Boneyard (7 page)

“I’ll get the list of dentists together,” Monica chirped, pleased to see Kelly put Doyle in his place.

“So Doyle, you handle the search of prior arrests. I’ll add this information to our profile, that should help us get a better sense of our killer. Let’s meet again at four-thirty, see what we’ve got.”

Doyle stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him.

Monica said, “How’s that profile coming, anyway?”

Kelly shrugged. “It’s still pretty vague.” That was an understatement: the truth was that due to the extreme decomposition of the bodies and the remoteness of the dump site, so far her profile looked like a serial killer 101 primer. She knew they were probably looking for a man in his thirties or forties, based on the fact that some of the bodies appeared to be at least a decade old, and most serial killers began killing in their twenties. Also, he had some familiarity with the outdoors, and was most likely physically fit. Gouging out the eyes was an odd act. It could indicate either that he experienced a moment of shame at being watched by his victims, or that he was trying to erase the things they’d seen. And according to a friend she’d conferred with at the Bureau, stacking objects like pennies next to the bodies was a sure sign that at some point or other, their killer had been institutionalized. Since that could range from a foster-care facility to prison, however, it still didn’t give her much to go on.

The fact that one of their victims had engaged in gay prostitution added an interesting angle to the case. A lot of serial killers targeted prostitutes, mainly because they’d get in a car with just about anyone and were rarely missed when they vanished. Then there was the gay angle: it was possible they were dealing with a repressed homosexual. Many killers turned their inner rage outward, absolving their own gay impulses by punishing others. Alternatively, they could have a religious nut on their hands who thought he was doing “God’s work” by murdering male hustlers. Sadly, that was a common excuse for many serial killers.

Monica cocked her head to the side. “I’m going to grab a soda from the vending machine, can I get you anything?”

“No thanks, I’m fine.”

“All right. And hey, I think this is a solid break. We ID a few more vics, that profile of yours will shape up nicely.” She tapped Kelly’s shoulder and left the room.

Finally she’d have something to report during her daily briefing to McLarty, Kelly thought with a smile as she clicked her laptop open and initiated a search for prior arrests under the name Randy Jacobs. Usually she’d trust an officer to carry out their assignments, but with Doyle she thought it wise to check his work. It would be interesting to see if he brought her the same results. There was a tentative rap on the door. “Come in,” she called out.

The door opened, and a sheepish looking Sam Morgan ducked his head inside. “Hope I’m not interrupting, Agent Jones. Just thought I’d stop by, since I haven’t heard from you for a few days.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Morgan.” She followed his eyes to the whiteboard she’d bought and mounted on the near wall. In addition to the photos, each of the six columns now held a few notations, the results of Dr. Stuart’s lab work. Kelly quickly stood and moved to the door, blocking his view. “Why don’t we talk in one of the interrogation rooms.”

She led him down the hall and opened the door to a bare cell. A closed circuit camera was mounted in one corner, and the battered chairs and table were matches to the ones in the command center. The carpet stank of sweat and fear. At least the department was consistent with their decorating scheme, Kelly thought as she gestured for him to take the chair across from her.

Sam grinned as he sat down. “Wow, I have to say being in here makes me nervous. I feel like I should confess to the candy bar I stole back in fourth grade.”

She laughed. “I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations ran out on that. I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Morgan, but we’re not allowed to bring civilians into the command center.”

“Sure, I get it, sensitive material and all that. You could tell me, but you’d have to kill me, right?” He winked at her. “I’ve gotta insist you call me Sam, though. Every time I hear Mr. Morgan, I look around for my dad.”

“All right, Sam. What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to see if you were ready to pull my SAR guys out of the woods yet. I mean, in all honesty,” he continued apologetically, turning his palms to face the ceiling, “I’m down to my last ten guys, anyway. It’s turning into more of a social club.”

“Didn’t Lieutenant Doyle call you?” Kelly asked, her brows knitting together. She’d told Doyle to discontinue the search the day before.

Sam shook his head. “Not that I know of. I can check at home, maybe I just didn’t get the message…” His voice trailed off.

She gritted her teeth. Apparently Doyle wasn’t just unpleasant, he was also incompetent. “I’m so sorry, Sam, this is a huge oversight. Please apologize to your unit for the inconvenience.”

He shrugged and held up both hands in protest. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. Like I said, most of them like having an excuse to skip out on yardwork at home. But I’ll let them know.”

“Thanks for being so understanding.” She stood and extended her hand for him to shake.

“Are you making any progress?”

“Some,” she replied cautiously. “Nothing I can discuss, unfortunately.”

“That’s great news. Love to see those families get some closure.” As he was leaving, he snapped his fingers together and turned back toward her. “Almost forgot. You like Albee?”

“Sorry, what?” she asked, confused.

“Edward Albee, the playwright? They’re closing out the season at the Williamstown Theatre with Three Tall Women, and I’ve got two tickets for tonight.”

Kelly cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you were married,” she said hesitantly.

His eyes crinkled up at the sides as he smiled. “Oh, I am. Sorry, you misunderstood me. I was offering you both tickets.”

“Oh.” Kelly flushed bright red. “Of course. Um, I really have too much to do, I’m afraid.”

He waved a hand. “No need to explain, I’m sure you’re swamped. Just thought I’d ask.”

“You should ask Monica, she might want them,” Kelly said. Over the past few days Monica had alluded several times to the fact that she and Dr. Stuart were fast becoming an “item,” as she put it. Apparently they’d already gone out for dinner a few times, and had something planned for the weekend. They made an odd couple, but then who was she to offer anyone advice, Kelly thought ruefully. And as long as the relationship didn’t interfere with their work, she had no problem with it.

“That’s a great idea, I’ll find Monica on my way out.” And with a final wave, he was gone.

Kelly returned to the command center, settled behind her desk and tried to concentrate on the search again. It was odd that she’d made that mistake, she was usually pretty good at reading men. She idly wondered how strong Sam Morgan’s marriage was, caught herself and frowned. She wasn’t heading down that road again, no way. She bit her lower lip and tapped away at her keyboard.

The kid woke up slowly. It was cold in here, too cold. He was shivering, which was strange because it was still summertime, wasn’t it? Summers were the easy time. Summers he could crash outside, no worries, or sometimes a trick would even let him spend the night in hopes of a freebie in the morning. Not him though, no way—he didn’t work for free.

But where was he? Man, he felt groggy. Didn’t remember taking anything the night before, but he must’ve. It was a weird fuzziness, though. He tried to pinpoint it. Didn’t feel like coming down off meth, or special k, or ex. What the fuck had he taken? He reached for his forehead and felt his hand snap back, then the sound of metal on concrete. What the… He tried again, extending his arms in front of him in the darkness. Halfway up they stopped, and now he recognized the cold steel of manacles encircling his wrists. He tried to stand, but only managed to crouch before his knees gave out against the resistance of more chains. His mind suddenly snapped to, wide-awake. He dimly remembered an older guy in a pickup—not bad looking—and the wad of hundreds he’d flashed. The sick fuck had chained him up, which he never agreed to; S & M wasn’t his thing. He squinted into the darkness. “Hey? Hello?”

No one answered. It was pitch-black, and he felt the walls starting to press in. Just like when he was a kid, when his mom used to lock him in the closet while she entertained “boyfriends.” Only at least then there was a slit of light at the bottom of the door and he had the warm press of clothes around him. He shivered again, more forcefully, teeth starting to chatter. He was naked, he realized, and the concrete floor below him was hard and cold. He groped in every direction, as far as the chains allowed, feeling his way up the wall until he located the bolts the chains were attached to. He tugged with all his strength, arching his back, bracing his foot against the wall as he tried first one side, then the other. The chains clanked slightly but didn’t give. After a few minutes he gave up, panting.

“Motherfucker!” It came out as a choked sob and he tried again, louder this time. “You sonofabitch! Let me go, you crazy bastard! I’ll kill you, I swear it!”

He strained his ears, listening hard for some response, part of him knowing the whole time that he was all alone in the room. He sank back to the floor, tears streaming down his face, as the horror of what was happening to him grew. He started to pray, babbling and sputtering through the words, promising things he didn’t have, anything if he could just be out of this place.

Suddenly the room was flooded with light from above. He tilted his head up toward the ceiling, involuntarily lifting a hand to shield his eyes, momentarily blinded. “What are you…” His voice trailed off as the figure slowly descended. “Listen,” he started to plead, but the man held up a hand to silence him, then flicked on a light in the corner. The boy’s eyes widened as the real meaning of the room was revealed. The hatch above slammed down, stifling his scream.

Dwight gnawed an energy bar as he waited. The tattoo on his arm still throbbed, and he scratched it absentmindedly with his pinkie finger. Charlie had probably been right, he should field dress it when he got home. Worst thing that could happen right now would be to get some sort of infection. That kind of delay could throw off his whole plan, and he’d been working on this for too long. Digging up all those bodies, scattering the parts next to the campground had taken weeks. Then the waiting. It took longer than he expected for the first bones to be found. He’d planned on having the whole thing done by now. He tore off another chunk of chocolate-covered nougat with his teeth and chewed enthusiastically. He just hoped it all came together before he headed into training at Langley. In all honesty, he was a little disappointed with the progress so far. He figured once the FBI got involved it would speed things along.

Dwight was perched in the blind he had constructed in the woods on the edge of the Captain’s property. The foliage was still thick enough to render the camouflage netting surrounding it redundant, but he’d rather not take any chances. He of all people knew how dangerous the Captain could be if provoked.

He raised the infra-red binoculars to his eyes once again and peered through them.

Ten minutes earlier he’d watched as the Captain crossed the yard, heading toward the hatch. In spite of himself he shook his head with admiration at the thought of what would happen next. He had to give it to him, the Captain had it where it counted. Dwight heard a muffled sound and tilted his head to the side. Maybe he should have bugged the room, might have made it easier to tell what was going on. Without realizing it his hand drifted down toward his crotch. Had to be a good feeling, he reflected, doing those things to another person. Lately he’d caught himself daydreaming about it, picturing what he’d do if he was in the Captain’s shoes, how he’d make them beg, how even if they did it wouldn’t make any difference…

Dwight shook his head to clear the thoughts away. Time to focus. This was day one, which meant the Captain would be down there for an hour at least. He clicked on a penlight and made a note in his log, then clicked it off and waited for his eyes to readjust to the darkness. Day six, he thought to himself, allowing his mind to drift again as a little smile danced across his features: now that was his favorite day of all.

Six

“Dr. Glendale told us you paid for Randy Jacobs’s dental work, sir,” Kelly said.

“So what if I did? Since when is helping someone a crime?” Calvin Sommers was clearly perturbed by the questioning, running a hand through thinning hair dyed a shade too black, sporting one of those expensive spray tans. Bleached teeth, Kelly noted, and clothing straight from the Versace summer line. This was a man with cash to spare.

“We’re not accusing you of anything, Mr. Sommers,” she explained again, patiently. “Just trying to find out more about Randy.”

“I hardly knew the boy, so whatever he’s telling you is a lie.”

“May we come in?” Kelly asked, stepping forward. It had taken almost a week to track down Randy’s dentist, and it was the best lead they had so far. She was determined not to leave empty-handed.

Sommers’s eyes flicked from side to side as he considered the request, and Kelly wondered what was inside that he was so afraid of them seeing. His grip was tight on the door handle. The house was a sprawling colonial painted bright yellow with a red door and matching shutters. His front lawn swept down to the street, shaded by mature maple and cherry trees. A brass plaque proclaimed it a historic landmark built in 1737. Even by the standards of Williamstown the house was a stunner, tucked along a quiet lane surrounded by other mansions. Hard to picture a kid like Randy Jacobs at home here, Kelly thought to herself.

Reluctantly, Sommers stepped back and motioned for them to enter. The house had been extensively renovated, she noted; what should have been a tiny foyer leading to a warren of small rooms had been redesigned to create an open floor plan. There was a large living room with an ornate stone fireplace on one side, a dining area leading to a kitchen with cherry and stainless steel accents on the other. Despite the exterior of the house, Sommers’s tastes were contemporary; the artwork on the walls was primarily avant-garde and postmodern.