by David Levien
“Nothing,” Behr said.
“Breslau said you’d want to see for yourself,” Sanchez volunteered.
“So no blood on the dry-cleaning bag?” Behr asked.
“None visible,” Kelty said. “It’ll be screened for DNA. We’ll keep you in the loop.”
“Thanks,” Behr said and left.
Walking toward his car, Behr passed the spot on the street where Quinn’s car had been parked and the attack had presumably begun. Another few millimeters’ length on the security camera lens, and the whole thing would’ve been viewable in Technicolor. But capturing goings-on in the street wasn’t why Mr. Kim had the camera, and the “subject” had gotten away with it again. Behr climbed into his car and his phone rang. It was Breslau calling with the next level of results from the lab. Behr couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But before he acted on it, he realized what he had to do next: warn Susan.
He called her right away, but got her voice mail.
“It’s me,” he said. “It’s important. I need to talk to you. Don’t go to work and Trev shouldn’t be in day care. Grab him up, keep him with you, and go somewhere safe. Get in touch ASAP.”
He started dialing his next call as soon as he hung up.
“Holy fuck,” Mistretta said. They were sitting in his kitchen. She’d come over right after he’d reached her. She wore a long-sleeve T-shirt and sweatpants and was clutching a mug of coffee in both hands. Behr had just told her about Quinn, how he was in the coma, his condition otherwise unchanged. He’d also just given her the results of the preliminary DNA tests that Breslau had called in to him.
“So two of the hairs were from the Crawley girl,” Mistretta said, trying to process what she’d just heard.
“Yeah, Danielle Crawley,” Behr said.
“And the other …”
“One strand, broken, three and a half inches long, blond female.”
“Oh boy,” Mistretta said, “did it belong to your girl?”
“Kendra Gibbons? No. No match. Unknown white female.”
“Oh boy,” Mistretta said again, because she knew what it meant. “The blond female’s hair doesn’t match any past victims, so there’s a better than decent chance that there’s a new, yet-to-be-discovered vic.”
“Yeah,” Behr said. He found it interesting that she hadn’t said anything, besides the initial expletive, about Quinn and his hands.
“So what am I answering for you right now?”
“Well, my big question is the contamination. If someone grabbed Quinn up, put Quinn in his vehicle, or took him back to his home or wherever he carries out his kills, then why did victims’ hair come up, but none of the subject’s? And how come none of his DNA has presented at all? And on a related note: Why the hell was Prilo in that church basement? Can he have something to do with this?”
“A few things come to mind. Door number one: our guy is extremely careful. And lucky. Quinn’s clothes and person were analyzed, not the sub’s trunk, so it’s an incomplete sampling at best. Door number two: it was only Prilo’s morbid curiosity that had him in that church basement. Besides, how does a man working with one good arm do that to Quinn?”
“He helps someone else. Advises him, is what I’m thinking,” Behr said.
“But …” she began, then tapered off.
“But,” he echoed.
“But that’s all investigative, not psychological, so it’s not why you got me here,” she said.
Behr did his best not to let an awkward silence grow. He watched as the realization dawned on her.
“Oh, shit, this isn’t about information, this is about warning me,” she said. “You think since our guy took Quinn, now I could be in trouble too.”
Behr nodded slightly.
“You have anywhere you can go?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said. “Nowhere I want to, anyway.”
“Well …” Behr said.
“I should probably be all right, right? I mean, he hasn’t gone for any non-blondes.”
“He hadn’t gone for any photographers either,” Behr said. It sounded stark and pitiless in the quiet of the kitchen, and he wished he hadn’t put it that way.
“What should I do?” she asked, the fear fully upon her. There was something deeply wrong about seeing a spitfire like Mistretta cowed. But she wasn’t a superhero, and she’d left New York to get away from this kind of ugliness.
“I’m about to get on Prilo like a tick on a hound’s ass to find out what he knows, because I believe it’s something. After what happened to Quinn, I’m gonna make sure he or any of his associates don’t come after you or anyone else,” Behr said.
“And what if it is door number two?” she asked, sounding small and young. “What if it has nothing to do with Prilo, and whoever else got baited into that basement is lashing out? Then you’ll be sitting on the wrong guy.”
“You need to be vigilant, aware of your surroundings when you go out alone, especially at night. Make sure to set your alarm. Maybe get some motion lights outside.” Behr felt as stilted and useless as Sergeant Odoms.
“Fuck that community meeting crap,” Mistretta said.
“Look,” Behr said, “even if he saw you, I don’t see how it’s possible he even knows who you are. Quinn’s name was all over his photos. He’s a known figure with the police department. But you were just another person in the room. Your name was never mentioned. And if the guy started tracking Quinn after the meeting and found out where he lived and all that, then there was no way he could’ve tracked you too.”
Or me, for that matter, Behr almost said aloud. Or Susan or Trevor.
He’d been wrong a few times in his life, though.
“Can I stay here?” she asked meekly.
“I don’t want to kick you out, but that’s not really gonna work,” Behr said.
“Thanks fuckloads,” she said, making him feel callous.
“I just mean I won’t be here, so you’d be alone anyway. And if he’s looking for you, he could be looking for me, so it won’t be any safer.”
There was no sound in the kitchen as they stared at each other.
“Do you have a gun?” he finally asked.
“No,” she said.
“Do you know how to shoot?”
“Yeah, I just don’t do it for fun.”
After a moment’s consideration Behr reached for his back, pulled out his holstered Bulldog .44, and put it on the table. “Something to have in the house just in case,” Behr said.
In case the locks failed and the alarm failed and in case their guy really had clocked them together and was going after them one at a time. But he didn’t say any of that.
“Don’t carry it around. If you need it, point and pull. Five shots. If whatever’s coming at you is still moving, throw it at him and run.”
She nodded soberly. “Can I stay for a little while, just until I get my bearings?” she asked.
“Sure. Hang out,” he said and left her there sipping her coffee while he went off to shower.
Behr heard the knock on the front door as he crossed from the bathroom to his bedroom in a towel.
“I’ll get it,” he said, but it was too late. Mistretta was already standing when the door swung open, and he heard her gasp slightly. Susan was standing there holding Trevor. She’d used her key. Behr considered going for a bathrobe, but wanted to cut this off.
“Who are you?” Susan asked.
“No one. I’m … helping Behr with a case,” Mistretta uttered.
“Are ya?” Susan said. “You look helpful.”
That’s when Behr got to the door and stepped into the domestic nightmare.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Mistretta said, miserable, and retreated to the back room.
“Hi,” he said, and to Trevor, “Hi-ya, buddy.”
“You called and I’m here. Do I need the details?” Susan asked, a scowl on her face.
“You can have them if you want ’em, but the upshot is: this thing I’m on
maybe got dangerous.”
“Always seem to.”
“And someone helping me got hurt, badly. I have no reason to believe that there’s linkage to me, and certainly not to you, but I just felt I had to warn you.”
“Uh-huh. So now I’ve been warned,” Susan said. “What should I do?”
“Maybe go stay with a friend, or your parents, until—”
“Until you and your little girlfriend or the police catch whoever you’re looking for,” she said.
“It’s not like that, Suze,” he began, but she held up a hand.
“Just don’t, okay?”
“So where are you going to go?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t tell you, right? That way it’s safer,” Susan said, with plenty of edge in her voice.
“Right.” It was true. If Behr didn’t know, if no one did, there was no chance of information leakage. Of course, there was very little chance the other way. She was punishing him, and he couldn’t blame her.
“I should go. On account of how dangerous it is,” Susan said. “Why don’t you go say good-bye to Trev.”
He did and she left.
57
His beautiful Sunbeam, her meat is rotten, clean cuts impossible. Flesh comes off of bone. He uses every technique he’s learned over time, but things are liquefying. He’s been diverted and now he’s waited too long. Timing is everything in life, in work, in death. Now she is a waste, a total goddamned waste. Foreigner is on the radio, the lead singer wailing about how it feels like the first time. It is as if they are singing directly to him. That is the worst part—how amateurish it makes him feel, like it is his first time. It brings him back to memories he hasn’t entertained in so long.
She worked on post. That’s how it had started. He didn’t know, yet, that that was how it would always begin—with chance or fate dropping a project in front of him. As a paymaster for the MPs, at the end of his service, he had access to the personal information of almost everyone on post; he had the run of the installation and not enough to do during his shifts. He’d already met Margaret, a major’s daughter but a civilian who worked at a local car dealership, and they’d begun their courtship. They’d been spending a lot of time together, but not enough to keep his mind straight. The inhibitions were still in control then, before they weakened and eventually fell. The thought of what could be was always with him.
Then he’d started seeing her, given name Lorie, around post far too much. He’d spot her at the PX, in the mess, in the parking lot, and in the base commander’s office, where she was a nonmilitary personnel secretarial assistant. She was as popular as could be, tossing her mane of flaxen hair around, clipping it back off her face, hugging soldiers hello, laughing. He was living in a small apartment off post, and when he ran into her at the King Soopers, he knew it was a sign. She was buying dog food, magazines, and a multipack of Kit Kat candy bars, which is how he always remembers her: Kit Kat.
There had been smiles and hellos exchanged between them. That’s the way it was at Fort Carson. She might’ve known his name. She’d probably seen it stamped on the pocket of his BDUs when he delivered payroll reports. He knew hers. That level of personal connection was not a risk he ever took again, but back then, before the first time, he didn’t know better. He’d been running on instinct. Things were so pure then.
There hadn’t been any conversation at the supermarket that day, just a nod in passing. He turned the aisle, abandoned his cart, and went right out to his car in the parking lot. He waited and she came out and got in her Jeep Cherokee, and he’d followed her to her home, a narrow town house with a slanted roof bunched together with hundreds of other units on Gold Rush down toward the Springs. He needed to tie her up, to touch her, to taste her, to hear her scream. Other, that bestial force that dwelled within him, had awakened, and he’d never felt anything like it.
And so it began, the following. Every day and night for weeks. When she left her job at the post, he trailed her out. When she was home, he’d be outside. When she went to the store or the mall or the bar, he’d be there. It was safe to say she became his obsession. He wasn’t sure if he ever had greater focus on anything in his life than he did on that project. And with each passing moment the ache inside him grew.
Before he knew it, his kit had started coming together—rope, tape, blindfold, tarps, hacksaw, knives—the ingredients assembled from far-flung stores, all purchased separately, all paid for with cash. He had too much stuff. He didn’t know what he truly needed yet, didn’t know that he’d find a way to use everything he brought, but that using more wasn’t the idea. He had easy access to Tasers and stun batons through his job, but he went to a gun store and bought a commercially made civilian model—a small piece of black plastic with metal electrode teeth that snapped a thirty-thousand-volt bite. He hadn’t used a stun gun since then, but that was back before he trusted himself.
He had a friend, a sergeant in the motor pool, who’d helped him unbolt the rear seat of his Corolla. He’d never again ask anyone for help in any manner, but he’d told the sergeant he had to move some things so he needed the space. The real reason was he needed a way to transport Kit Kat without her being seen. It haunted him for years, that loose end, and whether the sergeant would put it together and repeat the request to law enforcement. He even considered killing his friend, but decided that would only magnify the risk.
Finally, one night, just as his service commitment was about up, the need was boiling within him, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He followed Kit Kat from her condo to a Laundromat. He waited until she’d done her wash and was carrying the basket back to her car, and then he stepped out behind her with the stun gun. The crack of the voltage in the quiet night sounded like a shot to him, and other was finally loosed.
Kit Kat slumped into his arms, and he dragged her to his car. He tied her wrists and ankles and gagged her. He had no idea how long she’d remain unconscious. He covered her with a blanket and closed the door. Straightening and turning from his car, he breathed hard, vapor clouds fogging the crisp night air. He took her laundry basket, her keys resting on top of the clean, folded clothing, and put it in her car. He was wearing rubber gloves, so fingerprints were not an issue. As he rushed back to his car, he felt he’d been on the street for hours, though it was probably less than two minutes. It seemed it was plenty of time for countless witnesses to come running up screaming for him to stop, or to call police who would converge on him in a wash of strobing blue lights and drawn weapons. But nothing had happened and nobody came. The fluorescents of the Laundromat glowed in the distance. He saw the figures of a few customers moving about within. Besides that, all was quiet. He hadn’t been seen. He drove away.
That had been the smooth part. He reached the remote spot he’d chosen. There was nothing but empty wilderness not far from the Fort, and he’d strung a dark tarpaulin against the night sky. He was carrying her there over his shoulder, a quarter mile from where he’d parked off a dirt road, which proved to be exhausting even for the fit soldier he was back then, when she came to and started kicking and screaming. He dropped her too hard because of it, mistake number one. And he’d left the stun gun in the car, mistake number two. He’d started to panic at the noise and her strength, so he’d used a rock to subdue her, mistake number three, and a messy one at that. He left her there on the ground and humped it back to the car, which he’d locked his keys inside. Mistake number four. He broke a rear window and got his kit and the stun gun. He used a plastic bag he had to cover her head so no blood got on his clothes as he carried her the rest of the way. He saw the bag sucking feebly in and out of her nose area, so he knew she was still alive.
Once he had her under the tarp and on top of a ground cloth he’d spread, the wonders of what he’d done cascaded over him and caused him to break down in shuddering pleasure. Pleasure that was punctuated by Kit Kat’s eyes flickering open. He tried to wipe her bleeding brow and to soothe her, but he was apparently no good at it. Before long, by
virtue of the duct tape going on and coming off dozens of times on account of her wailing, screaming, and general noise, her lips—those lovely pouting lips that she kept pink and shiny with constant applications of lip gloss from a small pot she carried—became raw and torn. That was mistake number five, and while far from his last, it was the last he bothered counting.
Death games, negotiations, and exploration went on for hours that night, as he found his way into what he instantly recognized as his life’s purpose. Morning was breaking pale pink over a distant ridge before it was over and he collapsed next to her in exhaustion. There had been no sound or movement during that next day, save for circling hawks and indifferent squirrels and gophers, and he’d barely stirred until it was close to nightfall. He’d sat up and washed and drank from the jugs of water he’d stored at his makeshift camp.
That’s when he began on the next phase. He told himself he would take her apart to make the burying easier, but it quickly became clear that that was just self-deception, and he was now in a place where such things were instantly stripped away. He started taking her apart because he had to, because he wanted to. He made a horrible mess of it. For a moment he wondered jealously at young novices starting in butcher shops, at how they could watch and learn at the heels of a master before trying their own hand at it. There was no apprenticeship for him. He needed to learn on his own, and the truth was: that was how he wanted it. But none of that changed the fact that clean cuts were far from clean, organs were accidentally pierced, joints that would later be severed with minimal effort were snapped with brute force. Her head came off with a pop he heard over his own grunts. His results would have horrified anyone who’d seen them. It appeared a wild carnivorous animal had done what he’d done, and not a sentient being.
