemed to consider a moment before she shrugged those elegant shoulders in the condescending way some women had.
She’d held back info about the Stuckey case, he reminded himself, and there was something else that raised a warning flag whenever he was around her. He’d learned long ago to trust his gut when it came down to two things: women and his cases.
This situation involved both.
Slater’s prickliness bothered Kate, but she wasn’t surprised by it. Whatever he imagined, she thought, aware of his hard scrutiny as she watched Matt Bauer exit the squad room, she hadn’t been using Matt. In fact, the kid was like a breath of fresh air. But she didn’t intend to expend energy convincing Slater. She kept her face impassive as she turned back to the murder book.
“What do you think?” Slater said after a few silent minutes.
“Nothing more than what I expected.” She answered coolly. “We’re fortunate those kids were hanging out on the beach. We might not have found Jennifer so soon.”
Slater removed his jacket and draped it on the seat back. “Since your copy of the Stuckey file looked thin, I made a request for the full original file,” he said in what sounded like a peace offering. “We can review the field and interview reports, the follow-ups.”
When she glanced up sharply, he added, “Don’t worry. I went around Marconi and used only the case number, no names. Your secret’s safe for the moment.”
An awkward silence hung between them while she searched for a response until Bauer returned minutes later, carrying three cardboard containers of black coffee, packets of sugar, and cream. She didn’t blame Slater for being annoyed. It’d be hard to imagine anyone you worked with involved in a cover up. Or worse, murder.
When Bauer handed her a coffee, she cleared her throat and spoke as if nothing had just happened. “Thanks, Matt.” After taking a quick swallow, she hurried on, “I’ve been trying to get a fix on the killer’s profile. Jennifer Johnston was missing from Wednesday afternoon until Sunday night when her body was found at the lake. That means – ”
“The killer had plenty of time to have his fun with her,” Slater finished as he took the coffee Bauer proffered.
Kate winced and picked up the photos taken Monday at the crime scene. She carried the pictures to the window where she stared at them in the cloudy noon light.
Although she’d already looked at the photos and had viewed Jennifer Johnston’s body at the morgue, the crime scene photos now appeared almost pornographic. The harsh contrast of the damaged body against the lake’s serenity was stark and unforgiving. As Kate flipped through the untouched photos, nausea washed over her. Cold sweat beaded on her brow and gathered between her breasts.
A yellow dress fluttered in the breeze from an open window. Caught by the wind, it fell to the floor in slow motion and landed on a white brassiere. She had time to glimpse the brown stains on the delicate garment before the buttery yellow of the dress slowly, very slowly, covered everything.
Kate shuddered and forced herself back to the here and now. She ought to feel elated, being so close to the killer after all these years. But the pictures made her breath catch as if she were poised at the edge of a dark abyss. Seeing Jennifer’s mangled body, she felt no triumph.
She shivered and closed her eyes against the horrible scene, against the nightmarish memories.
“You okay, Dr. Myers?” Bauer stood at her side, his lanky form bent as he peered at her, blocking Slater’s view.
Kate forced herself to look once more at the pictures—twelve in all—the last one showing Jennifer’s high school senior photo. A broad smile split the girl’s face, and her eyes crinkled in a challenge to the camera. Kate’s hands shook and she bit down hard on her lower lip.
She hadn’t realized Slater was studying her until his matter-of-fact voice sounded at her left shoulder.
“Here’s what we know so far,” he iterated. “Like you said, Jennifer disappeared a week ago, Wednesday afternoon, walking home from school. The last time anyone saw her was around two forty-five when she said goodbye to a bunch of friends after school. That’s Placer Hills High on Sheridan Avenue.”
Slater walked back to his desk and waited until Kate returned to Bauer’s chair. “Her kid brother told us she often took a shortcut,” he continued. “The guy must’ve snatched her in the alley that cuts three blocks from the school to Vernon Street on the north side.”
Kate used the time while Slater recited these details to calm herself. She pushed the photos discreetly out of her line of sight.
“After he kidnapped her, he took her some place and did this to her,” Bauer added. “Then used the Pontiac to transport the body to the lake.”
Slater pointed to the photos. “Since the evidence shows she wasn’t killed at the lake or in the car, the primary scene, when we find it, should have lots of trace.”
“She was gone almost a week,” Bauer said. “Wilson estimated she died between ten and four Sunday night.”
“That means he had her longer than three days before she died,” Kate interrupted.
“He killed her, Myers,” Slater said. “Not ‘before she died.’ Before he killed her.”
She felt tension flare between them again. “Don’t split hairs. Sure, he killed her, but she died from what he did to her. Do you think because I’m a psychiatrist, I’m looking for a reason to absolve him?”
“No,” Slater conceded. He paused and glanced through the blown-up crime scene photos. “What profile factors jump to your mind from looking at the photos?”
Kate looked briefly at her lap, at her clenched fingers. She needed to control herself if she were going to move this case along. Slater was too astute not to wonder why she took his comments personally.
She moistened her lips before answering. “The ferocity of the attack shows the killer was angry and frustrated. The post-mortem wounds are indications of residual rage that he didn’t wreak on her while she was alive. He continued stabbing after her death because he wanted more time with her when she was alive.”
“More time.”
“A torture-murderer doesn’t usually kill his victim so soon. Three, four days isn’t very long.”
Slater’s jaw clenched. “I bet it was an eternity to Jennifer.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Kate protested.
Slater shrugged. “You’re saying he wanted to torture her longer, but she died too soon?”
“That’s my guess. Wounds inflicted after death often indicate something personal and show a high level of rage.”
“She could’ve known her assailant,” Bauer said. “Could be this Dwayne Severson kid.”
This was the first she’d heard the name. “Who?” she asked.
“A boyfriend of sorts,” Slater replied.
Kate shook her head skeptically. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. This man wanted her to suffer enough to keep her alive, but the victim herself isn’t personal to him. She’s a prototype. And the longer she lives, the longer she suffers, the more enjoyment he gets out of the experience.”
“You make it sound like a goddamn opera,” Slater muttered.
“To him, it is an opera. He’s like a conductor, the one who gets to orchestrate what happens to his victim. He has all the control, all the power. When that omnipotent feeling dissipates with the victim’s death, he – ”
“Gets mad,” Bauer finished.
“That’s an understatement. I think the killer’s now feeling shortchanged. He wanted to spend at least a week on her. He must be furious that she died.”
“I don’t know about him, but I’m pissed as hell,” Slater said, shoving his chair back and striding out of the room.
“He’ll be searching for another girl,” she warned to his retreating back. “He won’t wait long.”
Slater didn’t look back.
Kate returned to her own office with the murder book in hand. She thought of the pink-tinged sand and water at Beale’s Lake lapping against the girl’s body. Of her vulnerable nakedness, and her bare feet digging into the gravelly sand. She closed her eyes in grief out of proportion to the murder of a girl she didn’t know.
Guilt was a sharp tug at the edge of her conscience. Slater had a right to know what Kate knew, or at least what she suspected. Keeping information from a superior was just plain wrong. Soon, she promised, when she was surer.
For the major incident conference later this afternoon, Sheriff Marconi had asked Kate to prepare a psychological profile on the UNSUB – the unknown subject – in the death of Jennifer Johnston. An hour later she was halfway through the report when Slater stuck his head in the door.
“Hey, doc, want to grab some lunch?” he asked. The sudden invitation surprised her.
“Why?” she asked bluntly.
“We could talk about the case.”
“We can do that here.”
“Maybe I need to apologize for my behavior earlier.”
“Maybe?”
“Meet me at Rusty’s. It’s a cop restaurant and hang-out just off the freeway. You’ll see it from the highway on the right, going north.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Two o’clock.” He captured her eyes across the room, forcing her to meet his challenge. “Or are you afraid?”
Slater was a very irritating man, she decided. Charming when he wanted to be. Annoyingly perceptive. Somehow engaging in a rough-hewn way. “Why should I be afraid?”
“Stop answering my questions with a question,” he said, pausing at the door frame.
She couldn’t help smirking. “Do I do that?”
Chapter Ten
Immersed in finishing up the psychological profile of the killer, Kate lost all track of time. She also spent time correlating and analyzing the characteristics of the cases she’d brought with her from L.A., although, of course, she wouldn’t address these at the 4:30 conference.
She might share them with Slater. She felt some relief that she’d told him about the Stuckey case. After all, the murder had occurred in his jurisdiction, and sooner or later she’d have to tell him about the other cases. Would he believe her flimsy evidence? Or, once she confessed her personal involvement and her years of obsession, would he dismiss her as a nut case?
For the moment her reputation protected her, but she was standing at the edge of a dangerous precipice. Being personally motivated in a case that could traverse the entire country put her at risk of having the whole case fall down on her like a house of cards.
Using existing FBI profiles, she matched what she already knew from her private searches against Quantico’s database and the Johnston murder. If Bigler County’s UNSUB was the killer she’d been looking for, he’d altered his modus operandi over the last twenty years.
It wasn’t unusual for a serial killer to change certain characteristics as he evolved in his cycle of murder. Sometimes he no longer got enough satisfaction from his previous ritual, or he simply refined his technique.
Like the Johnston murder, no semen had been found at the Preston, Idaho, crime scene. Either the killer was very good from the start, or trace evidence had been degraded, most likely the latter. With most of the cases, no evidence of actual sexual penetration was found, although the crimes were clearly sexual in nature. Nor were the attacks on the other girls quite as vicious as the one on Jennifer Johnston.
Kate believed his level of violence was escalating.
#
Two o’clock arrived too quickly. Kate glanced at the black-rimmed, circular clock hanging above her file cabinet and grabbed her purse. She rushed toward the parking lot and entered the restaurant thirteen minutes later. Marconi had set the incident meeting for late afternoon when the shifts changed. She wouldn’t linger over lunch with Slater because she wanted to review her notes before she spoke to the teams.
In fact, she wasn’t sure why she’d even come. She spotted him in a corner booth, two beers dripping moisture onto a red plastic tablecloth.
She hated beer.
Slater smiled as she approached. “I already ordered,” he said, indicating the drinks.
Kate wrinkled her nose.
“You don’t like beer?” “No.”
“Oops.”
She lifted her eyebrows.
“Honest, I didn’t know,” he protested.
“But you guessed.”
Slater smiled. “Are you profiling me, Doc? Okay, maybe I took a stab about the drink,” he admitted. “You don’t seem like a beer kind of girl. Sorry, that was petty of me.”
Petty indeed, Kate thought as she wondered why Slater was being nice to her. And she hadn’t been a girl for many years.
Slater extended his hand across the table. “Truce?”
His grip was warm and firm, and he held her hand a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Everything about Slater was handsome in an outdoor-healthy way. His voice, his laughter, those little crinkles around his eyes when he laughed. She withdrew her fingers and sipped the beer.
“Don’t drink that,” he said. “I’ll order something else.” He beckoned the waitress over. “Let me guess. Wine? A Zinfandel, right?”
“No,” she lied. “Chardonnay.”
His smile was gorgeous, wide and disarming, perfect teeth set in a dark complexion. A lock of thick, black hair persistently fell over his forehead. She could see gray thread though the hair at his temples.
Take a deep breath, Kate admonished herself, forcing down the swelling low in her belly and ignoring the tickle beneath her ribs. “So, Detective, what do you think?”
“I think the Chardonnay works better.”
“I mean the case,” she said, tapping the folder lying on the table near the salt and pepper shakers. “That’s why you brought the folder. That’s why we’re having lunch, remember?”
“Right, the case.” Slater’s face turned resolute, his eyes intense as they bore into hers. “Look, I know I’ve been hard on you. But this case – ” He gestured toward the folder. “We haven’t had an incident like this in the ten years I’ve been in the county. In the last two decades, we’ve had sixty murders, fifty-seven of them solved. That’s only three unsolved cases in twenty years.”
“Four, if you count Mary Stuckey,” she reminded him.
Slater nodded. “If Mary Stuckey really was murdere
d, I’ll be damned if I’ll let this case go unsolved. I want to catch this murdering bastard before he gets another girl.”
Kate drew back, surprised at his fervor. So far her suggestions had been met with his unflappable rationality. “You think he’s going to do this again, too?”
“You tell me. You’ve been trying to make a good case, haven’t you?”
She suppressed her excitement. Had Slater bought into the idea of a serial killer? His words indicated as much, but would he support her if she went too fast down that rocky road? She hesitated a moment, then plunged on. “Absolutely.”
“Absolutely?” Slater echoed.
“Not only that, but I think he’s done it before.”
Kate intended to tread gingerly now. She was walking a fine ethical line. She wouldn’t undermine the current case. She’d already explained the Stuckey connection, but she didn’t want to say more until allegiances were clear and she knew for certain whom she could trust.
So far, she was positive only of Captain Howes’ loyalty. He’d allowed her to come here from L.A. because he believed in her. By confessing to Slater her belief that the Stuckey girl was murdered, she was de facto trusting Slater. She wasn’t sure that’d been a good idea. He hadn’t been in Bigler County during the Stuckey drowning, but others had. Others to whom Slater presumably had strong loyalties.
“The wounds on Jennifer – they show such fury,” Kate said carefully. “It takes a long time to build that kind of rage. I don’t see how this can be his first time. I think he’s killed before – ”
“Two murders by the same man two decades apart?” Slater interrupted, doubt strong in his voice. “Even with the abrasion that you think is the same as the mark on Jennifer’s body – ” Slater’s voice trailed off as Kate stared wordlessly at him until he finally understood.
“You’re saying there were others?” he asked. “In between Stuckey and Johnston, there were others?” She heard the incredulity and outrage in his voice.
She nodded. “Maybe he didn’t use the same methods in every case,” she hurried on. “Maybe he varied his rituals. Maybe law enforcement didn’t see a connection.”
