Judgment

by Carey Baldwin

  Caitlin pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. Her legs were shaking from the uphill climb—­she was still a bit weak. Her breath was short, and her heart was just about to jump out of her chest, but she didn’t care. She had to see this evil with her own eyes. She had to know, once and for all, what kind of a monster . . . “You’re absolutely right. I’m out of line. This is your call, not mine. It’s true this is your scene, so if you order me to leave, I will. But I’d like to remind you, I’m the one who was shot, not you. I’m the one who watched Kramer die, not you. I’m the one who connected the Man in the Maze to the bony labyrinths taken as souvenirs. I’ve been in on this case from the start, and I want to see it through to the end. I’m not a child who needs to be spared the ugliness of it all. I’m a professional, and I can handle an in vivo crime scene no matter how violent, no matter how perverse it may be.”

  Spense shrugged a what-­can-­we-­do at Herrera. Gretchen hitched her chin toward the top of the embankment. “Oh, it’s perverse all right. But if this is what you think you need to do, you’ve earned the right. I have to warn you, however, that once you see something like this, Catlin, you can never unsee it.”

  “Then I’ll add that to the list.” There were plenty of things she wished she could unsee. Whatever fate had befallen this poor girl, Caitlin intended to see it with her own eyes.

  She pulled in a deep breath and immediately started to cough. The wind had changed course, carrying a strong smell of blood and excrement to her. Spense pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and she wasn’t too proud to accept it. When she finally crested the hill, she couldn’t see the body. Crime-­scene tape stretched between the trees, and most of the team stood behind it, barking into their radios or scribbling in their notepads.

  Someone handed her a pair of booties, and in a macabre way it seemed humorous, but maybe that was just her defenses kicking in. She thought of all the times she’d watched a female television detective trudge all over a crime scene in Louboutins. Fortunately, these booties would fit easily over her New Balance runners. They all pulled on gloves. It wasn’t too different from scrubbing in for the OR. Then the CSIs stopped snapping photos and moved to the side, and that’s when Caitlin saw her.

  A young woman, probably nineteen or twenty. Long red hair fanned out around her, framing what was left of a face that looked to have been smashed repeatedly with something sharp and heavy. Likely that bloody rock lying at her side. Her nude body was caked with dirt and mud, but Caitlin could see the gashes crisscrossing her breasts and stomach. Her throat gaped open, and coagulated blood pooled around her shoulders like a scarf. Her legs, bent at the knees, had been parted and staked with tent spikes. Her genitals hung open, and from the appearance of her wounds, Caitlin surmised she’d been raped with a knife.

  Judging from the carefully tied feet, the stakes that had been driven into the hard ground, the sheer number of wounds on the body, the killer had spent a great deal of time with his victim. And she could only guess at how much additional energy had been spent carving up the victim’s skull. She tilted her head, studying the scene, and her vision began to blur, her knees felt rubbery, then Spense was at her side, gripping her elbow.

  She covered her mouth with her hand.

  The brain was such an odd, protective organ, and denial was its first line of defense.

  It had taken her all this time to see. The signature was new, but the MO was exactly the same. Not the same as Sally Cartwright or Darlene Dillinger.

  The same as Gail Falconer.

  Her eyes closed, and her legs buckled, but Spense held her up. She uncovered her mouth and dragged her palm over her face.

  Open your eyes, Caity. What do you see?

  The whirring of a camera sounded, and a CSI moved in, stooping low for a close shot of the abdomen. Caitlin steadied herself and stepped up to the body. What was he shooting? She squatted beside him and saw sunlight flashing from the umbilicus. At first she thought the girl must have a belly ring, but she was wrong. At least it wasn’t a piercing. It was an actual ring, stuffed in the umbilical recess.

  She looked to Spense, unsure if she could touch the evidence.

  “Okay if I take a look at that ring before you bag and tag?” He asked a uniform, reminding Caitlin this crime scene “belonged” to the Tempe Police Department.

  The uniform nodded. “I think we’ve got all we need. Help yourself.”

  Spense crouched next to the girl and carefully retrieved the ring. He muttered something unintelligible, something angry, under his breath. He brought Caitlin the ring, holding it out to her in his palm. “You want to look at the inscription, or should I?” His voice was strangled and hoarse, like he was barely keeping a lid on it.

  The ring was a pink sapphire encircled by diamonds. As she held it, her heartbeat stopped, she could feel its absence, the emptiness in her chest. She took the delicate ring between her thumb and index fingers and twirled it until she could see the letters etched inside. Then slowly, her heart resumed its rhythm. Spense fixed her with his gaze, and she nodded at him. “The inscription reads GF.”

  Gail Falconer.

  The world tilted, and when she opened her eyes, Spense and Baskin had her under the arms, one man on each side. The look on Herrera’s face was some weird combination of worried and pissed. “I fainted?” Lord, she hoped she hadn’t fallen and disturbed the scene. Straightening, she took inventory. No dirt on her hands or clothes. Herrera was holding an evidence bag, presumably containing the ring that was no longer in Caitlin’s hand.

  “Didn’t hit the dirt, so I can’t give you credit for a full faint,” Baskin said, in smooth-­it-­over tone.

  “Take her down to the car, will you, Detective?” Herrera asked, but it was clear it wasn’t really a request. She fixed Spense with a glare, one that said she wanted to speak with him alone.

  “It’d be my pleasure to escort Dr. Cassidy to a more . . . comfortable . . . spot.”

  Pressure built in her head, and her hands were trembling as she shoved away from Baskin and Spense. Guilt washed over her. She was drawing the attention away from the girl and from the killer, all the important things, and onto herself. But it wasn’t the gore that had gotten to her, if that’s what Herrera thought. It was the ring, and all the implications of finding it here today. That ring appeared to be Gail Falconer’s engagement ring. The one she hadn’t taken off her finger since the night Randy Cantrell had given it to her. The one that had been removed from her body the night she was murdered.

  The killer’s trophy.

  Whoever had taken the ring off Gail that night, whoever had murdered Gail, must’ve left it on this poor girl today as some sort of sick message. And it certainly couldn’t have been Caitlin’s father. Thomas Cassidy did not murder Gail Falconer, and this ring was hard evidence that might clear his name. Yes, she’d been overcome with the realization. Yes, she’d fainted. If Herrera thought less of her for that, then fuck her. Her chin jerked up, her eyes stung with dry pressure. “Let’s go, Detective.”

  Herrera grimaced at her, and she felt a pang of regret for her harsh thoughts. Gretchen was only doing her job. As she started down the hill with Baskin hovering beside her, Spense took a step forward, but she shot him a look she knew he’d understand: I’m okay. Stay here and find out everything you can.

  By the time they made it to the parking lot, her legs felt strong and steady again, and her heart was not only beating, it pounded with energy. Adrenaline gushed through her system, pumping up her muscles, heating her skin, heightening her senses. A few yards from the car, the radio on Baskin’s shoulder crackled. A distorted male voice ordered, The chief wants you back here now.

  Caitlin stopped and turned to him, “Thanks, Detective, I owe you one. Now get back up there and solve this case.”

  Their gazes searched the area. Nothing but open space between her and the Rodeo. Uniforms within shouting d
istance on all sides. “I can take you the rest of the way. Let the chief wait,” Baskin said.

  Reaching out, she squeezed his shoulder. “No way. I’m fine, and I don’t want to be known as the weak link in the task force. If you don’t get back now, they may never let me show my face at a scene again. I’m pretty sure I can walk ten yards on my own. You saw me truck down that hill, didn’t you?”

  “Sure did.” A look of admiration filled his eyes, which made no sense to her. She’d fainted and created a distraction at a time when all attention should be focused on the crime. Still, a flush of warmth and appreciation toward Baskin made her smile as she watched him sprint back the way they’d come.

  She took her time getting to the car. Now that no one was watching, she took it easy, gave herself the chance to catch her breath. The pounding in her head had increased to the point of pain, and she guessed her blood pressure must be through the roof. Which was good, because it meant she wasn’t going to faint again. Her every thought was on her father as she slipped into the car in the shotgun seat, his stoic face as they’d taken him from her family that night.

  Mind coming down to the station? We’ve got a few questions for you, Mr. Cassidy.

  How could he have known what was coming next? The intimidation, the lies, the threats, all designed to force a confession from him.

  Her throated spasmed until she could hardly swallow. She leaned across the front seat, to hit the door locks and felt the hairs tingling on the back of her neck. Reflexively, she pushed her hands out, just as a thick muscular arm closed around her neck in a chokehold. A scream built in her chest and pushed and pushed its way up, but only a gurgle came out of her mouth. She caught a glimpse of a dark sleeve. A uniform. A gloved hand holding a serrated blade lowered before her eyes, and she knew he intended to slash her throat.

  No!

  In her head, she screamed, kicking with all her might and jabbing her elbow backward into some soft part of the man’s body. He grunted. Then his arm slipped just enough for her to draw a gasping breath before he clamped down again. She’d hurt him.

  Good!

  A buzzing in her ears drowned out all sound, and a dark veil fell across her vision. Still she kept flailing and kicking, her body growing fiercer as her mind fell into one circling thought.

  It’s him.

  Suddenly, a jolt of pure rage hit her. She slammed her head and elbow back at the same moment, hearing the harsh grunt of her attacker in her ear. She kicked one leg up, managing to somehow get her foot onto the steering wheel. Then she concentrated on that foot, willing it to move. Willing it to press hard until at last she heard it—­the blare of the car horn.

  The pressure on her neck let up, and she felt the knife draw across the flesh of her arm. She watched blood bubble up from her skin as the car door opened, and the uniform disappeared into the surrounding woods.

  It’s him.

  Chapter Twenty-­Six

  Monday, September 23

  Phoenix Police Department

  Mountainside Precinct

  “I WANT TO be here,” Caitlin said. She’d spent the night of the attack under observation in the hospital, but other than a few scrapes and bruises, she’d come out of her battle with someone she firmly believed to be the Man in the Maze unharmed—­at least physically. Then she’d spent the weekend confined to the apartment, with Spense dogging her every move. He’d even taken away her cell and replaced it with a burner phone, instructing her not to give the number out to anyone—­not even her own mother. She understood his concern, but she wasn’t going to lock herself away forever. And now, more than ever, she wanted to be in on every aspect of the case.

  “Her name is Annie Bayberry, and she was only nineteen years old.” Detective Baskin scraped a chair beside Spense and Caitlin in the precinct viewing room. “A sociology major at Tempe University. Oldest of three children. Apple of her daddy’s eye. Also played intramural basketball. Excelled at most everything she did. This girl had family and friends who loved her.” To Caitlin, the sheen of moisture coating Baskin’s eyes was an unexpected indicator of real empathy.

  Starting with the latest victim, she mentally recited the names of the girls—­the ones who’d been sexually tortured and whose nude bodies had been salaciously posed for maximum shock effect.

  Annie Bayberry, Darlene Dillinger, Sally Cartwright . . . Gail Falconer.

  “Did they find any trace this time?” she asked. So far, with the exception of a single bloody shoeprint at the courthouse, the police hadn’t been able to find any physical evidence at the scenes that linked the alleged perpetrators to the crimes. All the killers were either highly intelligent, or they’d been trained by someone who was—­like the Man in the Maze.

  “You saw for yourself, Dr. Cassidy, our guys did their job at the scene. They left no stone unturned in their search for forensic evidence, but so far, we got nothing. Not from the victim, not from the car, not from you,” Baskin answered.

  She’d been so hopeful they’d find evidence in the car or on her body. But he must’ve been wearing the same booties and protective gear as the other uniforms. He could’ve blended in perfectly, despite being dressed to leave no trace. And obviously, he’d blended well enough to slip in and out of sight unnoticed. The police had combed the area, but since he was disguised as a LEO at a crime scene swarming with men from several branches of ser­vice, who knew if he’d been among those conducting the search?

  “Your UNSUB is one cold, calculating asshole, but he’s bound to have slipped up somewhere along the line.”

  Spense nodded his agreement. “He’s named himself after a legend, but the truth is, he’s only human.”

  “He’s screwed up before, and he’ll screw up again. In my book, leaving a pink sapphire engagement ring on Annie’s body wasn’t the brightest move. Guess he’s trying to claim credit for Gail Falconer.” Baskin stated the obvious as though it hadn’t occurred to Spense and her.

  So many things about the Annie Bayberry crime scene didn’t make sense. The MO had been carefully matched to the Falconer case, but the signature was the same as that used in the Dillinger and Cartwright cases. Of course, that could be explained by the fact that removing the petrous portion of the temporal bone was the group signature for Labyrinth. “But why now, I wonder. It seems strange that after all these years, Gail Falconer’s killer would suddenly step forward to take credit. Something must’ve happened to cause him to act so boldly,” Caitlin said.

  “Agreed. Divorce and job loss are the most common events that trigger serial killers to come out of a dormant state, but it could be almost any life change. When we find this guy, I’ll bet we learn he’s suffered a recent loss,” Spense added.

  “In any event, we’ve got confirmation from the Falconer family that the ring appears to be the one Gail was wearing the night of her murder. The one presumed taken for a trophy.” Baskin eyed Caitlin. “But you need to understand that’s only a soft confirmation, it’s not proof it’s the same ring.”

  She’d already considered the possibility that the Man in the Maze was simply copycatting Gail’s murder. “It’s true he could be toying with me. Maybe he found a ring like Gail’s and had it engraved with her initials, then replicated the Falconer MO just to push my buttons.” She shuddered. “But that’s a long way to go just to mess with my head, and I don’t know why he’d go to the trouble.”

  “You’ve escaped his wrath how many times? There’s the courthouse, then the cyanide pill, and now the attack at the crime scene. He must be getting . . . enraged at you by now. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he’s getting his rocks off watching you squirm.”

  She saw Spense rising on his haunches and touched his knee to signal that she didn’t need help. “Or he might not be toying with me at all. It seems more likely to me that the man who murdered Gail Falconer is still active—­and he’s hooked into the club—­into La
byrinth. Maybe Gail Falconer’s murderer has evolved into the Man in the Maze. Maybe he was prowling the crime scene and saw an opportunity for another kill and took it. These sadists are opportunistic. They rehearse their crimes in their heads so often that when they see a target they like, they’re prepared to act.”

  “We’re considering the possibility that this is in fact the same UNSUB who killed Falconer. That’s why we’ve invited Gail Falconer’s fiancé—­I guess I should say former fiancé—­to come down and take a look at the ring. He’s the one who gave it to her, so it’s a good excuse to bring him in and see what shakes loose.”

  “He alibied out at the time, though.” Spense sounded doubtful.

  “Not just airtight either—­vacuum-­sealed. The fiancé was away for the weekend with his Army Reserve unit. And just FYI, Dr. Cassidy, the chief will probably have my ass for putting Randy Cantrell under the microscope for you.” He leaned in closer. “But I thought it was worth talking to him anyway, and not just because you got such a sweet smile. You see, Randy Cantrell is actually Randy Cantrell, PhD.”

  “PhD?” She didn’t see the significance, other than the fact that he was well educated and likely intelligent.

  “History professor. And just see if you can guess his specialty.”

  Her hands gripped her knees. “Native American culture.”

  “Bingo.” Baskin’s eyes searched her face with seeming concern. “But his alibi for Falconer is unshakable, so it might be best not to get your hopes up. Thompson’s warming him up in the interrogation room now, then I’m going to swoop in and see what I can pound out of him. You never know where a break in a case might come from.”

  “Would it be all right if I did the honors? I’d like to handle the interview myself if at all possible. If he’s the same man who attacked me, maybe I’ll know him. I’d want you in the room, of course, it’s just that this is . . .”

  “Personal. I feel you, Dr. Cassidy, but maybe it’s best, precisely because of your personal connection, you sit this one out. And you’ve already stated, you saw nothing but a uniformed arm and a gloved hand.” Baskin powered on the computer in front of them and rose to leave.