by Blake Pierce
“I would love nothing more than for you to be right,” Rachel said. “And that’s why we’re here. I’m tracking one final thing, one lead that may help to—”
“I was told you want a list of egg donor names.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, there are a lot of donors. We have more than sixty. And there is no selective process to figure out which recipient gets which egg. So, I can’t weed out the list like that.”
Rachel nodded, once again trying to slip herself into a killer’s mindset. She thought of Alex Lynch sitting across from her in the visitation room, those manic eyes drilling holes into her. She thought of the hatred it must take to do what he did, the absolute lack of empathy. It brought up another question, one she was still considering when she asked it.
“I’m curious,” Rachel said. “Are there women that ever regret the decision to donate eggs? Have you ever had a woman come back and ask to have the eggs destroyed?”
Even before the question was out, Rachel knew that she’d potentially stumbled upon something. She could see it in Mrs. Carpenter’s face.
“It’s very rare,” Carpenter said, “but as it just so happens, there was a woman that made this request a few weeks ago. Three weeks, to be exact.”
Bingo, Rachel thought. She stepped toward the desk, her eyes locked on Carpenter. “And how did that go?”
“Not well,” Carpenter said. Her tone indicated that she realized that she may have just opened up something of a Pandora’s Box. Without asking to explain, she did so willingly. “A woman approached the front desk and didn’t even ask for a specific doctor. From what I’m told, she was very polite when she asked the receptionist how she could go about getting her eggs back or having them destroyed. When the receptionist told her that’s not exactly how it worked, the polite mask went away quickly. Of course, the receptionist should have never commented on it and had the woman speak with a doctor, but that is neither here nor there. The woman sort of snapped. I only caught the end of it, but you can see it on one of our security feeds. I would not be exaggerating to say that this woman threw a tantrum. She was banging on the protective glass between the desk and the receptionist. One of our ladies up front had picked up the phone to call the police but by then, the woman seemed to come to her senses.”
Rachel wondered if the woman had displayed the same sort of anger that would drive someone to repeatedly stab three women in the stomach.
“What’s the woman’s name?” Rachel asked.
“Claire Allen. And I think I should probably add that one of the many things she yelled while she was here was that we were just as clueless and as mean as the other clinic.”
“The other clinic? You mean Greenfield?”
“Yes. I had someone here call to warn them about her but they said she’d already been there. She wasn’t quite as confrontational to them, but yes…she had also visited Greenfield to have them destroy her donated eggs as well.”
Rachel could feel the case sliding together in her head, all the puzzle pieced interlocking. This was not a traumatized doctor being questioned in a hospital hallway, snapping after years of pain. This was something different. There was a slight edge of madness to this, a woman raising hell because a clinic would not “give her back” her eggs.
“I need her phone number and address,” Rachel said.
It was clear that Carpenter was uneasy with it, but she typed something into her laptop without much hesitation. After a few clicks and a couple taps of her keyboard, she grabbed a Post It and a pen from beside the laptop.
“Here you go,” she said, tearing the information off of the stack and handing it to Rachel. “I do hope you can wrap this…not just to catch the killer, but to finally stop going after women like Pauline Vick.”
Rachel saw it as an unnecessary jab, but said nothing. She gave a little nod of appreciation and made her exit. The tiny piece of paper she held in her hand started to feel as heavy as a brick and by the time she was at the exit doors, she was almost running to her car.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
It was 4:40 when Rachel pulled out of the Regency parking lot and placed a call to Jack. It rang three times before he answered, making her think that he and the techs might have found something in regards to the GPS locations on Pauline’s phone.
“Find anything?” Jack asked.
“Oh, I think I did. I think I might have found our killer.”
“Are you serious?” he said. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He laughed and when he did, Rachel could imagine him giving one of his comical little fist pumps—not just for the good news but because it would not be the first time during their partnership that Rachel and come across a potentially case-ending lead without his help.
“That’s great,” he said, “but it makes us look like fools for the poor lady we currently have waiting in an interrogation room. I’ll say, though...I hope you do have a promising lead. There’s nothing on Pauline’s phone to indicate that she knew the victims or that she’d been anywhere near their homes.”
“That doesn’t rule her out completely, Jack. She could have been very careful, you know.”
“But I thought you said you had maybe found our killer…as in it’s not Vick.”
“I feel like you’re intentionally being irritating.”
“Maybe.”
“Look, I’ll be at the station in about fifteen minutes. While I’m on my way, I need you to run a search on a woman named Claire Allen. Criminal record, job history, everything you can get.”
“Jesus…what happened?”
Rachel was driving fast, careening around cars on the four-lane and blasting through yellow-and-soon-to-be-red lights. She set her phone to speaker mode, set it in the center console, and told him everything Mrs. Carpenter had just told her about Claire Allen. It didn’t take long but somehow, she had already closed in on the last mile or so before she’d reach the station.
“Okay, yeah, that sounds promising,” Jack said. “I’ve got a few things pulled up right now. Want me to read it all to you?”
“No. Print as much as you can out and meet me in front of the station in about five minutes.”
Rachel ended the call and her mind instantly went back to Alex Lynch. She knew it was foolish and perhaps even a bit naïve to think that all killers thought the same, operated the same, and had the same lack of a moral code. But those hardened eyes still seemed to peer at her from across that interrogation room. They read her and, in turn, told her that there were secrets behind those eyes—a secret understanding of people that thought the same way he did.
She wondered if they would be so close to the end of this case if she had not thought to go to him. It had seemed like such an extreme measure at the time but now she doubted she would have made some of the connections she’d made without the visit. It almost made her feel like she was indebted to him now and that made it so much worse.
She arrived at the station just a few moments later, and Jack was waiting for her with a folder in his hand. Rachel barely brought the car to a stop at all as she pulled up in front of the building and Jack got in.
“Put this address into your GPS, would you?” Rachel asked, handing him the Post It Mrs. Carpenter had given her.
Jack took the paper and typed the address in right away. While the directions loaded, he flipped the folder open. Rachel saw that there were only three pages and the first one did not contain much information at all.
“Claire Allen, age thirty-nine, and a Baltimore resident. Previously employed at a variety of different department stores but most recently employed at J. Jenkins School for the Gifted. No real criminal record to speak of, just a drug bust for pot when she was twenty and three speeding tickets over the last ten years.”
“Married?” Rachel asked.
“No. Not from what I can see here.”
The robotic female voice from Jack’s phone told Rachel to take the next right and the
n to get off on the connector highway that would lead to the interstate. “How much longer before we get there?” Rachel asked.
“Twenty-two minutes.”
They both sat in the excitement of the moment, though Rachel spent most of that time wondering if this was a connection they should have made on their own. As much as she would like to take the credit, she’d always know that it had been her conversation with Alex that had brought them here. And she was going to have to live with that—no matter how the case turned out.
Rachel also wondered why the eventual climax of this case seemed to sit heavier on her chest than most others she’d closed. She was excited to get there, to confront the killer and get the hell back home. But why?
You know why, she told herself. Or rather, maybe it was the Tumor speaking up again. Because this secret tumor of yours is eating you alive in more ways than one. Whether or not you want to admit it, you know you need to tell Peter. You have to tell Peter, Paige, Jack, Director Anderson…everyone. And you can’t very well do that while you’re in Baltimore, hunting a killer, now can you?
“Rachel?”
Jack’s voice brought her out of her thoughts. She snapped to attention and said, “Yeah?”
“The robot lady said turn up here! Didn’t you hear?”
“Shit. Sorry.”
She had not heard, as she’d been too lost in her own thoughts. She sped up a bit to cut off the car beside her and slid into the exit lane. She was aware of Jack giving her a concerned look, but she didn’t acknowledge it. She waited for one of his “get your shit together” comments but, for the second time she’d been expecting it, he remained quiet. And when the GPS voice told her to take a left at the fork as she came to the end of the ramp, she did so without missing a beat.
“Rachel?” Jack said, his voice low and rather sudden.
“What?”
“Don’t bullshit me. What’s wrong with you? What’s going on?”
“Are you really going to pull this with me again? Right now?”
“Yeah. You’re zoning out…you’re not really here most of the time. And where the hell did you take off to for a few hours yesterday?”
She was surprised how easily she came out with the truth. Even as she said it, she realized she was telling this truth to make up for the much larger truth she was keeping from him.
“I went to see Alex Lynch.”
He stared at her blankly for a moment, perhaps waiting for her to say, “just kidding.” When it was clear she wasn’t about to say any such thing, he said: “You did what?”
She shrugged as if it were no big deal, keeping her eyes on the road. “There were things about this case that reminded me of him and I couldn’t get away from it. He kept popping up in my mind and…I don’t know. I figured it might help me personally and with this case.”
“Rachel, that’s…that’s nuts. I mean, what the hell were you thinking?”
“I just explained what I was thinking.”
“Please tell me you did not reveal details of a case to a serial killer.”
“Nothing major, no.”
He went quiet again and though she was not looking at him, she could sense his disapproval. “My God, Rachel. How could you…I mean, you know that anything he might have told you was likely bullshit, right?”
“Right. But it…it sort of cleared a few things up.” This hurt to admit, and she wanted nothing more than for Jack to drop it. He didn’t, though.
“It just makes no sense, Rachel. I know you went to see him those few times not long after he was sentenced, but…have there been any other times?”
“No. Just yesterday.”
“And…well, are you okay?”
She couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Saying yes would be a lie. So she settled for a nod and that seemed to be enough for him. He said nothing else, and Rachel focused every bit of her attention on the road ahead so she would not have to look at him. In doing so, Rachel realized they had just barely missed the gridlock of evening traffic. That, she supposed, was something to be thankful for. It was 5:21, so perhaps they had just barely squeaked out ahead of it. A few minutes later, when the GPS voice told her to take a right and that her destination would be on the left just half a mile ahead, that stirring of excitement in her guts intensified. She legitimately could not remember the last time she’d been so hyped up to confront the person at the end of such a promising lead.
She took the turn when it came and as they neared Claire Allen’s address, she noticed Jack sitting rigidly in his seat. He was clenching and unclenching his fists and bobbing his head like he was listening to music that only he could hear. She wondered if her excitement was rubbing off on him.
It turned out that Claire Allen lived in a small cluster of townhouses. There were more townhomes being built to the right of the property, and a scant grove of trees blocking the property from the incredibly busy road to the left. The address gave her townhouse number as 108, and the agents approached it with restrained promise.
When Rachel knocked on the door, her heart seemed to hammer right along with it. There was no answer, so after ten seconds, she knocked again. She knocked significantly harder this time and even added in quite loud, “Ms. Allen? Hello?”
After another handful of seconds of silence, it was clear that she either wasn’t home or simply not answering the door.
“It is creeping up on five thirty,” Jack said. “She could be on her way home from work, stuck in afternoon traffic.”
“Could be,” Rachel said. “But this killer is working fast. And based on the timeline we have so far, unless she’s decided to stop out of nowhere, she’s due to strike either tonight or tomorrow night.”
“But we don’t have any idea who the next victim might be.”
“We might be able to figure it out. How many more women on that Facebook group were local to the Baltimore area?”
Jack grinned at her, pointing to her in the way an excited coach might point to a player that had just made a great play. “Two more.”
“Well, if the group is now closed and the killer maybe kept a list, they’d still have the names. I think it’s a safe bet one of those two women is next. And being that Claire Allen isn’t home…”
“We need to hurry,” Jack finished for her, already reaching for his phone as he and Rachel ran back to the car.
***
She’d almost screwed up.
She got to the house a little early. She’d thought the husband would be gone by the time she parked across the street, but he was still there. She had been fairly certain the husband left for his night shift at six in the afternoon…but it was apparently six-thirty. She was usually very good with details like that. She figured it was the presence of the police that was affecting her—not only her ability to retain facts she had drilled into her head about her victims, but also her nerves. This made no real sense, though; ever since she’d heard the news that some poor doctor had been arrested in regards to the murders, she’d felt more relaxed and at ease. They had someone else in custody, so she was in the clear. Apparently, they’d never even been close to finding her.
That meant there was no rush. She could wait. She had to get this one exactly right because it looked like this would be the last victim. Until she figured out where to easily find more victims, this woman would be the last. She looked out to the house—to the McNeil residence. It was a lovely two-story home, right in the middle of a well-to-do (though not wealthy) suburb. The grass had been mowed recently, probably the first time of the season, as summer had not truly settled in just yet. An attached garage sat on the left, with a rectangular slab of concrete leading out onto the street.
She sat patiently in her car, slightly slouched but not enough to look suspicious. Hell, it was getting dark out now, so maybe it would work in her favor that she’d gotten the time wrong. She could wait…though her nerves made her wonder if this was really the case.
She eased up a bit at 6:23, when the garag
e door opened up. She could just barely hear it through her window, a slight mechanical whir as the door was rolled up. She watched as the husband’s Ford F150 rolled back out onto the street. She knew it would turn right and head out to the exit of the little subdivision. From there, it would take the seventeen-mile drive to Wagner Textiles, where the husband worked as a floor manager. She knew this because, like all of the other victims, she had done her research.
She waited exactly five minutes, making sure the husband did not turn around because he’d forgotten something. Night had almost totally fallen over the city now, but not quite. When she walked across the street, her shadow was stretched and fuzzy against the street lights. Insects flickered and dived around it, but she barely noticed. She was heading to the side of the house, where the small picket-fence style gate separated the back yard from the side yard. A tall line of shrubs also separated the McNeil house from the neighbors’ yard.
She knew the gate was busted, though. There was a lock, but it was mostly for decoration. She reached over the short gate, having to stand on the tips of her toes, and unlatched the lock. It swung open and granted her access to the back yard. Here, she pressed herself to the side of the house and inched to the porch. She took the steps slowly, knowing that the third one from the bottom creaked. Finally on the porch, she walked to very edge of the window that looked into the kitchen. She closed her eyes and listened and yes, sure enough, there it was. Cassie McNeil was a creature of habit, that was for sure. She’d cut on some ‘90s rock and had already brought the canvas and the paints out to the kitchen table. She’d been working on a seascape for the past few nights, the canvas held by a cheap, small easel that she placed on the kitchen table. Truth be told, it wasn’t all that bad.
The current song playing was “No Rain” by Blind Melon. She watched Cassie McNeil paint for a moment. She was putting a bit of detail onto a gray cloud. Apparently, there was a storm out at sea.
