by Ethan Cross
“Okay. Do you have everything we need?”
Melanie puckered her lips and bent a finger against the side of her cheek as if in deep contemplation. “We need black construction paper and a glue stick.”
“Check. You get started. I’ll grab them and be right back.”
Schofield walked across the intricately designed hardwood floors to a spare bedroom that his wife Eleanor used for scrapbooking and the occasional art project with the kids. The newest member of their family, the little Pomeranian, skittered around his feet and followed him inside the room. Each of the children had their own set of plastic drawers beneath a long countertop. He checked Melanie’s drawers first. On top were a few unfinished projects she had started with her mother. Beneath those, there were stacks of multicolored construction paper, straws, craft sticks, feathers, beads, pieces of foam, little googly eyes, yarn, glitter. And then in the bottom he found a glue stick. One item down, but he didn’t see any black construction paper.
Pulling open the next drawer down, the one marked with Benjamin’s name, he sifted through more supplies and pulled up a stack of construction paper. What he saw wedged underneath made his heart break.
They were drawings. Pictures of animals and people in pain, dying, dead. They were dark and frightening, yet intricate and created with loving skill. Blood and fear were common themes among them. Some showed knives; some showed fire.
Schofield dropped to his knees and wept. He had suspected, but now he knew. His curse had been passed down. Just like his father before him, Benjamin had been born without a soul.
57
The Jackson’s Grove police station had six holding cells. Three were empty, and three were occupied. Marcus sat against the wall of the second one on the right. The room was small and narrow. White block walls, no windows except for the one blocked off by a shutter in the metal cell door. There was a gray metal cot bolted to the floor with an almost non-existent mattress and a thin blanket sitting on top. The toilet was small and stainless steel. It was connected to a sink that doubled as a drinking fountain. Two metal buttons were set in the wall above the sink, one to provide water to flush and one to supply drinking and washing water.
Marcus had closed his eyes and had actually slept for a whole hour. He woke feeling somewhat rejuvenated and considered that maybe he should get locked up more often. Then he had stared at the block wall and reviewed the case. He accessed his mind as though it was a computer terminal. The block wall fell away and became invisible as pictures flashed through his mind’s eye. Crime scenes, victimology, everything he’d seen, everything he’d read, everything he’d felt. It was all in there. The killer was in there. Along with how to catch him. Marcus just had to be smart enough to figure it out.
The door to the cell slid open. He smelled Vasques’s perfume before he saw her. The flowery scent was soft yet crisp and had an air of the exotic like something from the rainforest. It suited her well. He didn’t stand or look in her direction. She sat down next to him on the cot.
“What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking. I was just reacting. Somebody pushes me, I push back. Somebody spits in my face, I bury my fist in theirs. It may be stupid, but it’s the way I was raised.”
“That’s your excuse?”
“No excuse. Just an explanation. I screwed up. I don’t know what happened.”
“I do. You broke seven bones in a cop’s hand and dislocated his shoulder. Luckily, they were able to pop that back in. He wants to press charges.”
Marcus said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“I’ve talked him out of it.”
He swiveled to face her. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
Vasques sighed. “He’s been looking for an excuse to push you out, and now you’ve given him one. The charges only get dropped if you drop the case.”
“Where’s Belacourt now?”
She checked her watch. “Probably on the treadmill. The locker room and a small gym are in the basement across from the evidence lock-up.”
“He runs?”
“Twice a day, every day. At the same times, religiously. Seven o’clock before work and twelve-thirty during lunch. Even with a broken hand.”
“You can’t push me out now.”
“Give me one good reason why.”
He smiled. “Okay, but it might be easier if I just show you.”
58
Jessie Olague’s bedroom hadn’t changed since the last time that Marcus had seen it. Her husband must have not returned to the house. Maybe he never would. The bed was still unmade, the covers pulled back. Jessie’s scent was still in the air but only faintly. Vasques’s perfume was blocking it out. The killer’s calling card still covered the wall like a brand.
Marcus supposed that eventually someone would buy the house and erase the last traces of its previous occupants. But, in his experience, houses had memories. The walls remembered even if the people forgot. Certain rooms would always carry echoes or vibrations of what they had seen. The evil done within left stains and a cold hollowness behind. Houses were like men’s souls in that way.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how the killer knew so much about the women and their homes.”
Andrew sat down on the bed. Vasques remained in the doorway and said, “That’s easy. He’d been in here before and checked the place out. He watched them. Knew their routines.”
“Absolutely, but never did any of the neighbors report seeing anyone strange in the neighborhood. Not a single report out of all the cases.”
“That’s not impossible. It’s not even far-fetched.”
Andrew said, “But this guy wouldn’t leave that to chance. He doesn’t leave anything to chance.”
With a grin and a nod, Marcus said, “Exactly. He’d have found a way to blend in and hide in plain sight. Pretend to be a meter reader, road worker, plumber, electric company, something like that. People see a guy in uniform with a clipboard and they don’t give him a second thought.”
“Okay,” Vasques said, “but how does that help us?”
“It doesn’t, really—not by itself. But then I started wondering if it would be enough for him just to be in the house. Or would he want more?”
Vasques pulled a pack of gum from her pants pocket and popped a piece in her mouth. She held out the pack, silently offering some to the others. Marcus shook his head and paced the room. Andrew grabbed a piece.
“The eyes. You’re thinking about the eyes,” she said as she chomped the gum.
“Yeah, but I can’t wrap my head around it completely. It’s like a name that’s right there on the tip of my tongue. I get the feeling that he wants to consume them in some way, possess something that they have. The eyes are the key. He’s mission-oriented. He wants something from them. Not just anyone. These women were chosen. They’re special.”
“But why? We haven’t found any strong correlation between the victims. No pattern.”
“I don’t know. But he would want to know these women before he kills them. To really know them, intimately.”
Andrew said, “You think he knew them socially? Most of them worked in public places. Restaurants, coffee shops.”
“No, too surface. It wouldn’t be enough.” Marcus gestured toward the door frame near where Vasques stood. “When we were here before, I noticed that chain lock on the door. It seemed a little out of place to me. But as I thought about the scene, I remembered something from Jessie’s file. Someone broke in a week ago and stole a DVD player. They filed a report, but it wasn’t enough to turn in to the insurance.”
“Stupak followed up on that,” Vasques said. “He thought it might have been a front for the killer, but the same guy got caught two days later down the street. He was a junkie. Didn’t even wear gloves. The prints matched for this robbery as well.”
“Right, but the lock looks new. So I got to thinking, maybe she put the lock on after the break-in.”
Andrew added, “If you’re right,
then the killer was in here within the past week. And that night, he brought a tool specifically to open the door without waking up the girl.”
“That brings up something else that’s been bothering me. He doesn’t like to take chances. I see the biggest risk factor here being the women themselves. How does he know for sure that they’re asleep? He doesn’t want a confrontation, and he’s never gotten one. Also, highly organized offenders like our guy are often curious about the investigations. More than a few of these guys have been caught because they couldn’t resist standing in the crowd outside the scenes of their crimes.”
Vasques shook her head. “We’ve been checking for that. Besides, this is all very intriguing conjecture, but I don’t see where you’re headed. How is this going to help us catch this guy?”
Marcus smiled. “I realized it when I thought back on our confrontation with Kolenda. The way that he hid from us in the attic. Most killers go after a very specific type of victim. But our guy has even crossed racial lines, which is almost unheard of in this type of case. Like I said, something connects these women in his mind. But there’s also something more obvious that every single one of them has in common.”
Andrew chuckled. “They all have attics.”
“Exactly.”
Vasques’s eyebrows formed into a V. She wasn’t getting it, and Marcus decided that it would be easier to just show her. He walked back into the hallway and found the attic access. It was a small square in the ceiling, no elaborate pull-down or hidden stairs, just a simple hole cut into the drywall.
“Wait here.”
He remembered seeing a small collapsible stepladder in the laundry room. He retrieved it and carried it up the stairs. Within a moment, it was unfolded, and he was climbing into the attic. The air was freezing, and when he breathed it came out in a visible puff. Blown-in insulation, which looked like something a rat would make a nest in, filled the space between the rafters. There was little headroom, and he crawled forward on hands and knees. Vasques poked her head up into the hole behind him.
It only took a few seconds to find what he was looking for. It was burrowed down into the insulation. He pulled it up, exposing a wire that snaked off to another point in the attic.
“What the hell is that?” Vasques said.
He removed the cord from the back of the device, pulled it free from its mount, stuffed it in his pocket, and scooted backward toward the hole. “I’m coming down.”
Once he was back on the ground, he showed them the small camera that he had retrieved from the attic.
“Dammit,” Vasques said. “We won’t be able to use that in court. Chain of custody hasn’t been maintained.”
Marcus almost laughed. He wasn’t worried about compiling evidence for a court case. He doubted whether the Anarchist would live long enough to stand trial, but he couldn’t tell Vasques that. “Let’s worry about finding the guy first. This is a state-of-the-art surveillance device. The killer probably has the whole house wired and set to transmit to a remote system somewhere. He may even have been using the house’s own wireless network. He watched these women, and then he watched the cops as they checked out the scene.”
“How did the Anarchist know that they wouldn’t use the attic or find the cameras?”
Marcus shrugged. “It’s a risk, but a manageable one. How many people with an access panel like that actually use their attic? And if they do, how many just stick a couple of boxes right next to the access panel? Who breaks out a ladder and goes crawling around up there?”
“You mentioned him blending in,” Andrew said. “Maybe he works for some kind of electronics or security company.”
“That’s a good lead. We may be able to track the equipment back to a buyer or wholesaler.”
Vasques winced and said, “We won’t be able to follow anything back. Just like the car. He would want the cameras to be untraceable, in case someone found them.”
“You’re both missing the obvious,” Marcus said. All eyes turned to him. “There could be several women out there right now with a bunch of cameras sitting in their attics. We can warn them. Involve the media. Go on the news and tell women to check for the cameras and call the police if they find them.”
“That won’t help us catch him.”
“It may keep another woman from getting hurt. Plus, we may be able to trace back a live feed. And it could make him get sloppy.”
“What if the women he’s targeted don’t watch the news?”
“It’s still our best shot right now. And he might not see it on the news, either. We could get lucky.”
Vasques thought for a moment and then said, “Okay, I’ll make some calls.”
Marcus and Andrew headed back out to their car. Vasques had driven separately. While Marcus had been sitting in a holding cell, Maggie had informed Andrew of the details of her meeting with Ellery Rowland. She had found them another good lead to check out on Chicago’s north side, though it was far from time to pop the champagne and celebrate. Still, for the first time in this investigation, Marcus felt like they were making headway. It was a good feeling.
Then his phone rang, and the feeling faded.
59
Staring out the window of a newly acquired arctic-white Saturn Astra, Ackerman watched Marcus walking toward the Yukon and staring down at the cell phone. The fingers of his left hand clenched around his own phone.
Pick up the damn thing, Marcus.
He could feel the rage welling up again. The knife in his right hand dug furrows into the dashboard of the Saturn. But then Marcus’s voice replaced the ringtone.
“What do you want?”
The relief washed over Ackerman like a cleansing flood. “I’m sorry about Allen. I didn’t mean to hurt him. It was unfortunate.”
Marcus was silent for a moment, his heavy breathing pulsing over the phone’s speaker. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t you get that? It doesn’t change anything. If I ever get the chance, I’m still going to kill you.”
Ackerman closed his eyes and thought of how everything would be changing soon. They were coming to the end of one era and the beginning of another. As soon as his plan was complete, Marcus would see the world very differently. Ackerman was reminded of the story of Paul the Apostle. Paul had been devoted to the persecution of Jesus’s early followers, but on the road to Damascus, fate had drastically changed the course of Paul’s life. The sinner became the saint. And it would be the same for him and Marcus.
“I’ve never lied to you, Marcus. Unlike everyone else in your life.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Have you ever asked your friend the Director why I was specifically chosen for your recruitment?”
Marcus was silent.
“We’re connected, Marcus. You know that I’m right. A part of you feels it. Our destinies are linked and have been for a very, very long time. But don’t worry. You’ll understand everything soon enough.”
60
Maggie had slept in that morning after having a late night and a few too many drinks at Kingston Mines with Ellery Rowland. She had woken up just in time to catch the tail end of the Continental breakfast and had grabbed a stale muffin and some orange juice. Afterward, she had found the hotel’s fitness center and had tried to work off some of her anger toward Marcus. It hadn’t helped.
She showered for exactly eight minutes and then started on her daily morning routine. Wash hands three times with soap. Brush teeth, stroking each section forty-two times back and forty-two times forward. Gargle with mouthwash for one minute and forty-seven seconds. Brush through hair, twenty-seven times on each side. Right, back, left, top. Trim fingernails and toenails into perfect symmetry. Always working from thumb or toe outward. Right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot.
She had just finished up and was setting out her clothes for the day when she heard a knock on the door. The peephole revealed Marcus standing in the hallway, holding two cups of Starbucks coffee. She took a deep breath, centering h
erself, and then opened the door.
“Good morning,” she said, trying to keep her tone even and neutral.
“Morning, Mags. I was wondering if you’d accept a peace offering.” He held out the coffee. “Two packets of Stevia that I had to pick up special from a local grocer and two creams. I even lined up the markings on the packets before opening them, just for you.”
She tried not to show much of a reaction, but she knew that this was as much of an apology as she could ever have hoped for. Marcus wasn’t good with relationships, and he was even worse at saying he was sorry. She noticed that he had dark patches beneath his sunken eyes. “You look terrible,” she said.
“Thanks. You look great.”
She felt her cheeks flush, and she quickly snatched the coffee from his hand. “Come on in.”
“I can’t. Andrew told me about your meeting with Rowland. We’re heading over to check out this Crowley guy that he gave you the address for. I thought maybe you’d like to come along.”
She smiled. This was perfect. “I’d like to, but I’d just be a third wheel anyway. And I have lunch plans.”
The shock in his eyes was priceless. “With who?”
“Ellery Rowland is taking me out to a restaurant called Everest. I hear it’s a really nice place.”
“You mean the devil-worshiper guy?”
“That’s right. And he actually doesn’t worship the devil. He doesn’t even believe in the devil.”
Marcus laughed. “I’m sure. He just lives the way the devil would want him to. That reminds me of a line from The Usual Suspects. Kevin Spacey’s character says, ‘The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.’”
“It doesn’t matter. We really hit it off last night. I’ll give you a call when I get back. Good luck.”
As Maggie started to close the door, she heard him saying, “Wait a second. You—” But she ignored him and let the door swing shut in his face. She leaned her back against the wall for a moment and let her breathing slow. She wondered if she had ever felt a greater sense of satisfaction in her life.
