by Julia Shupe
“Ah. Caught you.” I grinned. “So you do think it’s Tubbs?”
“I can’t say that for sure. Everything we have is circumstantial. There’s no DNA, no hair, and no prints. We don’t even know where he is, or if he’s alive. But the timing certainly fits, and the MO’s the same.”
“The same? Are you kidding?”
“Not exactly the same. But similar enough, wouldn’t you say? Enough to warrant an investigation, and enough to keep Tubbs at the top of our list. Think about it, Ness. Put the finer details aside. The dumping ground’s within thirty miles of Tubbs’ childhood home.” He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “And I’ll bet those murders happened after his release. I’d be willing to bet my pension on it. I’d be willing to bet the forensics data will prove that each woman was buried after 1996.”
“And then there’s the feet,” I added.
“And then there’s the feet. But it’s more than just the feet. It’s really about the skinning. Skinning isn’t all that common—antemortem skinning, even less. It speaks of a deep psychological illness, of sociopathic behavior, and sadism. Can you imagine doing that to someone when they’re alive, breathing, and staring you in the face?”
I couldn’t. He was making a good point. “I guess we’ll learn all we need to know about Tubbs tomorrow afternoon. Whether we want to or not, we get to peek behind the curtain.”
“Yup,” he sighed, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Dr. Sandra Waite, Tubbs’ prison psychiatrist. I’m actually looking forward to this.”
“Think she’ll talk?”
“Oh, I know she will.” He gave me a wink. “But if she doesn’t, I have an ace up my sleeve. I have an insurance policy. I, beautiful woman, have a signed court order.”
“How the hell did you get that?”
He shrugged. “Wasn’t that hard to get, honestly. Look at the facts: multiple bodies, severed feet, skinning, possible repeat offender. Wasn’t all that hard to convince a judge. If Tubbs had committed his crime today, stricter sentencing laws would have guaranteed a life imprisonment. He’d probably still be in jail.”
I grinned. “I think I’m starting to like the FBI.”
“You should give it a try, Ness. You’re good at this. You broke the Serpent killings. You should be proud of yourself. That was good, old-fashioned investigative work.”
Actually, it wasn’t, but I kept my mouth shut and accepted the compliment. David Beecher had been careless. He was also insane, which had given me the advantage. Who keeps a king cobra for a pet these days? It hadn’t been difficult to narrow down the list of suspects.
“David Beecher was sloppy,” I offered. “He’s half-deranged, a true sociopath, one of the few killers who actually belongs in a mental institution instead of a prison. Carlton Tubbs—if he really is our guy—is different. He’s been doing this for decades. He’s methodical. He’s smarter. He’s hiding the bodies, and not getting caught. David Beecher is mentally ill. Carton Tubbs is crafty. I really don’t think we’ll be as lucky this time. We won’t find a receipt for field mice among bags of McDonalds and old bottles of beer.”
Jacob made a sound of disagreement. “You’re wrong about Tubbs. With Meghan, he wasn’t all that methodical. I mean, yeah, he did a few things that suggest complex critical thinking skills. He brought his own tools to the site, for one. He picked a remote location and a random victim. But to a certain degree, wasn’t he also sloppy? He had no idea what he was doing with Meghan. And what about the captivity part? Is Tubbs capable of that? Was that part of his MO, back in the 90’s? He was more opportunistic, less thoughtful, in my opinion.”
“But Tubbs didn’t have an MO in the 90’s,” I argued. “He was caught after he attacked his first victim.”
“That we know of.” Jacob wagged a finger. “We don’t know what Tubbs had planned. Maybe he planned to capture Meghan, but chickened out once he attacked her. How can we be sure he hadn’t planned to capture her all along? Maybe his plan was to knock her out, and then take her to some remote basement of horrors.”
“I’m not buying that,” I countered. “Stick to the facts. Think about the pieces. His car was found two miles from the scene. There was no damn way he was taking her anywhere. I’m telling you, Jacob, something doesn’t add up. The MO’s really aren’t the same. If you take away the feet and the skinning, what’s left?”
“I don’t know, Ness, but that’s a lot to take away. I’m not ready to take away the feet and the skinnings. It may not be much, but it’s a strange commonality” He pursed his lips and took a breath. “What about the whispering? What did you make of that? First impression: what did you think?”
I leaned in closer. “First impression? I was a little put off. I’ve been wondering about that all day—about you. Why were you so focused on that? Why did you keep asking her about it? You actually think Carlton Tubbs had an accomplice? It’s been three decades, Jake. Do you know how far-fetched that sounds?”
“Not really. It’s not that far-fetched, Vanessa. I’ll admit: it’s rare. I’ll give you that, but it’s not outside the realm of possibilities. What about Ian Brady and Myra Hindley? Gerald and Charlene Gallego?”
“Those are only two examples,” I said, “and both were romantic couples. That’s different.”
“Okay,” he huffed. “Henry Lee Lucas and Otis Toole. Lake and Ng.”
“Also romantic couples.”
“Buono and Bianchi,” he offered with a smile. “And don’t say they were a romantic couple. They were cousins. Wait. Lake and Ng weren’t lovers.” He shook his head. “Where the hell’d you get that?”
I smirked. “I don’t know. Just go with it. It makes for wittier repartee.”
“Right.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Okay. I’m out, and I see your point. I don’t think Carlton Tubbs has a serial killer girlfriend out there. But I will say this; the whispering gives us something to think about. And it gives us insight into Tubbs’ psychological profile.”
“True,” I allowed, “There’s that, and the fact that it’s an excellent conversation starter. Particularly if that conversation is with Carlton’s prison psychiatrist.”
Chapter 17
The Shadow Man
“We’re not killing her and that’s final.”
“Who died and made you boss?”
“I’m serious, Smith. We’re not doing that.”
“Not doing that? What are you? Crazy? What do you think we came over here to do?”
Though Smith’s voice was muffled through his mask, his eyes betrayed his frustration. Ignoring him, Carlton considered the room: the gore, the mayhem, the extraordinary mess. Had Smith lost his mind? Had he gone insane? Look at this place! It was ruined! Hadn’t they done what they came here to do? Why tempt fate with something more?
Particularly since what they’d done had been so satisfying. The girl, Tiffany, was sprawled across the bed, hands and feet tied to the posts, gagged with one of her mother’s silk scarves. They’d each had a turn with her—Smith twice, in fact—and Carlton felt strangely wired. The past twenty-three minutes had been the best twenty-three minutes of his life, and he wasn’t yet ready to kill her. Besides, he thought, killing wasn’t his thing. That had always been Smith’s twisted idea. Not his. Not that particular act, at least. It was Smith who picked up dead animals and road kill, Smith who made lists of interesting ways to torture and maim someone. Carlton wasn’t interested in that. He’d wanted to make a personal connection with Tiffany, to see who she was up close. That was all. In truth, he’d rather kidnap her than kill her.
He shook his head, defiantly. “No. There’s no reason to kill her, Smith. You’ve messed her up bad enough already. Look at her face. Look what you’ve done. Was all that necessary?”
When Carlton met Tiffany’s tearful gaze, she flinched and cowered on the bed. Her eyes were wide—her one good eye, at least—and focused on his hands. The other had been rendered virtually useless. It was swollen shut, the delicate
skin already beginning to purple. Smith had really unleashed on her. Like a rabid animal, his aggression had exploded. Rage—in Carlton’s opinion—rarely ran that deep. With Carlton watching, Smith had hit her over the head. He’d kicked her, slapped her, and humiliated her, and when his fists had tired (gloved, of course), he’d traded them for the broken leg of a chair. Her lips were split, her cheekbone shattered, and her nose was a misshapen lump on her face. Carlton suspected she’d sustained a broken wrist. It was a wonder she was conscious at all, he thought, as he watched blood bubble at the tip of her nose. The bubble hung from the end of one nostril, expanding with each inhalation. It was annoying. He wanted to reach out and pop it.
“Me?” Smith asked. “You think I messed her up? What about what you did? Look at yourself. Look down at your hands. What are you doing right now?”
Glancing at his hands, Carlton almost dropped the instrument he was holding. What the hell? How the hell had that happened? He’d barely set down the gun since they’d arrived. There had been that one time, of course, when he’d touched her, but that had been only for a moment or two. After that, he’d picked it up again. But now, here he was, bending over her feet, standing at the foot of her bed with a knife. Blood was smeared in designs across his shirt. At some point, without even knowing he had done it, he must have traded the gun for a long hunting knife. His gloves were covered with blood, and some hair—hair that appeared to be torn by the roots.
Stumbling backward, he fought to catch his balance. How had he gotten so messy, so fast? Smith had clobbered that girl. He’d acted like the last batter in the last game of the World Series, trying to hit a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth. Carlton couldn’t recall doing any of that. He couldn’t remember staring into her eyes, smelling her scent, or feeling the pressure of bone against knuckle. He remembered the feel of her skin, of course, but for him, even that was a blur.
“Do it,” Smith hissed. “What are you waiting for? I know your every thought. You know I don’t care. I won’t judge what you do. We’re brothers.”
The blade gleamed in Carlton’s trembling left hand. Smith was right. He probably wouldn’t pass judgment. Not after the things they had done in this house, and not after the things Carlton had watched Smith do. But Smith’s loyalty, of course, had never been the problem. The problem had always been Carlton’s fear.
Fingers squeezed tight around the blade, he took a small step closer to the bed. Why was her foot so intriguing to him? Why did it hold such fascination? Such appeal? For some odd reason he wanted to keep it for himself, to cut it off of her, and take it with him, to a place where he could examine it later. Her toes were so perfect, so clean, so shapely. He wanted to keep that foot in a box, and store it in a place known only to him.
“Do it,” Smith ordered him again. “Do it now.”
Tiffany groaned and pulled against her ropes, and Carlton was suddenly paralyzed. The knife was slick, and poised to strike. The temptation was driving him mad. Fear and seduction were warring within him, but the fear was slowly winning the battle. He shook his head and lowered his arm. “No,” he whispered. “We’re running out of time. If we don’t leave now, Smith, we’ll end up getting caught.”
The edges of Smith’s mouth curled into an evil smile. Bending at the waist, he retrieved the gun, raised it and pointed the muzzle at her face.
“No!” Carlton objected. “Did you hear what I just said? We have to leave now. Right now. We’ve been here long enough as it is. Don’t you get it? Any minute now, her mother could get home, or worse, her father, and what would happen then? What would we do?”
His eyes were glossy as a snake’s “Sorry, my friend, but we’ve got no choice. We have to kill her now. Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me?” Carlton fixed his gaze on Tiffany’s swollen face. “But why?” he gasped. “Why don’t we have a choice? This is our show. Our idea. We make the rules. That’s what you’ve always said. We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to do. You’re being an ass, Smith, and you’re also being stupid. Think. Use your head. If you shoot that gun, it’ll make too much noise.”
Smith cocked his head, his eyes flashing to Carlton’s face. He was grinning like a Halloween jack-o-lantern, which immediately turned Carlton’s stomach to acid. “Stupid?” he hissed. “You think I’m being stupid? Me? Are you sure about that? If I’m so stupid, then what the hell are you? I’m not the one who just said my name out loud—several times, in fact, if I’m not mistaken.”
Carlton froze. Shit. He had. He’d completely forgotten their most important rule. They’d talked about this, again and again, and it the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten. Oh hell! Dropping the knife to the floor, he pressing his fists to his eyes. He’d said Smith’s name out loud! What an ass! Why was he so damned stupid?
“You just sealed her fate, Carl,” Smith spat in his general direction, clearly enunciating his name. “And now, my brother, she knows your name too. Now we definitely have no choice.”
Carlton was furious, but the irony wasn’t lost on him. They’d beaten this girl to the proverbial pulp. They raped her, cut her, scared her half to death. Carlton had almost sliced into her foot. Was killing her the line he wouldn’t cross? Was it a feat more shameful than rape or torture? He peered at her eyes and her quivering lip, and realized, for him, that it was. He wasn’t ready for that. If he stepped over that delicate line, he’d suffer the guilt for the rest of his life. He’d never get past it. This had to end here.
Squaring himself in front of the bed, he raked his mind for an alternative choice. But did one actually exist? She knew their names. She’d heard their voices. She’d recover from her wounds and report their crimes. They’d go to jail and their lives would end. The facts didn’t stack up in his favor. As he reviewed them, he reached the inevitable conclusion. What other conclusion could possibly be drawn?
She was staring at him, her gaze bold and unwavering. Why was she always looking at him? Why him, he wondered, and not Smith? Smith was the one who was holding the gun. Smith was the one who had beaten her bloody. Why was she always fixated on him? He dropped his gaze to the blade on the floor, and was certain her eyes tracked the movement. It was eerie. It was almost as if Smith wasn’t even there. Was a knife that much scarier than a bullet?
His heart began to race as he peered around the room. He hadn’t wanted this. The reality of it was dirty, messy. The fantasy had looked much nicer in his head. Reality, he’d learned, never matched the illusion. It wasn’t as rich and as satisfying as the dream. It was a temporary high that faded too fast. Parts had been fun. He wouldn’t deny that. But killing was something he’d never get past. If he let that happen, he’d never recover.
“I know what’s wrong with you,” Smith whispered beside him. “It’s not the killing part. It’s not about that. It’s about the fact that she isn’t your mother.”
Carlton flinched. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You couldn’t give two shits about this girl,” Smith hissed. “About killing her, raping her, or anything else. You’re trying to act all innocent right now, like somewhere inside, you’ve still got a soul. But it’s all horseshit. I’ve seen you do much worse. I’ve watched you tear animals to pieces with your bare hands—without even batting an eye. You’re deluding yourself. You’re lying to yourself. You’re pissed because she isn’t your mother. Admit it. You’d probably feel better if you did.”
Carlton swayed on his feet, unsure of himself.
“Admit it, Carl. Admit who you are. All of those times, in the fort, in the woods: how many ways did we imagine killing a person?”
“We?” Carlton said. “That was you, jackass”
“Nice try, dipshit, but that’s not how I remember it.”
Carlton shook his head briskly. “But that was all talk, just words. And those were animals, Smith, not people! I mean…I don’t know…I wanted to do it…at least I thought I did. But now that we’re here, I…”
“W
hat?” Smith breathed. “Now that we’re here, you what? You’ve suddenly traded your balls for boobs? If you won’t admit it to me, at least admit it to yourself. You’ve always wanted to kill your mother. Deep in your heart, you know it’s true. What about the stories you told me? The times when you were alone, hungry, and sick, and the beatings she never protected you from. She treated you worse than a dog.” He made a tisking sound with his lips. “And after all of that, what does she do? Let me think about it. Let’s see. She drops you off at a broken down orphanage, and leaves you there so she can get high with her boyfriend. Tell me, my brother: what did you say in the fort? Tell me the promise you made to yourself. You said that for you hell started with her, that the end would somehow bring you back to the beginning. Well, my friend, here we are, at the end. Killing this girl doesn’t bother you a bit. She’s the first of many more to come, in fact. She’s the opening act before the main performance, and the main performance is your mother. The end will bring you back to the beginning, my friend, because your mother was the beginning, and you are the end. When you bring an end to her, you get to make your own beginning.”
“Smith. Please, I don’t want to disappoint you. I just think—”
He paused, suddenly apprehensive. Something in the air had changed. Smith had already turned away. He was tired of listening, and clearly irritated, and Carlton suddenly tensed. An angry Smith was an unpredictable Smith. There was no telling what he might do.
