by Ellie Marney
“The care with the body is kind of ritualized. It says here the bodies have been washed.” Bell taps another sheet from the forensic report. “No sexual assault, though. That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But just because he didn’t molest the victims doesn’t mean the murders aren’t part of a sexualized fantasy. Think of McMurtry.”
“He’s very careful. I think the washing is about getting rid of trace evidence.”
“But he goes to a lot of trouble to invert them, when he could just cut them in any position. That’s ritual.”
“Does he cut them when they’re still conscious?” Bell squints at the page. “Does it say that somewhere?”
“Check the histamine results. Higher levels will indicate they were stressed at the time of death.” It sickens Emma that she knows this.
Bell runs a finger down the columns of pathology results. “I can’t interpret these numbers. Can you make any sense of this?”
Emma shakes her head, wordless.
“Let’s come back to these when we know more.” Bell gathers the crime scene photos and puts them aside, goes to the victim profiles. “Okay. None of the victims knew each other. No correlations in terms of places they frequented, activities, hobbies, et cetera. There’s no connection between them that we can see, except for the age range.”
“They must have something in common. He chose them for a reason.”
“Cooper made a note about it here. Killers usually hunt within their own age demographic—he thinks we’re looking for a younger suspect.”
“How young?”
“Eighteen to twenty-five.”
“But he’s crossing racial and gender lines. What makes Cooper think he’s not crossing age lines as well?”
“He needs real physical strength to commit these murders.” Bell points to the bottom lines of notes. “That suggests a younger, more athletic suspect. Cooper thinks this is a young guy with a grudge.”
Emma squints. “Like he got bullied in high school or something?”
“Maybe he got beaten on. It would make sense of why he’s focused on people his age.”
“I can see why Cooper let us in on this.” Emma turns another page. “Here’s the first victim.”
“Carol Lambton.” Bell touches a high school graduation photo delicately. “Found in Crozet. But he got her from Staunton. And they’re all like that. He takes them from one town and dumps them in another. The two kids found in Pennsylvania both came from Martinsburg.”
“So he’s on the move. He’s got a vehicle. He travels up and down I-81. He could be driving back and forth from college, or to see family.”
“Or he could have a job. Musician, delivery guy, junior salesman.”
Emma knows what this means. “He can pass for normal. He’s smart. Organized. And strategic. He doesn’t just do them and dump them in the same town. There’s nothing spontaneous about this. He’s thought about it a lot.” She considers it. “So he’s not impulsive—he’s got a lot of control. Doesn’t that mean older, statistically?”
“Yeah, but I think Cooper’s on the right track. A younger perpetrator would find it easy to attract new victims—they wouldn’t suspect someone close to their age. He could just hang out with the kids in any town and fit right in. And look how strong he is.” Bell turns pages until he finds the second victim profile. “He’d have to overpower them, but look at Lamar Davis—football, athletics, full-ride scholarship at University of Mary Washington. He’s fitter than me.” He glances at Emma. “He’d be hard to take down in a fight.”
Another realization. “So maybe he doesn’t fight them. Let me see the toxicology again?” She checks the report, finds the note she needs to confirm. “It says here he etherizes them. All of them.”
“But then he’s still got to hang them up. Davis has got to be, what, one-sixty? One-seventy? He’s a big guy. That’s heavy work, and there’s no evidence to show the killer used pulleys or anything like that to hang up the victims.”
“He learned from that, though, see? Sienna Ramirez in Carlisle—a hundred pounds. And the other Carlisle victim, Brian Barnes. He isn’t big either. And Barnes is younger. Younger is easier.” Emma is thinking hard. “What does he see in them?”
Bell grimaces. “Different genders, different races, different physical makeup… I don’t know. They’re all young.”
“They’re all young, they’re more vulnerable, more trusting. He can be more opportunistic.”
“Maybe he’s someone they think they can trust? A teacher’s aide, a camp counselor.”
“A college tutor. Or a junior cop?”
“Jesus.” Bell seems horrified by the mere suggestion.
“Write it all down,” Emma says. “We don’t know what might be useful.”
“So who are we looking for? A male suspect, eighteen to twenty-five, race unknown.”
“Statistically, he’s probably white.” Emma looks away. “Where does he get the ether?”
“They might’ve checked that already.” But Bell makes a note.
Emma chews her lip, feeling restless. “Cooper sent Betty to me this morning with Gutmunsson’s questionnaire. I want to look it over.”
Bell grunts, mulish. “We haven’t pulled all the details from the case file yet.”
“I want to see if anything matches up.” She takes out the blue pages from the stack of paperwork she arrived with.
“Have you looked at this yet?”
Emma shakes her head. “I haven’t had a chance. And I wanted to wait for you.”
The first two pages of answers are just repeated, flowery-script versions of Gutmunsson’s full name in green felt pen.
“I’m betting this guy really loves the sound of his own voice,” Bell grates.
Emma raises her eyebrows. “I won’t disagree with you there.”
There’s the occasional variation, where Gutmunsson’s written Why are the questions on these things always so puerile? and Television made me do it, but on the fourth page, the answers change.
Pennsylvania, Gutmunsson has written. Then a series of dot points.
“Two means he’s not getting what he needs with just one. Expect to see more of that.” Bell frowns. “That’s not telling us anything new. We know the perp has started doing more than one victim per event.”
“But this.” Emma touches the paper. “It’s a fine, sharp-edged, non-serrated blade, isn’t it. How could Gutmunsson know that? It’s not like he’s seen the autopsy reports.”
“He’s just being logical.” Bell sees her expression, clarifies. “The victims were slashed. The perp wasn’t sawing at them—to slash a jugular, he’d presumably want a clean cut. So, a thin, straight blade.”
“Okay. What about this one: Why do you think he removes the clothes and leaves the underwear?”
“That’s not an answer, that’s another question.” Bell relents. “Fine. Again I’m guessing the killer is being extra cautious—the clothes might pick up fibers or residue that he doesn’t want found.”
“Or maybe he gets a charge off making the victims more vulnerable.”
Bell’s gaze is weighted. “Do you think we’re dealing with a sadist?”
“We can tell from toxicology and the ligature abrasions that he killed them after the unconsciousness and analgesia from the ether wore off, so yes…” Emma sits back in her chair and rubs her neck, crooked at a tiring angle. “But I’m not a psychologist, and that’s not a diagnosis. I don’t know. I don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“Okay, let’s move on. Cycle will shorten. I guess that stands to reason.”
“I’m sure we’ll find out. Next.”
Bell hesitates. “It’s his last answer.”
“And? What is it?” Emma leans forward to see, then wishes she hadn’t. She reads the answer aloud. “Let me know when he starts taking their hair.”
She feels cold again now. There’s a strong instinct to raise her hand and rub it over her shorn head, but she refus
es to let Gutmunsson influence her even that much.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Bell’s shoulder beside her radiates warmth through his shirt. It’s the only warm spot in the whole damn room, so she can’t even resent it.
“No. He probably just put that in there to yank my chain. It would be very on point for him.” She snorts, annoyed with herself for reacting. “God, what an asshole.”
Bell puts the blue pages back into their folder, slaps the folder shut, looking as if he’s had about as much as he can stand. He closes the case file, too, stacks everything together, and sets it aside. “Okay, I’m done.”
“You’re done?”
“Yep. For now. And you are, too.”
“We haven’t talked about—”
“Lewis, you can sit here until steam comes out your ears, trying to make this mess of information line up, or you can step back and give your brain a chance to work things over. I like to keep busy.” Bell gets up and pushes in his chair, everything about him decisive. “I’m gonna go shoot something. Wanna come along?”
Emma wonders if it’s a particularly male reaction, the urge to hit or shoot something when you get angry. But then, she’s been known to hit things herself on occasion. “Where do you shoot something around here?”
“There’s an outside range and an inside range. And it’s raining outside, so…”
The idea is intriguing. She stands up, curious to see where it’s all going. “You really want me to come shooting with you?”
“Hell yeah. I mean, Cooper said we’d get instructional basics, right? So we’re just getting a head start. You got experience with firearms?”
“A rifle, yeah. Or a captive bolt. My parents run dairy cattle.”
“Handguns?”
“Never.”
“Then now’s a great time to learn. Come on.”
Bell whips his jacket off the back of his chair, ushers them both out of the office—or the Cool Room, if you like, Emma thinks. They have to take the elevator up one floor and walk past an area where National Academy students are practicing tactical entry drills. Emma hears students yelling, feels the impact of doors slamming open like a series of thuds in the base of her spine.
Bell checks them both in to the range. The range master is a craggy-faced former Marine sergeant named Hagland who helps them sign for weapons and ammunition. Emma opens the air lock door for Bell, who’s carrying the equipment, then works the next door into the high-noise area.
Bell hangs his jacket and lays everything on the shelf in the stall. “Okay, this isn’t a full field kit. Normally you’d practice with a gun belt and a holster, work out how to manage a speedloader, stuff like that.”
“Right.” Emma looks at the box of ammunition, the safety glasses and earmuffs. The two snub-nosed revolvers, the metal rubbed to a dull patina. Her father hunts deer during the season, shoots foxes on the farm. This feels different.
Bell rolls his cuffs two turns. “But you’re not qualified to carry, and we’re not gonna be lugging these things around with us.”
“Are you licensed to carry?”
“In Texas, yeah. I’m not licensed in Wisconsin yet.” He shrugs. “Mainly I prefer to keep my gun in the truck.”
“I’m not really the kind of person who thinks guns are the best solution to a problem,” she confesses.
“That’s totally fine. Let’s just say I’m the kind of person who likes to prepare for every eventuality.” Bell turns to face her. “Emma, there’s someone out there killing kids our age. And as of today, we’re involved in the hunt to catch him.”
“But we’re not putting ourselves in the action. We’re just collecting and analyzing data.”
“Every eventuality,” Bell repeats. His voice goes quiet. “Would you have used a gun against Huxton, if you’d had one?”
She doesn’t have to think too hard about it. “Yes,” she admits.
“Just think of it as a tool, Lewis. It’s useful when you need it.”
She blows out air. “All right. Show me.”
He picks up a revolver to demonstrate. “Okay. Now, I know the bureau is starting to issue thirteens, but this is the original Smith & Wesson Model 10. It’s a basic service piece—six shot, double action, with fixed sights.” He passes it to her. “Feel the weight.”
“It’s heavy.” She’s not sure why she’s surprised.
“Yep. Revolvers need hand and arm strength to be accurate, and it’s usually good to be accurate. Now aim it toward the target and dry-fire it a few times to get the feel of it.”
He shows her the Weaver stance, how to aim, how to position. The gun is so terribly heavy, and there’s a dread in the pit of Emma’s stomach with a similar weight. Every time they looked at the pages in the case file, she felt a knot inside herself tighten.
The Gutmunsson link is impossible to avoid thinking about. She wonders what Simon Gutmunsson is doing right now. Probably reading a book full of terrible Byronic poetry.
“Cooper will want you to go back.” Bell’s leaning his shoulders against the stall as he watches her. And practicing his mind reading, apparently. “Now that he knows Gutmunsson will talk to you, he’ll send you back for sure. Especially if the killer’s next victims show up with their hair cut off.”
Emma keeps her focus on the paper target twenty yards away. “What happened to ‘There’s still time to catch him’?”
Bell steps closer and corrects her support hand, steps back. “That’s what I’d like to see happen. But I’m also a realist. And if any of this information Gutmunsson has given you hits the jackpot, Cooper will have you back at St. Elizabeths faster than you can say ‘teenage sociopath.’”
Emma braces her knees. “If I need to go back, I’ll go back.”
“Have you thought about how you’ll deal with Gutmunsson?” He pauses. “I could maybe figure out a way to make myself go in there—”
“No. No way.” Emma tries to do the rear-sight blurring technique that Bell instructed was best form. “I was thinking about it last night. I want to go see the sister. The twin.”
“She lives just outside Richmond, right? In some kind of private clinic?”
“Yep. I’m going to call her lawyer and ask to visit. I have a feeling Kristin Gutmunsson will have some insight on how to manage her brother.”
“The police might have already exhausted that option. You know what it was like after Huxton.”
“True.” She relaxes her stance and puts the gun down. Her right hand is already aching from tension and pulling the trigger. “But I’ll bet you ten dollars the police never used a teenage interviewer to talk with her.”
Bell squints. “Not just a teenager—a girl. It’s worth a try.”
“It is. All right, now stop being delicate and give me some ammunition.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You ready for it?”
“I’d better be.”
Bell shows her how to load. She puts in the last three bullets herself. Now they don their earmuffs, and Emma picks up her weapon again.
She wants to feel powerful, stronger, shooting the gun—and when she squeezes the trigger gently and her arm jolts back with the kick, she does get a sense of elation. But it lasts only as long as the shot’s echo. When that’s gone, the ever-tightening knot under her ribs is still there.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Around midday on Monday, Emma emerges from Petersburg prison after interviewing Michael Gesak. Sunshine has broken through the clouds, making everything seem bright. It’s the exact opposite of her internal landscape right now. Back in the truck, Bell’s face is stormy as he yanks off his tie and tosses it on the seat.
“Four girls. He didn’t even bury them—”
“Let’s not go over it again.” Emma’s limbs feel heavy as she buckles her seat belt.
They handed in the McMurtry report yesterday, on Sunday morning, and received instructions for the Gesak interview last night. When Emma questioned the utility of keeping up with the interviews, Coo
per—still wearing a tie at eight in the evening, his jacket in the crook of his arm—just directed them both to the Gesak summary.
“Simon Gutmunsson might have leads on the Pennsylvania case, but he’s not the only game in town, Miss Lewis. I meant it when I said the offender interviews were important. Hell, I still want the results of the interviews. It’s what I’m paying you for.”
But Gesak was tough, and now Bell stares out the windshield, looking lost. “Jesus. Why are some guys so fucked up?”
“It’s a kind of sickness, I think. Or a defect of the soul.” Emma follows the line of his eyes, but there’s nothing for them to see out there except a few windblown trees on the perimeter of the Petersburg compound. “Cooper said we’re waging a war, and I think to some extent he’s right.”
Bell scrubs a hand through his hair. “I want to contain it. It’s why I’m in training—I want to protect people from it.”
“I just want to survive it,” Emma confesses. That seems bleak. “Look, we don’t have any answers or solutions. Maybe the information we’re gathering will help find some—but right now we’ve got to dig out more information from Kristin Gutmunsson’s head. So let’s drive.”
The only upside to continuing with the interview charade is that both Cooper and the Gutmunssons’ lawyer have agreed to allow them to visit Kristin Gutmunsson, and she lives just south of Richmond. They’re practically passing right by on the drive home.
The trip is quiet. They’re only ten minutes from their destination when Bell suggests a rest stop—he looks like he needs it. While he picks up some lunch for them both, Emma heads to a nearby phone booth.
“Please tell me they’re not making you wear those ridiculous G-man suits,” Robbie says on the phone.
Emma laughs, instantly calm at the sound of her big sister’s voice. “No to the suits. Polyester is really not my thing.”
“But are they treating you right? They’re not stressing you out? I don’t trust the FBI.”
“They’re treating me good.” Emma has to force some of the cheer. She looks out the side of the booth: Clouds above make the air look gray. “You don’t have to worry. Tell Mom and Dad I’m fine—”
