by Julia Shupe
“Maybe,” Lisa interjected. “But not necessarily. We can’t say that definitively. Anthropology just got the bones. They haven’t had time to process everything.”
“Still,” he insisted. “What we do know is this: some of those bones have been out there for decades. We can glean that just by looking at them. So visually, we’ve got ourselves a rough time line. We’ve got a set of distinctive crimes that occurred in the hometown of our prime suspect. We’re looking at the same…” He glanced over to me. “…or similar MO’s, if you will. So like it or not, Tubbs is still the best fit. Actually,” he added, “Thanks to Lisa’s information, we’ve got more than that. We can add more details to our profile.”
“What details?”
Jacob was settling into his comfort zone. I could see why he was chosen for the job. He was good at this, and he clearly enjoyed it. Hands on his hips, he laid out a sound theory. “If Tubbs’ victims are locked in a dank cellar, sucking in mold spores and dealing with the consequences, don’t you think he might be, too? Think about this for a second. Our perp likely visits these women almost every day. He’s obsessed with them. He spends quality time. He might even live there, or somewhere nearby. Don’t you think it’s possible that he’s suffering some of the same ill effects? His symptoms may not be as severe, of course. But still.” He shook his head. “With all due respect, Lisa, Carlton Tubbs isn’t as smart as you think. He may think he’s cunning, but he’s killing himself. For the last twenty years, he’s been slowly poisoning himself to death.”
“So,” Gil said. “We’re looking for a killer with a killer respiratory infection. That’s just great.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Actually, it is. It’s a break, which is more than we had thirty minutes ago. It’s something we can use to identify the killer. We can test all suspects for spores.” I shot to my feet, the wheels turning in my head. “We need to find Tubbs. Right now. We find him then subpoena his medical records. I’d be willing to bet, over the past few years, he’s frequented a few—or fifty—urgent care centers.” I shrugged. “It’s something, and something is better than nothing.”
Jacob caught my gaze. He almost seemed sad. “It’s not just something, Vanessa. It’s everything. Everything about this case has suddenly changed. We have definitive proof that he’s holding these women hostage. He’s kidnapping them. This could be a federal case.”
Gil stiffened beside me. “Not necessarily. We can’t prove that yet.”
“Maybe not,” Jacob allowed, “but it’s just a matter of time before we can. I’m sorry to say this, guys, but if any of these women aren’t Florida natives, this effectively becomes my case.”
Chapter 19
“Oh,” she whispered. “You have got to be kidding me.” She abruptly spun to face the Frappuccino maker. He was here. Again. For the third time this week. He was nice and all, but he was shy. And strange. And she didn’t really like shy men. They made her nervous. It was almost as if they had something to hide. Besides, she thought, he was much too old for her. Not that that stopped him from staring. He never seemed to worry about coming off sleazy.
He was eight feet away, now, turned to the side, loitering by the cases of cookies and biscotti. But every few moments, his eyes would flash to her face. Why couldn’t he just introduce himself? Say something, for once, like a normal human being? Talk about the weather, his favorite food, or a movie? But no. Not this guy. He liked playing it creepy. He was coy and skittish. And if she made the mistake of meeting his gaze, he’d immediately peer down at his feet, or his hands, or pick up an item he had no intention of buying.
Well, she thought, I’ve had enough. Not today. She was done playing mouse to his cat. If this creep was becoming a regular customer, she wanted to know something about him. If he was planning to spend spring and summer freaking her out, she damn well better get his name.
When he approached the counter, she looked him straight in the eye. “Back again, Mister…” Cocking her head, she captured his gaze, letting the question dangle in an awkward silence. She’d wait him out. She’d hold her ground this time.
“Yeah,” he said, pulling a wad of bills from his pocket. “I think I’m addicted. Another chai latte, please. Soy milk, if you’ve got it.”
“Nope.” She faked a smile. “Not yet. Not until you give me your name.”
He lifted his head, and smiled. She relaxed. “That’s cruel,” he said, his smile broad and genuine. It lit his face and crinkled his eyes. Perhaps he was shy, and definitely awkward, but he was obviously harmless. She was a good judge of character. His eyes were nice, a pleasant shade of blue. Why was she always so judgmental of others? Greg was always complaining about that. According to him, she was becoming like Taylor, which wasn’t a bad thing in her opinion. Taylor was the most popular girl in school.
He titled his head. “How long have you worked here?”
“Seven months,” she said, as she processed the order. “And I’ve seen you quite a bit recently. I like to get to know all the regulars around here. Thanks for ordering something easy to make, and not mochas, fraps, or tall, non-fat pumpkin-vanilla-lattes with caramel drizzle on top.”
“Caramel drizzle? That’s really a thing? Don’t let my daughter hear that.”
His daughter. “Yeah.” She shrugged, instantly at ease. “Caramel drizzle is really a thing, like toasted coconut crumbles, cinnamon cross-hatch, or cocoa dusting. But don’t get that. It’s gross. So,” she added, taking the money from his hand. “How old is she?”
“Who?”
“Your daughter.”
“Oh.” When he lifted his gaze, she noticed his eyes, which suddenly seemed to have lost focus, which was odd. One moment he’d been talking, seemingly engaged, and the next he was lost in some X-files realm. And he didn’t look well, like he was sick, and fevered.
“Yeah.” he said, “Sorry. Forgive me. I’ve got a killer headache today.”
“I can help you with that. Sounds like a classic case of caffeine withdrawal to me. You were right before when you said you were addicted. A headache is one of the first symptoms.” She grinned. “It’s nothing a good chai tea can’t take care of.”
He smiled thinly and rubbed his temples, handing her an extra five dollars. She beamed. She rarely made tips. Not ones like that. This guy had just become her favorite customer.
“Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate that. Tall chai tea, coming right up. I’ll even do a caramel drizzle for free.”
He was suddenly rigid. He didn’t get the joke. A cloud seemed to have settled over his face.
“Wait,” she said, as he began to turn away. “I didn’t get your name.”
He coughed into his fist, wet, and phlegmy, a sound that rattled in his chest. He extended a hand, which she reluctantly took. Gross, she told herself. She’d have to wash her hands. She didn’t need a cold. Not with final exams, just around the corner.
“Name’s Archer.” He smiled. “Carlton Archer.”
Chapter 20
I was pissed. I’d spent the night tossing and turning, lamenting the possible loss of my case. So now I was pissed, and exhausted, and nauseous, and stuck in the backseat of this tiny rental car. My breakfast hadn’t settled right, and the hotel coffee had been weak, at best. Gil was silent in the front seat, brooding, and Jacob was driving, knuckles tight around the steering wheel. We’d been driving for over an hour already, and no one had yet said a word. No one wanted to break the ice. Gil’s jaw was so tight I feared he’d bite his own tongue.
I turned toward the window, ignoring Jacob’s probing eyes. Every few minutes, he’d try to catch my attention by peering at me in the rear-view mirror. He was hoping I’d pardon him, since Gil never would. Gil was an impenetrable fortress. But so was I. I just wasn’t ready to let this go.
Not that any of it was Jacob’s fault. In truth, he’d done nothing wrong. There wasn’t a legitimate reason to demonize him. Our reaction was childish, and we knew it. This was how things normally worked in
our business. In the end, it always came down to jurisdiction. We couldn’t prevent a transfer of power any more than we could prevent another murder in Chicago. And the fact that Jacob was a good guy just made it worse. It wasn’t as if he had joined our team, guns-a-blazing, trying to take things over. He’d been silent and respectful; he’d let Gil lead. He’d stayed in his lane, so to speak. He was a consultant, a profiler, and he hadn’t overstepped.
But things had changed now; this was almost his case, and admittedly, I was an inch from losing it. This was the case that could put me on the map. This was my chance to stand apart from the pack. I couldn’t let this rare opportunity pass me by. But the issue was: I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t change the evidence or where it was leading. Jacob couldn’t change it, and neither could Gil.
“I’m sorry,” Jacob had said the night before. “This is just how it works. You both know that.”
Yes. We did. But we didn’t have to to be happy about it. We hadn’t named the victims yet, but it was only a matter of time before we did. A team of detectives was working around the clock. Finding the identity of the CPD’s was the best way of catching their killer. It was priority one. My days were numbered.
“We won’t take it over completely,” Jacob had said, making a second attempt to placate our feelings. “With something this extensive, we’ll need all the help we can get: local detectives, cops on the streets. It’ll be a team effort, and you’re part of this team.”
Gil had scoffed at the second prize trophy. “Sure. So what will my assignment be? Can I call dibs on canvasing local neighborhoods?”
“And can I cross-reference missing persons lists from the safety of my office?” My sarcasm had cut Jacob with a razor-sharp edge, and later, my guilt had cut me worse. I was ashamed. I cared for Jacob. This wasn’t about him. It was just that I wanted this case so badly. To cede it to the FBI, to me, was unthinkable. Screw the serpent. This was big-time-Dahmer stuff. This guy was the Green-River-Killer-in-training. Careers were made on cases like this.
Last night, after we’d finished with Lisa, we’d hung up the phone and let the conversation die. The excitement of the black mold had been dampened by Jacob’s words. And while the mold angle was something of a break, there were still many mountains left to climb. Where was Carlton Tubbs? Was he the killer? How would we find him? How was he choosing his victims? Did he have one now? Had he taken someone new? There wasn’t a reason to believe he had stopped. And did he have an accomplice? A partner in crime? Someone as vicious and brutal as he?
This case was complicated because the crimes were nuanced. They were similar to Tubbs’ in the 80’s, yet not. The more I considered the enormity of the challenge, the less I blamed Jacob for potentially taking it on. This thing was massive, with far-reaching consequences. Maybe, I thought, chastising my childishness, this case presented a different opportunity, a way for me to see how things worked on the other side.
The FBI.
Now that was something new. Was it something I could ever be interested in? I was still somewhat young, and still in decent shape. Why couldn’t I reach for something higher? I was good at what I did. A road of possibilities stretched before me. Maybe if I stayed on the case, in some capacity, I could get a front row seat to the action. And maybe that action would lead somewhere new.
“Come on, guys.” Jacob’s voice was a lightning bolt, punching through the silence. My eyes flicked to the mirror. “Nothing’s even happened yet,” he went on. “You’re still in charge. Let’s focus on that. Keep your heads in the game. We’re about to conduct one of our most important interviews.”
I turned to the window and peered at the landscape. We were speeding down I-80 E, to Dr. Sandra Waite’s house. She’d agreed to see us, though somewhat reluctantly. We were asking her to talk about one of her former patients, to walk the tightropes of professionalism and confidentiality.
“We have to get this woman to talk. She’s our only link to Tubbs,” Jacob reasoned.
“Doubt it’ll work,” Gil huffed. “She can’t talk.” He flexed his fingers and straightened in his seat. “Harry’s team visited Tubbs’ mother’s house yesterday—the one she sold before she dropped into obscurity.”
“And,” Jacob prodded. He seemed relieved that we were talking again. “Anything useful?”
“Not much. A family lives there now, with kids and a dog, but they didn’t buy the house directly from Laurie Tubbs. The house has been sold three times since they bought it.”
Jacob was immediately irritated. “How could someone disappear so completely, without leaving a trace, or a trail? We haven’t found a single lead on Laurie Tubbs? What about Carlton? How is this possible?”
Gil shrugged noncommittally. “According to Harry, Tubbs never filed taxes. He never received a W-2, a 1099, or unemployment assistance. And you know how easy it is to get a fake ID.”
“Car registrations?” I added. “Credit cards? Cell phone? A damn Publisher’s Clearing House subscription?”
“Think he still goes by Carlton Tubbs?” Jacob asked.
“I seriously doubt that,” I answered. “His crime drew too much attention in the 80’s. People were outraged by the sentence. Given all the media attention, wouldn’t you think he’d have changed his name?”
Gil nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. “It’s one dead end after then next.” He sighed. “Harry’s team is still looking. They’re bound to find something. Maybe this Dr. Waite can give us something to work with. At this point, anything will help.”
“The mold symptoms are important,” Jacob pointed out. “I still like my original idea. If Tubbs is our guy, he’s probably sick. Remember what Lisa said: extreme and frequent headaches, a persistent cough, chronic sinusitis. Over the past few years, he’s probably taken at least ten courses of antibiotics. We can follow the trail of doctors to prove our case. We’ll need to canvas medical centers in the vicinity of the crimes. We can use his symptoms to tie him to the case, and the mold, to tie him to his victims.”
“Right. But not unless we find him,” Gil muttered.
“We’ll find him.” For a moment, Jacob sounded so certain I almost believed him. “And remember what else Lisa said last night. Tubbs will be suffering confusion, memory loss. He’ll be disoriented, unanchored. What did she call it?”
In the rear-view mirror, Jacob’s eyes met mine. “Brain fog,” I offered quietly.
“Brain fog,” he repeated. “If Tubbs is our guy, then by now, he’s probably batshit crazy.”
“By now?” Gil chuckled low in his throat. “Tubbs has been batshit crazy for years.”
Chapter 21
“To be honest,” Dr. Waite said, folding her hands across one knee. “I can’t believe it’s taken this long. I was expecting to see you guys decades ago.”
She was a spry older woman, dressed in dirt-smeared overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat. She was small and wiry, and tanned on her face and hands. She wore knee pads, elbow pads, and a pouch around her waist. It was clear she’d been working outside in her garden.
“Why do you say that?” Gil asked.
With a sigh, she picked at a spot of mud that had dried to her pants. “Let’s not dance around the obvious, Agents. I won’t pretend, and I won’t waste time. You’re here about Carlton Tubbs, which means you suspect him of committing another crime.”
Jacob nodded. “You’re right. We do. And if we’re not planning on dancing around things, then I’d like to start by addressing the elephant in the room. We need your help, Dr. Waite. Badly. We’re prepared to get a subpoena if we must, but I’d prefer not to have to, if you know what I mean. We don’t have time to waste. Besides, if we finger Tubbs for another crime—which we will—then you’re obligated to talk. Isn’t that right?”
She stared at him, but didn’t blink. “No. That’s not exactly right. I’m obligated to talk if I suspect Tubbs of committing another crime. Not if you do.” She rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck. “So make me suspect
him of something then. It won’t be hard. What’s he done?”
I immediately liked her. She knew the ins and outs of the system, and the ways to make it work in our benefit. “He killed a large number of women,” I told her. “He hacked off their feet and left them for dead, on the banks of a stream, in Florida.”
“And you’re certain Carlton Tubbs is responsible? In your business, I can’t imagine that’s an unusual scenario. How does Tubbs fit into the picture?”
I met her challenging gaze. “The bodies are twenty-five miles from where he grew up.”
“And then there’s the skinning,” Gil added.
“Yes. The skinning.”
“And the time line,” said Jacob.
Dr. Waite pursed her lips. “Ah, yes. The Trailside Skinner.” She looked up. “Carlton always hated that name. He hated being connected to that. He wanted people to forget that stuff. I hope you have more than that, detectives. A similar MO doesn’t get you a conviction, but I’ll admit, you’ve piqued my interest. It certainly sounds like Tubbs. And I have to say: I’m not surprised. Carlton Tubbs was an interesting case. If he’d committed his crimes even ten years later, he’d probably be sitting in jail right now.”
“Or not,” I replied. “There’s always good behavior.”
“True.” She frowned. “Good behavior.” She stacked her gloves on top of one knee. “What a farce. It’s just a way to clear the prisons faster, to clear out the old, and bring in the new. The problem is, sometimes the old isn’t ready. Sometimes the old need to stay where they are.”
“And Tubbs?” Jacob leaned forward in his chair. “Do you believe Tubbs was ready to be released?”
