Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  Duncan closed the drawer and rounded back on the frantic woman. He selected his victims carefully, then destroyed their lives meticulously. But when it came to ending them, he found simple was always best.

  Duncan kept his voice soft. “Do you know how you came to my attention, Bridget?”

  “Mmmm!” Her protests were muffled, indecipherable.

  “Be quiet.” Duncan kept the knife in hand as he started to pace. “I found you online. You said you were after some fun, that you had a husband and a kid who couldn’t know. You’re a whore. But that wasn’t the worst of it, was it?”

  “Mmmm!”

  “It’s to be expected, I suppose.” Duncan sighed. “You were top of your class at Yale. You were in the top of your field at work. You were used to the world revolving around you. You tease, manipulate, and scheme. You show no remorse for the pain you’ve caused.”

  “Mmmm!”

  “I SAID SHUT UP!” Duncan’s voice boomed as he thrust the knife into her stomach.

  As the woman let out a wail of pain, Duncan cursed himself for losing control. As she moaned and writhed like a fish on a hook, he let go of the knife and tried to control his breathing. It took a few moments, but he got there. He was outraged that, even when this woman was completely subdued, she still thought she could whine until she got her way.

  Duncan stood, his fists clenched by his sides. “Before you die, you should know that it was all me. Your husband, your daughter, your job and your money – I took everything from you. With each strut I kicked out from under you, you had a chance to reflect and atone. But you never showed any sign of remorse.”

  The woman’s eyes were fading now, the knife wound doing its work, but a flicker of fear and recognition crossed her eyes. Though she moaned again, Duncan was deaf to it now. He gripped the handle of the blade, which was still buried deep in the woman’s stomach, and leaned in close.

  Duncan was inches from her face when he pulled the knife out of her. In a movie, this would be when the captive woman freed her hands, struggled with him, somehow got hold of the knife and then killed him. That seemed unlikely, though. Her hands, feet, and torso were securely restrained.

  Her eyes were extremely wide and she let out a muffled shriek as Duncan plunged the knife into her once more. Again and again he penetrated her with the blade, each strike drawing less and less reaction, until finally her eyes went dead. Even then, he dug the blade in several more times, to ensure he’d inflicted as much pain as possible.

  Panting, Duncan stepped back, his chest heaving. He’d punished and destroyed another blight on the Earth. With a smile, he stuck his index finger deep inside one of the stab wounds. After removing it again, he held up the finger and looked at the blood now covering it. He smiled as he reached out and wrote a message on her forehead.

  The message wasn’t something he’d done before, but he was bored with routine and wanted to add another flourish. The kill had been far less satisfying than he’d hoped. The thrill lessened each time he took a life, yet his own pain remained. No matter how much he tried to erase it, that never changed.

  But he couldn’t stop.

  6

  Chris

  Chris sighed. “Another one.”

  He took his eyes off the victim and scanned the rest of the room, though he didn’t spot anything that hadn’t been found already. It was a simple crime scene. A red-haired woman had been tied up and stabbed a dozen times in her own home. She’d been found about four hours ago, yet Chris had only just arrived on scene. Most of the crime scene work had already been processed prior to his arrival.

  The victim was a white female with red hair. That was all he needed to know.

  Chris took a few steps toward the body, having delayed doing so until now. He had no official role to play at the scene, but as soon as he heard that another redhead had been found, Chris had raced to the scene. He’d known exactly what he’d find – a young, pretty, early-to-mid thirties woman who’d been brutally murdered.

  It fit the pattern. Each victim had had a number of things go wrong in their lives before they ended up dead, yet Geary and the JTF refused to acknowledge the pattern. It was clear to Chris that there was a serial killer on the loose, but no one supported his theory, not even Manny.

  Chris reached the body, looked down and shook his head. The woman was a mess. She was clothed, but her T-shirt was caked in blood and gore. A dozen knife wounds had torn the garment, leaving it little more than a rag. Blood had pooled on the floor, underneath the chair she’d been tied to. The killer had also written a message on the woman’s head in her blood.

  Whore.

  Chris looked up at Detective Frank Cygnetti, one of the NYPD guys on the JTF. “Has she been identified?”

  “Bridget Skinner. Age 32.” He shrugged. “It’s her apartment, so it was easy enough to tag her, despite the mess.”

  Chris nodded. He gestured at the knife on the ground next to the woman. “That’s the murder weapon?”

  “Looks like it.” Cygnetti shrugged again. “We’ll need to confirm it, but it looks like a pretty obvious conclusion.”

  The killer hadn’t bothered to hide the body or hide the knife that was right next to the victim. It showed a complete lack of concern that he was going to be caught. All the other crime scenes Chris thought the serial killer was responsible for had been similar, yet they’d never found anything that’d let them get close to him.

  This killer was clean, careful, and methodical. He always wore gloves and was never spotted on his way in or out. He was a ghost terrorizing the women of New York City.

  “Do we know anything else?”

  Cygnetti looked down at his notes. “The guys tell me she lost her job and her partner recently. The husband has an alibi. The kill looks random, though.”

  Chris doubted it. He thanked Frank, then returned to poking around the scene. He was more certain this was the work of a serial killer targeting young, redheaded, professional females. But his superiors had dismissed his theory because of the lack of a single ‘tell’ – because the women were all killed in different ways.

  All because they wanted to wrap up the JTF.

  “What’s the story, Chris?” Manny’s voice jolted Chris out of his dark thoughts. “I only got a few hours’ sleep after the movie theater job.”

  “More than me.” Chris smiled weakly at his partner. “She’s got red hair, Manny. She’s just like the others.”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Chris.” Manny’s face went from cheery to dark in less than a second. “I get it, you miss Tamara, but it was two years ago. I—”

  “This has nothing to do with her!” Chris held up a hand. “It’s the same killer as the others. All the others, not just Tamara!”

  Manny shook his head and Chris knew what he was thinking. They’d discussed Chris’s theory at length, many times, but his partner hadn’t ever seriously considered it. Each of them was entrenched in their position. They were the perfect shadow boxers, with neither able to land a blow powerful enough to convince the other.

  Chris persisted. “Manny, the victims are all successful redheads who end up dead.”

  “So?” Manny held his hands out, palms up, as if imploring a divine power to zap Chris with some sense. “There’s no common murder weapon. There’s no common time or place. There’s nothing linking any of the victims except the color of their hair. The profilers don’t think there’s a link, but you think you’re smarter than them?”

  “You can’t deny the physical similarities, or the fact that the victims always have a series of things go wrong in their personal lives before they’re killed.” Chris let that hang for a second. “Tell me I’m wrong about this, Manny. Tell me this isn’t something the JTF should at least be looking at.”

  “Shit happens to people.” Manny sighed. “You need to cool it, Chris. These murders will be investigated, but the JTF is being wound up and we’ve been told not to make waves.”

  “But—”

&nb
sp; “Chris, for fuck’s sake, just listen for once. You’ve been told not to make waves. Geary just needs an excuse to can your ass. Let it go. Let Tamara go.”

  Chris closed the door to the apartment and called out Tamara’s name again. It was strange she wasn’t responding. She’d never leave the house with lights on and the heat running.

  Chris blinked then stared at Manny. His partner had just squeezed his shoulder.

  “What?”

  Manny scoffed and walked away, leaving Chris standing on his own. Chris ran a hand through his hair. There was some truth in Manny’s words. He’d been warned loud and clear after his last mistake, which had badly embarrassed the Bureau and seen a dangerous criminal released.

  He’d been told these murders weren’t a serial case. Chris knew better. The victims’ appearance and the circumstances preceding each murder were similar, and only two percent of the population had red hair, making the murder rate among that cohort in New York abnormal.

  There was a serial killer on the loose. Even if others refused to believe it, he couldn’t.

  He wouldn’t.

  7

  Ashley

  “Ashley, you’re okay.” Simon Weltering’s voice was as calm as ever. “Just focus on that, and we’ll work on the rest.”

  A sob caught in Ashley’s throat as she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to get her breathing under control. She’d broken down a few times since their counselling session had started, as she’d tried to rationalize her attempt to take Lucy. Weltering hadn’t said much, just listened and made a few comments.

  Ashley knew the cops in New York had only let her go because of the deal she had with the US Attorney in New York, Ben Obrist. Officer Wilson had confirmed as much on the drive back to Connecticut. But the important thing was, she was free. She had been given another chance, but she needed to get her head straight.

  It was difficult – she was so torn and angry and hurt – but at least she recognized she needed help. She’d made an appointment with Weltering as soon as she’d arrived back home. He’d been her counsellor since she’d been placed in the witness protection program and moved from New York to Wallingford, Connecticut. He’d succeeded in calming her down plenty of times before, but it didn’t feel like it was happening this time. She was a mess.

  The worst thing was the knowledge that she’d damaged the chances of getting her daughter back. Her actions had made her look like a madwoman, strengthening Tom’s position in any future custody consideration.

  “I don’t feel okay.” Weltering words were like white noise. “I feel like an idiot. I could’ve been killed, going back there, and for what? I just made things with Lucy and Tom worse!”

  “It was a mistake.” Weltering stared over his glasses. “And certainly not one I’d advise you to repeat. You need to be smart. Also, you need to stay away from New York until the trial.”

  The trial. The final act of the story that’d changed her life. Two years ago, she’d been working at a small pizza restaurant in New York, a nice place with about eight tables and a few more seats at the bar. One quiet weeknight a fat man in a sharp suit had walked in, pulled out a revolver and fired six shots into one of Ashley’s regular customers. The killer had then calmly taken a slice of the man’s pizza and left.

  It was only later that Ashley had found out who the killer was, Saul Laverri, head of the Laverri family and number seven on the FBI’s most wanted list. He’d eluded the authorities for years, until Flavio Grossi, the man he’d shot dead at the restaurant, had raped and murdered Laverri’s daughter over a debt. The FBI had convinced Ashley to go into witness protection, to testify against Laverri and put one of the most dangerous men on the planet behind bars.

  It had been a terrible mistake.

  She hated Laverri. Not because he’d shot a mobster, another scumbag in a parade of them to impact her life in the past few years, but because—

  “Ashley!” Weltering shook her firmly, one hand on each shoulder and his face close to hers, concern painted all over it. “Ashley, it’s okay.”

  Ashley blinked rapidly several times, struggling to focus on him. She sucked in a long breath and then let it out in ragged heaves. “This has to stop.”

  “What does?”

  “All of it! The trial! Tom having custody of my daughter!” She slapped the arm of the sofa. “I need help, Simon! Ever since I got talked into testifying, my life has been torn apart.”

  “You just need to be—”

  “Patient! I know!” Ashley ran a hand through her hair. “But I’ve lost my husband and my daughter. When does it stop? When do I get my life back?”

  Weltering sighed. “Ashley, I don’t know what to tell you. You’ve made some progress, but it’s been limited. Your trip to New York was a huge setback. Even if the police didn’t charge you, Tom and his lawyer will have a field day. You need to be patient. You need to be a model citizen until the trial in a few weeks.”

  “That’s not good enough. I—”

  “The best advice I can give you is the truth. Until you’re through your issues and the case has been heard, you’ll be apart from your daughter.” Weltering smiled. “But there’s hope, Ashley. Continuing to work on your issues now will give you the best chance of getting Lucy back later.”

  “Okay.” Ashley closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but she had no alternative. “I just want Lucy back.”

  Being apart from her daughter was almost unbearable. She needed her little girl back. But she’d made a mistake, and now her chances were worse than ever. Agreeing to testify against Laverri had been her biggest mistake, but asking Tom to look after Lucy while she was struggling to cope was a close second. Tom had twisted her words and made her out to be a lunatic, leveraging the situation into sole custody. Ashley had been suffering ever since.

  The attempted kidnapping would just make things worse. She’d screwed up.

  She’d play it Weltering’s way. What choice did she have? The only way out of her current hole was to see the court case through and then focus on getting Lucy back. It wasn’t a guaranteed path, but she couldn’t see any other. She just hoped she didn’t end up alone, or dead, after all this was done.

  8

  Duncan

  Duncan was careful to keep one hand on the top of the ladder as he reached for the bottle of wine on the top shelf. It would be a cruel twist of fate to fall off a stepladder and die, only a few days after killing Bridget Skinner. He managed to grab the bottle then climb down the ladder without meeting an untimely end.

  He smiled and held out the bottle to the customer who had demanded that bottle of shiraz, despite there being a dozen similarly priced and comparable bottles within easy reach. Duncan let it slide, though. The guy was a regular. Duncan maintained the fake smile as he returned to the cash register, scanned the bottle and placed it on the counter.

  “That’ll be $13.99, Mr Bennett.” Duncan held out his hand. “Would you like a bag today, sir?”

  “Of course I want a bag!” Bennett placed the money in Duncan’s hand. “If you make me wait forever to buy it, you should at least give me something to carry it in.”

  Duncan kept calm as he took the money, bagged the wine and handed it to the customer, who snatched the bag and left without another word. Duncan gripped the counter with both hands, closed his eyes and laughed. He wouldn’t let a rude customer destroy his post-kill glow.

  He always felt like this for a few days afterward, like he was floating on a cloud. It was a heady mix of realized desire and satisfaction at having rid the world of another woman who thought she owned the world. He smiled, opened his eyes and had just started to wipe down the counter when the door chime rang.

  Duncan turned his head toward the door. “Afternoon.”

  “Hi.” The customer nodded at Duncan as he started to peruse the shelves.

  Duncan started to whistle a tune while the customer browsed. He liked to chat with his regulars, although he’d only make small talk with un
familiar customers if they initiated conversation. Finally, the customer picked up a mid-range bottle of bourbon and brought it to the counter. Duncan put down the cloth and scanned the bottle.

  “$22.50, please.” Duncan smiled as he bagged the bottle, handed it to the customer and took the man’s money.

  “Keep the change,” the customer said. “Nice to see a man who likes his work as much as you seem to.”

  “It’s not bad.” Duncan dropped the change into the charity collection box that was chained to the counter. “Thanks. It helps sick children.”

  “Happy and selfless, I’ll be damned.” The customer smiled. “If only I could say the same about my wife.”

  Duncan tensed at the mention of the man’s wife. He was vaguely aware of the customer laughing, then frowning, apparently confused by Duncan’s silence. Here was another man in pain because of his wife. She was probably frigid, or a tease, or treated him like shit. But Duncan didn’t share his thoughts. He’d learnt that his opinions weren’t always welcome.

  He let out a long laugh, but his attempt at camaraderie didn’t work. The other man just stared at him strangely. As he opened his mouth to speak, his phone rang. As the man checked who was calling, Duncan caught a brief glimpse of the screen and sucked in a deep breath when he saw the photo of the caller.

  “Speak of the devil.” The customer stepped away from the counter to answer the phone. He put it to his ear. “Hi babe.”

  Duncan turned around to restock the cigarettes behind the counter, fighting the urge to say something to the man. The photo he’d seen on the screen was of a thirty-something redhead with a beaming smile. Clenching his teeth, Duncan listened in on the conversation. The man’s voice tone hardened a few seconds into the call, which ended abruptly.

  “Fucking redheads.” The customer exhaled as he pulled the phone away from his ear. “She hung up on me. I’ve given her the world and it’s still not good enough.”