“Any other description?”
“This ain’t exactly the Four Seasons, Nathan. The staff here make a point of not remembering clients and the man was wearing a large hat that obscured much of his face.” Jordache checked his notes. “All the guy at the desk remembers is he had fair skin, intense eyes and a low rumbling voice. The description fits one we have for a suspect on the other killings.” He read out the statement from the witness at the thrift store.
“What about the bad smell?”
“The guy at the desk here had a cold and didn’t pick anything up. The smell might be a dead end. The killer could have stepped in something or have been carrying some food that was off.” He indicated the fire door. “We figure the killer cased the joint out earlier, paid for the room keys then carried his victim into the hotel through that fire door.”
“Carried him in?”
“Yeah, the pathologist took a blood sample and found traces of ketamine again. The killer waited for the guy to wake up in the room, then killed him.” He pulled back the crime scene tape and led Fox into the room.
The first thing Fox noticed was the blood spatter. No Luminol was required here. Sticky blood matted the threadbare carpet, and marked the furniture. Part of the pine wardrobe in the corner had been stained as dark as mahogany. “Where’s the body?”
Jordache pointed to the small adjoining bathroom. The door was open and a police photographer was inside taking pictures. “In there.”
Fox walked in and saw a man’s naked body crammed into a bath, brimming with rosy soup. The smell of blood hung in the back of Fox’s throat. The bled-out corpse was pale, its hands were bound with blue twine and it had no head. There were cut marks on the neck but otherwise the break was butcher-clean.
“All three victims were changed out of their own clothes,” Jordache said. “The first two were found in female clothing, this one was naked. Forensics say the killer used a knife, large and razor-sharp but pretty standard. Not surgical. The kind of thing you’d find in most hunting and gaming stores. It was almost certainly the same weapon used at the other two scenes.”
Fox grimaced. “The killer’s got to be a pretty powerful guy to carry a man as big as him in here, tie him up, undress him and cut off his head with a knife — however sharp it is.” He stared at the body, which no longer looked human, more like a gruesome mannequin or a sick prop from a movie. But this had once been a person with a life, perhaps a wife and children. “Who found him?”
“The cleaner.”
“This dump has a cleaner?”
“Comes in once a day, would you believe.”
“You got a name for the victim?”
“An old guy called Luis Paz. Was a small-time enforcer for the local mob. Retired some years back. We got an ID from his head.”
Fox looked around the bathroom. “Where is it, by the way?”
The detective led him back into the bedroom, donned white latex gloves and pointed to the wardrobe. “In there.”
“Where’s the link to Jane Doe?”
“I’ll show you.” Jordache stepped forward and, with a flourish, opened the wardrobe. Fox was not easily shocked but what he saw made him step back a pace. The interior of the wardrobe was divided into hanging space on the left and shelves on the right. On the middle shelf, sitting in a pool of dark congealed blood, was a severed human head. The skin visible around the pale lips and on the jowly chin was already turning gray like that of a diseased fish but the eyes and upper half of the face were obscured by a sheet of newspaper, which had been stapled to the victim’s forehead. Despite the blood, Fox could see a message written in colored marker pens.
He read the message aloud: “Serve the demon, save the angel.” This the same as the other killings?”
“Yep.”
“Written in the same way? In capital letters of different colors, on two lines with no punctuation?”
“Exactly the same. Look at what the message is written on.” Fox stepped closer to the wardrobe, ignoring the butcher’s-shop smell of cold, bloody meat, until his nose was inches from the severed head. Suddenly, he understood the connection. The message had been written over the photograph of Jane Doe’s face featured in all the news stories. “All three male homicide victims had the same newspaper photo from the Oregonian stapled to their foreheads,” Jordache said.
“You think the killer knows Jane Doe?”
“It’s possible. More to the point, she might know the killer. I want to talk to her, Nathan.”
Fox considered this for a moment. “But Jane Doe doesn’t even know her own name, Karl. How do you expect her to know the killer’s? You’d only scare her for no good reason and this may have nothing to do with her.” He thought of the messages. “The killer might think he knows Jane Doe but he’s just as likely to be obsessed with the guardian angel persona presented by the media. The only connection could be in his head.”
“But she’s the only connection we’ve got, Nathan. The killer might know her and she might know him.” Jordache frowned at him. “Why are you being so protective, Nathan?”
“I’m her doctor. It’s my job to protect her. The point is, even if she does know the killer, she won’t remember knowing him. She has no recall of anything before the night of the fire. Before we involve her, we need to go over the three crime scenes and work out what’s going on in the killer’s head. What are the messages all about? Who’s the angle and who’s the demon?”
“Jane Doe could help us do that,” Jordache persisted. “Perhaps she’ll remember something when confronted with all this?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. People lapse into fugue states because they’ve undergone or remembered something so traumatic they retreat from their own identity.” He spread his arms wide, taking in the bloody room and the photo of Jane Doe stapled to the severed head. “Speaking of traumatic, how the hell will confronting her with a fresh crime scene help her remember anything?” Even as the question left his mouth, Fox knew the answer.
“I don’t mean to expose her to the goddamn bodies, Nathan. We’ll remove those. I mean tell her about the murders. Show her mugshots of the victims. Who knows? Perhaps she’ll recognize one of them. Explain how her photo was stapled to their faces, and show her the messages. See if anything registers.”
Nathan thought for a moment. “I’ll make you a proposal.” Jordache frowned but said nothing. “I’ll talk to her about this, but you’ve got to let me do it my way. Jane Doe’s fragile and her condition’s complicated. OK?” He extended his hand.
Jordache frowned but took it. “Whatever you say.”
“Good. Now show me the other two crime scenes.”
Chapter 21
It was late by the time Fox left the final crime scene. As he drove home he received a call from his aunt, who was in good spirits and had enjoyed meeting Jane Doe.
“What a lovely and beautiful girl,” she said at least three times. “It was obvious you liked her too, Nathan.” He could see her teasing smile in the tone of her voice.
“She’s a patient of mine, Samantha. That’s all.”
“If you say so, Dr. Fox.” He decided against telling Samantha about the murders and their connection to his patient but after he hung up he could think of nothing else. Images of the three victims kept surfacing in his mind, and each time he kept seeing Jane Doe in their place. He imagined pulling back the photo stapled to the severed head and revealing her face beneath it, skin gray with death, eyes milky with decomposition. The thought made him nauseous.
Fox believed the killer had become fixated with Jane Doe’s media persona and didn’t know her personally, but that didn’t neutralize the threat. Statistically, most victims know their killer, but strangers often target media personalities because they think they have a relationship with them, even though they have never met. Fox opened the car window, breathed in the fresh night air and reassured himself that Jordache had assigned a discreet police protection detail to Jane Doe, starting tomorrow, on
ce Fox had briefed her on the murders.
What about tonight?
Fox considered calling Tranquil Waters, but the thought of disturbing one of the night nurses and having to explain why he wanted her to check on a sleeping Jane Doe stopped him. In the rearview mirror his tired eyes stared back at him. Get a grip, Nathan. You’re losing perspective. She’s a patient, asleep in a clinic. She’s absolutely safe. You’re the one who’s exhausted. Go home and get some rest.
He breathed deep and tried in vain to heed the advice he had given Jane Doe earlier, and distance himself from the fears invading his head. He tried all the mind games in his arsenal but, despite his best efforts, nothing helped him shrug off the irrational but obsessive certainty that Jane Doe was in danger, or soothed his sudden and overwhelming compulsion to check she was safe.
Lying in her bed at Tranquil Waters, Jane Doe took some time to fall asleep but tonight it was excitement that kept her awake, not anxiety. After Fox had returned her to Tranquil Waters she had gone for a run on the marked trail in the grounds. She had pushed herself hard and it had felt good getting to know her body again. After a shower she had eaten surprisingly good pasta in the canteen and met some of the other residents — as Tranquil Waters liked to call its patients. Some of them had made her realize that she didn’t have it so bad. She had watched a cheesy movie in the TV lounge with a few of them before going to bed.
Now, as she tried to sleep, her mind kept replaying the earlier events of the day: listening to Fox’s aunt explaining archaeosonics; discussing her synaesthesic ‘gift’ with Fox; and returning to the burnt house where she had lost her memory and identity. She was beginning to accept what Fox called her death-echo synaesthesia but still couldn’t understand why she had it and — given the remarkable nature of this ‘gift’ — why no one from her old life had come forward to claim her.
Who had she once been? Where had she come from? These questions, which had once unnerved her, now excited her. She was confident that with Fox’s help she would eventually discover the answers. Before she eventually fell asleep, her last conscious thought was of seeing the psychiatrist the next morning. It made her smile.
As she descended into REM, the deep sleep when dreams come, the smile faded from her face and the anxiety returned, along with the nightmares that had plagued her unconscious since she could remember. This time, however, the recurring nightmares felt more real and immediate: she was running from her shadowy pursuer, through the empty rooms of a deserted hotel, occupied only by the ghosts of the dead. Outside, horses galloped in crazed circles while a large all-seeing eye looked down on her every move. As her pursuer got ever closer, she could hear his breathing and smell his scent in her nostrils. Still asleep she shook her head, as if to purge the smell, but it only grew stronger, reaching deep into the primitive, reptilian part of her brain, invoking a terror so primal it woke her.
It took seconds for her to focus and grow accustomed to the gloom. The first thing she became aware of was the open window and the breeze blowing the curtains into the room. Then she noticed a large figure standing over the bed, silhouetted in the moonlight, watching her. As her panic surged she mentally recited Fox’s mantra: observe your visions but remain emotionally detached; what isn’t there can’t hurt you; let your experiences flow past you. Gradually her breathing steadied.
Then the apparition leaned toward her. He was wearing a broad-rimmed hat that covered his face. Struggling to remain calm, she blinked hard and squinted into the dark. This didn’t feel like her other experiences of death-echo synaesthesia. The silhouette bent closer and a deep growling voice whispered in her ear, “I know who you are. I will save you from the demon.” A chill ran down her spine. No death echo had ever addressed her before. The apparition moved nearer and she saw the glint of a hypodermic needle, and a large knife in the man’s belt.
She opened her mouth to scream but a huge hand clamped over her face. “Quiet,” the figure hissed, moving the hypodermic so close she could see droplets on the needle tip. Suddenly, she felt the needle pierce the skin of her arm and she twisted her body away, slipping off the side of the bed, escaping his grip.
She could already feel the effects of whatever he had injected into her. Her body was no longer hers: her limbs and vocal cords no longer obeyed her commands. She tried screaming for help but only a mewing sound came from her lips. When she tried to crawl to the chair under the door she barely moved. Still conscious, she saw the intruder wedge a chair under the door handle, jamming it shut, then he bent and swung her over his shoulder as easily as if she were a doll. Unable to scream or struggle, she felt as if she was outside her body, looking down on her inert self — a silent, helpless witness to her own abduction. He carried her to the open window where she could feel the cool breeze and see the moon in the star-filled night sky. The beauty of the scene made her predicament seem even more surreal. Who was he? Why was he here? What did he want with her? She heard banging and her name being called. There was a crash of rending wood. Someone was kicking at the jammed door. Thank God. She didn’t want to die. Not before she had at least discovered her real name.
The intruder hesitated and reached for his knife. Suddenly, the door broke open. A figure rushed in and struck her abductor with such force that he dropped her to the floor. The fall pushed the air from her lungs, making her gasp for breath. The intruder quickly regained his poise and lunged with his knife. Rotating his body with balletic grace, her rescuer avoided the blow before unleashing a kick that slammed her abductor against the window. For a moment the two figures squared off against each other and all she could hear was the sound of their labored breathing. Then the intruder snorted with disgust, exited the window and was gone.
Only when her savior shouted at an orderly to call the police and bent down to check her injuries did she realize it was Nathan Fox. When he discovered she couldn’t move or speak he gently picked her up off the floor and laid her on the bed. “You’re safe now,” he said. “I’m pretty sure he injected you with ketamine. The effects should wear off soon.”
The next hour was a blur of doctors, nurses and police. As soon as the police arrived to examine the scene she was moved to another room. Professor Fullelove and Detective Karl Jordache, the cop she remembered from the night of the fire, both came to check on her. Fullelove told her that fortunately her attacker had managed to inject only a small amount of ketamine. Jordache reassured her that the man would be found and a twenty-four hour watch put on her room. Despite all the assurances, however, she only felt safe again when the feeling returned to her arms and she could embrace Fox. The surprising hardness of his body and strength of his arms comforted her more than any words. Slowly he disengaged, laid her back on the bed and gave her a glass of water. Her parched mouth felt like she had been sucking cotton wool. She explained to the police everything that had happened, including what the intruder had said to her.
“Can you remember the exact words he used?” said Jordache.
“Yes. ‘I know who you are. I will save you from the demon’.”
“You must have got a good look at him, Nathan. You fought him,” said Jordache.
“Not really. It was too dark, the moon was behind him and his hat obscured his face.” He rubbed his leg. “He’s goddamned big, though, and as strong as an ox. I detected a faint smell.”
“So did I,” Jane Doe said.
Jordache turned to her. “What sort of smell?”
“Like dead flesh.”
“What about his face, Jane? Did you see what he looked like?”
“I only got a glimpse. I couldn’t give you much detail.”
“Did you recognize him from anywhere?”
Something about the way Jordache and Fox were studying her made her pause. She thought of the shadowy pursuer in her nightmares and shivered. “You’re looking at me like I should have done. Why?”
Fox and Jordache exchanged a glance, then the detective handed Fox a thin brown envelope. “Not now, Karl,” Fox
said. “It can wait till the morning. She’s still my patient and she should get some rest.”
“What can wait till morning?” she said. Fox frowned. “Tell me,” she insisted. “What’s going on?”
“Tell her,” said Jordache. She heard someone calling the detective. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”
Fox waited for Jordache to leave then sat by her bed. “It’s about the intruder…”
The attack had so shaken her that she felt a strange relief when he told her about the three murders and their connection to her. At least it explained why the man had singled her out. Sort of. “You sure it’s the same man?” she asked, when Fox had finished.
“He spoke about ‘saving you from the demon’, which is similar language to that used in messages at the crime scenes. The ketamine he injected you with is a signature of two of the killings. From the little I saw and felt, he was big enough to fit a vague description the police got from a storekeeper on the fringes of Old Town. And his smell fits some of the witness statements. So, yes, I’d say it was the same man.”
“He stapled my newspaper photograph to the faces of his victims?”
“Yes.”
“He said he knows who I am. You think he really knows me? Knows who I was?”
Fox shrugged. “Possibly, but it’s just as likely he became fixated on your avenging angel persona. Frankly, the way he attacked you points to him being delusional. So, my guess is he doesn’t really know you at all. But I could be wrong.”
“The police have any idea who he is?”
“Like I said, they have a vague description, but nothing concrete yet.” He paused. “The police are worried he’ll kill again and are desperate for leads. I’ve explained your amnesia to them but Jordache wants to interview you about the homicides, to see if it triggers anything. He believes you might be the key to finding this man, especially after what just happened. I said I’d talk you through the homicides. You OK with that?”
Colour of Death, The Page 11
