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

by Julia Shupe

  He shook his head as he found a foothold. Smith wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. Though he said they were brothers-in-arms, he wasn’t ready. He confessed to having urges that would turn the fat lady’s gray bun white, but if the opportunity presented itself, would he have the guts to follow it through? Would Carlton?

  Lately he’d been considering his resolve. Wishing for something wasn’t the same thing as getting it. But wasn’t he one step closer than Smith? Smith had only dreamed, but Carlton had taken it one step further. Did Becky Williams qualify? He wasn’t even sure what had happened that night, what he’d been doing, or what he’d been thinking. She’d been sick for a week and remanded to the infirmary, with a fever so high, she’d been doped up on drugs. She hadn’t even known he’d been standing beside her.

  Becky was pretty, and a year older than Carlton, with ivory skin, and a spray of brown freckles. He’d been curious about her. He’d just wanted to look. He’d wanted to know if those freckles covered her entire body. That night, he’d crept into her room, after dark, pulled back the covers, and looked. He remembered how pale she had been, how creamy, her freckles like gold dust sprinkled across her skin. She’d been wearing a cotton hospital gown, tied in the back, with white panties underneath. He remembered the way her skin had glowed like molten copper, how her fever had lifted silken hairs along her stomach and thighs. Her soft snores had emboldened him, and he’d peeled back the coverlet and examined her feet. Impressive, he had thought: clean, well manicured. Her toenails were neatly trimmed, her heels smooth and free of cracks.

  After that, and mostly because he hadn’t been caught, he’d taken to watching other girls late at night, becoming more daring each time. But he hadn’t told Smith. He wasn’t comfortable with that. In many ways, the two were alike, but in the ways that counted, they may as well be strangers. Smith led a normal life, had a mother who loved him, and a father who played catch. He lived in a big house, six blocks from the orphanage, with his own bedroom, and a yard. Why, Carlton had often wondered, had Smith chosen him for a friend? Why did he prefer Carlton to the popular kids in school?

  He recalled the first day they met. It was a late Sunday afternoon, just before sunset. Carlton had been hiding beneath a row of whitethorn hedge. He’d been sprawled across his belly, hand caught beneath his legs, while watching three girls play on a set of rusty swings. Their skirts had been bunched between their thighs in a way that thrilled him.

  “Whatcha doin?” Smith had asked, startling Carlton and catching him unawares. “Does that fat house-mom know you’re out here doing that?

  Embarrassed, Carlton had struggled to his feet, but Smith had raised a hand in surrender.

  “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Not when it comes to that.”

  Carlton had felt his heart hammering through his chest. If anyone found out about this, he’d be punished. He stared at Smith, a plea in his eyes, while he tried to think of something to exchange for Smith’s silence. Smith had been wearing smart trousers that day, and a buttoned up shirt with a stiff collar. His hair had been gelled from his face in a slick wave. This was a rich kid, Carlton remembered thinking; someone from Starshine Terrace, just down the block. What could Carlton offer him that he didn’t already have?

  He remembered the battle that had waged within, and the paralysis in his legs that had rooted him to the ground. He’d wanted to run away with his tail between his legs, and had almost done it before Smith surprised him. Heedless of the dirt, he’d dropped to the ground, plopped on his belly and pushed his face through a gap in the leaves, and together they’d watched the girls until curfew, laughing and pointing, and sometimes breathing heavy.

  Carlton regarded his new friend with awe. Smith was everything Carlton wasn’t. He was tall and broad with clear skin and dark hair. Puberty, for Smith, had been a gift, not a curse. He was bold and daring, audacious in a way that turned most people off. It might be the reason he chose a friend who lived at an orphanage. Maybe he needed to feel important, or better. Or maybe, like Carlton, he was broken inside, just better at hiding it from the world.

  Whatever the reasons, Carlton was thankful for the friendship. He was something of an outcast at the orphanage. Orphanage kids were odd and broken. Some became bullies, and some lone wolfs, but all possessed a heightened perception. Their instincts were sharp. They could sniff a predator from across a football field, and all of them avoided Carlton like the plague. It was as if they knew he was shattered beyond repair.

  Smith, however, wasn’t anything like them. He seemed to fear nothing. He was dauntless. Brazen. And he liked to walk the same aberrant paths that Carlton did. It was as if, in Carlton, right from the start, Smith had recognized a kindred spirit. He encouraged Carlton to embrace his darkest desires, to nourish them, and to take them one step further. Carlton’s fantasies were seeds Smith potted into rich deep soil. He cultivated them, and then harvested the buds.

  They’d been comfortable together, right from the start. They’d watched girls, collected road kill, and built a rickety fort behind the old elementary school. Smith brought lawn chairs to sit on, and a slab of old rotting wood, from which they made a table. They turned that fort into their own private sanctuary, stole porn from the drug store, and stacked it in the corner.

  “Anything goes in here,” Smith had said, kneeling beside a freshly killed squirrel and poking its face with a stick. “In our secret hideout, you can always be yourself. Don’t hold back, and don’t ever lie. If you do, I’ll know.” Carlton watched him pull a switchblade from his pocket and slice that squirrel up the middle, like a zipper. “I can see right through you. I’ll always know what you’re thinking.”

  Carlton had done his best to obey that command. It was refreshing to verbalize his most private thoughts. He admired Smith. He wanted to impress him. Hell, he wanted to be him, he thought. Smith was strong, where Carlton was weak. He was confident and brash, where Carlton was meek. When he spoke to people, he looked them in the eye, while Carlton had always had trouble doing that. Smith, in many ways, was Carlton’s protector, and they talked about things most people found repulsive. But lately, those conversations had taken a darker turn. Smith had been right—what he’d said in the tree. Watching girls wasn’t thrilling anymore. It was boring and tame. Imagination and voyeurism had their limitations. It was time to satisfy other curiosities, to indulge the other senses; touch, smell, taste, and sound. Wasn’t that the next logical step in their evolution?

  For about a year now, he’d dreamed about that, of boldly approaching a girl and taking her to the fort, of tying her up so she couldn’t escape. And at first, the dreams had shaken him up. He knew it wasn’t normal, and he’d struggled. What, he had wondered, would he do with a trapped girl? How far would he take things? How long could he keep her quiet? And if he tired of her, what would he do? Could he let her stand up and walk away? Surely not. She’d rat him out. And then what? What would happen after that? He could be sent to jail at the age of thirteen, or worse, a mental institution. Every orphaned kid knew about mental institutions. Most abandoned kids, when they arrived at the orphanage, were damaged and broken beyond repair. Some weren’t able to heal, which were the ones who ultimately disappeared in the night, who were whisked away to institutions and hospitals. Carlton often wondered if he wasn’t one of them. A fractured soul doomed to a life of private insanity. But when Smith came along, his perspective began to change. Smith made him feel normal again. Normal people had friends, and laughed at silly jokes. Normal people smiled and nodded. And most importantly, normal people disliked being alone. They took comfort in the sun, not the shadows.

  It was nice to feel normal again. Carlton smiled. Even if just for a few hours a day. And now, in the blink of an eye, an entire year had passed. And what a whirlwind year it had been! It had been a year of dead animals and stolen property, of starting fires, and of spying on women, of sharing secrets and pushing past boundaries. It had been a strange and exhilar
ating year, and now Smith had confessed to something deeper. He’d recounted—without a hint of shame or remorse—the details of a dream eerily similar to Carlton’s fantasies, a twisted vision involving a girl and a very sharp knife.

  Carlton knew Smith’s confession had been a challenge. He’d meant for the idea to burrow like a worm, to nest, and to seed, and to hatch into the light. Their relationship was like that: Smith was the master, and Carlton, the apprentice. Carlton often wondered if he wasn’t just a plaything to Smith, like one of the dead cats he picked up on the side of the road. Did the two share a special connection? Or like everything else, did it only exist in Carlton’s overactive imagination? Had Smith seen something special in him? Or was he just amusing himself? It was difficult to tell.

  In the distance, a cowbell rang: curfew. Carlton groaned. He hated the orphanage. He hated living so close to other people—not that the children bothered him much anymore. Not since he’d threatened that bully named Eric. Now that had been something. He peered at his friend. Smith would have been proud that day. Carlton had shown uncharacteristic strength. Eric had made one too many smart remarks, and Carlton had snapped and held a steak knife to his scrawny neck. He hadn’t hurt him, of course, but after that, people had distanced themselves. Things had gotten better, though he still hated the place. It was musty and old, cold, and imposing. Smith didn’t know how lucky he was. Having a home with a mom was a luxury. It was a comfort Smith didn’t fully appreciate.

  It had been four years since Carlton had last seen his mother, and the crazy thing was; he didn’t even miss her. Anger had been his salvation, his drug. Like mortar, it had filled the hollow spaces in his soul. Carlton had never been stupid. He knew his mother wouldn’t come back. Not ever. From the day she’d brought him here, he’d known. And he hadn’t forgotten a single moment of that day, from her watery eyes to her trembling hands; to the way he had clung to her dirty, scaled feet.

  Over the course of the last year, while huddled in their private fort, Carlton had slowly told Smith the sordid tale. He’d confessed to the story of his messed up life, his drug-addicted mother, and his abusive, runaway father. The telling had been surprisingly cleansing. He’d blabbered and cried, ranted and screamed, and when it was over, Smith had handed him a knife. He’d pulled him close to one of their recent discoveries, a raccoon they’d dragged from a highway ditch.

  “Pretend it’s her,” he’d said, his hand light on Carlton’s arm. “Imagine you’re looking at her face. Envision it.” Carlton had stared at the animal’s crushed left side, at the entrails hanging from its body in strings. “Tell me what you’d do if you found her,” Smith said. “Because one day you will, and I want you to be ready. One day, she’ll come to you. What will you do?”

  When the cowbell rang a second time, Carlton waved at Smith. That day in the fort had been special to him. It was the first time he’d used a knife in that way, on something that had once been alive and breathing, and when he recalled the sensations, his body thrummed with renewed pleasure. He had skinned the fur off that animal in patches. He’d hacked off its feet amid hiccups and sobs, while Smith, beside him, had silently watched. Smith had nodded and made soft sounds of encouragement, and from that day on, they’d never been apart. They were polar opposites in so many ways, but in the ways that counted, they were two halves of a whole.

  Chapter 12

  “Thought you guys flew around in private jets.”

  Jacob’s laugh was familiar. Warm. “You’re thinking of Criminal Minds,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t a TV show, Ness. As long as I’ve been working for them, I haven’t seen the FBI spring for a private jet.”

  I nodded and stared at the contours of his face, fighting to keep my thoughts focused on the case. “So. Meghan Newton. Does she know we’re on our way?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have to be honest,” said Gil. “I can’t believe, after all this time, she actually agreed to talk to us. You’d expect her to be sick of this shit by now.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. She is. She definitely is. But when I told her there’d been another victim, she acquiesced.”

  “You told her?” I was aghast. Meghan had lived her life on the run for the past two decades. I couldn’t imagine how she’d taken the news.

  “I didn’t tell her anything specific. Just enough to pique her interest, to get her to talk.”

  “Okay,” Gil said, twisting in his chair. “You’re the fancy FBI agent. Take us to school. How’s this gonna go down?”

  In his seat by the window, Jacob awkwardly turned to face us. “First, you two need to let me take the lead.” When Gil opened his mouth to protest, Jacob lifted a hand. “It’s your precinct’s case, Lieutenant Knowlton. I know. I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m only here to consult. I get it. I’m just asking you to let me lead this—just this one interview. Okay?” Gil pursed his lips and allowed him to continue. “Like I said, I didn’t tell her anything crucial. We know we can’t provide her with specifics about the case, so let’s agree to a few basic ground rules. We say nothing about the number of victims, where they were found, or what happened to them. And nothing about their injuries. Do we agree?”

  “Well,” I replied, sarcastically. “That’ll be easy, because Gil and I don’t have specifics. Does the teacher care to share some of the details with the class?”

  Jacob folded his hands in his lap. Over the past few years, he seemed to have learned the art of patience. It was becoming. “There’s not much to share just yet. That’s the problem. It’ll take the ME weeks to process that many bodies.” He tilted his head. “But I’ll tell you what we’ve got so far. A total of 18 bodies were found, all women of varying races and ages.” He shot me a look. “And your captivity theory was right on the money. Preliminary results show multiple bruising, bone breaks, and contusions, in various stages of repair.”

  I swallowed. “And the skinning?”

  “Antemortem.”

  Gil whistled. Skinning-while-conscious was a sobering vision. “What about the chopping of the feet?” he asked.

  “Postmortem. Thankfully. Judging the injuries on the first few bodies, and assuming the others will likely prove the same, we can draw a rough sketch of the killer’s routine. He tortures them at one location then brings them to Cowpen Slough for the finale. He cuts off their feet before burying them. We’re certain that part happens down at the Slough because the soil beneath the feet of each victim is soaked in blood—though the blood’s not deep enough to prove the heart was beating when he did it.”

  “But,” I pointed out, “that doesn’t fit with what happened to Meghan. Tubbs skinned her—yes. He chopped off her foot and then kicked her down a steep ravine, but she wasn’t yet dead when he did it. And,” I added, “she was alive when he chopped of her foot—antemortem.” I chewed the inside of my cheek, deep in thought. Something about the crimes just didn’t add up. I liked Tubbs for the murders, of course, but some of the details didn’t fit. The Cowpen crimes were angry and cold, and had been executed with precision and careful control. With Meghan, Tubbs had been sloppy and inexperienced, like a teenaged boy copping his first feel in the back of a pickup truck. “It just doesn’t feel the same,” I said slowly. “The chopping of the feet seems secondary to our guy, like an afterthought. But it was important to Tubbs.”

  Jacob lifted a brow. “Astute observation, detective, and actually one of the things I want to ask Meghan about.”

  “Just one of the things?” Gil said, incredulous. “Hell, I have millions of questions to ask that woman. What’s at the top of your list?”

  Jacob looked pensive. “Behavior and circumstance for one—or two,” he answered. “At the crime scene, Vanessa, you said our guy was organized, and the more I think about it, the more I think you were right. Consider for a moment his careful routine, then think about the number of times he successfully accomplished it. For a dumping ground, he chose a remote location—a perfect location, actually. So what does h
e do? He selects a victim—we don’t yet know how—takes them somewhere, and then does his thing, and when he’s done, he brings them to the slough every time. It’s methodical, formulaic, and it’s brazen as hell. Repeating the same routine over and over increases the likelihood of being caught. And what about the profile of the victims themselves? He certainly doesn’t discriminate, which of course makes it harder for us to develop an actionable profile. When we ID these women,” he added with a frown. “I think I know what we’ll find. Mark my words: they’ll hail from different towns in different states. Killers who cross state lines are harder to catch. The randomness, I think, is part of his methodology.”

  “Did he leave anything distinctive on the bodies?” I asked. “Or in them?” I added, grimacing.

  “Nope. And again, isn’t that smart, if not devious? He left us no calling card. No proprietary marks on the body. He isn’t claiming these kills as his own. He isn’t taking ownership. That’s too trite for our guy. I honestly believe he doesn’t want to be caught. I think he enjoys what he does too much, and I think he wants to do it for the rest of his life.” Jacob’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t it interesting, though, that he chooses not to mark them? Most serial killers can’t help themselves. Most have to keep something, or leave something behind. They’re like dogs pissing around trees, or fire hydrants. They can’t help but mark their territory.”

  He was right, I considered, facing the front of the plane. Most serial killers can’t help themselves. And I definitely know a few things about serial killers. If triteness was a crime, my mother’s killer was guilty as charged. Boxes of hair, tied with silky gold ribbon? What was more ridiculous than that?