Haunting Whispers (11 page)

Without asking, she sat down next to Rae, laid her hand over Rae’s forearm, and squeezed. “I miss you.” She’d always admired Janet’s ability to get to the point, but now she hated it. She didn’t want or need to hear that, true or not. “I’m serious, Rae.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed my phone ringing constantly since you left.” Rae regretted the angry sarcasm in her voice, a dead giveaway that Janet’s betrayal still hurt.

“I know you’re upset and I don’t blame you. I handled the situation badly. Will you give me a chance to explain? Can we talk sometime? Not here.” She looked around as if someone might overhear. If this campus mirrored other microcosms of society, everybody already knew they’d broken up and why. The gossip probably made the grapevine for a day or two before the academic community became bored.

“We don’t have anything to talk about, Janet. You made it clear I’m not what you want.”

Janet raised Rae’s hand to her lips and lightly kissed the backside. “That is so not true. I’ve always loved you. You were never there for me.”

“My job is unpredictable and so are my hours.”

“It wasn’t all about the job, Rae. Even when you were there, you weren’t. It’s almost like you stopped feeling, stopped caring. I don’t know if it was your work or me.”

Why couldn’t she tell Janet the truth? She’d felt left out of a relationship that used to sustain her. The nagging about college felt more like criticism than encouragement—more a validation of Janet’s stature than Rae’s self-improvement. Maybe she’d used that as an excuse as her feelings waned. As much as she wanted a scapegoat, it wasn’t fair to blame Janet entirely for the failure of their relationship.

“It was both, the work and us.” It surprised Rae how easily she’d given up, yet the anger and disappointment over Janet’s betrayal remained. Janet cheated for months, and Rae hadn’t seen it. Maybe her anger was self-directed.

“Can we talk about this? Please, Rae.” Her grip on Rae’s arm tightened.

“Excuse me. I’m obviously interrupting.” Ken Whitt stood behind Janet, eyeing her hold on Rae’s forearm.

Rae didn’t bother explaining. She’d been open with her squad and her sexual preference had never been an issue. The guys had just become less guarded in their discussions about women. Ken Whitt, though, was always a gentleman—watching, appreciating, but seldom commenting. “It’s okay, Ken, we’re finished here.” Rae stood and shook his hand before turning back to Janet. “I’m sorry, this is business.”

She could tell by Janet’s expression that she wanted to fling a sarcastic comment. Instead she said, “I’ll call you…about that talk.”

Rae didn’t respond.

As Janet walked off, Ken gave her an appraising once-over and nodded at Rae as if to say nice choice. They engaged in small talk about mutual acquaintances and sized each other up for several minutes. The ritual resembled a gut polygraph—establishing a baseline to determine normal responses before moving on to challenging topics. While they knew each other, they’d never worked closely together on a case. The feeling-out process was a must.

Whitt looked like an average man by conventional standards. He’d be unremarkable in a lineup, as likely to be identified based on his similarities to everyone else than by any differences. The two things most often associated with Ken Whitt were his newsboy-style cap and his devotion. Behind his back the guys affectionately referred to him as Mother Ken. He worried about everything: cases, victims, fellow officers, and his family and friends. He would fret about all his unsolved cases after retirement, especially the serious ones.

“How did you get so unlucky to draw the Whisperer cases?” The question seemed innocent enough. Was Whitt implying she wasn’t qualified, or was her insecurity showing again?

“Maybe Not So wants somebody to blame when it all goes sideways.”

“Not even that self-serving douche bag would be so stupid. You’re a good detective and he at least knows that much.” Rae relaxed a little. Ken Whitt was investigative royalty, and his comment was as close to a compliment as she’d ever get. “Now, what can I do for you? All my notes are in the case file.”

“But we don’t always put
everything
in our heads in the file, do we?”

Whitt pushed back his cap and scratched the top of his balding head. “See, like I said, smart. Where do you want to start?”

“What did your instincts tell you about this guy, things you couldn’t prove?” Rae had read the file several times and wasn’t interested in the facts now. She wanted the intangibles that floated around the edges of a case, the bits that stuck in a cop’s mind and often led to arrests. These details were never written down, could never be used in a court of law, and would be completely useless in the hands of a rookie; yet they were investigative gold.

“The obvious thing, he’s a flaming psychopath.”

Rae smiled at his choice of words. In the two years she’d worked with Whitt before he retired, she’d never heard him say one curse word. That alone made him an anomaly in law enforcement, and she admired him for it.

“He’s got to have some type of ploy to get close to these women. They don’t walk up to him and offer to be kidnapped and mutilated. It takes a sick person to do what he does to them. But I never understood why he didn’t kill them. He came close enough.”

The same question had occurred to Rae. Rage or passion seemed to fuel the injuries, but those types of suspects were often impulsive and disorganized. It was as if an apparition had committed the crimes, the scenes entirely scrubbed of evidence. That took planning and a tremendous amount of control.

Rae nodded her agreement. “He might kill soon. He’s getting more violent.”

“I always thought this guy was military. I never had any concrete proof, just a gut thing.”

Rae’s skin dimpled with expectation. She relished this part of the job, the speculation and hypothetical scenarios. They provided the foundation on which every case was built. Once she established a workable premise, she proceeded until the evidence disproved that theory and she needed another. Locating the culprit’s slimy trail and following it—that was the challenge. Whitt apparently worked the same way. “Why did you think military?”

“First, we got nothing. If it walks like a ghost and acts like a ghost, it’s probably a freaking ghost. What organization trains people to get in and out of places without leaving a trace—the government? Aside from the medical profession, what other career instructs in torture without killing—the military? What beats the humanity out of young men and women until they act like zombies—war training?
And
who provides reacclimation and coping skills for these folks when they return? You guessed it, not a flipping soul.”

The resentment and emotion in Whitt’s voice told Rae that he’d been a recipient of the military’s proficiency and incompetence. How had the experience colored his premise? On the other hand, everything he said had theoretical merit. The Whisperer wouldn’t be the first serviceman returned from the war damaged beyond repair. “Did you find
anything
to support your idea?”

Whitt hung his head like a scolded dog. “Not So wasn’t fond of my hypothesis. I tried to work the angle in my off time. Do you have any idea how many vets have returned from combat in this area over the past couple of years? I needed something to narrow the field and never found it.”

Rae’s earlier excitement evaporated. “Everything else is in your notes.”

“Yeah. I checked out everybody in each victim’s circle and came up empty. I couldn’t even find a connection between the victims.”

“Maybe there is no connection. Maybe they were victims of con-venience, wrong time and place, whenever the urge struck,” Rae said.

“He seems too organized for that.”

“Or else he’s in a constant state of readiness, which lends credibility to your military theory.”

“Could be, Rae, but I think something else is going on with him, and I’d bet my badge that it stems from his combat service.” Whitt seemed to be deciding whether to verbalize his thoughts.

“Whatever you’re thinking, say it. Can’t hurt.”

“This whispering thing—always bothered me. Usually if a perp disguises his voice, it means the victim knows him. And the things he was saying sure sounded personal to me.”

Rae flipped through her notes and reviewed the whispered phrases:
liar
,
unclean
,
destroyer
,
poison
. “I wondered about that too. The language is a bit stilted but definitely personal. And you got nothing from friends and known associates?”

“Nothing, and I grilled every guy even remotely connected to these women. No one was the least bit hinky.”

Rae’s thoughts bounced around like pinballs. One of Whitt’s comments would elicit a checklist of possibilities, and the next one would dash them. The path to a criminal arrest was never straightforward. “How do you think he subdues them? Some kind of drug?”

“Would have to be, and that would require at least some pharmacological knowledge. The amateurish slicing sure doesn’t seem like anyone with medical experience. So where does that leave us?”

“Wondering what type of drug can be administered without leaving a trace, can knock a person out temporarily, and can’t be detected in the bloodstream.”

“Apparently he wants them unconscious long enough to restrain them but not long enough to miss the cutting. He wants them fully aware of what’s happening. He gets off on the control and the fear. Filthy freak.”

“W
hy
does he do it?” Rae wondered aloud.

“You know that’s usually the last thing we find out, if we ever do. Maybe somebody stole his teddy bear when he was a child. Maybe he was mentally or physically abused. Maybe his mother didn’t breast-feed him. Or maybe he’s just a warped individual.”

Rae cringed at this part of her job—getting inside a criminal’s head. She couldn’t imagine what motivated such depraved actions. If she allowed herself to dwell on it, poking around in the mind of such an individual could depress her.

Across the table from her, Ken Whitt clenched his big fists until the knuckles turned white. “Sorry I can’t be more help. This one eats at me every day.”

“I can see why.” When he rose to leave, Rae shook his hand and offered a final promise. “I’ll find this bastard, and thanks for the help.” Officers were often cut out of the information loop when they retired. The omission seemed cruel—trusted and included one day and excluded the next. Whitt had given his life to public service, and she respected and honored him for it. She hoped someone would do the same for her one day.

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” As he walked away, Rae felt compassion for Ken Whitt and a deeper need to solve this case. Neither of them would get much sleep until she did.

*

On her way to work Audrey thought about Yasi’s visit and wished she could have stayed longer. Two nights was barely enough time to settle a baby kitten in her new surroundings, much less catch up with a lifelong friend. Yasi had a way of putting things in perspective. She even pointed out Rae’s protectiveness when Trevor had touched Audrey’s back unnecessarily. Audrey had been too distracted to notice. This time, Yasi’s usually sage advice wasn’t so easy to follow—leave the investigating to the cops.

Maybe she was finished with amateur detecting. After Jeremy Sutton’s death, she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling of responsibility. She wasn’t cut out for the uncertainty and guilt of a cop’s world. Letting Rae help her was another issue entirely.

When Audrey entered the mayor’s complex, a couple of shorthaired cops rose to meet her. Nerves knotted in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t deal with another interrogation. It was a big day for the mayor, and she needed to be at her best. Their expressions made it clear she wouldn’t have a choice.

“Ms. Everhart?” A tall black officer with a rumbling voice approached her and held out his hand. “I’m Detective Brown and this is Detective Greene.” He nodded toward his partner, a short, skinny, almost sickly looking specimen.

Audrey almost laughed aloud.
Brown
and
Greene
, seriously? They sounded like code names for some clandestine alphabet agency.

Brown offered a half smile. “I know. The guys call us the Colors.” Then the pleasantries ended. “Is there somewhere we can talk, privately?”

“This isn’t a good time. The mayor has a press conference shortly, and I have to make sure everything is in order.”

“It’s important. I didn’t want to do this at our office, but—”

“I see.” Translation, if you don’t talk to us here and now, we’ll haul you downtown with the utmost humiliation and detain you as long as possible. She motioned toward her office. “Would you wait for me in here, please?” She closed the door behind them and turned to the mayor’s elderly secretary, who had been straining to catch every word.

“Mrs. Honeycutt, would you tell the mayor I’ll be in shortly?”

“What was that all about, dear? Anything wrong? I couldn’t quite hear.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Honeycutt. This won’t take a minute.”

The secretary gave her a disappointed sigh and laboriously nodded her consent. Audrey steadied herself and entered her office. She took a seat at her small conference table, and the detectives joined her.