by Alex Kava
“Ordinarily I’d suggest remorse or regret,” Ganza said. “But we both know serial killers don’t feel either.”
“He’s careful,” Maggie said. “He must know that the victim’s body, her identity, where she went missing—all of that could leave clues for us to track him. Even the fact that he takes their cars to dump their bodies then returns the vehicle. This is a level of killer that I haven’t encountered before.”
“Bundy and Edmund Kemper had high IQs. Usually their arrogance or rage does them in. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and that’ll happen with this guy.”
Maggie grabbed and pulled off the last branch. She stared at the pile, and for the first time since she’d descended into the ravine, she felt cold and clammy and a bit nauseated.
“It’s not just a heap of clothes,” she said. “There’s someone in there.”
Ganza bent over and with gloved hands he tried to pick up a piece of spandex that was still connected to tissue and bone. The decomposed flesh had soaked into the clothes, leaving it a hard and crumpled mass. He pried at a piece of torn fabric but it didn’t come away clean. He dug in his pack and pulled out an evidence bag, depositing it before continuing.
There was a zipper on what looked like a hip pocket. And she could see the outline of something inside. It was the size of a driver’s license. Ganza saw it too and began working carefully to release it.
All this time and trouble the Collector had taken to hide his victims, certain that they would never be found. So sure of himself that he left the woman’s driver’s license in her pocket.
74
Stucky was anxious and excited. It felt like he was finally back on track. Like he had shaken off that last failure and was ready to hunt.
He filled bags with the basics—more staples that didn’t spoil quickly and a few apples and oranges. This time instead of small water bottles he bought jugs of drinking water, pleased with his brilliance. Jugs were less portable. Agent Maggie would have to return to the shed if she got thirsty.
The weather was promising more storms in the next day or two. He hated hunting in the rain, but he realized the thunder and lightning provided a psychological fear that even he couldn’t compete with. He’d bring her here just in time and let the storm soften her up.
Last week he had discovered where Maggie lived with her husband, Greg Stewart. A corporate lawyer. He had to admit, that surprised him. He also knew where her mother lived. He knew where Maggie liked to do her morning jogs, how early she left for work, and that she wasn’t very good at noticing when someone followed her.
He hadn’t decided yet how or where he would take her. He had to lure her someplace where he felt comfortable. Familiar surroundings for him, but someplace that would take her out of her element. That Conway Robinson State Forest might do just fine. He had snatched that pretty Paige with her fluorescent shoes right at the trailheads. It was quiet there.
He was thinking—dreaming, really—about how he’d do it when he noticed a buzz that didn’t belong in the forest. He had just dropped off the groceries and was taking one of his shortcuts up to the bluff that overlooked the creek. He’d planned to do some target practice.
But the sound—it was coming from the direction of the ravine. A low and continuous buzz, almost like an engine. But that was impossible. There were no roads. No official road, except for a service one that park workers used. That was on the other side of the rock wall and definitely not where the sound was coming from.
Stucky changed directions. He hiked the slick incline knowing exactly where to grab and how to set his feet. Half these trails he’d made himself and he could trek them with his eyes closed. He readjusted the weight on his back and continued to climb. The ground turned into rock the higher he went. Pine trees replaced hardwood oaks and chestnuts.
Now he could smell gasoline fumes. His pulse began to race. His breath came faster as anger and panic took turns galloping in his chest.
What the hell was going on?
Just a few more feet. He pushed his legs and rolled his shoulders trying to ignore the ache. He lowered himself to his knees as he came to the ledge. He hid behind the shrubs sticking up out of the rock.
He couldn’t believe his eyes. His heart sunk as though he had been betrayed.
This was his special place. His hunting ground. His secret hideout. The one place he could go to where he could control the rage.
Now it was gone to him.
75
Maggie had been standing in place, staying out of the way while Ganza processed the disarticulated pieces of the spandex victim. She avoided touching the walls after one of the CSU techs had found another bone protruding out of the dirt. At first glance the white knot looked an awful lot like a rock.
Now she handed equipment—trowel, various picks, hand shovel—like a surgeon’s assistant. She was trying to be helpful, and also trying to not watch Ganza. The crunch and squish sounds were unsettling as he pulled away pieces of tissue and bone held together only by fabric.
It wasn’t until she accidentally dropped a trowel that she saw the hand. The heel of her hiking boot was inches away. When she realized what it was—that it was fingertips and a palm sticking up through the floor of the ravine—she dropped the trowel again.
She was standing on top of another corpse. One that was buried under a thin layer of soil right beneath her.
Ganza noticed, and that’s when he insisted they break for lunch. They’d been at it all morning.
Maggie didn’t argue. She was relieved to crawl out into the sunshine and into fresh air. However, there was no escaping the smell. She noticed that immediately. The scent of death permeated her clothes, her hair, her skin and had seeped in through her facemask. But it was the exhaustion that had overtaken her. She was trying so hard to not feel, and it was proving to be a draining, if not, impossible feat. She was finding it difficult to detach. How could she not be moved by what they were finding?
The mental fatigue made her body feel heavy like she was wearing weights around her ankles. Her mind kept trying to construct profiles of the victims. The Collector snatched these women up out of their daily routines. Susan Fuller said she had been on her way to work. Paige Barnett was going to start or had just finished jogging. The corpse in the spandex may have been taken from another running trail weeks—maybe months—before.
It wasn’t until Maggie climbed out of the ravine and saw the tarp, it’s surface cluttered with bones, that she realized the Collector had been using this burial ground for much longer than she imagined. The sight stopped her, almost took her knees out from under her. They already ached and begged for her to sit. She found a rock in the sunshine and collapsed, hoping the men didn’t noticed. She fumbled one of her water bottles out of her daypack then sipped water, attempting to quiet the panicked voice in her head.
He’s been killing for years. How did we not know?
The deputies had left, scheduled to return whenever the group was ready to pack up for the day. Cunningham and Turner were photographing, bagging and labeling each piece the CSU techs had brought up. While one tarp held bones—along with fragments the techs believed to be bone—the other tarp was littered with broken arrows, bits of fabric, shoes and jewelry, all waiting to be processed.
Now that Ganza and his techs took a break, Cunningham and Turner followed suit.
“How many do you think are buried here, Keith?” Cunningham asked as he removed his glasses and wiped the sweat from his face.
“It’s tough to say. I’ll call Wagner. This is his specialty. I’ll have him do his magic and piece together whatever he can.” Ganza glanced over at the tarps. “One thing’s for certain, he’s been a busy boy.”
Then Cunningham turned to Maggie and asked, “Is this just a convenient way to dispose of them after he’s finished playing his games? Or am I missing something?”
“I don’
t think he ever expected anyone to find this place. It may have started as a convenience. I think the woman we removed from the top of the pile is the same woman Susan Fuller saw him taking out of the car trunk. If that’s correct then he brought her body here to dump. I’m guessing Stan Wenhoff will find that one of her kidneys is missing.”
“So you think he took her someplace else to do that?”
Maggie looked to Ganza for reassurance. It was Ganza who answered. “That kidney was cut out with clean precision. I can’t imagine he did that out here. But then I wouldn’t have imagined half of what we’re finding.”
“I think he brings them here,” Maggie said, “with the intensions of hunting them like he did with Paige Barnett. And intended to do with Susan. He leaves them untethered in the shed hoping they’ll wander off trying to escape. And he watches for them from some hiding place.”
“But Susan Fuller was here for days, and she never saw him except when he was carrying the body out of the trunk.”
“She did see him later,” Maggie reminded him. “She hid up on that rock wall near the service road. She said he walked by several times as though he was searching for her. She spent that night hiding, tucked under a rock ledge.”
“There’s at least one more full corpse buried down there,” Ganza said. “I scooped some of the dirt away from her before I came up. She has a broken arrow through her wrist.” He pointed to several pieces of other arrows they had recovered. “I think Maggie’s right. He brought these women here to hunt. The trophies he took to show off. Not unlike hunters taking the head of a deer and mounting it above their mantle.”
Cunningham didn’t look pleased. He was standing in a patch of sunlight and Maggie noticed the creases in his brow. His arms were crossed and he looked deep in thought. Maggie thought she heard something whizz through the air.
Cunningham winced.
It wasn’t until he crumpled to his knees that she saw the arrow sticking through his left thigh.
76
Their combined mission was to pull Cunningham to safety. Maggie and Turner shielded his body as they dragged him behind the rocks. Both agents’ eyes searched the bluffs above. But to do so was to look directly into the sun. Maggie saw no movement.
“Would he have a scope?” Turner asked.
She looked for reflections.
“Son of a bitch, that hurts,” Cunningham said.
Maggie felt the urgency thump inside her chest. She’d never seen her boss in pain. She’d never seen him project an ounce of weakness. Cool, calm and collected. That was Cunningham even in the face of frustration and anger. For him to complain that it hurt meant that it was bad.
She took her eyes off the bluff and glanced down. He was bleeding. His fingers, where they gripped the wound, were covered in blood. There was too much blood.
She looked up. Turner had noticed and his eyes were wide. Maggie searched for Ganza. He came around the rocks, crawling on hands and knees, bringing with him a first-aid kit.
“Get the medevac basket,” he told Turner. “Maggie, find some ropes or cords. Cut them from the pulley if you need to.”
He poked and plucked what he needed from the kit. “Frank, Josh, cover everything up as best as you can with the extra tarps. Anchor down the edges. As soon as I get him ready we need to get him the hell out of here.”
There were no more whizzing sounds. No movement from above. By now Maggie wondered if the Collector had moved to a lower hiding place. But all she could see were rock and trees so thick she hoped he couldn’t possibly send an arrow through them.
“Kyle, you need to talk to me,” Ganza said.
Maggie edged closer to the gear left by the sheriff’s department. There was plenty of rope.
“Kyle, did you hear me?”
Maggie blinked hard and took several deep breaths. She needed to ignore Ganza’s voice. She knew he was trying to keep Cunningham from going into shock.
So much blood. What if the arrow hit the femoral artery?
“Kyle—”
“I hear you. Stop shouting.”
But Ganza’s voice had been barely above a whisper.
Maggie met Turner as he crab-walked back holding up the medevac basket as a shield. He waited for her. She looped rope over her shoulder and grabbed a few other items from the gear.
“I know that’s tight,” Ganza was telling Cunningham as he finished tying a tourniquet. He had also wrapped gauze around the arrow, strapping it down so it didn’t move and cause more damage during transport.
While the men moved Cunningham to the medevac basket and secured him, Maggie tried to call Sheriff Olson. Then 911. Reception was spotty. It took four attempts before she stayed connected long enough to let them know what was going on.
Now came the tricky part. Carrying a stretcher through the narrow trail between trees and over rocky inclines that had been challenging one at a time. And all the while watching for an ambush.
The Collector obviously knew every section of this forest. He could be waiting anywhere for them. But Maggie didn’t think that he would. He’d already accomplished what he set out to do. He wanted them gone. He wanted them to feel the sting and the panic. If he wanted them dead she was certain he had the skill to make that happen. And he would have shot them while they were all scrambling around out in the open.
Although she wanted to believe all that, her eyes kept scanning inside the forest, searching for movement, looking for him hiding in the shadows. She strained to listen but it was impossible to hear over her own heart banging against her chest. They were making a lot of noise, shuffling to get footholds and sending loose dirt and pebbles skittering down. Minutes seemed to turn to hours. It was taking forever and yet, Maggie knew they were making good time. Then she’d get a glimpse of Cunningham’s trousers and see all the blood.
They heard the voices and running engines before they could see the waiting paramedic team down on the service road. Sheriff Olson was there, too, with another team. Only this time each deputy carried his Remington 12-gauge Police Magnum shotgun. The Sheriff had a map spread out on the hood of their SUV, and he was giving them directions when he heard them coming down the last stretch.
Maggie wanted to tell Olson it was too late. That his men would waste an afternoon searching. The Collector had too many shortcuts, too many hiding places and several escape routes. The K9 unit had shown them the most used and the most recent path, but didn’t the handler even admit there were many more?
Somewhere the Collector also had another entrance into the forest, so he could avoid using this service road. Maybe a dirt path he’d found through one of the pastures that butted up against the forest property. He was good at noticing what others took for granted.
The paramedics had taken over and in seconds they had Cunningham in the back of their unit, running IV lines and stabilizing his leg. His rag-tag rescue crew—Ganza and his two techs, Turner and Maggie—stood back and watched. They were spent from exhaustion, drenched in sweat and trying to catch their breath.
“He gonna be okay?” Olson asked.
No one responded.
Then Ganza said, “I think he’ll be okay. I’m not so sure his leg will be.”
77
Stucky took Back Road all the way to Highway 48. When he pulled onto the interstate he could hear the sirens exiting. The rage was clawing its way out. There wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. He hadn’t felt this way since his father. The man could derail him with one simple backhanded compliment.
“I would have thought you could blast that buck between the eyes with how tight you had those puny fingers of yours wrapped around the trigger.”
At fourteen, his father expected him to be man enough to move on from nailing deer to nailing the whores he brought home. And of course, there were more backhanded compliments that quickly turned into vulgar scoldings when Stucky di
dn’t live up to being his father’s “little man.”
Stucky thought he had squelched that rage years ago. Or at least, he had tamped it down when he shut his father up for good. A yachting accident. That was the official report of the Bristol County sheriff’s department. They had a difficult enough time believing anyone would want to murder Dr. Allan Stucky, a pillar of New Bedford society, least of all, his only son who he had raised on his own.
Even now, it made Stucky smile to think about the irony of his father drowning in Buzzards Bay.
He used the money he collected from his father’s estate to create a multi-million dollar computer company, one of the first that developed on-line stock trading. But Stucky’s true love was the segment of the company that created video games. In the early days those creations gave him a pleasure he’d never experienced before. It was quite wonderful until it became quite boring.
Then he sold the company and started playing different games. His computer savvy made it easy to develop as many identities as he wanted, depositing his millions in various accounts, acquiring documents—driver’s licenses, credit cards, property purchases—in each name. It wasn’t until later he realized he was a master of disguises. Simple ones, really. He studied and observed as he sat in cafes or roamed the aisles of grocery stores, always watching and learning what it took to become invisible, to look ordinary, to elicit trust.
He was proud of how organized he was. He worked hard to become a part of a community, getting a good job, creating a backstory all the while blending in and not being noticed. He planned and prepared, he anticipated then he executed his game—a video game in real time, in real life.
If anyone were to ask him why he killed, he knew the answer without hesitation. He didn’t need to psychoanalysis the reasoning. It didn’t matter what his childhood had been or that his father had emasculated him. The truth was, Stucky did it because he enjoyed it. Each kill became a challenge to best the last one.
