Alex Cross 02 - Kiss the Girls (6 page)

“I don’t know enough,” Ruskin said. “That’s our problem, Davey’s and mine, with this investigation. We can’t get straight-dick
information about much of anything. That’s probably why we’re in such a good mood today. You notice?”

“Yeah, we noticed,” Sampson said. I didn’t look over at him. I could feel the steam rising in the back seat, though. Heat
coming off his skin.

Davey Sikes glanced back and frowned at Sampson. I got the feeling they weren’t going to become best buddies.

Ruskin continued talking. He seemed to like the spotlight, being on the Big Case. “This entire case is under the control of
the FBI now. The DEA got in the act, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if the CIA was part of the ‘crisis team.’ They did send
some kinky crackerjack down from their fancy outpost in Sanford.”

“What do you mean
this entire case?
” I asked Ruskin. Warning alarms were sounding in my head. I thought of Naomi again.

This is a real bad one.

Ruskin turned around quickly and looked at me. He had penetrating blue eyes and they seemed to be sizing me up. “Understand
we’re not supposed to tell you anything. We’re not authorized to bring you out here either.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” I said. “I appreciate the help.”

Once again, Davey Sikes turned and looked at us. I felt as if Sampson and I were on the other team, looking over the line
of scrimmage, waiting for the ball snap, the crunch of bodies.

“We’re on our way to the
third
murder site,” Ruskin went on. “I don’t know who the victim is. Goes without saying that I hope the victim isn’t your niece.”

“What’s this case all about? Why all the mystery?” Sampson asked. He sat forward in his seat. “We’re all cops here. Talk straight
to us.”

The Durham homicide detective hesitated before he answered. “A few women, let’s say
several,
have disappeared in a three-county area—Durham, Chatham, and Orange, which you’re in now. The press has reported a couple
of disappearances and two murders so far.
Unrelated
murders.”

“Don’t tell me the media is actually cooperating with an investigation?” I said.

Ruskin half smiled. “Not in your wildest wet dreams. They only know what the FBI’s decided to tell them. Nobody’s actually
withholding information, but nothing’s being volunteered, either.”

“You mentioned that several young women have disappeared,” I said. “How many exactly? Tell me about them.”

Ruskin talked out of the side of his mouth. “We believe eight to ten women are missing. All young. Late teens and early twenties.
All students in college or high school. Only two bodies have been found, though. The one we’re going to see could make three.
All the bodies were discovered in the last five weeks. The Feebies think we’re in the middle of what could be one of the worst
kidnapping and murder sprees ever in the South.”

“How many FBI in town?” Sampson asked. “Squad? Battalion?”

“They’re here in full force. They have ‘evidence’ that the disappearances extend beyond state lines—Virginia, South Carolina,
Georgia, down into Florida. They think our friendly squirrel abducted a Florida State cheerleader at this year’s Orange Bowl.
They call him ‘The Beast of the Southeast.’ It’s as if he’s invisible. He’s in control of the situation right now. Calls himself
Casanova… believes he’s a great lover.”

“Did Casanova leave mash notes at the murder scenes?” I asked Ruskin.

“Just at the last one. He seems to be coming out of his shell. He wants to communicate now. Bond with us. He told us he was
Casanova.”

“Were any of the victims black women?” I asked Ruskin. One trait of repeat killers was that they tended to choose their victims
along racial grounds. All white. All black. All Spanish. Not too much mixing, as a rule.

“One other missing girl is black. Student from North Carolina Central University. Two bodies we found were white. All the
women who’ve disappeared are
extremely
attractive. We have a bulletin board up with pictures of the missing girls. Somebody gave the case a name: ‘Beauties and
the Beast.’ It’s on the board in big letters. Right over the pictures. That’s another handle we have for the case.”

“Does Naomi Cross fit his pattern?” Sampson asked quietly. “Whatever the crisis team has established so far?”

Nick Ruskin didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking about it, or just trying to be considerate.

“Is Naomi’s picture up on the FBI bulletin board? The Beauties and the Beast board?” I asked Ruskin.

“Yes, it is.” Davey Sikes finally spoke. “Her picture is on the big board.”

D
ON’T LET
this be Scootchie. Her life is just beginning,
I silently prayed as we sped to the homicide scene.

Terrible, unspeakable things happened all the time nowadays, to all kinds of innocent, unsuspecting people. They happened
in virtually every big city, and even small towns, in villages of a hundred or less. But most often these violent, unthinkable
crimes seemed to happen in America.

Ruskin downshifted hard as we curled around a steep curve and saw flashing red and blue lights. Cars and EMS vans loomed up
ahead, solemnly gathered at the edge of thick pine woods.

A dozen vehicles were parked haphazardly along the side of the two-lane state road. Traffic was sparse out there in the heart
of nowhere. There was no buildup of ambulance-chasers yet. Ruskin pulled in behind the last car in line, a dark blue Lincoln
Town Car that might as well have had
Federal Bureau
written all over it.

A state-of-the-art homicide scene was already in progress. Yellow tape had been strung from pine trees, cordoning off the
perimeter. Two EMS ambulances were parked with their blunt noses pointed into a stand of trees.

I was swept into a near out-of-body experience as I floated from the car. My vision tunneled.

It was almost as if I had never visited a crime scene before. I vividly remembered the worst of the Soneji case.
A small child found near a muddy river.
Horrifying memories mixed with the terrifying present moment.

Don’t let this be Scootchie.

Sampson held my arm loosely as we followed detectives Ruskin and Sikes. We walked for nearly a mile into the dense woods.
In the heart of a copse of towering pines, we finally saw the shapes and silhouettes of several men and a few women.

At least half of the group were dressed in dark business suits. It was as if we had come upon some impromptu camping trip
for an accounting firm, or a coven of big-city lawyers or bankers.

Everything was eerie, quiet, except for the hollow popping of the technicians’ cameras. Close-up photos of the entire area
were being taken.

A couple of the crime-scene professionals were already wearing translucent rubber gloves, looking for evidence, taking notes
on spiral pads.

I had a creepy, otherworldly premonition that we were going to find Scootchie now. I pushed it, shoved it away, like the unwanted
touch of an angel of God. I turned my head sharply to one side—as if that would help me avoid whatever was coming up ahead.

“FBI for sure,” Sampson muttered softly. “Out here on the Wilderness Trail.” It was as if we were walking toward a mammoth
nest of buzzing hornets. They were standing around, whispering secrets to one another.

I was acutely aware of leaves crumpling under my feet, of the noise of twigs and small branches breaking. I wasn’t really
a policeman here. I was a civilian.

We finally saw the naked body, at least what was left of it. There was no clothing visible at the murder scene. The woman
had been tied to a small sapling with what appeared to be a thick leather bond.

Sampson sighed, “Oh, Jesus, Alex.”

W
HO IS the woman?” I asked softly as we came up to the unlikely police group, the “multijurisdictional mess,” as Nick Ruskin
had described it.

The dead woman was white. It was impossible to tell too much more than that about her at this time. Birds and animals had
been feasting on her, and she almost didn’t look human anymore. There were no fixed, staring eyes, just dark sockets like
burn marks. She didn’t have a face; the skin and tissue had been eaten away.

“Who the hell are these two?” one of the FBI agents, a heavyset blond woman in her early thirties, asked Ruskin. She was as
unattractive as she was unpleasant, with puffy red lips and a bulbous, hooked nose. At least she’d spared us the usual FBI
happy-camper smile, or the FBI’s famous “smiling handshake.”

Nick Ruskin was brusque with her. His first endearing moment for me. “This is Detective Alex Cross, and his partner, Detective
John Sampson. They’re down here from D.C. Detective Cross’s niece is missing from Duke. She’s Naomi Cross. This is Special
Agent in Charge Joyce Kinney.” He introduced the agent to us.

Agent Kinney frowned, or maybe it was a scowl. “Well, this is certainly not your niece here,” she said.

“I’d appreciate it if the two of you would return to the cars. Please do that.” She felt the need to go on. “You have no authority
on this case, and no right to be here, either.”

“As Detective Ruskin just told you, my niece is missing.” I spoke softly, but firmly, to Special Agent Joyce Kinney. “That’s
all the authority I need. We didn’t come down here to admire the leather interior and instrument panel of Detective Ruskin’s
sports car.”

A thick-chested blond man in his late twenties briskly stepped up beside his boss. “I think y’all heard Special Agent Kinney.
I’d appreciate it if you leave now,” he announced. Under different circumstances, his over-the-top response might have been
funny. Not today. Not at this massacre scene.

“No way
you’re
going to stop us,” Sampson said to the blond agent in his darkest, grimmest voice. “Not you. Not your Dapper Dan friends
here.”

“That’s fine, Mark.” Agent Kinney turned to the younger man. “We’ll deal with this later,” she said. Agent Mark backed off,
but not without a major-league scowl, much like the one I’d gotten from his boss. Both Ruskin and Sikes laughed as the agent
backed down.

We were allowed to stay with the FBI and the local police contingent at the crime scene.
Beauties and the Beast.
I remembered the phrase Ruskin had used in the car. Naomi was up on the Beast board. Had the dead woman been on the board
as well?

It had been hot and humid and the body was decomposing rapidly. The woman had been badly attacked by forest animals, and I
hoped that she was already dead before they came. Somehow, I didn’t think so.

I noted the unusual position of the body. She was lying on her back. Both her arms appeared to have been dislocated, perhaps
as she twisted and struggled to free herself from the leather bonds and the tree behind her. It was as vicious a sight as
I had ever seen on the streets of Washington or anywhere else. I felt almost no relief that this wasn’t Naomi.

I eventually talked up one of the FBI’s forensic people. He knew a friend of mine at the Bureau, Kyle Craig, who worked out
of Quantico in Virginia. He told me that Kyle had a summer house in the area.

“This shitheel’s real savvy, real smooth, if nothing else.” The FBI forensic guy liked to talk. “He hasn’t left pubic hairs,
semen, or even traces of perspiration on either of the victims I’ve examined. I surely doubt if we’ll find much here to give
us a DNA profile. At least he didn’t eat her himself.”

“Does he have sex with the victims?” I asked before the agent went on a tangent about his experiences with cannibalism.

“Yeah, he does.
Somebody
had repeated sex with them.
Lots
of vaginal bruises and tears. Bugger’s well equipped, or he uses something large to simulate sex. But he must wear a cellophane
body bag when he does it. Or he dusts them somehow. No pubes, no trace of body fluid yet. The forensic entomologist has already
collected his samples. He’ll be able to give us the exact time of death.”

“This could be Bette Anne Ryerson,” one of the gray-haired FBI agents within earshot said. “There was a missing-person report
on her. Blond-haired gal, five six, about a hundred and ten pounds. Wearing a gold Seiko when she disappeared. Drop-dead gorgeous,
at least she used to be.”

“Mother of two kids,” said one of the female agents. “Graduate English student at North Carolina State. I interviewed her
husband, who’s a professor. Met her two children. Beautiful little kids. One and three years old. Goddamn this bastard.” The
agent started to choke up.

I could see the wristwatch, and the ribbon that tied back her hair had come undone and rested on her shoulder. She was no
longer beautiful. What was left of her was bloated and suffused. The odor of decomposition was pungent even out in the open
air.

The empty sockets seemed to be staring up into a crescent-shaped opening at the tops of the pine trees, and I wondered what
her eyes had looked at last.

I tried to imagine “Casanova” cavorting around in these deep dark woods before we had arrived. I took a guess that he was
in his twenties or thirties, and physically strong. I was afraid for Scootchie, much more than I had been, in fact.

Casanova. The world’s greatest lover… God save us.

I
T WAS well past ten o’clock, and we were still at the grisly, highly disturbing murder scene. The dazzling amber headlights
of official cars and emergency vehicles were used to illuminate a footworn path into the shadowy woods. It was getting colder
outside. The chill night wind was a gritty slap in the face.

The corpse still hadn’t been moved.

I watched the Bureau’s technicians dutifully strip search the woods, collecting forensic clues and taking measurements. The
immediate area had been cordoned off, but I made a sketch in the dim light, and took my own preliminary notes. I was trying
to remember what I could about the original Casanova. Eighteenth-century adventurer, writer, libertine. I had read parts of
his memoirs somewhere along the line.