Psychobyte

by Cat Connor

  Because social media didn’t provide enough overlap.

  Because my gut said they weren’t chosen at random and confirmed by the memorial notice. The Unsub had already planned to kill Terri before placing the notice.

  With everything on the board, I started drawing lines.

  What did I know? Not enough. I moved Violet Cramer to the side. Yes, I believed she was the first but she wasn’t in Fairfax County. My concentration centered on the four Fairfax women, there had to be something to connect them to the Unsub or Unsubs.

  All government employees of some sort, all blonde, blue-eyed, and athletic. They didn’t participate in at-risk behaviors. All had gym memberships but none went to the same gym. Two linked to Matthew Collins, three registered as Republicans with the Virginia Department of Elections.

  I flicked to the notes about Violet. No mention of any political affiliations and her voter registration was non-partisan. My eyes hit the clocks on the wall above the door.

  Screw it.

  Midnight had disappeared into the wee small hours.

  I reached for the phone and a piece of paper with the cell phone number of the cop I’d spoken to in Winchester. My mind mulled over the Republican thing as I waited. Three Republicans.

  That might be something.

  A sleepy voice resounded in my ear. “Johnno Gliddon.”

  “It’s Ellie Conway. I have a question about Violet Cramer.”

  “You have any idea what time it is, Agent?” He sounded wide awake now.

  “Yep.” I attempted to raise sympathy for the wake-up call. “Sorry, this case is getting out of hand. We’re not going anywhere fast.”

  He sighed. “What’s your question?”

  “Was she affiliated with any political party?”

  Silence.

  “Johnno?”

  “Yeah. I saw her at a Republican event.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m looking for links between the victims and politics could be one.”

  “How many victims so far?”

  “Counting Violet Kramer, five.”

  “Good luck with it,” Johnno said and hung up.

  I needed luck. Four Republican victims, or leaning that way. So what about Terri Kane? She was another non-partisan registered voter as far as the electoral roll was concerned. I scrolled through recent contacts until I found Sam’s name. He answered quickly.

  “Chicky Babe, how can I help?”

  “You don’t sleep?”

  “Light sleeper.”

  “Terri Kane ‒ did we get her day planner or laptop or anything?”

  “Yes. Her day planner is on my desk inside an evidence box. The iPad and laptop are with the computer forensic team.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “Nope, not at the moment. I’ll let you know when I have something.”

  At Sam’s desk, I sat in his chair, opened the day planner, and scanned every page looking for something that suggested she’d been to a political rally, even for a doodle of an elephant or a donkey. Anything would do.

  By the time I got to the last entry I knew her menstrual cycle; how often she had met certain friends for coffee and where; how many times she’d eaten out with colleagues; training courses she’d attended and how many times she’d been to the doctor and dentist over the last few months. No mention of anything political.

  “Okay, Terri Kane, where do your loyalties lie?”

  Friends and coffee.

  Her friends would know. I scrawled initials and first names on a sticky note from a pad on Sam’s desk. At the back of the day planner, I found corresponding phone numbers for the names. Calling friends would have to wait until morning. I put the day planner back where I found it, gathered up the sticky notes and went to my office.

  I stuck the notes under Terri’s name and rested on the edge of my desk. Letting all the images conjured by the words on the board settle into a pattern.

  Government jobs and political affiliations. Similar physical descriptions.

  What more did I need? Was I making it harder than it should be?

  I had links but they didn’t feel substantial enough. The Unsub must’ve been stalking the women to be able to kill them in the shower and be in their homes ahead of time. I believed they were drugged. If it was with the missing sleeping pills from Jane’s home, then they had to be administered in such a way that the women were unaware. No one would take sleeping pills voluntarily before work.

  Toxicology.

  I picked up the phone and called the lab. “SSA Ellie Conway. Any chance you have tox results for me?”

  “Case number?” grumbled a male voice down the line.

  “Three-zero-six dash HQ dash six-five-zero-nine.”

  “How many names am I looking for, Agent?”

  “Four. Coded with the following two letters per toxicology report. JD ‒ Juliet Delta. SS ‒ Sierra Sierra. TK ‒ Tango Kilo. KF – Kilo Foxtrot.”

  “Checking for you now.”

  My fingers rapped on the edge of my desk. Waiting for the cranky voice to return.

  “Agent. JD samples contained four milligrams of lorazepam.”

  Lorazepam was the prescription in her medicine cabinet. Four milligrams. I flipped through the file looking for the reference to the missing pills. The prescription was for thirty, two-milligram tablets.

  “Two pills,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “That would depend on the dosage prescribed, Agent. She also had coffee in her stomach.”

  “Her prescription was for two, two-milligram tablets,” I replied. “Is that enough to render a slim five-feet-four-inch woman unconscious?”

  “She would be drowsy and fall asleep. We’re looking at a toxic but not lethal dose.”

  “Any other reports back?”

  “SS. There was a higher amount present. Six milligrams of lorazepam and also coffee.”

  That made sense; Serena was taller and about twenty pounds heavier than Jane. “The rest?”

  “Still running those screens. The only reason you have any so far is the three-zero-six classification,” he said with a moan in his voice. “We’ll let you know as soon as the results are in.”

  Guess he doesn’t like queue jumpers. Well, I don’t like serial killers.

  “Thanks.” I hung up.

  It was too early to say that the Unsub took the lorazepam from Jane’s home and used them on both Jane and Serena. Then again I don’t believe in coincidence. My gut writhed and that told me he did and that the toxicology screens from the next two victims would show more lorazepam. So how did he get the women to take the pills? Did he add crushed tablets to their coffee? If he took those pills, then there could be thirteen unaccounted for after drugging Jane and Serena. That’s if Jane had taken them when prescribed. Otherwise, there could be fifteen outstanding.

  Confirmation of drugging tallied with what I’d seen. It also told me something about the Unsub. For reasons as yet unknown, he wanted or needed compliant victims. I’d seen a man, so who was the woman who placed the notice? I set that aside for the time being and considered the drug aspect again.

  Two twenty-milligram tablets seemed like a high dose for the lightweight Jane, especially if she’d never had sleeping pills before. I made a note to ask Kurt if he found anything in her medical records and also why a different doctor prescribed them.

  I stood up and stretched my arms over my head then let them drop and relaxed my shoulders. I still had no idea what I would ask the car thieves in the interview rooms. Mitch swam into view. Sleepy. He rolled over in bed, his arm reached across the expanse next him. His eyes flicked open and I heard him sigh.

  I’d long since given up trying to understand how I could see him as I did. It was just part of us and our connection. Before Mitch’s image faded, I had my cell phone in my hand.

  “I’m coming home,” I said when I heard his voice.

  “I’m at mine
,” he replied. “See you soon, babe.”

  Halfway down the stairs, I realized I didn’t have my car.

  Jeez.

  I ran back up to our floor and grabbed keys for one of the unassigned Delta vehicles from Sandra’s drawer.

  Sixteen

  Walking In Memphis

  My phone rang at five in the morning. Mitch’s arm snaked around my waist as I tried to extract myself from his bed.

  “Not so fast,” he said, kissing my neck.

  “I have to go …”

  He wasn’t fooled by my feigned resistance as my body responded to his touch.

  Fifteen minutes later my phone rang again. Mitch rolled with me as I picked up the phone from the nightstand. Kurt.

  “Crime scene, Conway. You want me to pick you up?”

  “Nope, I got a fleet car. I’m at Mitch’s, send me the address.”

  “Okay, meet you there in forty-five minutes.”

  I hung up and curled back into Mitch. A map arrived on my phone. Looking at the address, I knew I had half an hour before I had to leave.

  “I’m gonna take a shower,” I said, breathing in his scent.

  Mitch nuzzled my neck. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Refreshing water poured over me, energizing my tired body and mind. I reached for the shampoo and washed my hair. With my eyes closed, I rinsed the last of the foamy bubbles away just as hands slipped around my waist.

  My heart rate climbed. The heat from Mitch’s body radiated against my back. Leaning against him, my skin tingled as his hands glided over my stomach. My back arched; warm kisses on my neck moved toward my shoulder. Reaching around, my fingers ran through his hair as I tipped my head back and pulled his mouth to mine. My body burned. His heart pounded strongly on my back. Turning to face him, he pressed me against the cool tile wall. Our staggered breathing synched perfectly as the intensity of the moment and our hearts drowned out the sound of the running water.

  Mitch caught my hand at the front door. I turned to him, his kiss igniting a fire I knew would never go out.

  “Go easy out there today, El,” Mitch said, looking deep into my eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I’m not at all sure and that isn’t something I want to get into just yet.

  “It’s a shitty case, Mitch. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

  “There’s nothing more to it? This isn’t something about the wedding?”

  “God, no. I’m looking forward to our wedding, to us, to our life.”

  His head nodded just a little as kissed me again. Stoking the fire inside.

  “Take it easy. We’ve got a honeymoon coming up …”

  Take it easy. Mitch’s code for “don’t get shot. A ripple of amusement coursed through me: I hardly ever get shot. “I’ll see you later. Have a good day.” I ran across the yard and climbed into the black Suburban.

  Twenty minutes later I pulled in behind another black Suburban and unclicked my seatbelt. “You’re sure this is the same?” I said to Kurt, who waited on the curb as I opened my door.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Welcome to the fifth Fairfax crime scene.”

  “We got ourselves a couple of busy little Unsubs.” I looked around. “Where are Sam and Lee?”

  “Back at the office.”

  “Whose car?” I waved a finger at a government car I noticed in front of Kurt’s car.

  “Medical Examiner, I think,” he said. “Let’s go. Come on.”

  Impatient.

  I bristled. “Don’t rush me. It’s not like the victim is going anywhere.”

  Kurt stopped, his right eyebrow rose. “What was that?”

  “Don’t rush me.” I adjusted my tone; less snappy, more explanatory. “Let me get a feel for the area, please.”

  He held up his hands and took a step back. “In your own time, Conway.” He barely disguised the patronizing edge to his voice. “You just let me know when you’re ready to proceed.”

  “Yeah yeah.”

  Standing for a few minutes in the fresh morning air, I absorbed the energy from the street. It felt like a nice place to live. The neighbors would probably change their minds about that once they heard about the murder.

  We gloved up, covered our shoes with disposable booties and entered the apartment. Kurt led the way to the bathroom.

  I was beginning to dislike bathrooms. The dislike caused a series of conflicting emotions. My love of showers and the disturbing images from shower deaths fought a determined battle in my head, the imagery conjured by the duel impossible to ignore. Mitch’s smile as water flowed down his torso overlaid mutilated bodies slumped in showers. It felt like death might win. I breathed out hard and dislodged the images.

  “Michelle Andrews, thirty years old,” Kurt said.

  My attention turned to the sight before me. Another sliced-up victim. The Unsub wasn’t doing anything to alleviate my loathing of blades.

  “Kurt—”

  He leaped in before I could finish verbalizing my thought. “Something wrong?”

  “Besides the obvious?” I waved a hand at Michelle’s naked body.

  “Yeah. Besides that.”

  “The wounds. There are a lot of stab wounds but how many on each body so far have been a potentially fatal wound?”

  “There only needs to be one fatal wound, Conway.”

  “I know but how many could’ve killed our victims?”

  “My medical opinion without benefit of autopsy … one.”

  “And they were situated where?”

  “Main arteries or main veins.”

  Messy. Very messy.

  I let that percolate in my mind with everything else. I meandered through thoughts of torture and the order of the wounds. It didn’t get me anywhere. The sooner I heard from the Medical Examiner, the better. Meanwhile, a body lay in front of me and she didn’t deserve to be a crumpled shell at the bottom of her shower.

  Michelle looked like all the others. Our killer definitely had a type. I knelt next to the shower door and Michelle’s head. “You’re not looking so good, Michelle.” I paused. “I’m really sorry but I need you to help me out here. Who did this?”

  Michelle’s dead eyes stared at me. For a split second, I imagined her reanimating. I scrambled to my feet. Didn’t pay to make it too easy for zombies.

  “She not talking?” Kurt asked with a hint of humor.

  “Something like that.” I followed her eyes. Where was my little piece of paper? “Come on, Michelle, where is it?”

  I looked back at Michelle; her arm rose, index finger pointed. I followed the ghostly direction and spotted something poking out from a potted plant in the corner of the room. Reaching into the foliage, I extracted a small white piece of paper and unfolded it. I showed Kurt.

  “‘Seeped into the keyboard,’” he read. “That’s creepy.”

  “Yep.” I bagged the paper. “Creepier because now we know it’s part of the first stanza of a poem.”

  “You sure that notice in the newspaper was the first stanza and not the entire poem, Conway?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And you’d know. You are the resident poet after all.”

  Yeah. Once upon a time. There was a positive: the notes weren’t addressed to me. I refocused on the crime scene.

  “What’s missing?”

  Zombie reanimation or not, I needed to talk to Michelle. I sank down next to her, closed my eyes and let her show me her last moments of life. Standing under the hot running water, she reached for shampoo and washed her hair. She turned. With her back to the water, the last of the foamy bubbles swirled down the drain. Her eyes blurred. Red frothed around her feet. Her shrouded vision allowed one last impression to cement. A male hand clutching a knife. The blade stabbing into her torso. I jerked sideways, my eyes pinged open. Michelle’s ghostly body dropped to the shower floor.

  The non-fatal wounds came first.

  “Conway?” Kurt touched my arm. “What happened?”

  The hand
and knife stayed with me. In my head, I moved the blade, adjusting my field of vision, trying to build an image I could use to search our weapons database. What was I looking at? A hunting knife. I wished I could take a snapshot of the pictures in my head and just download them straight into Sentinel.

  Mitch’s voice filled all available space in my mind. “Breathe, El. Just breathe.”

  The strength of my voice surprised me as I formed an internal reply and pressed send. “Don’t worry, M. I got this.”

  “Conway?”

  Kurt’s hand rested on my forearm.

  “I’m good. Two things … I saw the knife that did this to Michelle and shampoo.”

  “The knife?”

  Kurt let go my arm, took his phone from his pocket and touched the screen. I heard an app open. He typed as I spoke.

  “A fixed-blade hunting knife with a blood groove.”

  “Blade length?”

  “Six inches maybe a bit more.”

  “Did you see any of the handle?”

  “No, the Unsub’s hand covered it. But the guard shone in the light.”

  Moments later he showed me some images on his phone. I scrolled through them, stopping at a Buck 119 Special fixed-blade hunting knife. I flipped back to the previous knife then settled on the 119.

  “That one,” I said handing his phone back.

  “Good to know,” Kurt replied. “I’ll follow up on that knife when we get into the office. Now, what about shampoo?”

  A sigh of relief tumbled from my lips. Every time I confessed to seeing or hearing something, the potential escalated for Kurt to go all Doctor Henderson on me and start throwing letters around like MRI or CT. Every time he didn’t, it felt like I’d dodged a bullet.

  With my face close to her head I inhaled a faint scent from Michelle’s wet hair. Not much smell left but enough. Better still I knew I’d recognize it if I smelled it again. “Her shampoo is missing.”

  Kurt stepped over the body and took a look in the shower caddy. “There’s shampoo here.”

  “Pass it.”

  He handed it over. I flipped the lid and inhaled the aroma. “Not this one. How many conditioners are there?”

  “Two. One that matches the shampoo you’re holding and another one.”