Carved in Stone: A chilling serial killer thriller (Vanessa Stone Series, Book 1)

by Julia Shupe

  The level of carnage was gruesome. This killer was angry—furious, actually. He’d taken little care to hide her body, and absolutely no care to preserve it. Some killers, once they had actually killed their victim, formed a strange bond with the body. They became attached to it—however sick that might sound, but this guy was different. He couldn’t care less. He’d dug a shallow hole, and then dumped her inside it, buried her without coverings, or sheets. Her clothing was tattered, her hair matted and shorn. No cloth covered her face, which felt impersonal to me. He hadn’t lidded her eyes, or folded her hands. A lust killing, perhaps? I wondered. Maybe, I thought, but with absolutely no remorse after the fact.

  This woman had clearly died in agony. Her death mask was twisted, pain etched in myriad lines across her forehead. Her left eye was an explosion of color; tiny pools of blood were trapped just beneath the surface. Black and blue patterns marred her skin in ever-expanding circles. Bruises bloomed across both cheekbones, and up the bridge of her nose. She’d been hit. Hard. And repeatedly. She’d sustained a broken nose, by the look of it. I crouched lower, and peered into a sightless eye, inspecting the pale blue dotted with spots of blood. Clouds of flies and mosquitos stirred as the medical examiner approached.

  “Strangulation?” I asked Lisa.

  “Hey, Vanessa. Yup, for sure. But ironically, not the cause of death. Look at this,” She crouched alongside the body. “See here? Multiple impressions on the neck. Here,” she pointed, “and here.” She aimed her pen at bruises atop bruises. “Multiple strangulations, likely performed at different times, on different days. He was toying with her.” She shook her head. “Sick. I wish I could say this girl died from strangulation. Would have been better than what came next.”

  I let out a sigh. “So you think she was alive for that?”

  We moved to the lower half of the woman’s prone body. “A lot of blood here,” she said. “Soaked the ground she was buried in. I suspect, when we test the soil, we’ll find deep pooling. And I’m sorry to say, but yes; for that much blood loss to have occurred, her heart must have still been pumping.”

  “So she bled out. Weapon?”

  “Hatchet, maybe. Perhaps a heavy axe. Cutting off feet is hard work. Cutting tendons, breaking bones: it had to be something with a long handle, and a sharp blade.”

  Looking at the raw stumps made me felt sick. “Can you imagine that?” I murmured. “To have lived through that amount of pain and torment?”

  “Well,” Lisa corrected me, “I’m not certain she was alive for that part. We won’t know anything until I get her to my lab.”

  “But I thought you said she was alive for that, that she bled out right here on the grass.”

  “Alive? Yes. But maybe not for the chopping. She may have bled out from something else. Take a look.”

  I leaned in closer, while trying to ignore the smell. God, I thought. What could be worse than having one’s foot chopped off? Carefully, and with a gloved hand, Lisa raised the woman’s leg. She shone her flashlight on the pale bluish skin, at a spot just below the left knee.

  I drew a breath. “He skinned her?”

  “Looks that way. Again—probably ante-mortem. Wish I could say that it wasn’t.”

  I looked closer, at a long patch of muscle, peeking through the skin. The killer had removed a long terrible strip, from the knee to the stump of her ankle.

  “I see what you mean,” I said. “The wounds intersect. The skinning happened before the dismemberment, but it wasn’t done with a hatchet or an axe. It was precise filleting work, done with artistic care. Maybe a signature?”

  Lisa straightened, pushing herself to her feet. I followed, my knees popping in protest.

  “Maybe a signature, but artistic my ass. This guy’s a hack. But you’re right about the cuts.” She waved a cloud of gnats from her face. “The skinning was done with a different blade, which in and of itself, tells us something important. It means he travels with his own set of tools.” Wiping her temple with an elbow, she thrust out her chin. “Feds are here. You better hurry up.”

  Turning and peering at a line of black cars, I got myself moving, and fast. I needed to see what I wanted to see—the rest of these women, their hair specifically.

  Lisa gently touched my arm. “Brunette, Ness: three doors down. But I don’t think it’s her. I don’t think she’s among them.”

  With a nod, I moved to the next unmarked grave, a macabre walk through a gruesome history, each body slightly more decayed than the last. This was a collection of memories, I concluded, a nostalgic tribute to a lifetime’s work. These were the achievements of a very depraved soul, his scrapbook, so to speak, his most cherished keepsakes. I stood, taking in the sheer size of the field. How many more bodies would we find out here? How many upturned faces covered by thin layers of soil? How many more women were waiting to be discovered?

  “Tell me what you see,” came a voice from behind my back. My heart raced. I knew that voice, though I hadn’t heard it in years.

  Setting my hands to my hips, I broke down the scene. “I see a very angry person, who is completely devoid of empathy, someone who likes routine and ceremony, and who values the ritual as much as the kill.” I turned toward the familiar voice. “He won’t stop what he’s doing—unless we force him to, that is.”

  Jacob smiled. “What else?”

  Breaking eye contact, I moved to the next grave, to a fresher kill with more detail, more color. “I see a high degree of organization here.”

  “You think the killer’s organized?”

  “The crimes suggest he’s angry, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t methodical. He’s well structured. He’s sure of himself. I don’t think these kills are opportunistic.”

  “No? But what about the randomness of the victims? That doesn’t scream opportunism to you? We’ve got mixed races, ages, heights, and weights.”

  “But that doesn’t mean he’s opportunistic. Not necessarily. Not by definition. Maybe it’s part of a game he’s playing. Or maybe it means he’s smart. Maybe he’s smarter than the others we chase. Maybe he knows it’s the randomness that makes him that much harder to catch. Look at this place. It’s too well planned. The feet, the dismemberment: it’s habitual in nature. It’s the process that gives him the thrill. Look there.” I pointed at the nearest vic’s legs. “Every one of these women is missing her feet. The victims, Jake, may seem random, but the MO—the ritual—is always the same. He probably stalks them for weeks, planning their abduction before actually taking them. He hates them. He probably hates women in general.” I scratched a bump that had risen on my arm. “Rage this profound is usually rooted in early childhood; abuse, physical, sexual, or both.” I sighed. “This process took a long time to craft and hone, this behavior, probably even longer.” I solemnly shook my head. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Jacob. I don’t expect to find much evidence on these bodies.”

  “Astute profiling, Vanessa.”

  I tore my gaze from a lock of brown hair in the distance.

  “Jacob,” I said stupidly. “You’re here.” It sounded like an accusation, but I hadn’t meant it that way. I was just shocked to see him. “Come to town to take over the case?”

  “Nope. Just looking at the scene. We’re here to assist, if we can. That’s all.”

  He extended his hand, and it took me by surprise. It was an odd gesture from a man who knew me well. He must have been as nervous as I was. “It’s good to see you, Vanessa. It’s been too long.”

  I nodded, grasping his hand awkwardly. “And what kind of assistance will the FBI be offering? Profiles? Lab work? Boots on the ground?”

  Jacob wordlessly dropped my hand, and focused his attention on the body at our feet. Crouching, he lifted a lock of hair with his pen. “He cuts off their hair. That’s uncommon. What do you make of it?”

  It didn’t escape me that he’d avoided my question. “Like I said. He’s angry. He hates women. He’s punishing them. I’m sorry, Jacob, but did you sa
y the FBI would be helping?”

  With a grunt, he righted himself. “Yup. Helping. That’s all. Consultative work. Nothing to worry about. Jurisdiction’s in your favor on this one.” He glanced at me. “And I can’t imagine them leaving you out. This’ll be your baby for the next three years.”

  “Unless I can close it faster,” I pointed out.

  He smiled at the challenge, and peered at me with knowing eyes. “Right. Of course. Unless you do that.”

  His teeth were white, and as straight as they’d always been, but he hadn’t fixed that small chip in the front. It was an old football injury from high school. I remembered the day it had happened, the exact game. I’d been wearing his jersey that night, though we weren’t dating. Dating wasn’t really our thing. We were on and off, but never officially a couple, together when people weren’t looking.

  I moved my gaze to a fluttering cloud of brown hair. “Brunette,” I murmured, weaving around him. I was a woman on a mission, passing by two graves just to reach the next in succession. Bending closer, I lifted a lock of hair, and twirled it around a gloved finger. The color was wrong. The texture didn’t match. This woman’s hair was thin, streaked with gray, not lustrous and rich like my mother’s had been. I released a pent breath and let the strands spill from my fingers like silk.

  “You think you’re gonna find her out here?” Jacob asked, his gaze uncomfortably direct and unwavering.

  I glanced at a fresh mound of earth in the distance, where cadaver dogs were being pulled away, and forensics was taking their place. That makes seven, I told myself, as another dog made another possible hit. Seven victims.

  Squaring my shoulders, I turned to face a man I’d once cared about. “No. I don’t think she’s among them, and I know I can’t identify her by looking at strands of hair.” Lifting my hands, I massaged my temples. Talking to Jacob was suddenly too taxing “But if she were out here, she’d be one of the older ones.” I shook my head. “I know she’s not here, Jacob, but I can’t help myself; I still have to look.”

  “I understand.”

  “I want to find her. Badly,” I added. “But definitely not here.” I let my hands fall to my sides. “He’s holding them, Jacob. I’m sure of it. First, he inflicts pain and torture, and psychological abuse, and after that, he brings them here to die.” I attempted to slick back my flyaway hair. “I’ll never stop looking for my mother. I’ll never stop hoping she’s out there somewhere. But if this guy has her, I hope she’s already dead.”

  Jacob raised a brow. I supposed he wasn’t used to hearing me talk like that. “What makes you think he’s holding them?”

  “Look at this one,” I pointed out. “At her hair. Look at the roots. The gray has grown out half an inch, maybe more. And look at her fingernails, neatly trimmed and polished—but also grown out. A woman who puts this much effort into her appearance would never let her roots go gray.”

  The edges of Jacob’s mouth curved into a smile. “Nice observation, detective.”

  Uncomfortable with his compliment, I waived him off. “Please. Like you hadn’t thought about it already. It’s one of the only clues we have, and certainly not the best one. That, of course, would be the skinning.”

  “The skinning?” I saw him flinch. He hadn’t been told. After all, he’d only just arrived. “The skinning,” he repeated, dropping to a knee, careful not to disturb the body. “CSI been over to this one yet?”

  “No. Not yet, so don’t touch anything. But you can take a closer look at the one in the neon pink shirt. Look behind the knee. There’s a long strip of skin missing, intersecting with the hatchet job. I’m sure all the others are the same.”

  He straightened, his brow furrowing. I could practically see the gears turning in his head. “Cutting hair, skinning, chopping: very ritualistic. Think he’s keeping the hair as a trophy?”

  I frowned. “Isn’t that a bit trite—even for a serial killer? It’s certainly not original.”

  “Okay, so if he’s not keeping it, then why cut it off?”

  “Like I said, because he’s holding them. He wants to inflict the worst kind of damage. Cutting the hair’s just part of the torture. It’s the mental part. It’s a game, Agent Forrest. It’s classic debasement, a form of psychological shame.” I tried to keep my voice casual, but in truth, I wanted the case more with each passing moment. No, I corrected myself; I needed the case. Glancing at his face, I steeled myself. “Do you really think this case will be mine?”

  “Not yours, Ness. Ours. This thing’ll take a village. But yes, I’m sure you’ll be a part of it. I’ve read everyone’s bio, including yours. I know what you did with The Serpent two years ago. You were instrumental in that case. You should be proud of yourself.”

  “That was ten times easier than this one will be. The Serpent was taunting the authorities. He wanted to get caught. And besides,” I added, “he hadn’t become adept at killing yet. He hadn’t yet had enough practice. He hadn’t had time to work out the kinks, or form an official ritual.” I peered at the row of quiet graves on the hill. “Not like this one has. This guy’s had years to hone his craft. And I get the distinct impression he has no intention of ever being caught. He wasn’t trying to get our attention, Jake. It’s clear he likes to fly beneath the radar.” Looking over my shoulder, I added. “And I don’t think he’ll like this much, this invasion of his privacy, this disruption of his work. I don’t think he’ll like what we’ve done.”

  Jacob pursed his lips, his eyes focused on the dead woman’s legs. “Could be a good thing. Wouldn’t you say? Could help flush him out. People get sloppy when their routines are interrupted.”

  A dog barked behind me—another hit, another victim, which brought the total body count to eight.

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “It could flush him out, or it could make him angry—very angry, by the look of this place.”

  The shrillness of my ringing phone was juxtaposed with the deathly stillness of the scene. It startled me. It was almost rude. At any moment, I was certain one of these footless women would sit up and complain. The image sent a sudden shiver racing along my spine. Inside the soul of every responsible adult lives a child with an overactive imagination. And mine, I knew, was on overdrive. I was jumpy. Certain crime scenes got the best of every cop. This one might be the one that finally got to me.

  I thrust my hand into my pocket, wanting to catch my phone before the next ring could awaken the dead. The neon screen made my heart skip a beat. It was barely 6:00 o’clock in the morning. Danny shouldn’t have awakened just yet.

  “Danny?” I asked, squeezing my phone too tightly. “Everything all right?”

  “It’s Linda, Nessie. You need to come home.”

  I locked gazes with Jacob. It was suddenly difficult to breath.

  “Why? Is Danny okay?”

  On the other end of the line, my sister’s voice shook with fear.

  “He’s fine. It’s not about Danny. We…” She paused to take a breath. “Ness, we got another box: small, same size, black wrapping, gold ribbon. Please come home. Now.”

  Chapter 7

  The Shadow Man

  “I’ll be back,” she said tenderly as she reached down to untangle his arms from her waist. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ll come back real soon. I promise. I’m telling you the truth.”

  Sniffling, his mother peered down at his face. Her eyes were watery and bloodshot, and her nose was blotchy, raw, and red. Her nostrils were inflamed and crusted with residue. He could see the white stuff caked up inside. It was the smelly stuff she carried in tiny baggies in her pockets, the sticky white power called “pixie dust”—though pixie dust, he’d learned, was just a funny name she used. It was something she sniffed into her nose so she wouldn’t get sick. That’s what she told him, at least. But to Carlton, that was a convenient little lie. It was obvious to him; it was the powder that made her sick. Why couldn’t she see that? Why couldn’t she make the connection? She lived for that powder. She worshiped it. She lov
ed it more than she seemed to love him.

  “Mommy,” he choked, not caring if he sounded like a much younger boy. “Don’t leave me here. You’ll forget about me. You’ll forget, and you’ll never come back.”

  “I’ll come back,” she insisted. “But you probably won’t want me to. It’s fun here. They have kids to play with, and jungle gyms to climb. Go on. Give it a try. Try to make a new friend. Ask somebody his name for a change. I’m telling you, Carlton, it won’t be so bad. Not as bad as you’re expecting it to be. You never give things a real chance.” She wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve, where a spot of pink blood stained the cuff. She tried to rub it out with a dirty finger, which only ended up making it worse. “Carton, you know I can’t keep you right now. We talked about this. I need to get myself right. Please, honey. Please try to understand. I’m no good for you right now. I’m no good for anybody, actually. But when I get better, I’ll come back to get you, and we’ll buy that cottage in Key West we always talked about, the one overlooking the sea. The little yellow house with the bright green shutters, with the honeysuckle bushes out front. Do you remember?” She sniffed. “We’ll get there someday. I promise. But first, I have to get better.”

  Carlton refused to believe what she said, her promises like farts in the wind. “You’re lying,” he argued. “You’re not coming back. And you never try to get better, either. Once you leave, you’ll go back to him. Tell me the truth, mom, just this one time. You always say we should tell each other the truth. You’re leaving me here so you can go live with him.”

  He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her legs. Once she left, she would never come back. It was a feeling he had, just something he knew. This was it—the end. She was leaving him here to rot.