by Julia Shupe
“Smith, please. I’m grateful and all. Don’t get me wrong. And I think—to a point—you’re right. Maybe this does have something to do with my mother—”
In one smooth motion, Smith bent at the waist, picked up a fluffy pink pillow and righted himself. Placing the butt of the gun to the pillow, he squeezed the trigger and the world went white. The noise was deafening, louder than thunder, the gun a bucking bull in his hands. It pulled so hard, Carlton was sure he’d missed his target.
But he hadn’t. Not by a long shot. They were too damn close for him to miss that shot. Tiffany had taken it right in the chest, and without her shirt, the damage was visible. A hole had opened above her left breast, which was filling with blood as she fought for air. A fish out of water, she was bouncing and gasping, sputtering while staring at Carlton. But why? Her gaze was enough to make him sway on his feet. Why was she looking at him? Did she know him from somewhere? Had she seen him before? Or did she sense his weakness when compared to Smith’s strength? Had she hoped Carlton would step in and save her?
“Why?” Carlton whispered, his voice hoarse. The room had gone deathly quiet, the silence juxtaposed with the concussive force of the blast. “Why did you have to do that?”
Smith, oddly, didn’t utter a word. Not while a miracle was happening on the bed. A life was ending right in front of their eyes. Like a candle, it flickered at the end of its wick, its flame the brightest before finally winking out. Carlton wanted to weep, laugh, or shout. As wrong as it was, it was wrenchingly beautiful. He was speechless. Aroused. Excited. Horrified.
“I did it,” Smith murmured, in awe of himself. “I did it because you couldn’t. I saved you. You should be thanking me, Carl. I saved you from your own guilty conscience.” Carlton saw Smith slide the gun beneath his belt. “But I won’t do it again, brother. Not a second time. You can fight it all you want; you can even fight me, but this is who you are. Accept it. You didn’t kill today. But someday you will. It’s inevitable. It’s your nature, like it is in mine. It’s instinctual for you. It is for me, too. That’s how I know what it’s like for you. We’re the same. I knew it on the first day we met. I was right.” Removing a glove, he ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “I killed her because every killer has his day. Today’s not yours. It was mine. That’s okay. Maybe your day is tomorrow, or next week, or maybe a year from now. Who knows?” His smile suddenly lit up the room. “Take all the time you need. I won’t hold you to some cosmic calendar. But know this, brother: you will kill someone. You’ll do what your heart is telling you to do. You can’t help it. You’re a killer. You’re an artist. And every good artist eventually wants to paint. Maybe you’re just waiting for the right piece of canvas.” He turned to Carlton, grinning. “One day, my brother, you will kill your mother, and on that day, you’ll be free.”
Chapter 18
“What have we got?” Jacob asked.
He was stretched across the bed, arm thrown across his brow. The three of us were in Sacramento now, gathered around Gil’s ancient cellphone. We’d taken a car to the next hotel, only to find it slightly crappier than the last.
“This is preliminary,” the medical examiner warned. “My report isn’t complete yet, but I’ll give you what I’ve got so far.”
Of course it’s not complete yet, I said to myself. Lisa Stranton was a good ME, quite possibly the best I’d ever worked with, but even she couldn’t process eighteen bodies in forty-eight hours. And examining them was only the first step. Identifying who they were was something else entirely. That particular job could take years, sometimes decades.
“Let’s start with the most recent victims,” Lisa suggested. “The earlier remains are fresher than the older ones. Though I warn you: I use the term ‘fresh’ quite loosely. And no, we haven’t ID’d anyone yet. I don’t have names, so don’t bother asking. ID’s will take time. And a fair bit of luck. We’re running dental records as we speak.” With a deep breath, she added, as if we didn’t already know, “This entire process takes time and patience, and at the end, if we’re lucky, we’ll have a half dozen names.”
“Cause of death,” Gil asked, pushing her along.
“For CPD 15? Blunt force trauma.”
“CPD?” Jacob parroted.
“Cow Pen Doe. That’s our naming convention until we can put an actual name with each face.”
“Makes sense. So, CPD 15 died of blunt force trauma…”
“Yes. But you have to understand, it’s difficult with these bodies. These women were subjected to repetitive trauma. They were beaten, strangled, stabbed, and burned. Ligature marks indicate repeat strangulations, which in most cases, weren’t meant to kill but only to frighten. CPD 15 sustained a devastating blow to the head, a frontal compound fracture, to be exact. The instrument created a depression in her skull, pushing fragments deep inside her brain, which ultimately killed her.
“CPD 17,” she continued, “was different. She died from one of the strangulation attempts, and CPD 16, from blood loss. 16 was stabbed twenty-one times, a series of shallow cuts about the throat, chest, and face, and several deeper ones around the midsection.”
“And what about the skinning?” I asked. “Were the women alive for that?”
She paused. “The skinning is actually quite interesting.”
“Interesting?” Gil challenged. “Try gross.”
“Apart from being gross, it was also secondary.”
“Secondary?” I pressed her. “What do you mean by that?”
“It’s isolated. It’s always the last wound. The other wounds help to establish an overall time line by showing us various stages of healing, but the skinning is always fresh. Healing isn’t evident. And it’s almost like an afterthought to him, which is strange. Skinning is such a personal act. It’s distinctive, and usually part of the overall ritual. Our guy always skins in the same general vicinity, somewhere around the feet, ankles, and lower calves, but it’s always the last thing he does.”
“Okay. So it’s present on all of the bodies,” Jacob said.
“All of the bodies with skin left to examine. And I’d also like to note that our guy doesn’t skin too deep. There’s no visible scoring of bone. He only flays the outer layers, only deep enough to reach the outer muscle, but never beyond. It isn’t a fatal wound.” She sighed. “The skinning, I’ve determined, isn’t meant to kill them.”
“Charming,” I replied. “So it’s part of the torture.”
“Yes, along with many other gruesome techniques.”
“Such as?” This from Jacob who’d rolled onto his stomach. He was staring at the phone, brow furrowed.
“Bone breaks, small incisions, shallow cuts, meant to inflict the maximum amount of pain. A nail had been pushed beneath one of the women’s fingernails.” An electronic sigh filled the room. “This one likes to take his time. He isn’t killing them quickly.”
“And what about time?” I asked, intrigued. “What have you learned? How long is he keeping them before taking them to the river?”
“Relative to time, CPD 17 offers the best clues. At some point, she sustained a basal fracture to the skull. He must have punched her in the face, and hard, or hit her with a very heavy object. The bones around her eye socket were cracked in several places. Significant soft callus had already begun to form. He also broke three fingers on her left hand, one of which had already formed hard callus. When she died, her body hadn’t yet shaped the bone.”
“I’m not speaking this language,” Gil warned. “I’ve got calluses on the heels of my feet, some of which have been there for decades. What’s that got to do with CPD 17?”
“I’ve not exactly sure what language you speak, Detective, but I can try to dumb it down just a bit.”
I could hear the smile in her voice, and I said, “No one knows what language he speaks. But can you dumb it down to around preschool level? What do calluses have to do with anything?”
“You’re thinking of calluses as in badly-in-need-of-a-pedicur
e calluses, but I’m talking about callus as in newly grown bone. Callus is the healing tissue that joins broken bones. It can take twenty-five to thirty days to form, which is telling. It’s how I’ve been able to create our time line. In CPD 17, callus had already formed and was just beginning to harden. The fact that the callus is present at all tells us something very important. The fact that it hadn’t yet shaped into bone gives us a distinct time line to work with. When callus joins two ends of a broken bone, the result is a knobby kind of growth. Think of it like winding tape around a broken pair of glasses. It takes the body three months to smooth it out. Similar bone breaks on CPD 15 are consistent.”
“So you’re saying,” Jacob reasoned, “in light of this evidence, our perp holds them captive for just about a month.”
“That’s right,” she said grimly. “A month, maybe longer, but definitely no shorter. And certainly no more than two.” She took a sip of something before throwing out her next theory. “Maybe it takes him a month to lose interest. Maybe, after a month, he desires someone new.”
“Or maybe,” I offered, “after a month of abuse, their bodies are too messed up to play with anymore. Imagine a month of pain and torture, particularly at the hands of our perp. He doesn’t go easy on these women. He inflicts severe wounds, very intense pain. These women are destroyed—mentally and physically, and the mental anguish seems to turn our guy on. He probably wants them alert and conscious and able to understand what’s happening to them. Try to imagine it from his twisted point of view. An unconscious mess isn’t fun anymore.”
“True,” Lisa said, sounding overly excited. “But there’s something else too, which to me, is more interesting. CPD 18: she’s different than the others. I’m thinking she was probably a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“She died from an asthma attack.”
“Okay,” Jacob said, flipping onto his back. “How is that interesting? I can explain that scenario ten different ways, in only about ten seconds. Let’s see, first, she’s taken by a maniac. Said maniac doesn’t give her the medication she needs to treat her life-threatening condition. She’s scared out of her mind. And stressed. And in pain. She’s been bashed in the nose half a dozen times or more. She’s sustained broken bones, contusions, and cuts all over her body. She’s malnourished, dehydrated, and probably not getting enough sleep. Add to this delightful cocktail a depressed immune system, and what have you got? Voila—an asthma attack. Easily explained.”
“All very probably scenarios, Agent Forest. But in this case, none of them are accurate. I’ve got something here that’s more exciting than that.”
Exciting? I thought. Lisa Stranton? Excited? Lisa was rarely excited about anything.
“An asthma attack,” she began triumphantly, “killed CPD 18, but the attack was aggravated by her environment.”
“Her environment? Elaborate,” Gil demanded, his face slightly red. I could see his excitement beginning to build. Mine certainly was. This was encouraging to say the least, and quite possibly our very first break. When ME’s start talking environmental forces, detectives tend to sit up and listen.
“Black mold,” Lisa clarified. “It was evident in the lungs. Pervasive in fact. Asthma is characterized by greyish-white mucus plugs, in and around the airways. CPD 18’s lungs were hyperinflated and over-expanded. This girl was struggling for air. By the time she died, her lungs resembled two giant balloons. You should see them, Lieutenant. They’re truly amazing. They practically occupy the entire thoracic cavity.”
“Thanks,” Gil said, shaking his head. “But I’ll take your word for it. You know what, Lisa? You should snap some photos. Show ‘em at parties.” He waved a dismissive hand through the air. “You’re absolutely certain black mold caused her death?”
Jacob had fallen silent beside me. His hands were folded, fingers white with tension. I could see the excitement building just beneath his calm exterior.
“No,” Lisa objected. “That’s not what I said. Black mold didn’t cause her death. It only aggravated an existing condition. It induced a severe asthma attack, which in turn, caused her death. What I can tell you, Lieutenant, is this: CPD 18 is an interesting asthmatic case, one of the most severe I’ve ever seen. She clearly struggled with it all of her life. Her lungs show significant scarring. The mold, in essence, made a bad situation worse. It’s absolutely amazing under a microscope. Her lungs are practically riddled with spores. And it got me thinking: what about the others?”
“And?” I breathed. “What about the others?”
I could barely contain my excitement. This was big, very big, a significant break. It wouldn’t lead us to the killer’s front door, but it was something we could use in court. In a court of law, this was tangible evidence, which we could use to tie this killer to his victims. Black mold is common in Florida, but not every sample is exactly the same. Samples of spores can be compared to other samples. Strains can be compared to other strains. And from that, if we were lucky, a location could be confirmed. It was something substantial, and something we could use, and above all else, it would stand up in court.
“And,” Lisa continued. “My hunch was correct. On the first few Does, I got a hit.”
“You got a hit.” I raised myself up to my knees. “You found the same spores inside the other bodies?”
“I found mycotoxins inside the other bodies. In CPD 17, 16, and 15. CPD 14’s been out there too long. Her body has suffered advanced exposure. Decomp makes the spores more difficult to spot. But in the others, the mycotoxins are there. I found them in the nasal cavities, throat, mouth, and lungs. CPD 15’s gums were caked with dried blood, which is another symptom of acute fungal infection.”
“So these girls are being kept in a place with black mold.” For some reason, Gil always needed to state the obvious. “What kind of place would that be?”
“Damp. Warm. Dark. Old. Think bathrooms. Basements. Buildings with faulty plumbing, or buildings that have been condemned.”
Gil let out an exasperated sigh. “Well that really narrows it down. Every building in Florida is damp. And everyone’s bathroom smells like a musty old gym.”
“But does every building evidence untreated water damage? Guys, we’re looking for someplace local, somewhere near to the Slough. This guy inflicts major damage to the body, but when he takes them to the Slough, the wounds are still bleeding. Sometimes these women are still alive.” She took a moment to flesh out her theory. “I believe this guy has a lair nearby. I also believe that he’s smart.”
“Smart?” It was the first word Jacob had uttered in five minutes. “Smart in what way?”
“The collection of victims, for one,” she replied. “Mixed races, different age groups, different color hair, and eyes. Most killers stick to a certain demographic because most are making it personal. They’re killing the same person over and over again. And it always seems to stem from childhood abuse. But this guy…” she exhaled a long sigh. “This guy’s all over the place. He’s erratic. Undiscerning. African American, blonds with blue eyes, Asian, Filipina, Hispanic, you name it. This guy’s an equal opportunity killer.”
“Cute,” I said, peering up at Gil. “But she makes a good point. We have to think differently here. To find a killer, we typically examine the victimology. We look at the various things the victims have in common. Where do they live? Where do they shop? Dine? What dentist do they see? What Doctor? Gynecologist? We look for similarities in these areas. I just don’t think that’s going to work this time.”
Lisa shuffled papers, the noise cracking through the phone. “This time, you’ll have to get creative. We’ll help out as much as we can from inside the lab. We’ll keep running prints and DNA. We’ll offer you complete medical histories when we can. We’re logging tattoos, piercings, and strange birthmarks, and we’re examining the bodies for previous medical procedures. The preliminary toxicology reports should be back in a few days. And,” she added, “You should stay on top of Tubbs. Even though th
e skinning feels secondary to me, we can’t ignore the uniqueness of it. The feet are cut off. The skin is flayed. That alone makes Tubbs relevant to me.”
“And to me,” I agreed.
“Secretions?” Gil asked.
“No. Nothing. And minimal vaginal tearing, too. He raped them, of course, but not with foreign objects.”
“Not so.” I objected. “He’s a foreign object.”
“So,” Gil said, cradling the phone in his palms. “Carlton Tubbs is still our number one suspect then”
“He’s still number one, number two, and number three. He’s native to the area, and that says a lot. The slough is hard to get to. There’s a small boardwalk on the eastern side, but for the most part, public access is challenging. And,” she noted, “The site is near a body of water, which is an excellent choice for a dumping ground. It was clearly chosen by someone familiar with the area.”
I shook my head. Something was still bothering me. “The crimes are similar. I’ll give you that, but they’re not exactly the same.”
Gil turned to me. “Why are you so hung up on that?” He dropped the phone to the mattress and crossed his arms. “You’re being more stubborn than I usually am. Ness, you’re drawing comparisons between crimes that were committed three decades apart. So what exactly are you saying? That a person can’t change, or evolve certain tastes? Hell, last year I hated Dos Equis beer. This year, I can’t get enough.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s not what I’m saying. You’re oversimplifying. I’m not saying that a person can’t change.” I raised my hands to my throbbing temples. “I guess I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m just saying that something feels off to me. Carlton Tubbs was sloppy, opportunistic. This guy is slick. He’s clever. Carlton Tubbs was a drunk. Probably still is.”
“Regardless,” Jacob said, brushing lint from his khakis. He had moved to the edge of the bed and seemed restless. “Carlton Tubbs is still the best fit. If we look at the profile—which I’m here to help create, by the way—we can’t ignore the similarities. We can’t ignore the time line either. The killings occurred when Tubbs was released from prison.”
