The memory of that day was still clear in her mind.
Instead of doing her chores, she’d snuck outside to see the sunrise, then fallen back asleep under a tree in the side yard facing the street. The sound of the gunshot had startled her, but strangely, she’d been more curious than afraid. Crawling on her stomach in the damp grass, she’d stared through the metal fence at the face of the killer, a tall, skinny person with a long neck and pale skin. In the blink of an eye, the man next door was dead. Anne thought of all the people who had been mean to her, and fantasized what it would be like to kill them. But she didn’t like the sound of the gun going off. Loud noises hurt her ears.
When she’d decided to move to Ventura, she had driven by the old house in Oxnard, reliving that morning in her mind. Although everyone believed the shooter was a man, Anne had sensed something distinctively feminine. The person’s features were too delicate and the skin was fair and flawless. And where was the person’s hair? The killer had been wearing a stocking cap, and no hair whatsoever was visible. This was before shaving your head became popular. When the shooter turned around to get into her car, Anne saw the hair was going up instead of down. This was one of the reasons she thought the killer was a woman; she looked as if she’d pushed all her hair up inside the knit cap. Maybe it was just her imagination, but Anne held on to it, and the lady killer became her hero. The guy she had killed had been one of the thugs making moves on Anne, and then this lady came out of nowhere and blew him to pieces.
When Anne had finally tracked down Blue to make her first kill, his skin had been yellow. She knew it wouldn’t be long before his liver gave out. He was squatting on the ground, nodding off, his clothes filthy and reeking of booze. Sneaking up behind him, among the high shrubs where he’d set up his cardboard home, she placed a piece of thin wire around his neck, then kicked him hard in the center of his back, a technique she’d seen in gangster movies. The wire had sliced through his carotid artery and Blue had quickly bled to death.
The gushing blood hadn’t bothered her. She knew she was in a heightened state, yet she enjoyed the warmth of it. If she ever found herself abandoned outside in a frigid place again, she would find a way to cut herself and let the blood warm her. She should have cut herself on the barbed wire fence the night her father left her and let the blood wash over her feet. Then she wouldn’t have become a freak.
Anne had searched the newspapers in the weeks that followed, but there was no mention of Blue’s death. Even in death, homeless people were second-class citizens.
The FBI agents were fools if they believed a murderer would tell them the truth. She didn’t know what had possessed her to send them the tape, other than the fact that she was between kills and had nothing better to do. Since she hadn’t heard or read anything about it in the media, she assumed they hadn’t taken it seriously. Now that she had a dead guy in the car, she hoped it was true. FBI agents were sneaky bastards. Even when they knew who you were, they didn’t simply rush out and arrest you like the regular cops did. They set up surveillance, waiting until they were certain they had enough dirt on you to get a conviction. The FBI was a dog she didn’t want with her scent up its nose.
When a person spoke of getting high, he was generally referring to smoking pot, drinking, or doing lines of cocaine. Killing quickly became Anne’s drug of choice. She compared it to eating chocolate for the first time and knowing instantly that you would want to eat it the rest of your life. For once, Anne tasted power and was instantly addicted.
She later came to the realization that killing low-life losers like Blue or her father was an unworthy pursuit. These types of men eventually self-destructed on their own. Why waste her time killing them? It was the wealthy men, the ones who had everything, who whipped her into a murderous frenzy. They had beautiful wives, adorable children, expensive homes, and bulging bank accounts. None of it was enough to satisfy their lust and greed. Before she could kill these kinds of men, though, she first had to get close to them.
Anne educated herself via the library and the Internet. She stayed late every night working at her computer in the empty office building. Her mind became bloated with knowledge. She did exhausting research on any subject that captured her attention, amazed at how easily she could comprehend and commit things to memory. She stood outside fine restaurants, studying the women’s clothes, hair, makeup, as well as how they spoke and carried themselves.
In transforming herself into bait for her prey, Anne developed other skills as well. When she assumed a role of a confident, sophisticated woman, she acted the part with chilling precision. New job opportunities opened up, allowing her to move into a nicer apartment. Although her life appeared to be taking a turn upward, nothing could eradicate the burning hatred inside of her.
Anne pulled herself out of her thoughts and turned to Bryce. The fucker still looked too much like a corpse. She had to find a way to get his head down. Driving to the first level of the parking structure, she locked Bryce’s body in the Escalade, then rummaged around in the trash dumpster. She found a broken piece of plywood and carried it back to the car. Once she untied the rope around Bryce’s neck, she struck him in the back with the board until his knees sank to the floorboard and his head tipped forward against the dash.
“There,” Anne said, draping her T-shirt over his head. The only thing left was to carve him up and dispose of him. If everything went smoothly from this point on, she might be able to make the twelve-fifteen flight back to Los Angeles. That way, she could catch a few hours’ sleep and see Lily at the club in the morning.
SIXTEEN
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 28
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
“Another dismembered body was found in San Bernardino last month,” Mary said, catching John Adams in the parking lot. “He disappeared in August. They identified the body this afternoon.”
“Then what’s this about you wanting to go to Dallas, Stevens?”
“The victim’s name was Stanley Louis Waverly. They found him in San Bernardino, but he resided in Dallas. Waverly was a prominent man, an international attorney with political aspirations. The other man, the one found in Las Vegas, was from San Francisco.”
“What connects these two cases, outside of the obvious?”
“Numerous things,” Mary told him, pulling her jacket closed. The weather report said it was going to snow tonight, and she’d left her coat on the back of the chair. “Both men were disarticulated in the same manner. Head, hands, and teeth.”
Adams stopped at his car, pushing the button for the alarm. The expression on his face was flat, disinterested. He carried a heavy load and it showed. He normally had perfect posture, but today his shoulders were rolled forward, and he had dark shadows under his eyes. He’d recently undergone major dental reconstruction from grinding his teeth. Mary was probably headed in the same direction. “They’re also in the same age bracket, mid-forties to early fifties.”
“The victim in Vegas was a closet gambler, wasn’t he? My guess is he was killed over gambling debts.” Adams opened the door to his Chrysler and climbed into the driver’s seat. “I thought you weren’t going to bother me until you had something definitive. You’re not a homicide detective anymore. The United States is a big place. People are murdered every day, most of them by a family member or acquaintance.”
“But these men were butchered.”
“We’re seeing more dismembered bodies these days. Even a housewife in Massachusetts chopped up her husband the other day. She intended to boil the bones, but the kitchen caught on fire. If we have a similar case in Oregon, it doesn’t mean the two cases are related.”
“I understand, sir,” Mary said, standing in front of the open car door to keep him from closing it. “The most compelling thing is the victims weren’t where they were supposed to be.”
“How’s that?”
“They both left detailed itineraries. Howard Goldstein lives in San Francisco and told his wife he was going to San Diego on busines
s.”
“Is this the body they found in Las Vegas?”
“What was left of it,” Mary told him, rubbing her hands together to warm them. “The San Diego PD says he was never there, although his wife swore she called the hotel in San Diego and was transferred to his room. The Dallas PD claims Mrs. Waverly told them an almost identical story. Stan Waverly is the man they found dismembered in San Bernardino.”
“Get in the car.”
“Thanks, I’m about to turn into an ice cube.” Mary circled around to the passenger side and got in.
Adams asked, “Have you eaten?”
“No,” she said, her stomach rumbling at the thought of food. “Are you going to feed me? If I had to apprehend someone right now, I might take a bite out of them.”
Adams laughed. “Your father’s sense of humor was one of the things I loved about him. I didn’t think anyone could make me smile today. You win the prize, kiddo.”
“I hope so,” she said. “I didn’t bring any money.” She felt a wave of pleasure wash over her. Whenever she was alone with Adams, she could sense her father’s presence. They used to drink beer together in the den and watch football games, boisterously cheering for their team. She could almost smell her mother’s fried chicken crackling in the kitchen from the other room, and the sweet-smelling cigars her father smoked. Her father would be happy knowing she was working under the guidance of a man he trusted and admired.
Adams’s sour mood returned. “A third child was kidnapped from a shopping center today in New Mexico. The state police have asked for our help. The first two have been missing three weeks, so the chances that they’re alive are remote. It eats me up when the victims are kids.”
“I know,” Mary said, having handled a number of child murders herself. They were the reason why many law enforcement officers resigned or asked for a transfer out of homicide.
They drove awhile in silence, both of them lost in their thoughts. “I know analyzing crime scenes is one of the most important things we do,” Mary spoke up. “But if I could speak to the wives in person, maybe interview some of the people who knew the victims, I might get a clearer perspective. If these men were cheating on their wives, someone must know. They’re all middle-aged, and I think it’s possible that successful men might be more prone to having affairs.”
“And why is that?”
“Because low- to middle-income men don’t have the time or energy,” Mary told him. “I assume romancing another woman costs money. There’s hotel rooms, food, booze, gifts.”
“Have you requested the documents from these two homicides from FSRTC yet? That’s where you’ll find your clearer perspective.”
Another acronym, Mary thought sardonically. She missed the days when the crime lab was simply the lab, and suspects were either bad guys or assholes. Calling someone who had tortured and murdered children an UNSUB didn’t really fill the bill for her. Regardless of how sophisticated the FBI perceived itself, it was still a cop shop.
The Forensic Science Research and Training Center, on the other hand, was internationally renowned for the development of new methodologies in forensic science and was the primary means for transferring new concepts, techniques, and procedures to forensic science and law enforcement communities. It was the starship of the Bureau. More than a million examinations were conducted every year.
“Some of it came in today,” Mary said, referring to the stacks of boxes she had received late that afternoon. And that presented only a fraction of the lab’s findings related to the Goldstein homicide. When she said the Las Vegas PD had identified Goldstein’s body, the actual work had been done by the FSRTC. “Just listen, sir. If these cases come together, we’re going to find ourselves humping other agencies for dominance. The originating police departments who filed the missing person reports want to bounce me back to the agencies who recovered the remains. Everyone is in the dark as to where these murders actually occurred. I didn’t want to put too much pressure on the agencies who recovered the remains until you gave me a green light and some FBI muscle.”
He glanced over at her with a fatherly look. “Where’s your coat?”
Mary arched a well-formed eyebrow. “If I’d known you were going to treat me to dinner, I would’ve brought it.” She pointed at her black shoes. “And I wouldn’t have worn these ugly things, either.”
“You haven’t mentioned the tape or any possibility of a serial killer, have you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What do you hope to accomplish in Dallas?” Adams went on. “We can have an agent from our field office handle it.”
He was driving on autopilot, his immense mind sorting through every alternative and possibility. If the tape had actually been sent from the person who’d murdered Waverly and Goldstein, the FBI would have a chance at getting inside the head of an active serial killer. This was the type of opportunity a man like Adams had wet dreams about. The FBI could not only put a violent predator behind bars, they could amass data, which in turn would be disseminated to law enforcement agencies throughout the world. The most important of all was the chance to save lives.
Mary countered, “With all due respect, don’t you think there are enough fingers in the pie already?”
“That’s not the way the FBI works,” Adams said, cutting his eyes to her.
“But shouldn’t we try to control things until we get farther along? FSRTC is still working on the tape. Their preliminary reports showed no prints, no fibers, no hairs, or any type of biological material we could use for DNA typing. Voice analysis showed the tape wasn’t made by one individual, as I suspected. They believe the different voices were downloaded from a computer, maybe excerpts from podcasts, online news broadcasts, or even TV shows.”
The sun was filtering in through the trees as they navigated the wooded roads leading to Woodbridge, a town approximately seven miles from Quantico. “Strange,” Adams said, his gloved hands locked on the steering wheel. “Why wouldn’t someone with enough computer skills to do something like that simply burn it onto a CD? No one uses tapes these days, do they?”
“Maybe whoever made the tape didn’t want us to know they had computer skills,” Mary postulated. “FSRTC said the tape was hard to work with. It’s already been damaged while making the first dupe. The UNSUB might have used tape because CDs are fingerprint magnets.”
“Here we are,” Adams said, turning into the parking lot of a popular Mexican restaurant. “Let’s go get us some chow.”
When they got out, he removed his coat and tossed it over Mary’s shoulders. “Thanks,” she said, “but can I go to Dallas?”
“We’ll discuss it after dinner.”
She halted. “I don’t want to talk about it after dinner. Another man disappeared two months ago. He fits the profile of the Goldstein and Waverly cases. Forty-nine, married, Wall Street bond trader. His wife didn’t report him missing until today because the firm he worked for wanted to make certain he didn’t abscond with any of their clients’ money.”
“You know how many people disappear from Manhattan every day?”
When lives were at stake, Mary took offense at knee-jerk reactions. “NYPD only filed an incident report. No one cares about these people until their bodies surface. The murders are going to escalate, chief. The killer isn’t challenged enough. That’s why he sent us the tape. He’s pissed that we haven’t noticed him.”
Instead of snowing as the weatherman had predicted, it began sleeting. Adams walked to the front of the restaurant, thinking Mary was beside him. When he reached the door and realized she wasn’t there, he turned around and saw her still standing in the middle of the parking lot. With a look of frustration, he walked back to her. “Come inside so we can eat.”
Mary’s teeth were chattering. “I’m not hungry, sir. I’ll wait out here for you.” A hint of a smile surfaced. “That is, unless you agree to allow me to go to Dallas.”
“Damn it,” he said, getting into her face. “You’re weari
ng my coat. If you’re going to pull a stunt like this, at least do it in your own clothes. That coat was expensive.”
Mary took it off and handed it to him.
“You’re a bigger headache than my wife. Even when you were a kid, you never accepted no for an answer. Take me for an ice cream, Uncle John. Buy me a toy. Play a game. Here’s the deal, okay? Get me out of this dastardly weather and let me get some food in my stomach. I’ll make arrangements for a helicopter to transport you to Andrews. From there, you’ll fly to Dallas in a Bureau plane. Happy now?”
Mary flashed a satisfied smile. “Tonight?”
“Don’t you have to pack a bag?”
“Already packed,” Mary told him, linking arms with him. “It’s so nice that we get to spend time together.”
Adams opened the door for her. When she stepped through, he swatted her on the butt. “You know how long I’ve wanted to do that? If your father had disciplined you correctly, you wouldn’t be such a spoiled brat.”
The Cheater Page 17
