Unspoken Fear

by Hunter Morgan

  "I've been doing some research on the Internet, and two percent of all serial killers are female. So it's not unheard of." She laced her fingers together and pushed her arms out to stretch them. "That's all I'm saying."

  "You still don't think it's him."

  "I don't think it's him." She began to pace behind the chair in front of his desk. "But I'll keep an open mind. I'll look at what the lab says the machete tells us. I'll interview him again."

  Snowden pushed back in his chair and stared at the white ceiling tiles.

  "What?" she asked after a long moment of silence stretched between them.

  "I didn't say anything."

  She dropped both hands to her hips, halting beside the desk. He could be such a... such a man. "No, you didn't have to say anything. I can see the look on your face. What are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking that Noah Gibson still looks like our best suspect because I don't know who else we've got. Most serial killers have been interviewed by police as possible suspects, often multiple times, but are released for lack of evidence. The Wichita strangler was interviewed. So was Ted Bundy."

  "I disagree that we don't have any other suspects. What about Joshua Troyer? He worked in the church for months and could have overheard a lot of things. He knows everyone in town, but he's kind of invisible, isn't he?" She narrowed her eyes. "Quiet. Good natured. Always the neighborly type, willing to lend a hand. He's also religious. And you heard what he said about being willing to kill people for their sins." She shuddered. "He certainly gave me the creeps."

  Snowden folded his hands behind his head.

  "And what about Cora Watkins?" she continued.

  "What about her?"

  Delilah perched herself on the edge of the chair in front of the desk and leaned forward, pressing both hands on the smooth, polished wood. "She's certainly overheard things over the years. Saw people come and go in that private church office. She's the town gossip, for heaven's sake. If she doesn't know people's secrets, no one does!" She threw her hands up in the air in emphasis.

  "She's sixty years old, Delilah. Overweight."

  "She's pretty darned spry when she's trying to cut in line in front of you at the grocery store."

  He surprised her with a smile. "You're good at this. Observing people, reading them."

  She sat back in the chair, watching him. He was such a handsome man, such a good man. But somehow, he always seemed sad to her. "Apparently I'm not good enough, otherwise I'd have this guy... or gal, by now."

  He smiled again. "You should go home. I'll lock this up in the evidence locker and have one of the guys personally carry it over to the crime lab in Baltimore in the morning."

  "So you don't think we should bring Noah Gibson in tonight?"

  He shook his head. "We have his machete, but he'll only say that's meaningless. That someone stole it from their place."

  She got up. "Maybe someone did."

  He rose out of his chair and walked around his desk. "Go home, Delilah."

  She looked up into his eyes. "What are you going to do?"

  "Process this evidence, go home, take a shower, have something to eat, and go to bed."

  "You promise?"

  He nodded.

  She hesitated and then lifted her lashes. "You want me to come with you?" she whispered, holding his blue-eyed gaze.

  He caught her hand in his and lifted it to his lips, kissing it gently. "I can't tell you how much I'd like that right now."

  She closed her eyes for a moment. "But we can't."

  "We can't," he murmured as he let her hand go.

  Her heart still in her throat, she grabbed her purse off the edge of his desk and walked out of the office. "See you tomorrow, Chief."

  "See you tomorrow, Sergeant."

  * * *

  Ellen set her empty soup bowl in the sink, filled it with water, and then grabbed the dog leash on the counter. "Jetson," she called.

  The red and white corgi bounced into the kitchen.

  "That's a good boy. Such a good boy. I know it's late, but how about that walk?" She leaned over to drop the bright blue cinch collar over his head. Ellen had returned home to Stephen Kill that night, even though she usually spent Sundays at her place at the beach. Jill had often stayed over until Monday morning before returning to her office in D.C. "Summer hours," she called it.

  But Saturday, Ellen and Jill had had a huge blowup. The kind from which relationships didn't recover. Jill had accused Ellen of not paying enough attention to her, of taking her for granted. Ellen maintained that Jill didn't have enough respect for the importance of her job. What it all boiled down to was that Jill thought Ellen ought to come out. Ellen didn't think Sussex County or her coworkers were quite ready for that. The argument had gotten ugly and ended with Jill packing her bag and walking out.

  "They're just not ready for a lesbo judge, are they, boy?" Ellen asked her dog, giving him a pat on the head. She rose. "OK, let's go, but just a short potty walk."

  As she walked out the back door, she grabbed her keys with the pepper spray canister on the keychain. Like everyone else in town, she was a little uneasy with a killer on the loose. But that didn't mean she was going to alter her life in any way; that would just be giving in to the criminal. That was definitely something she'd learned in the last two years on the bench. A person had to fight, society had to fight, against these individuals trying to ruin the lives of those who were good and kind and faithful.

  Ellen led Jetson out the back door, through the garden and out the front gate, onto Main Street. Well lit, with sidewalks, it was the central street that ran through Stephen Kill. Turn-of-the-century Victorian houses painted in bright pastel colors dotted both sides of the street. She headed east, out of town, past the well-tended lawns and minivans and SUVs parked in the driveways.

  It was warm out, and the humidity was so high that the air was oppressive, but Ellen walked at an energetic pace. Jill, a health nut, was always telling her she needed to exercise more, eat better. In the last six months, thanks to Jill's nagging, Ellen had actually lost a few pounds and toned up. She supposed she'd pack it all on again now that Jill was gone. And Ellen knew she wasn't coming back.

  A lump rose in her throat and she forced it down. She didn't know if she'd been in love with Jill or not, but she had certainly cared deeply for her.

  She took a deep breath. She didn't have time for foolish sentiment. This really was for the best. Jill was right—Ellen was married to her job; she didn't have time for a good relationship.

  Jetson halted on the sidewalk and looked over his shoulder.

  Ellen glanced in the same direction. There was very little breeze, but the ground-sweeping branches of the weeping willow tree in the Belkens' front yard swayed. A cicada chirped. There was nothing there. Shadows.

  "Come on, boy." Ellen tugged on the dog's leash. "If you have to go, you better go. I'm not taking you out in the middle of the night. I'm warning you, now. I'm not in the mood."

  They walked the last half a block to where the sidewalk ended, and Ellen turned around and headed back home. Their progress was slowed as she allowed Jetson to stop to investigate several times—a squashed, dry toad; a little pile of squirrel excrement.

  Walking up the street, Ellen glanced at the hand-carved welcome sign on a small patch of grass between the two lanes of the street. As one entered the town and was greeted by the sign, the street narrowed considerably, dating back to the original establishment of the town in the seventeenth century.

  The sign was usually well lit by a spotlight. The light was set by a timer, and Ellen was sure it had already been glowing when she arrived in town. Maybe the bulb had burned out, or maybe the timer in the box at the base of the sign needed to be jiggled. Earlier in the summer she and Jetson had stopped to do just that on one of their evening walks.

  Ellen tugged on the dog leash and crossed the pavement to the grassy island.

  * * *

  Azrael cut across the Belkens' back
yard, knife in hand, hidden beneath the sleeve of the yellow rain slicker. Someone's dog barked. Not the Belkens' German shepherd, a smaller dog. The summer air was warm and thick, suffocating, but it did not slow the Angel of Death. There was a task to be done. The offender had to pay for the sin. God had given His order. God had spoken.

  At least, Azrael thought, God has spoken...

  The Angel could not remember the sound of God's voice or when the order had been given. Last night? This morning?

  Everything was getting so confusing. It was the nightmares. The two-headed baby kept coming back again and again, and Azrael knew something would have to be done about it soon. End it soon.

  And it wasn't just the baby, it was the pressure of being God's servant but no one knowing. No one understanding. The whole town was in an uproar. The whole state. There were articles in the newspaper every day. Earlier in the week, CNN had come to town to tape a short piece on the serial killer stalking the small, all-American East Coast town.

  Why did no one see the truth? This was not the work of a serial killer. It was the work of a vengeful God. Mankind had been warned. The Bible was clear. Punishment would be handed down to those who disobeyed God's laws.

  Azrael reached the sidewalk but did not look up or down the street. Was not afraid to be seen. God protected His servants.

  The Angel spotted the judge crossing the street. She had left through the back door of her house, her dog with her. It was a cute little red and white dog with a long body and short legs. The kind the Queen of England had.

  As the judge reached the town sign, she loosened the dog's leash and went down on one knee to examine the spotlight that usually illuminated the sign.

  The little dog turned and barked in greeting as Azrael crossed the street. The judge turned, recognized the Angel, and smiled. "Spotlight's out." She turned back, gesturing. "I'm wondering if it's the bulb." She started to turn back toward Azrael, seeming surprised now. "Expecting rain?"

  Azrael reached out and around, and before the judge realized what was happening, the kitchen knife tore across the soft flesh of her neck. Ellen's eyes widened in surprise, but she did not scream. The leash fell from her hand, and her dog darted across the street with a little yip of fear.

  The judge rocked back on her heels, and Azrael caught her under the armspits. Blood pumped from the open wound into the soft grass and the neatly trimmed azalea bushes. There were gurgling sounds.

  Azrael dragged her around the spotlight, trying not to dig up any more of the mulch than necessary. City workers had to rake the mulch by hand; it wouldn't be very nice to make more work for them.

  The judge was surprisingly light. Surprisingly limp already.

  The Angel moved the judge's body into position and sank the knife through her neck again, this time to secure her so she wouldn't fall forward. Tucking the verse into the pocket of the dead woman's shirt, Azrael rolled off the disposable gloves and pushed them in a pocket in the rain slicker for disposal later.

  The Angel then recrossed the street, not bothering to look in either direction. The dog was sitting there under the street-lamp, looking frightened.

  Azrael glanced back at the judge and at the little dog. God wouldn't want to see the animal harmed. What if it ran out into the street in front of a car or something?

  Speaking soothingly, the Angel moved slowly toward the dog. It barked, scooted over a couple of feet on the sidewalk, and then plopped down again and whined.

  "That's right. Good boy," Azrael crooned. "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."

  The Angel caught the end of the leash and tugged. "Come on, good dog. Let's get you back safe in your house."

  * * *

  A police officer moved an orange barrier set up across the street, and Snowden made a U-turn in his cruiser. As he wheeled back, his headlights fully illuminated the Welcome to Stephen Kill sign. "Sweet Jesus," he beseeched, hitting the brake and shifting into park.

  The call had come through from the dispatcher just after midnight. Snowden had talked to his shift commander as he dressed. He knew what to expect, and yet words couldn't justify the horror. Police cars and other emergency vehicles had pulled up in a semicircle around the neatly trimmed and manicured center island of grass. Flashing red and blue lights on the top of an ambulance cast a sickening pulse of light and shadow on the crime scene.

  Snowden's first impulse as he climbed out of the car was to look away. It seemed disrespectful to stare, and yet he couldn't help himself.

  Judge Ellen Hearn stood propped up against the welcome sign, her arms outspread, her hands draped behind it. She was covered in blood, her head lulling forward; what appeared to be a large kitchen knife protruding from her neck, holding her fastened to the wooden sign.

  From Snowden's point of view, twenty feet in front of the sign, the judge appeared to have been crucified.

  Chapter 29

  "Prints came back on the kitchen knife and the machete," Delilah said, walking into Snowden's office without knocking.

  He looked up from his desk; it seemed to be sinking in paperwork. In the two days since Judge Hearn's murder, Delilah had been working practically around the clock. She'd reread every file on each of the murder cases and reinterviewed half the people she or one of the other officers on the force had already interviewed, as well as the victims' families, friends, and neighbors.

  She had also somehow convinced or coerced Father Hailey into checking old appointment books stored in the basement, and sure enough, he discovered that Ellen Hearn had gone to Noah Gibson for several private counseling sessions two years before Noah went to prison. There was no way to know what they had discussed from the appointment books, but it was enough evidence to link the fourth victim to the ex-priest.

  Delilah had also done some prying into Ellen Hearn's personal life that most officers would have been hesitant to do, considering the judge's position in the state judicial system and the fact that she was already dead. The revelation that Judge Ellen Hearn was a lesbian, as accused, according to the Bible text left in her bloody shirt pocket, had taken Snowden completely by surprise. Like most of the folks in town, he'd known her, admired her his entire life, and never known. Apparently, the judge had been extremely discreet when it came to her private life, and it was only by looking through her personal belongings in her condo in Bethany that Delilah had been able to locate Miss Jillian Parquay of Washington, D.C., and learn the story of their affair that had lasted more than a year.

  "And what does the crime lab tell us?" Snowden asked, tenting his fingers.

  "No prints on the kitchen knife, except the judge's. Killer probably watched from her garden until she left the house to walk the dog and then he slipped inside, wearing disposable gloves you can buy at any Wal-Mart, and took the victim's knife from a rack on the counter."

  "Neighbors said she routinely walked the dog, though usually a little earlier in the evening, and rarely on Sunday nights," Snowden recalled.

  "She probably hadn't planned on spending the night in Stephen Kill Sunday night. Girlfriend thought she must have decided to stay here after a big fight they had the night before. And if you ask anyone in town, they'd probably be able to tell you that the judge leaves by her back door to walk the dog any night she's in town."

  Snowden frowned. "I still can't believe the killer took the time to return the dog to the house."

  "Apparently he was concerned for the dog's safety," she said.

  "What kind of person kills someone and then walks their dog back to the house, risking getting caught?"

  "I'm wondering if he wants to get caught. If the blood is getting the best of him. Maybe he wants us to end it. Maybe finding the machete wasn't a mistake. Maybe he wanted us to find it. Find him."

  Snowden met her gaze. "Can we?"

  "We're getting closer." She slid one sheet of paper in her hand behind another. "We've got better evidence off the machete. It's definitely Newton's blood, and we've got Noah Gibson's prints, along with at l
east three other sets of prints, maybe four. None of them other than Noah's are in the AFIS computer bank, though."

  "That's a lot of unidentified people handling one weapon," he thought aloud. "Gibson's prints actually in any of the blood?"

  Delilah shook her head. "Too easy. But one good print was. I'm thinking maybe someone helped him out, at least disposed of the weapon for him. We've definitely got enough to bring the Gibsons in." She almost sounded deflated.

  With yet another connection of Noah Gibson to a victim, Snowden knew Delilah was struggling with the conclusion that she was wrong and that Noah might very well be the killer. "Both of them?"

  "Who better to ask to dispose of a weapon used in a crime than your ex-spouse? I thought we'd ask Rachel to voluntarily allow us to take her fingerprints and compare."

  He shrugged, still not mentally, or at least emotionally, ready to consider Rachel might be involved. He reached for his coffee cup. "She bought the machete, her prints should be on it."

  "But they shouldn't be in the blood," Delilah countered.

  Snowden was silent for a minute. He sipped his coffee; it was cold. He'd had a none-too-pleasant call from the governor's office this morning. A state police task force was being formed to aid the Stephen Kill force in the apprehension of the killer preying on the town. It was a barely veiled method of saying the governor no longer had confidence that Snowden could head up the investigation or catch the killer. The task force would probably mean Snowden's job. If the governor's office didn't believe in him, neither would the city council come time to renew his contract.

  "OK, send Lopez out to the vineyard. Tell him to bring in Noah, but let Rachel drive herself in. Give her time to get a babysitter if the housekeeper isn't there. Just don't let them talk to each other."

  "Right." Delilah halted in the doorway and turned back, lowering her voice. "I know you don't think Rachel had anything to do with this, and I hope you're right. But you might not be. When we were going over the list of people who might have known what the priest knew, we didn't consider Rachel. What if he talked about his work to his wife? It would seem only natural to me, no matter what code of ethics binds you. I mean, even the law recognizes the special relationship between spouses."