None Shall Sleep

by Ellie Marney

  “Thousands of college students can’t be wrong.”

  It’s the first snort she’s gotten out of him for hours. He parks himself in a chair, knocks back a mouthful, and makes a face. “Jesus.”

  “Lightweight.”

  “How can you drink this shit?”

  “Like this.” She retrieves the bottle and takes another slug. “Talk to me, Travis.”

  He sighs. “It’s nearly two in the morning. Too late to talk.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He accepts the bottle, drinks. “No.”

  “No.” She takes the bottle off him, drinks, sets it on the table to stare at. “I won’t tell you that you’ll get used to it, or it’ll get easier. I’m used to it, and it doesn’t get easier.”

  “So you just suck it up.”

  “Pretty much. It’s like every other kind of grief. Give it time, et cetera.”

  “Yeah.” He takes a shot, presses his lips as he swallows. “I know the routine.”

  She retrieves the bottle for another sip. “My therapist told me it’s better to feel it than to be blunted, so… I guess that’s good advice?”

  “Hard to feel and keep working.”

  “Yeah. But when your work involves doing what’s needed to catch this guy…”

  “Then you stay strong.” He nods. “This killer’s had no outline for me, y’know. I haven’t been able to picture him, since this whole thing started. But today I finally felt like I could see an outline. And more than just an edge—a whole silhouette.”

  “Yeah. Today we got something.” But at what cost? She can’t think like that. She takes a long pull from the bottle.

  “Easy, tiger.” Bell takes the bottle gently, sets it down.

  She looks at her fingers. “I worry about it sometimes.”

  “I know you do.” He sits back in his chair, hands loose. “Every time I look at you I see your eyes moving like you’re scanning the case notes—”

  “Not the case. That I’m getting blunted.”

  The pause drags out, and she looks over at him. He’s shaking his head slowly, lips upturned.

  “What? It’s not funny.”

  “And I’m not laughing. You’re not blunted, Emma. That’s not you. You’re…”

  “I’m what?”

  Bell opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes skim over her but his gaze is light. His hand lifts, palm open near her shoulder like he’s warming himself by a campfire.

  “You’re all… There’s emotion coming off you. All the time. Maybe other people don’t see it, or maybe you work hard to control it, but it’s there.” He grabs the bottle. “You’re about the least blunted person I ever met.”

  The compliment shuts her up for a while. She recovers enough to extract the bottle. “Gimme that. You’re drunk.”

  “Most certainly not.”

  “One thing bugging me,” she confesses. “I told Cooper we’d have a different perspective. That we could give him insight on this guy, on those kids. Maybe help figure out how he’s choosing them. But I’ve got nothing.” Just their faces, all covered in blood, and a high, constant scream in my head. She doesn’t want to say that aloud.

  “You’re tired. It’ll come.”

  “That sunset was nice, though.”

  He smiles softly. “Yeah, it was.”

  “You get nice sunsets like that in Texas?”

  “Sunsets in Texas are like a dream you had once, of a sunset in heaven.” He looks up past the tree line, to the star-blasted sky. Closes his eyes in a way that reminds her of Berryville. “Come on, Lewis. Time to go to bed or you’ll be seeing the sun rise.”

  He walks her back to her car so she can stash the bottle, then escorts her to Jefferson. She’s proud of herself for not swaying at all, considering she’s just downed about six shots on an empty stomach. Once Bell leaves, she relaxes her control enough to hold the handrail on the elevator ride to her floor.

  Then—sleep.

  At 4:00 AM she jerks awake with a cry. I know what it is, she thinks. Gotta tell Cooper. But her brain is already fogging over, and by the time she wakes again in the morning, the knowledge is gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Bell yawns through an 8:00 AM class on Investigative Protocols. By the time he gets to the Cool Room, it’s after ten and Emma is there, in a long-sleeved tee and nonregulation black jogging pants with elastic at the ankles.

  “Did you skip class?”

  She ignores that, holds up a file. “Betty delivered information on Berryville.”

  He comes the rest of the way through the office door, finds a chair. “That was quick.”

  “There’s already a result on two of the three bodies.”

  Cooper must’ve used the Policefax to transmit wire pictures of the victims’ fingerprints on-site—getting the victims identified early is crucial in these cases.

  Travis feels heavy in the head, but reading the xeroxed report brings him around fast. “Mark Spiegel. White male, sixteen years old. He was taken from Strasburg on Tuesday afternoon.”

  “And Kimberley Berger was abducted on Tuesday night.” Emma’s sitting sideways with her knees up, feet on the chair. She looks worn down, but it was a bad night and cheap tequila is potent.

  “Same location?”

  “No.” Her face is stony. “From Winchester.”

  “What is it?”

  She pushes the pages toward him across the desk. “She was fourteen.”

  Bell checks the notes to make sure he heard her right. “Fuck. They’re getting younger.”

  “Yes.” Emma chews on a fingernail.

  He’s getting to know her tells now: Sometimes she shows anger when she’s scared. Last night they were both too shocked for anything to register, and after that, her responses were blurred by alcohol and exhaustion. But he thinks she’s starting to feel afraid of this guy they’re tracking. It makes him angry in turn, because he knows she already lives with a debilitating amount of fear.

  How can you keep doing this? He understands why he’s following this through, but Emma has no personal obligation at all. She’s walked back into her own personal nightmare, and it’s clear she hates every part of it. What’s keeping her going? He doesn’t know. All he knows is they’re in it now, probably too far to back out, and the only way through is to catch the killer fast.

  “Okay, d’you wanna go over the scene report?”

  Emma sighs, puts her feet down. “Sure.”

  The entire case file is open on the desk, ID photos of the identified victims lined up in a row. Images of the victims in death floated through Bell’s dreams last night—seeing them arrayed like this, as they were in life, is like hearing the percussive toll of a great gong inside his head. He pulls the pages closer, trying to shake it off. “We won’t get the postmortem protocols back for a while—lab results take time. But they’re on the lookout now for needle marks, or abrasions hiding needle marks. Otherwise it seems like the process, the ritual he’s playing out, they think it’s largely the same.”

  “The quantity and spatter pattern of the blood at the scene suggest that this was the scene of death. That means we can see exactly what he was doing with them.”

  “He made clean jugular cuts. He hosed them down before he cut them, and maybe himself after—Glenn Neilsen is following up on some unidentified hairs they found. There was no hose, though, so the killer must’ve taken that with him.”

  Emma rubs the pads of her fingers over her head. “He must always use a place with a faucet.”

  “The shaved hair is new.”

  “Yep.” She drops her hand.

  “Talk to me, Emma.”

  “I still don’t know why he’s doing it.” She shrugs. “Gutmunsson predicted it. I tried to ask him about it and he deflected.”

  There’s more to dig there. Bell decides to save it.

  “Let’s look at the scene.” He spreads copies of the photos out across the desk. “Okay, here’s victim placement at death—hanging from
the ceiling beam like that. We know it takes nearly seventeen hours for the effects of the ether to fully wear off. He couldn’t have hung them up during that period, or they’d asphyxiate before he could kill them. Which means he’s strong enough to handle them un-sedated, haul them up.”

  “We already knew he was strong.”

  “Hanging them by the ankles is part of the ritual, though, so it has deeper meaning, apart from just being a convenient position for exsanguination.”

  “They stay conscious longer upside down,” Emma says. “Maintain blood pressure in the head, the victim stays awake.”

  Does she know this from personal experience? Bell feels oily nausea. “Okay. And we’ve got the ropes and chains he used.”

  “Doubt we’ll get any fingerprints off them.”

  “He tied them here, at the ankles, and tied their hands in front. But he also tied their arms against their bodies, which is how we get the elbow joint abrasions. I don’t know why he did that.”

  “Maybe he’s just got a thing for rope.”

  “Lewis.” Bell frowns at her gently, then at the photos. “Why did he leave the scene like this? Why didn’t he clean up and dump the bodies like normal? Did something change?”

  “Maybe he felt confident the scene wouldn’t be discovered. He couldn’t have anticipated someone like Cleary stumbling onto it. That was just a fluke.”

  “But he’s usually so careful. He’s, like, paranoid careful. Why abandon a scene complete like this, knowing he’d leave so much trace evidence for police to find?”

  Emma doesn’t answer. She’s been avoiding looking at the crime scene photos—now she turns her head and really gives them her attention. “This guy… He probably follows the media.”

  “Most of them do.” Bell’s jaw clamps. “They’re calling him the Berryville Butcher now.”

  “Right. So he must know the authorities are no closer to catching him than they were in March, when he first started.”

  “You think it’s a kind of slap in the face to the cops? Like, ‘Here’s more evidence, but you still can’t find me’?”

  “It would track with the ‘young arrogant guy’ profile.” Her eyes glaze a little as she scans the pictures. “But it looks more like…”

  “What?”

  She closes her eyes, as if vision obstructs her thinking. “He takes them, hangs them, cleans them, dumps them.…” Her eyes snap open. “Bell, he’s moving on.”

  “I don’t… What?”

  “We know he’s been using a variety of locations as kill sites—Berryville is another disposable site. He typically kills the victims, then dumps the bodies in the trash once they’re worthless, right?” Her hands move, sift through the photos. “He throws his used things out. Once he’s done with something, he dumps it. Maybe this is the same—maybe he’s ‘dumping’ this kind of site. Moving on. He’s got another situation, another building, somewhere better—”

  “Oh fuck.” Bell sits back in his chair, dazed by the realization. “He’s got another site.”

  “Yes. Somewhere secure, maybe. Somewhere private. A property, or a place he can go to do all the things he wants to do without fear of discovery.” Emma stands and leans on the desk. Her face is a dark reflection in the glossy photos. “That’s the change. He’s had enough of temporary places. He’s got a hideout, a permanent site, and now he can abandon this old site to the police.…”

  “If he sets himself up somewhere comfortable, and he’s real careful, he could keep going for a long time. For years. We might never find him. Jesus.”

  Emma meets his eyes. “We have to tell Cooper.”

  They both startle when someone knocks on the door.

  It’s Betty, in a blue peplum skirt suit. Her professional elegance is a jarring clash with what they’ve just been focused on. “Excuse me. You have a visitor.”

  Emma looks blank. “Sorry?”

  “Upstairs in the atrium foyer. You’ll need to go and sign them in and escort them.”

  “Wait.” Bell’s still confused. “We’re not expecting any—”

  He’s too late. Betty has left.

  “She doesn’t hang around, does she?” Emma says. “And since when do we get visitors?”

  “Since now, I guess.” Bell’s first thought runs to his sisters. He pushes out of his chair—the last thing he needs is to have Lena or Connie anywhere in Virginia right now. “Let me go see what’s going on.”

  He takes the elevator, anxious. In the atrium, he scans the usual clusters of trainees in chinos and federal-issue blue or red polos and regulation windbreakers. As he moves toward the sign-in desk, a flock of Academy students walks by in front of him, then they’re gone.

  And like a full moon exposed by moving clouds, there is Kristin Gutmunsson.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It’s a shock to see her. Kristin’s milky skin and long white hair seem to cast their own light. Bell’s struck again by her looks, and he’s not the only one: He sees a few bureau guys glance twice. She stands there, oblivious, mouth open and hands clasped, staring around the place like a tourist appreciating the architecture in a cathedral.

  He walks closer. “Miss Gutmunsson?”

  She spins and smiles in such an artlessly genuine way, it makes his heart hurt. “Mr. Bell!”

  “Miss Gutmunsson, what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to visit you and Emma!” She appears to be incapable of concealing her emotions at all. “Because I have some more information about my brother. And I didn’t know if you would be able to visit me again, because you’ve been so busy with the Berryville Butcher case—I saw it on the television!”

  For a moment he’s made stupid by the sheer innocence in her face. “Uh, that’s, uh—”

  “I mean, excuse me, I know you’re not really working that case, because you’re only trainees. But I remembered what Emma said, about how Simon was sharing insights about an active case, and I thought, well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? That must be it.”

  He steps closer to encourage her to lower her voice. “Miss Gutmunsson—”

  “Oh, please call me Kristin!” She smiles and smiles. “I have a special day pass from Chesterfield—my driver is outside in the parking lot. It’s very exciting, to be out on a field trip to the FBI. Have you been well?” She puts a hand to her mouth. “Goodness, what am I talking about, I just said how you’ve been busy.”

  He decides to abandon chivalry and cut to the chase. “How did you get past the MPs and onto the base?”

  “I had my lawyer call and request permission. It wasn’t easy, but here I am.” She looks around again at the atrium interior. “I can’t say I like the brutalist décor. There’s lots of blond brick, isn’t there? Very Marcel Breuer.”

  It takes some wrangling with the sign-in desk, but in the end Bell gets his way. On the trip back down in the elevator, he stands beside and a little away from Kristin; she is not her brother, but he still finds her profoundly unsettling. The way she presents doesn’t help. She’s wearing a long charcoal coat over a white linen shirt with a pointed collar, loose white linen pants, and black ballet slippers. It looks like she’s thrown a morning coat over her pajamas.

  “Are we going all the way down? We are, aren’t we, goodness.” She scans the numbers above the door, the inside of the elevator car. “I can’t believe the FBI put you in the basement, it seems completely bizarre. You should at least have a window.…”

  She talks at him and over the top of his head. He can’t make her out. All things considered, he’s not sure he wants to. So he just stands there, pulling his shirt collar away from his neck.

  Then he realizes Kristin might be chattering because she’s nervous, and that this trip is a big deal for her. And that his mother didn’t raise him to be a jerk.

  “Uh, how are the puppies?” His words come out gruffer than he’d like.

  Kristin responds immediately. “Oh, they’re doing so well! Sheba is wonderful with them, and I’ll be so sad when
they’re adopted out.”

  “They’re selling the pups?”

  “Yes—Sheba has some pedigree, and a very long name that no one uses. Everyone just calls her Sheba. I’m thinking I might ask to have one of the pups, just the littlest one.”

  Bell wonders if they’ll let her keep it. “The puppies are pretty cute.”

  “Aren’t they? We had dogs when I was a child—Father’s hunters—but after Simon shot them, Mother said we couldn’t have any more pets.”

  He feels his expression freeze in place. They’ve reached the basement floor and when Kristin steps out, he follows. “I’m sorry, did you say your brother shot your dogs?”

  “Yes. It was very sad, actually. Simon loved those dogs—borzois and hounds and adorable German pointers.… But Father took Simon hunting when he was nine, and one of the dogs was quite old, and it couldn’t keep up on the hunt, so Father made Simon shoot it. Then later that evening, after they came home, Simon stole Father’s gun and shot them all.”

  “All the dogs?”

  Kristin blinks up at him. “I told you it was a sad story.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. I asked him afterward, and he just said, ‘Everything dies.’ But I think he was angry at Father. At any rate, Mother said no more pets, so we never had another, but truly, I would love to have a puppy.” She looks around the corridor walls. “Where to now?”

  Bell is aware that serial murderers often break down the moral taboo on killing by practicing on animals. He thinks of what it would take, to shoot a pack of dogs you loved, and then he suddenly remembers the story about the school cat and has to work hard to keep his face blank. He points right. “This way, please.”

  When he opens the door to the Cool Room and Emma sees their guest, she’s as dumbstruck as he was. He tries not to take any reassurance from that.

  “Emma!” Kristin swoops forward and clasps Emma’s hand. “Oh, it’s so good to see you! This is very exciting. Have you been well?”

  “Uh, I’ve been…” Emma plays catch-up real quick. “Sure, I’ve been okay. Hi. Nice to see you again, Kristin.”

  “It was so wonderful to have visitors the other day! And I was thinking about the questions you asked me, about my brother. Have you seen him again? You have, haven’t you?”