by Jo Robertson
How could she make him understand? “Kassie trusted anyone, everyone. Don’t you see? I was tougher, street smart, more savvy than she was. I would have been able to get away.”
“But he didn’t kidnap you, Kate. He took Kassie.” He spoke slowly as if to a child. “There’s no way you can be sure you’d have gotten away.”
“Yes, I can. Kassie was sweet and kind. Trusting. She would’ve gone with anyone who’d told her his dog was missing, or whatever. And besides – ”
“What?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be her,” she whispered.
“What do you mean it wasn’t supposed to be her? You think it was supposed to be you?”
Tears scratched at her throat. “I had the responsibility of walking Shamus that day, but I talked Kassie into doing my chore because I’d been playing soccer all week. I was tired – or lazy. I begged her. I knew she wouldn’t refuse. I fell asleep and didn’t even know she hadn’t come back until my parents returned from town.”
“So you blame yourself,” he said flatly.
“If I’d done my job, I would’ve been the one walking Shamus at 5:30 on a winter’s evening when it was too dark to be outside, not her.” She flung her hands wide. “Don’t you see? I would’ve been the one this maniac went for.”
She swiped at tears with the heel of her hand. “I would’ve been able to get away and both of us would’ve been safe.”
Slater held her firmly by the shoulders, frown lines etching his face. “What happened was an accident.”
“There’s more.”
He held still, his hands heavy on her shoulders.
“I noticed this guy, a young guy.” Once she began, the words rushed out like a long-delayed storm. “I’d seen him hanging around, at soccer practice, before school, once at the convenience store. Suddenly he seemed to be everywhere I went, lingering around the fringes of my life. I thought he might be stalking me or something.”
A terrible anguish clutched her chest. “I started to tell my parents before they went to town that day, but I had this huge senior project due and then I forgot about it. I didn’t tell anyone about the guy I’d seen,” she cried. “And I let Kassie walk the dog alone after dark.”
Slater wrapped his arms around her. “It’s not your fault, Kate. You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have saved her any more than we could’ve saved Jennifer or Mary or God knows who else.”
She sobbed into the warm, broad cushion of his chest. The grief of years of guilt, anguish and regret spilled from her into Slater. When finally she was dried out and empty, she raised her face to meet his eyes.
Slater’s face was warm and kind. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve gone and gotten snot all over me.”
She tried a weak smile. “I’m pathetic.”
“No.” He planted a soft kiss on her forehead.
The rational voice in her head warned her she was relying too much on Slater, getting close to him way too soon. She shoved the heretical thought away because the truth was she felt safer with him than she had in years.
As he held her, a dozen questions raced through Slater’s mind. He wanted to press Kate for details about her sister’s killer. How sure was she that the Bigler County UNSUB was the same person who murdered her sister? And if it was the same man, what about all the years in between? Where had the killer been? What had he been doing? Did she have a theory?
The urgency of this new information unsettled his mind. He wanted to rush to the precinct, call his crew, get an APB out, and track this animal down. But he knew rushing off half-cocked would hamper the investigation.
There was nothing that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Questions weren’t what Kate needed now anyway. She needed comfort. He pulled her closer.
“Come on, little lady, let’s get you to bed.
“Little lady? What am I, a child?”
“That question is probably answered by the fact that my shirt is dripping with yucky stuff from your mouth and nose.” He held up his hands as if to ward off her protests. “I’m just sticking with the evidence.”
He pushed her into the bathroom, removed her robe, and pulled an oversized tee shirt over her head. He set her on the toilet seat and wet a washcloth, extending it to her. “You want to do this, or should I?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered crossly.
She wiped her face with the cloth. Her nose was red and her face was blotchy, but she looked calmer. And still so beautiful that she took his breath away. He found a hairbrush in the vanity drawer, turned her to the side, and began brushing the snarls out of her long hair.
She shifted under his touch. “That feels good.”
He enjoyed the rich texture of her silky hair and the splay of its thickness through his fingers. He used to brush the boy’s hair, thick and dark like pictures Slater had seen of himself as a child. He remembered the textured fineness of his child’s hair as he rubbed the small head, long curls like a girl because Julie had refused to cut it, even though at over two years old, he was becoming a big boy.
Julie had never been patient enough to sit with their child, but whenever Slater got out the hairbrush, the boy would turn around and back into his father’s lap. He’d fall asleep almost as soon as his father touched his head, but Ben kept on brushing anyway. He could almost feel the weight of the small body and smell the sweet child odor of his son as he nestled in his lap.
Slater jerked himself back from the painful memory.
Hauling Kate to her feet, he pushed her toward the bedroom. Pulling back the covers, he gave her a gentle push onto the bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin. Right now she looked like a little girl, her eyes wide and trusting.
“Sleep tight, Kate.”
She didn’t say a word until he reached the door and turned off the light. “Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t call me Myers anymore.”
#
Slater roused himself from a short, but surprisingly refreshing sleep on Kate’s sofa. He contented himself with staring out the window, aware of a peaceful sense of satisfaction. A subtle change had occurred between Kate and him last night. Tenuous and very fragile.
And he wanted to think about what it meant for him, for the two of them. About how the case was sure to affect them from now on, good or bad.
He peeked into Kate’s room. The window from the bedroom was wide and high and looked out into a grove of plum trees behind the asphalt parking lot. Their soft pink petals would blossom in early spring, but now the naked branches were skimpy against the morning sky. Slater realized how easy it’d be for someone to look through that window at night, and he reminded himself to warn Kate about keeping the blinds tightly drawn.
In the kitchen he started a pot of coffee, guessing they’d both be late for work this morning. He used her bathroom, no stranger to showering among the paraphernalia of women, having grown up with three sisters. He liked the smell of her soap and shampoo and realized they were the scents that he expected every morning when she walked into the precinct.
He found towels stacked on a wire shelf over the toilet, dried quickly, and put his pants and shirt back on. He’d have to go commando until he reached the office where he kept an extra clean shirt, socks, and underwear. If he hurried, he might get there before anyone noticed him coming in wearing the same clothes as yesterday.
When he padded into the bedroom, Kate was gone, the bed covers tangled in a heap. He found her in the kitchen, a cheerful yellow and blue room with a counter that ran the length of one side and divided it from the living room. She sat on a barstool, but got up to pour him a cup when she saw him.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Much later than I usually get up,” she said, blushing as if embarrassed by last night.
“I’d better get going.” Slater picked up his cup of coffee and drank quickly.
An awkward silence descended on them.
“Look, Kate, I
…”
“Slater, I think …”
“You first,” she said.
“Take your time getting to the office. It’d be better if we didn’t come in at the same time.”
“Right.”
“Your turn,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t count last night as a mistake.
“The same.”
He moved closer to where she stood beside the counter. “When you come in, we have some things to talk about.”
“About the case?”
“Yeah, that too.”
He smiled and shrugged into his jacket, noticing it wasn’t too wrinkled from last night’s trauma. Opening the front door, he tossed his last words across the expanse of the living room to where she stood at the kitchen bar.
“Kate?”
She locked eyes with him. “Yes?”
“When we’re not in the office, don’t call me Slater.”
Chapter Twenty-one
By the time Slater reached the courthouse, another car was in the spot where he usually parked his truck, and the lot was half full. Even on a Sunday morning when court and office workers had the day off, deputies and detectives continued to put in time. Especially during a homicide investigation.
Damn, it was too much to hope he could arrive unnoticed. Fortunately, as he mounted the concrete steps to the first floor and passed through the lobby, he bumped into his partner.
“Bauer.” Slater motioned him over to the restroom area.
“Could you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Go to my locker,” he said, pressing a small key into his hand. “Bring me a fresh shirt, socks, and underwear. I’ll be in the men’s room.”
A look of surprise crossed Bauer’s features as he took in Slater’s rumpled appearance. Then his eyes widened in understanding, and he flushed. “Uh, sure, uh, I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t worry, Matt.” He laughed. “I haven’t broken any laws. I just want to be discreet. Know what I mean?”
Bauer didn’t answer, but hurried down the hall in the direction of the detectives’ locker room. Sheesh. Slater hoped Kate wasn’t going to run into the same kind of reception.
He spent the morning following an idea he’d gotten from talking to Kate last night. He googled Preston, Idaho, located just over the Utah border, and followed the links to the county’s web page where he found the name of the sheriff, an Edward H. Burke, along with a phone number and address.
He began checking homicides in that county, but the search yielded nothing before January 1995. Something must have happened to the reports dated prior to that. He might have to go to stored archival records or microfiche to find the information he wanted.
Before he had time to make the call to Sheriff Burke, his phone rang. One of his team confirmed that early this morning after Alison Mathews’ parents returned from Hawaii, they’d identified the body. Spenser Mathews, an insurance representative, had won the trip in a company sales contest. Alison was used to taking care of herself when her parents were away on frequent trips, so the parents had no idea when she’d gone missing.
What an end to a vacation, Slater thought. He’d have to run a check on the parents, of course, but he knew he didn’t need to. Slater had no doubt who had killed the Mathews girl.
Less than an hour later, Kate walked through the division doors, looking like a spring morning in a jeans jacket covering a rust-colored vest and slacks and a thin white blouse. She’d pulled her hair off her neck into a loose ponytail, wore no jewelry and little makeup, and her eyes were bright and clear. She looked about sixteen and Slater felt like a horny teenager.
He followed her into her office, closing the door behind him. Before he could make a move or say a word, Bauer barged in, waving a report in front of them.
“Autopsy’s back,” he said, then paused and looked from Kate to Slater and back again. “Uh, you wanna look at it now?” he asked, handing the manila folder to Kate.
“Dr. Wilson called me earlier this morning,” Kate said, slanting a meaningful look at Slater, “when he couldn’t reach Detective Slater.”
Before Slater could comment, she continued, “Forensics analyzed the blood Dr. Wilson found. It was enough to give us DNA. As we expected, the bleach degraded the saliva in the bite marks.”
“But DNA’s no good without a comparison,” Bauer complained.
“For all the wonders of modern technology, we still have to produce a suspect,” Slater agreed. “Myers and I’ll take a look at it anyway. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Matt, as soon as Patch authorizes it, contact both families and let them know the bodies can be released for burial.”
After Bauer left, Kate and Slater hunched over the desk to read the file. After last night he felt an awkward barrier between them. Mixing business and pleasure was never a good thing, but they’d work around it.
The doctor’s official findings, neatly typed by his assistant from Wilson’s recorded voice, were concise. While the Johnston girl’s body, with its twenty-six knife wounds, yielded no blood or trace evidence belonging to anyone but the victim, the drop of blood found on the inside elastic of the second girl’s pants was inconsistent with her blood type.
“It’s the killer’s blood,” Kate pronounced confidently.
Alison’s pants and panties had been pulled down, but had not been removed.
“He hurried on the second killing,” Slater guessed. “He didn’t take the time to remove her clothes.”
“Or to replace them ritualistically on the body.”
“He was interrupted?”
Kate shook her head. “I don’t think so. It could be further evidence of his loss of control. An organized serial killer becoming disorganized can be a sign of sub-consciously wanting to be caught.”
Both of Alison Mathews’ lungs and her heart were punctured. Like Jennifer Johnston, she bled to death. The upper chest and torso also were covered with cuts inflicted prior to death. Her arms and hands showed shallow defensive wounds. Her face was unmarked. There were similarities and differences between the two, but factoring in Kassie Myers’ case, Slater thought they were on to something.
He’d never believed in coincidence before, and he wasn’t going to start now.
They worked several hours without interruption when Kate stopped reading and closed her eyes. Her shoulders shuddered briefly and Slater realized she probably relived what happened to her sister every night of her life.
He risked a gentle squeeze of her shoulder. He hated what that son of a bitch had done to her twin sister, but respected how Kate had become resilient and strong. “You okay?”
She sighed, gesturing toward the form. “I don’t see anything we didn’t expect.”
“How’d we get the blood work back so soon?”
“Dr. Wilson typed the blood and sent the rest to the state on a rush order.”
“Wilson has friends at the state lab,” Slater confirmed.
While Slater looked over her shoulder, Kate found the last page attached to the back of the autopsy report. “Here it is. The blood on the pants is type O-positive, not a match to Alison and too common to be helpful.”
She trailed a finger down the page. “Wait, look at this, Slater. This is interesting.” She angled her face toward him and he was momentarily distracted by the tangy scent of her cologne.
“What is it?”
“It’s noted in the blood type. Hold on, this is very unusual. The chromosomal pattern in the blood sample is XXY.”
He heard the excitement in her voice. “XXY? Is that even possible?”
“It certainly is.”
“So, what does it mean?”
She thinned her lips in grim satisfaction. “It could mean nothing,” she answered, “or it could mean everything. Remember tenth-grade biology?”
“Just the part when we cut up frogs and Sharon Hat-sis leapt into my arms because her frog squirted formaldehyde when she cut into the leg.”
“The idea of a fifteen-year-old you
wielding a dissecting knife boggles my mind.” Kate grinned and Slater smiled back.
“Come on,” she continued, “you remember the part about sex determination. How the female can only give an X chromosome.”
“Right, and the male gives the Y chromosome. And definitely something about male chromosomes being faster.”
“Faster, but no staying power.”
“I don’t know one man who’d agree with that.”
She cleared her throat and ploughed on. “Most people think the sex gene is clear-cut. In other words, an XX makes a female, and an XY makes a male. We presume the unidentified suspect is indeed a man.”
“Since most serial killers are men,” Slater interjected.
Kate nodded. “So his chromosomal pattern should be XY.”
He frowned, confused. “But this guy is X-Y and X? That’s an extra something.”
“Exactly, an extra X chromosome, the female chromosome.”
“But why is that important? What does it mean?”
“That’s what’s strange.” She leaned back in her chair and tapped her steepled fingers together. “You’d think the extra X chromosome would produce a very feminine man or a very girly-girl, so to speak.”
“But that’s not consistent with a serial killer.”
“No, our killer is definitely prone to violence and aggression. No one knows for sure how these anomalies are tied to behavior. In fact, scientists did a study in the eighties in which they ran DNA on incarcerated males and discovered that a large percentage of them had, not an extra X, but an extra Y chromosome.”
He nodded, getting the connection. “Trying to tie criminal behavior to the Y chromosome.”
She lifted one shoulder. “The point is that this guy, our guy, is definitely a male—the Y chromosome makes him genetically male—but he’s different somehow from other males because of the added X chromosome.”
“How can knowing this help us find him?”
She dug her fingers through her hair, looking frustrated. “I don’t know yet, but our killer’s pathology is tied to his sexual drives and that might be tied to his chromosomes.”
