She didn’t remember his face.
Angel started to think she’d picked the wrong street, but then she saw the telltale red and blue lights flashing outside a tiny brick house. She pulled in behind Tucker’s green Grand Cherokee and jumped from the Tahoe.
Lexie parked behind Angel and hopped out as well. “When did it happen? Who is she? Who found her?” Lexie ran toward Angel in full investigative reporter mode. But Lexie the reporter wasn’t asking the questions; these questions came from Lexie, the woman who wanted the killer stopped, just like Angel.
“I don’t know anything yet. The call came in a few minutes after you left the conference room, and I followed Tucker’s lead.”
“Well, we need to find out.” Lexie stepped toward the house.
Angel didn’t want to stop Lexie’s progress, but she also knew the reporter wouldn’t be allowed on the crime scene. Plus, knowing Lexie’s past, Angel would be the first to declare Lexie McCain didn’t need to see the body. But she didn’t want to be the one to tell her she couldn’t. Thanks to the two cops who’d responded first, she didn’t have to.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait here.” One of them stepped between Lexie and the house.
“But I’m on the task force.”
“You’re Ms. McCain, right?” the second cop asked. “The news lady?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Detective Tucker told us to have you wait out here. He’ll be out to update the media as soon as the scene has been analyzed.”
“The media? I’m not just the media. I’m helping the police with this case. I’m on the task force.” Her words were sharp, clipped and determined.
Angel hadn’t been sure whether she’d see eye-to-eye with John Tucker about anything in this case, but right now, she did. He could’ve foregone typical protocol with Lexie on the task force, but he didn’t. Maybe he realized the truth, even if he didn’t know why.
Lexie didn’t need to go inside.
“I’ll keep you posted on what’s happening.” Angel started toward the front door. She stepped around a For Rent sign, but stopped when another field cop, the size and build of a professional wrestler, centered her path.
“I’m sorry. Only authorized personnel inside.”
Angel displayed her badge. “FBI.” Then she moved past him without a backward glance.
Two additional police officers stood inside the door. She flashed her shield again, then proceeded down the hall to the bedroom, where Elijah Lewis backed out of the doorway and stepped on her foot.
“Whoa.” He cradled his camera as he moved away. “Sorry, didn’t hear ya coming.”
“That’s okay.” She cut her gaze to the photographer. “You got here fast. When did they call you?” She understood how the cops who’d been first on the scene already had everything roped off and moving. She even understood how the CSI guys had been at the ready position for the 911 call telling them he’d struck again. But the crime scene photographer wouldn’t have been one of the first called.
“Heard it on the scanner. Been waiting to hear something since last night, so I was ready.” He grinned, excited, and this time two specs of tobacco dotted his top teeth. “Didn’t want to miss getting the gig.”
Angel fought the urge to grab him and fling him into a wall. “The gig is a murder. A woman who was alive yesterday is dead today. I’d say that qualifies for a stronger term than gig.”
“I meant the homicide.” He grinned. Then he turned and snapped more pictures.
“Looks as clean as the others.” Ryan Sims stood beside Tucker and eyed the woman on the bed.
“Tell me everything was documented before the scene was contaminated by overzealous cops.” Angel glared at the flurry of uniforms at the scene.
Tucker shifted to look at her. “They’re on our side, remember?”
Angel breathed in, cringed at the foul odor of death, then let it out—and reminded herself not to inhale any more than necessary. She had no reason to get mad at the local law enforcement. They hadn’t murdered the woman. “Did they find anything?” She noted two CSI guys searching the room.
Lou Marker grunted. “Nope, place is as spotless as all his other scenes were. The guy’s a pro.”
Angel looked again at the blonde woman on the bed. Wearing a blue waitress outfit, she had her Waffle House nametag above her right chest. The yellow rectangle had her first name inscribed in black block letters in the center. “Vickie.”
“Vickie Jones.” Tucker stepped away from the body.
Angel’s gaze moved to the woman’s flat stomach. “She wasn’t pregnant?”
“EPT kit in the bathroom has a big plus sign that says she was.” Ryan Sims nodded toward the open bathroom door.
Tucker shook his head. “The thing is, she wasn’t far enough along to tell, and the waitress who found her said she hadn’t said word one about being pregnant.”
“Who found her? What waitress?”
“Sylvia Rawlins. She’s out back talking to Dan Faust, the first responder. According to Ms. Rawlins, Vickie Jones divorced a few months back then moved here from Florida to get away from the ex.”
“Why was the Rawlins lady here? Does she live here too?” Angel scanned the Spartan room. A bed, dresser and nightstand composed the entire furnishings. No pictures, no knickknacks. Vickie Jones hadn’t even settled in.
“No. She’d invited Ms. Jones to church and Easter lunch and was worried about her when she didn’t answer her phone. Since Vickie didn’t have any family, the other waitress decided to come check on her and see if she wasn’t feeling well.” He pointed to the cell phone on the nightstand.
“We’ll want to check those phone records.” Angel stepped forward and viewed Vickie Jones, the bedding beneath her as wrinkle-free as if it were on display in a mattress store. Other than the marks on her neck and the defecation beneath her pelvis, Vickie Jones could have been sleeping.
No doubt about it, their killer was John Gacy neat.
Angel’s glance darted to Ryan Sims, talking to one of the crime scene investigators in Vickie’s bathroom. Etta had described the lieutenant as overly neat. Was he neat enough to strangle a woman to death and leave a crime scene this clean?
“What’s your take on this, Agent Jackson?” Ed Pierce stepped into the bedroom from the hall.
Angel turned toward the captain and saw Zed Naylor and Lou Marker through the bedroom window. Zed pointed to the ground outside, while Lou annotated his observations.
“She left her window open. And he saw it as an invitation. Plus she fit all of his criteria.” Angel looked back toward Vickie Jones. “He may have known she was single. News like that travels quick in a town this size, but how did he know she was pregnant? If she had no family, and if she hadn’t yet told her friends, how did our killer find out?”
“There was a doctor’s receipt on the nightstand,” Tucker said, pointing toward a bagged yellow paper. “Dr. Weatherly, OB-GYN.”
“What’s the date on the receipt?” Angel asked.
“March twenty-ninth, two days ago, on Friday. And the receipt said initial visit.”
Pierce lifted the bagged receipt, scanned the doctor’s writing. “She found out two days ago?”
Sims left the CSI guy and returned to the group. “What’s your take, Agent Jackson? Same guy?”
She decided not to judge Ryan Sims. True, he was a potential suspect, but several people were, for now. Stan Carlton had made the mistake of speaking too soon with this case; she wouldn’t do the same. However, she also planned to keep her eyes and ears open regarding Lieutenant Ryan Sims. And Elijah Lewis. That photographer got here too fast.
“Yeah, it’s our guy, but he wasn’t nervous, wasn’t rushed. He had plenty of time, and he took advantage of it. He had to remove the screen and climb in, but he didn’t leave any evidence of entry. And he removed the mesh obstruction, rather than slashing it.”
“There were shoe marks outside the window,” Marker said, “Size ten, but n
o tread.”
“It was muddy out, but there’s no mud inside,” Angel noted. “So he either took the shoes off before coming in, which is doubtful, or he took the time to clean up his mess on the floor before leaving. I’m thinking it’s the latter. Our guy took his time entering, took his time killing the victim and took his time leaving. He wasn’t the least bit scared by our broadcasted warnings. He’s still conducting his plan as scheduled, without any regard to the cops—or the FBI—on his tail.” She surveyed the room, the ordered and clean room. “We haven’t shaken him. Yet. He’ll strike again in forty days unless we do something to throw him off, to make him think we’re onto him, or catch him before he commits the crime.”
“Well, did you learn anything else about him from this scene?” Lou entered the bedroom with his notepad in one hand and a pen in the other.
“Yeah, we can add agile to our profile. That window may be on the first floor, but it isn’t close to the ground. Our killer was able to enter without waking the victim, judging by the lack of signs of struggle. I’m betting she didn’t even hear him until he had a hand on her throat.”
“But how did he know she fit his specs?” Lou asked. “How did he know she was pregnant if she’d just gone to the doctor and hadn’t told anyone?”
“I don’t know. Let’s check for a Facebook page, Twitter, and any other types of social media. If she announced it somewhere online, maybe that’s how he found out.”
“I’m going to pay a visit to Dr. Weatherly,” Tucker said. “Our guy may be privy to doctor records.”
“That wouldn’t fit the profile,” Angel started then stopped when John Tucker snarled, “but it wouldn’t hurt to check it out.”
“Thanks.”
She couldn’t stop staring at the woman on the bed. “She looks perfect, doesn’t she?” Other than the bruises on her neck, Vickie Jones seemed almost peaceful.
“So what does that tell you?” Captain Pierce asked.
Angel’s head throbbed from lack of sleep, eyes stung from reading all those books on Biblical numerology. Biblical. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? “Oh my.”
“What?” Zed asked.
“He did see her as perfect. A perfect sacrifice, provided by God, like the lamb mentioned in some of those books I read this morning. Perfect and unblemished. Except, in her case, maybe it was the child inside of her that was still untainted. He saw the child as pure. Perfect.”
“If that’s the case,” Tucker followed her line of reasoning, “Wouldn’t he have wanted to save the child?”
“You would think.” Angel mulled over the possibilities, which were endless, if they were dealing with a fanatic with his religious perspective way off the mark. “But look at the bed, her clothes, her position. She’s on an altar, and she’s being offered.”
“Along with her child?” Ryan asked.
“Seems that way.” Angel took a step closer to the bed. This woman should have a full life, and a beautiful child, ahead of her. She’d been robbed of what she deserved, the same way Lexie and Angel had been robbed in the past. And by the same man.
“A perfect body. A perfect bed. A perfect sacrifice.” The banana bread churned in her belly. Then, unable to control the physical response to the reality, Special Agent Angel Jackson darted out the back door.
He watched the pretty profiler throw her guts up on the back lawn. She held her long hair away from her face while her lunch hit the grass and big, bulbous tears fell to join it.
Bless. Her. Heart.
He found it hard not to smile at his success, at their failure. Didn’t FBI Profiler Jackson know she couldn’t stop the inevitable? The last FBI guy had failed. She would too.
The pattern, the process, had started years ago. Twenty-eight years ago, when Hannah had chosen the way of the sinner. Like Eve, she led the way for the women who came later, the women who would pay for her transgression, sacrifice for her fall.
They had no idea they’d followed in the steps of their predecessor, a woman who mirrored their own image and also carried a child. A child who had done nothing wrong, who carried power that should be bestowed on those deemed worthy, not granted to a woman who couldn’t even keep a vow. Women who, like Hannah, hadn’t followed the divine law. And women who, like Hannah, paid the price.
He watched Lexie McCain, the savvy news reporter, leave her cameraman and maneuver her way down the crowd of media personnel held back by a thin plastic strip of yellow crime scene tape. Concern evident on her face, she reached her point of destination, the profiler, doubled over at the edge of the lawn.
McCain shifted her gaze to the cops at the door then frowned at her inability to cross the flimsy barrier. Determined, she dug in her purse and withdrew a couple of white tissues. Then she extended her arm over the yellow tape and handed them to Angel Jackson.
The profiler looked up, accepted the offering and gave her a weak smile.
Funny, the way women ran to help each other, tried to assist one another in bearing the burdens of life. And death. It didn’t matter whether they knew each other or whether they’d just met. Women were strange that way. They had a camaraderie he didn’t understand, didn’t want to. Because, whatever they had, it wasn’t enough. No female had shown up to save Vickie Jones last night. Her tears had fallen, streamed down her exquisite face, without anyone offering a single tissue. And no female had ever shown up to help any of her fellow partners in crime. Partners in sin.
He watched the two women, Lexie McCain and Angel Jackson, exchange a few words, then McCain returned to her place amid the other TV people. Such a pretty woman, with her short blonde curls framing a petite face and turned up nose, big green eyes amid an abundance of thick lashes, she radiated with curiosity. Yeah, Lexie McCain looked like she wanted answers, to tons of questions, and the determined set of her jaw said she expected to get them.
Curiosity killed the cat. Again, he refrained from smiling. There wasn’t anything funny about this situation, after all. He’d done what he had to do, and he’d do it again, in forty days.
Angel Jackson finished with an ending punctuation of dry heaves adding to her noticeable display. He’d swear she staged the whole thing, to get the cops and the public feeling sorry enough for her to come forth with the proverbial witness who’d been holding out all these years.
Give up, pretty profiler. There were no witnesses. Well, there were. But now they’re dead. Guess those don’t count.
However, as he watched the profiler head back toward the house, he saw her wipe her eyes and sniff, then inhale, a lone crusader ready to tackle the world. She wasn’t fishing for sympathy, he realized. She was sorry the girl had to die. Well, he was too. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed what he had to do, but he had to do it. Period. Maybe Angel Jackson would figure that out.
He watched her move. In spite of her trademark outfit of t-shirt, leather jacket, jeans and boots, she had a graceful gait and a definite air of femininity. Near perfect. Then again, he thought, turning his attention back to the pretty news reporter, so was Lexie McCain. A shame neither of them had a baby on the way. Every other aspect hit the mark. But he’d find the chosen woman in time for the next kill. The one who had the power growing within her, but who wasn’t worthy of the child. He always found the perfect sacrifice. And he always killed her...perfectly.
Chapter Seven
John Tucker exited the police station at five minutes past midnight. The day had ended, and the clock ticked once more. Forty days until the Sunrise Killer murdered again. He knew no more about him now than he did during his prior sprees.
No, that wasn’t true. Thanks to Angel Jackson’s assessment of the “sacrificial lamb,” John had a good idea what they were dealing with. But he still didn’t know who. And now that he understood more about what the killer did, the possibilities were endless. It’d been over twenty-five years since the Fellowship had ended, or so John had thought, but one of its members still practiced. Not only that, but the person still believed the outland
ish assessments posed by Brother Moses.
Had Macon’s notorious cult from way back when resurfaced? And if someone had begun practicing again, then who? And when should he bring up his theory to the remainder of the task force? If he did, then what? They’d want to know why he put two and two together when they hadn’t. Why hadn’t they? Three of them were affiliated with the congregation. Surely Lou and Ryan had thought the same thing today, when Angel saw everything. Or even Zed. He’d been a deacon, along with Tucker’s father.
But ol’ Zed hadn’t said a single word. Neither had Lou or Ryan.
Because no one wanted to talk about it anymore. No one wanted the reminder of how they’d lived back then, looking for demons, searching for power. Power that, according to the deranged Brother Moses, could only be obtained...from a child.
“God help us.” Tucker dropped into the seat of his truck and shook his head. It’d been fourteen years since he’d prayed, and he wasn’t sure the three words counted as a prayer, but he knew one thing; if they were dealing with someone still warped by the Fellowship, then they needed all the help they could get.
It’d been so long, so many years, since the assemblage had met. They’d dismantled, after learning that their leader abandoned his congregation, with everyone agreeing they’d been wrong in their views. Everyone had agreed. Hadn’t they?
Someone didn’t.
His cell phone rang. He knew he’d see Paul Kingsley’s name before checking the caller identification to verify the fact. “Tucker.”
“How’s it going?”
“All right. How’s she doing?” Thankful for an inside track on Lexie McCain’s work environment, Tucker appreciated Paul watching out for Lexie. He couldn’t deny that he felt something growing between them, but he also couldn’t deny her skittishness. He needed to take things slow, but he also needed to watch after her. True, she didn’t fit all the killer’s criteria, but there was a killer roaming Macon, and he didn’t want Lexie anywhere near the man’s line of fire. Of course, it’d be easier to protect her if he knew who he was looking for.
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