“You did not make a mistake, Chief,” Williams answered quietly. I don’t think he’d slept since Rauser had been shot. He looked like hell.
The chief turned back to me. “Thank you for your services, Dr. Street. If we’re holding an invoice, speak to Eric Fordice in Accounts Payable. Lieutenant, I’ll expect a report on my desk every morning and every afternoon until this is wrapped up.”
Williams’s hands were tied. Chief Connor refused to commit any resources to reopen the Wishbone investigation. He would use everything the department offered to find the person who shot Rauser, I knew, but I was convinced they were going about it from the wrong angle. It would take too much time. It would put more lives at risk.
I wanted Wishbone so bad. I’d fantasized about blowing his head off, point-blank. He’d taken too much from me. When Rauser fell that night, when his blood soaked through my clothes and into my skin, Wishbone’s serrated knife sawed deeper than ever into my life, and broke my heart.
The night of the shooting still has that old sixteen-millimeter quality in my memory, shadowy and jerky. Blurred one second, too crisp the next. I rode with one of the cops to the hospital. The medical techs wouldn’t let me in the ambulance. Too much work to do on Rauser, they said, too small a space. All I kept thinking was, What if you die and I’m not there?
Jimmy and Miki came to the hospital and never left. My parents, Neil, and Diane put in their time too. Rauser was in surgery a long time that night. The doctor said something about the proximity to the front section of the brain, a traumatic injury, the dangerous chest wound, the loss of blood, the risk of infection, a minefield of warnings. I swear, as she stood there talking to us, it was like her mouth was moving but the words were bouncing right off me. She might have been speaking in tongues. A couple of hours later she came back into the waiting room, her expression grimmer than before.
Rauser had had a heart attack during surgery, she told us, and Jimmy reached out, held on to my arm to keep me steady. They had revived him, but he was fighting for his life. He’d slipped into some kind of vegetative state. He was breathing on his own, but that was it. And this is where the doctors shrug and look sympathetic and tell you to expect the best but prepare for the worst. How the hell do you do that? I felt like I had a hole in my chest like Rauser. Just keep moving, I told myself, just nail the bastard that did this. I was so heartsick I was stumbling, punch-drunk, but if I stopped I’d come apart. I knew it. I wanted a drink. I wasn’t built for grief and loss. Keep moving. Get this bastard!
One of Rauser’s children was in town, his son. The daughter was making arrangements to come in the next day. Aaron, named after his dad, was twenty-six and handsome, had a two-year-old at home. He was very kind to me, but he needed time with his father, especially now. No one knew what would happen. Rauser had a living will that specified parenteral nutrition was acceptable for a limited time, but he absolutely wanted to be let go if he could not breathe on his own. Every time I walked into his room, I prayed to see his chest rising and falling. How drastically life had changed since that stroll on Thanksgiving evening, leaning into him, us laughing at his stupid jokes. I’d replayed it in my brain a thousand times.
I finally left the hospital and faced the world without my best friend. I found my old Impala, which had been repaired with all the additions my father had arranged—new safety belts, an alarm system, and GPS tracking. I headed for home, a shower, food. I needed to make myself eat. I was so drained I couldn’t think straight. How do you eat, how do you even swallow when you’ve been torn in half?
I closed my eyes and breathed in the cold air. The holidays. God. How could I do the holidays without Rauser?
Get this bastard, just get this bastard.
I fed White Trash and slumped on the couch. I was exhausted, but I didn’t want to stay away from the hospital too long. I was terrified he’d die, just stop breathing while I was away. It’s just the 2 of us now. No, it’s not, you asshole. Your aim wasn’t good enough. Rauser’s still here and I’m not going to let him go. I’m going to find you, I vowed. But exhaustion got the best of me and I drifted off with White Trash curled up tight against me.
When Rauser’s brick house was built, back when Eisenhower was president, a couple of bedrooms seemed like enough. He’d added a screened porch and French doors off the master bedroom and built himself a lower deck, fenced the yard for the dog he’d have when his life slowed down. There was an attic he hadn’t gotten around to doing anything with. It was small, but he’d knocked out a couple of walls and it was light and open.
I walked into the bathroom and saw his razor on the edge of the sink, smelled his aftershave. He’d been so absent at the hospital, a shell I could touch but couldn’t reach. In this house we’d shouted at Braves games and put away iced pitchers of sweet tea and every kind of to-go food Atlanta had to offer. I thought about him letting my mother know at Thanksgiving that he was just fine with our takeout habit. Thought about him looking at me when he said it, reaching for my hand.
I stumbled into the kitchen and turned on a gas burner. Rauser made cowboy coffee in the mornings. It was rugged and imprecise in the same way he was, and it hit your stomach like battery acid. No measurements, just drop some into a pot with water, bring it to a boil, and strain it directly into a cup. It was the best coffee I’d ever had.
One Saturday morning I had shown up early at his house. He opened the door in boxers and squinted at me. I had been crying, something stupid that had happened with Dan, another leap of faith, another crash of disappointment. Rauser must have been channeling Don King, because his hair was standing straight up. He yawned and put his arm around me, found a T-shirt and stood at his gas stove making cowboy coffee. He had been such a good friend to me. It was unbearable being here without him.
I made myself a cup of Rauser’s coffee and looked for the file and journals and yearbooks I’d given him that day at Starbucks … Fivebucks … I found them in the back bedroom he used for an office. It was time to start again at the beginning, with the first killing. Was it a hundred years ago since I’d been to Jekyll Island, met Katherine Chambers, and left her home with this box of her murdered daughter’s things? I had this wild impulse to take it to the hospital with me, comb over these again while I sat with Rauser, talked out my ideas with him. I didn’t know if he could comprehend at all or even hear me, but if there was the tiniest chance that keeping him tied to the investigator he’d been in his life would bring him back, I would try. He’d already slipped too far away from me.
I gathered up the papers and Post-its, the journals and albums, made a neat stack of them. The yearbook from the College of Criminology and Criminal Justice was on top. I sat down in Rauser’s desk chair. We’d suspected from the very beginning that the killer had comprehensive knowledge of evidence collection. The profile revealed he was schooled enough to leave a crime scene clean. He understood Locard’s Exchange Principle, I remembered telling Rauser in the War Room a hundred years ago.
Was the university the source of that knowledge? Had Wishbone learned about forensics on the campus of WFSU? Was it possible Anne Chambers had met her killer there at the Criminology and Criminal Justice building?
I bent over the list of Anne Chambers’s course studies. The curriculum included nothing at all that would give her reason to be in the criminology building. I got out the campus map. Anne had lived in Roberts Hall, one of the older buildings. I had already marked it in red on the map. I traced my finger down Tennessee Street from her residence, over to Smith Street and down to the College of Criminology. On the map it looked like a haul, but I thought about the campus. It was accessible, not as spread out as some rambling campuses could be. Still, it was a reach. How would a college sophomore and a serial killer have crossed paths? Where? If not in class, some other group or club, a rec center?
I opened a desk drawer for a pen and found instead a pack of unopened cigarettes and Rauser’s tarnished Zippo. I remembered the smell of lighter fluid i
n the air each time he lit it. I’d noticed on Thanksgiving that he had never gone outside for a smoke break. He was trying to quit. I’d been pushing him to do this for years. And he’d broken it off with Jo. All during the Wishbone killings, I realized, Rauser was methodically preparing his life for me, and I had to push back tears.
I opened the album from the year that Anne Chambers was killed and just started going over it again a page at a time. I wanted to look again at every goofy candid shot, the teams and clubs and social groups, the individual class pictures, the group pictures, the faculty, all of it.
I went back to the map and it suddenly hit me. A few doors down Smith Street from the College of Criminology and Criminal Justice was the Fine Arts Annex, the Fine Arts building. Anne was a visual artist. The two buildings were practically next-door neighbors. If their schedules jibed, the killer could have easily seen her in passing, insinuated himself into her life.
I felt my heartbeat quicken hopefully. Was I looking for a student? A faculty member? I thought about Old Emma saying she’d warned Anne. I thought about Mrs. Chambers saying Anne had bounced from romance to romance. I was getting close now. I could almost smell it. I’m going to get you, you bastard.
37
I was in Rauser’s office with his Zippo in my hand, the tarnished silver tight in my palm. My phone warbled. “So,” Neil began. “I was thinking about this blog thing again. What was front and center about the Wishbone killings?”
“Stabbing?”
“Exactly,” Neil said. “And that’s about what?”
“Power, penetration, control—”
“Dumb it down, Keye. Think nuts and bolts.”
“Um …”
“Sex and cutting, right?”
“Okay.”
“Look, I found these fetish websites where you can brag about all your freaky porn shit without getting kicked off some website or getting hauled off to jail. You can write about doing anything to anybody as long as you call it a fantasy.”
APD’s detectives and Neil had looked long and hard for the blog I always knew existed but had never been able to locate. Maybe we hadn’t asked the right questions.
“We weren’t looking at hard-core porn and fetish groups. A search engine can only do what you ask it to do.” Neil had read my mind. “Keye, I found all these online communities that call themselves edge fetish and knife play fans. Post after post from people turned on by blood and knives and shit.”
“You found the Wishbone blog?” I felt my pulse and my hopes climbing.
“I’m sending you the link. A website called Knifeplay. Look for a blogger called BladeDriver. Brace yourself. It’s pretty hard to stomach.”
At Rauser’s computer, I began to read the blog by BladeDriver at Knifeplay.com. It advertised itself as the place for the adult online edge fetish and knife play community, where sexual fact and fiction was posted without restraint. As Neil had warned, the specifics shocked and sickened me. The blog had about sixty entries over a period of three years. Twisted ramblings, some of it. Complaints about weak, needy people, about traffic, about greed. Some of the entries were chilling in their detail. I recognized descriptions of Lei Koto, David Brooks, Melissa Dumas, Anne Chambers, all of them written about as if they had sexually desired the kind of mutilation they’d had to endure as their lives ended. I read about him stalking Melissa as she took her evening run, and imagined Roy Orbison playing on the car stereo, him watching her, masturbating, thinking about driving his knife into her skin, and then boasting online and calling it sexual fantasy. It was revolting. Why hadn’t this raised a red flag anywhere? I was reading details that had never been made public until the letters began hitting the newspapers. The Lei Koto blog was posted well before the first letter was published, and all of the entries offered details that would only later have been discovered at the crime scenes, details no one outside the investigation could have known about. The killer talked about William LaBrecque having no moral boundaries at all, about him being a bully and a wife beater and deserving a beating himself. No moral boundaries? This killer was judging based on morals!
A short entry talked about the first time he had killed, at sixteen years old, about remaining so unaffected by this that his grades had not even wavered. Wishbone had been killing since he was a teenager! He had bragged once to Rauser in a letter about being active longer than anyone was aware. Who fell victim to the young killer first? Was it Anne Chambers, as we thought? Had it been a crime of convenience that wet his whistle for killing or was Wishbone already plotting out the murder in high school? So many people had been hurt. So many lives destroyed. My heart ached for all of them. But the last entry felt like that mean knife was splitting my flesh, like he was driving it into me, and I relived leaving that park with pieces of Rauser’s skin and blood stuck to my face and hands while this killer must have rushed home to boast to his online fans.
KNIFEPLAY.COM
Your Online Adult Edge Fetish & Knife Play Community blogs > beyond the EDGE, a fantasy by BladeDriver blog title > Memories
It really is not much fun. In fact, it’s a bit of a letdown once you get past the challenge of taking aim. It happens too fast, a quick pop, and it’s over. Not like a blade. Not like seeing everything, every cut, every fluid that leaks out of the dying, the way pain pulls the skin tight and every expression line is exaggerated, painted on. Pop, pop. It’s so … impersonal. I saw his knees buckle. I saw her misery. Her pain was something anyway. However brief, her suffering is a memory to savor.
Soon that will be what I have, just memories. Videos will be deleted and all my beautiful photos, all those triumphant moments will soon be gone too. I hate to see them go, really. But it is time. And I know each picture by heart, cherish each moment with them, each sound, each smell. Tonight I will toss my pictures into the fire and watch them yellow, watch the corners turn up, watch the centers blacken and ignite. It’s nice, actually. Never let it slip away—the first fire of the year, the turning leaves, the first snowflake—small pleasures. Life slips by so quickly.
Quicker than you think, you sonofabitch, I thought, and searched for a way to comment on this blog, read some details from the website. I had to sign up in order to comment. I left this message at the bottom of BladeDriver’s last entry: I won’t rest until I find you. KS.
I was worried for anyone close to me—Neil, my parents, my brother, even Diane. I hoped issuing that kind of challenge would keep his focus on me. There had been too much collateral damage. I sent Lieutenant Brit Williams’s BlackBerry the link with an email, explaining. Neil found this blog, Brit. It’s Wishbone, I’m sure of it. Check out the dates. At least one entry was after Charlie’s arrest.
I walked out of Rauser’s house and locked the door, remembered the million times I’d left this house with him, us laughing or arguing. We’d been good friends so long it seemed we were always doing one or the other. I climbed in the Impala and pointed it down Peachtree toward Piedmont Hospital. I wanted a drink so bad I could feel the stampede of cravings all the way to my back molars.
I kept thinking about the knife at Charlie’s place, the one the police had found under his mattress. The first search had turned up nothing, but the second netted them a bloody knife? Something was wrong. God, why didn’t I listen to my instincts? Wishbone knew Charlie was our prime suspect. APD had gone out of their way to make that public. They’d even organized a leak of his mug shot. Had Wishbone seized advantage of this, framed Charlie, to keep the heat off? Charlie was a thug anyway. Send him off to jail and get some breathing room, rest and plan, kill again. I wondered if Wishbone had gone to the trouble of planting the serrated fishing knife that had ravaged so many lives. Or had he simply left it where Charlie was bound to pick it up?
The game was everything for this kind of killer, even more tantalizing now than the basic compulsions of a violent serial offender. Toying, evading, taunting those who were trying to stop him. That was the hook. That was the whole reason for killing Dobbs, for
shooting Rauser. Entertainment. And it didn’t matter who was in the way. The killer no longer needed a specific type of victim, someone who symbolized something. He could have stayed hidden. Charlie Ramsey had been set up beautifully. Wishbone didn’t have to resurface and try to kill Rauser. And yet here he was, so driven by rapacious ego that he couldn’t stay down.
My phone rang at the light at Fourteenth and Peachtree. “Are you all right, Keye?” It was Diane. “Are you taking care of yourself? What can I do?”
“I’m okay. Really. I’m heading back to the hospital. Rauser’s getting better, I think.”
“The doctors are taking care of Rauser. You have to take care of yourself too,” she insisted, quietly but firmly.
I was silent.
“We all miss seeing you around here. Maybe getting away from the hospital would be good, you know? Take your mind off things. Margaret says we have a lot of work we could give you. And I miss you.”
I heard the chimes on my phone letting me know I had unread email. “Hey, I gotta go. Don’t worry, Diane. I’m fine. Really. I’ll call you if I need you, okay? Love ya.”
I went through the light and pulled over in the passenger drop-off area in front of Colony Square. Brit Williams had sent an email saying the police department had contacted the fetish site publishing the BladeDriver blog. They’d requested all the details it stored on this user, including user name and passwords, addresses, phone numbers, but it would take a subpoena to get the records released and that would take time. Williams agreed that the blog was about the Wishbone killings but disagreed there was evidence Wishbone had written it. Anyone who was closely following the investigation could write fiction around the details and publish it. That the style and cadence were practically identical to the Wishbone correspondence Rauser and I had received was not something Brit was ready to accept as evidence. After all, the letters had been published for anyone to copycat. He had made the chief aware of a blog that had an entry the night Rauser was shot that was suspicious enough to warrant investigating. But there was nothing at all, Williams told me, in the vague ramblings of this blogger to link the attempted murder of Aaron Rauser to Wishbone. In his opinion, Wishbone was in custody and neutralized. The shooting in the park was about a thug who had a personal vendetta against Rauser or perhaps against anyone prominent in law enforcement.
The Stranger You Seek Page 29
