by Alex Kava
“A toe,” Ganza told him.
Maggie saw Turner’s eyes go wide and then dart across the table to meet hers.
“Big toe,” she told him. “Left foot.” To Ganza, she asked. “It’s not Steele’s, is it?”
Ganza shook his head.
“Is it a woman’s?”
“Yes. And it was ice cold. He must have had it in a cooler.”
“For how long?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“How long could he have had it on ice? Is there any way to know how long ago he cut it off his victim?”
“I know where you’re going with this, Agent O’Dell. I’ve already got Stan Wenhoff doing a DNA comparison to see if the toe belongs to the woman who was found in Devil’s Backbone.”
“Wait,” Gwen held up her hands as if surrendering after a round of pivoting her head back and forth from one agent to another to Ganza. “What woman in Devil’s Backbone? You know that state forest isn’t open to the public?”
“Agent Turner and I attended an autopsy a few days ago.” Maggie tried to remember what day it had been. She had told Cunningham it was two days ago, but that didn’t sound right. So much had happened since then. “The victim’s body was found by a park worker. She was dehydrated. Lots of scratches and insect bites all over her body. Wenhoff believes she might have been dropped in the park and had to survive on her own for days, maybe a week. Possibly longer.”
“But she was alive when he left her there?”
Maggie nodded.
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would he do that?”
“So he could hunt her,” Turner said in a low voice filled with disgust.
“Excuse me?”
Turner nodded at Maggie to continue.
“There was a broken arrow through her left calf. Wenhoff thinks she was shot with a crossbow.”
Gwen shook her head as she ran her fingers through her hair. “Just when I thought I’d heard it all.” She scratched notes in her small leather portfolio as she asked, “What was the cause of death?”
“He hadn’t confirmed that yet when we were there,” Maggie said, looking to Turner. Technically, it was his and Delaney’s case. She had only been a tagalong, so she hadn’t gotten any official updates.
“Strangulation,” Turner provided.
“And the toe. I’m hoping it was taken post mortem?” Gwen asked.
“Yeah, he did say that. But come on, that’s still some kind of freak, taking a toe,” Turner said. Then he looked at Ganza. “So this guy goes around cutting off pieces of his victims and collecting them in takeout containers.”
“I think you may have just found our nickname for him,” Delaney said. “The Collector.”
37
“Is it possible Deputy Steele and the Collector worked together?” Delaney asked.
Maggie felt all eyes on her.
“It’s rare for serial killers to work together,” she said. “But again, just like the notes, it’s not unheard of. It depends on what the evidence supports.”
She deferred to Ganza who scrunched his eyebrows together considering this. Then he shook his head. “If they were working together the Collector wouldn’t need to leave Steele a note telling him he saw what he did.”
“What if he saw Steele shoot Daniel Tanner?” Turner suggested. “But the Collector was the one who killed Louis and Beth? Katie’s father was shot, but the other two had their throats slashed just like Steele ended up. Serial killers don’t usually change up weapons.”
“If the woman from Devil’s Backbone is one of the Collector’s victims that would mean he used a crossbow then eventually strangled her,” Maggie reminded him, playing the devil’s advocate.
Turner grinned at her. “I bet you can tell us a bunch of killers who used different weapons.”
She felt the beginning blush of embarrassment. Turner said this as a compliment, but she wasn’t sure if he was teasing or flirting. For all her knowledge and insight into human behavior, those two behaviors baffled her.
“Just for the sake of argument,” Gwen said. “Lets say the two men were both responsible. What would that look like? Which came first? And why would both Steele and the Collector choose the Tanners if they weren’t planning this together? Seems too complicated that two different men—one who appears to be completely oblivious of the other’s presence—would target the same family.”
“What do we know about Steele?” Delaney asked.
“I’ve tried to talk to Sheriff Geller,” Cunningham said. “Of course, he’s devastated about his deputy. But I have to say even at the crime scene I suspected there was something he wasn’t sharing with us.”
“Steele was wearing an ankle holster at the time of his death,” Ganza told them. “That gun and his service revolver are being tested. We should know if one of his weapons shot Katie’s father.”
Cunningham added “ballistic report” to his whiteboard. Maggie noticed that while they had been discussing Steele’s and the Collector’s roles in the murders, Cunningham had been filling in his columns.
“There is something else,” Gwen said. She put aside her pen and rested her hands on the tabletop. “Katie told me that the man who shot her father was there at the hospital.”
“She saw him?” Delaney asked.
“She thinks he looked into her room. At first I thought she might have dreamed it. But then she said he was wearing his hat just like he was when he shot her father. A big hat like the police officers wear.”
“Do you think she’d recognize him from a photo line-up?” Delaney suggested.
“We can definitely try it.”
“She’s never mentioned a second man.” Cunningham added. “Agent Delaney, find out what you can about the victims and any possible connection to Deputy Steele. I think we might find that Occam’s Razor applies. The answer to any given problem is often the simplest explanation.”
But he didn’t offer what he believed that explanation might be. Other than sharing his instincts about Sheriff Geller, Cunningham didn’t interject his opinion. He didn’t want his agents manipulating the facts to fit their boss’s preconceived notion, and Maggie respected that about him.
“Agent Turner,” Cunningham continued, “Identify the female victim who was found in Devil’s Backbone. Who was she? Where did she live? Where did she work? How long has she been missing?”
“You got it.”
“Agent O’Dell, I need you to tell us who the Collector is.” His eyes stayed on Maggie’s. “He’s killed before. Somehow he’s managed to do it under the radar. He’s calculating enough to kill in the middle of the afternoon, in a public place.”
Maggie nodded.
“Dr. Patterson, I’m hoping you’ll be available to Agent O’Dell?’
“Of course.”
Gwen smiled at Maggie, and immediately Maggie wanted to protest. Instead, she remembered the look the two had exchanged earlier. At the very least, Cunningham and Gwen were old and dear friends and turning down the psychiatrist’s help would definitely be frowned upon.
“Also, Gwen can you accompany Agent Delaney when he does the photo line-up with Katie.”
“I’ll be checking on her tomorrow morning. Perhaps we could do it then?”
“That works,” Delaney told her.
Satisfied, Cunningham said, “There’s one other thing.” He turned to Ganza. “Go ahead and tell them what else you discovered.”
“Deputy Steele’s index finger was cut off. His right hand. My team searched the entire vehicle and the surrounding area. We didn’t find it.”
He waited for that to sink in before he added, “It was his trigger finger.”
38
Saturday
Ever since he saw her on TV last night, Stucky couldn’t stop thinking about the pretty FBI lady. Actually she
’d dominated his thoughts ever since he watched her outside the double-wide trailer, down on her hands and knees paying homage to his handiwork. And now thanks to the news reporters he had a name to go along with her: Special Agent Maggie O’Dell.
He’d been disappointed that she hadn’t opened the container he’d left on the hood of asshole’s cruiser. He wanted to watch her face when she read the note. Instead some guy in a ratty-ass lab coat with a stringy ponytail did the honors. He poked and prodded Stucky’s precious work with gloves, forceps and absolutely no expression on his face. It was emasculating and anticlimactic when that masterpiece should have elicited orgasmic awe.
He decided he’d give her a second chance. And as soon as he got off work he started looking for the contents of his next package.
He’d learned long ago that he required very little sleep. Back in the days when he was writing computer code he could work straight through the night. Sometimes two nights, chugging down Mountain Dews and eating bologna sandwiches. The excitement of the finished product propelled his energy.
Some of the earliest video games he created were still his favorites because they were born out of his long sleepless dedication and passion. Never mind that they also made him filthy rich. However, it didn’t take long for him to feel confined by the limits of his imagination. The video games allowed him to control his rages, but once he experienced and smelled blood and felt it on his hands, there was nothing in virtual reality that even came close.
He blamed his father. All these years later and sometimes Stucky felt like the bastard was standing right next to him, whispering to him: “Cut deeper. Go ahead, see what it feels like.”
Of course, his father was talking about game birds and deer. It wasn’t enough to kill them and cut off their heads. He wanted to watch his son slice open their prey. See the steam leave the body. Feel the blood on his hands. He insisted Stucky remove the guts while they were still warm and as his father pointed out each disgusting organ.
Then he’d always say what a good job his “little man” had done.
God, he hated that term! Little man.
Stucky wondered what his father would think of him today. Would he be proud or shocked? Sometimes he regretted killing the bastard, just so he could make him watch now.
As soon as his shift ended he’d gone to his apartment to grab a few things. He didn’t bother to change his appearance except for a couple of small details. It really wouldn’t matter whether or not this next quarry could identify him.
Some of the bars in the area stayed open until 2:00 a.m. Stucky had done his homework when he moved to the area. There were fifty-two colleges within a fifty-mile radius. On a Friday night—actually a Saturday morning—it’d almost be too easy to pick off an inebriated coed. Were they even called coeds anymore? He rarely sank to the level of targeting college students. They didn’t present much challenge especially the ones who stayed out drinking till 2:00 a.m. But this time he simply needed an easy kill.
He left his car at his apartment and walked the five blocks. The cast on his arm made his skin itch and the sling rubbed against the back of his neck. He’d placed the cast all the way down to his fingers so no one could see the syringe clutched in his hand. In his other hand was a small lunch cooler.
He chose the bar at the end of the mall where the other businesses had been shuttered up for the night hours ago. Under the shadows of a tree and from across the street, he watched a group of young women exit the bar. Their sing-song goodbyes and giggles, along with their skips and staggers, made them perfect targets. Except there were too many of them. He had almost discounted the group and was ready to move on, when three of the young women got into the same car, and as they drove off, they waved to the fourth as she continued to the far edge of the parking lot.
Stucky didn’t want to startle her. She was fumbling with her keys when he crossed the street behind her. He weaved in between the vehicles and found a shiny black Lexus SUV to stand beside.
“Hey, excuse me,” he called out to the woman who was now only a couple cars away.
She looked up and around before she realized he was speaking to her. He made sure the arm cast was turned toward her and instantly he saw her eyes dart down to it.
“I have a flat tire,” he told her, walking around to the back of the Lexus and motioning to the other side of the vehicle—the side she’d never be able to see. All the while he kept an eye on the entrance to the bar.
“My wife used the tire jack last, and she left it in our garage.” He waited for the word “wife” to sink in. “Do you think I could borrow yours?”
He stayed by the vehicle waiting for her to think of him as weak, helpless and stranded. She looked too young to be drinking age and the extra makeup, tight clothes and over-stylized hair made her look even more like a teenager playing dress-up.
“Can you help me out? I’ll even pay you twenty bucks.” Then he shrugged his shoulder where the sling was and added, “It’s just been a really bad day.”
That made her smile.
“Can you even change a tire with your arm like that?”
“Hey, it’ll be less painful than waking up my wife.”
Now she laughed. She was fumbling with the key FOB again. She popped the trunk just as he came up beside her. His eyes scanned the parking lot. No one was around and he noticed a large Suburban was parked on the other side of her small sedan, blocking anyone’s view from the bar.
“I don’t know much about my jack,” she said as she bent over the lip of the trunk.
He stabbed the needle into the back of her arm. She didn’t even see it. She batted at the prick as if an insect had stung her. He grabbed the keys dangling from her fingertips and gave her a slight shove. That’s all it took for her to tumble into her trunk bed. Her eyes stared up at him in disbelief as he slammed it shut.
He adjusted the car’s seat as if it belonged to him. Took time to reset the side mirrors and the rearview mirror. The cast came off after undoing a series of snaps and one buckle. He sent it to the floor of the passenger side where he placed his cooler. With one swoop he snatched up all the lipsticks and bottles of girl goop and tossed them into the glove compartment. Before he closed it, he grabbed the strand of beads hanging from the rearview mirror and tossed it inside.
He needed to stop at his car and pick up the rest of his things. On the way he’d get ice for the cooler. The whole time, he listened carefully.
Nothing. Not a shuffle or a whimper. This one wouldn’t be kicking out the taillights.
Girls! He shook his head. Too immature. Too easy.
He reminded himself that the real prize would be a pretty FBI agent, and he started the car.
39
Devil’s Backbone State Forest
Susan Fuller had spent another day walking around in circles. And again, after hours of watching the shed from up on the rocks and from behind the trees, she returned.
Earlier she had spent hours investigating a new trail she stumbled upon. This one was so overgrown in parts that she was worried it would end abruptly, and she would be lost in the middle of the forest. The sky still bulged with thick gray clouds making it impossible for her to get a sense of direction. If only she could see the sunrise she’d know which way was east. She had convinced herself that it would make a difference, but she knew for a fact, it wouldn’t tell her how to get out of this godforsaken forest.
Twice she had slipped on the mud and the wet underbrush, knocking her off her feet and sending her into a rollercoaster slide. She had slammed her wounded knee against the rocks and added new bruises. Her fingernails were broken to the quick from grabbing onto tree roots and clawing her way back up a ravine. She felt like she had trekked miles and still she hadn’t seen a glimpse of another person or another cabin or even a road. She couldn’t hear a hint of traffic. No jets flew overhead.
Where the hell
was she?
As much as she hated the thought, the shed had become her sanctuary. She became anxious when she didn’t think she could find her way back. And she found herself relieved at the sight of the ramshackle structure. It provided warmth and shelter from the rain as well as food and more bottled water than she could carry.
This time before she lay down to sleep she dragged tree branches, twigs and vines and piled them up in front of the door. She hoped the crunch and snap of him removing them would wake her and give her warning. On her day’s journey she had found an excellent long branch, heavy at one end and tapered at the other. In her hands it felt like the perfect baseball bat. She made sure it was always close to her. Now as she slept, it was clutched against her.
She was starting to feel a false sense of security. Maybe he had forgotten about her. What if he’d been in a car accident? That actually made her smile despite what it meant about her ever being found. Again and again, she told herself that tomorrow she would venture out farther and she would find a trail—perhaps a road. How wonderful that would be.
For some reason she thought about her mother. It had been almost a year since she had passed away. The cancer didn’t give them a chance to say a proper goodbye. The diagnosis came and three weeks later it was over. Susan still couldn’t believe her mom was gone. She had dug in to her classes, studying and working nonstop. Her mother was so proud of her going to culinary school. She would have loved the little pastry shop where Susan had landed the job of head chef.
She was still so angry with God. But as she lay on the dirty, thin mattress listening to the night birds, Susan did something she hadn’t done since her mother’s diagnosis. She prayed.
40
Maggie woke to a sound she didn’t recognize. A bang followed by a clink—metal against metal.
Last night she had gotten home late. She had slid into their king-size bed without interrupting Greg’s soft snores. Now through the window blinds she could see the gray sky with the first light of morning. The other side of the bed was already empty.
