Impulse (11 page)

“All right.”

‘The killer left a note.”

“Like Jack the Ripper? Or Son of Sam?”

“Sort of. It was a poem.”

He could see the wheels turning in her head as she digested that piece of information. “Like the BTK killer,” she murmured.

“Don’t even suggest that,” Will warned. That was all
he needed, a serial killer loose on the streets during the city’s biggest tourist event.

“Was the poem original?”

“I don’t know. Deputy Douchet’s going to check it out online as soon as she gets back from escorting the body to Jackson.”

“May I see it?”

He considered that for a moment. “I don’t see why not. So long as you understand it’s off-the-record. The last thing I need right now is for you media types to give him a cutesy name like the Poet Killer.”

“I suppose that could fuel his fantasies.”

“Sure as hell could. Wacko killers who leave notes and write letters want attention. They’re chasing fame and I want to make sure this creep doesn’t get it.”

“I understand your reasoning, but that plan could backfire. Possibly make him kill again to garner the attention you refused him the first time.”

“True. Which is why I have to catch him. Fast.”

Will refused to think he wouldn’t.

He reached into the manila case file he hoped wouldn’t grow all that much. Guys like this were addicted to the rush every bit as much as a crackhead or meth addict. The more they killed, the more they needed to kill. If Erin Gallagher’s murderer wasn’t caught soon, things were bound to get worse.

The poem had been double-bagged to protect it from outside fingerprints. Unsurprisingly, they hadn’t found any prints, indicating that this guy was a more careful planner than some.

She skimmed the lines.

“Creepy, that part about with ‘the knife that men use, with the knife of the hunter, I will stoop down for my gift,’ ” she read aloud.

“It’s not exactly a love sonnet,” he agreed.

“No, it’s certainly not. It’s also not original. It’s ‘Mowgli’s Song,’from Rudyard Kipling’s
Jungle Book.”

Those barbed-wire lines across his brow deepened again. “The one about the kid raised by wolves?”

“That’s it. I remember reading it in lit survey class.”

“So all we have to do is find someone who’s taken English 101.” Should be a snap in a college town. Yeah. Right.

“Or has access to the internet. You could probably do a search for poems about murders and come up with thousands.” She read the entire poem again. “This definitely doesn’t suggest a crime of passion.”

“Usually slit throats involve preplanning. And practice.”

She visibly flinched. “Are you suggesting she wasn’t the first?”

“I’m no profiler. And I only worked Homicide for a couple years, before Vice, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

“So, here’s what I know so far.” He leaned forward, folded his hands on top of the folder.
“Erin Gallagher’s throat was slit sometime between midnight and three a.m. Since her clothing appeared to be intact, I’m guessing against sexual molestation, but I could be proven wrong. She could have been raped. Then dressed again.”

“Wouldn’t that be risky? Given that she was outside where she and the murderer could be viewed
…
Unless she was killed somewhere else and moved?”

“No.” Will shook his head. “She was killed there in the woods.” He knew he’d be seeing that frozen blood violating the pristine white snow for a long time. “As for the risk, a lot of psychos get off on risking detection as much as the actual taking of a life. It’s all a game to them.
That song, or poem”—he nodded toward the paper she’d handed back to him—“was attached to a clip on the type of lanyard used to hold ski passes.”

“I assume you’re going to check out where the lanyard was purchased?”

“I already did. They sell them in the ski shop at the lodge. Apparently they can get as many as five thousand people a day on the mountain and go through at least a couple hundred of the lanyards a week. And it’s not unique to White Mountain. The same brand’s also sold in ski shops all over the country. And online.”

“Well, that certainly narrows it down,” she murmured. “Should be a snap.”

“Like looking for an ice cube in a snowbank,” he agreed.

She’d pulled a pen and pad from an oversize red leather bag that looked as if it weighed a ton. “What else do you know? That you can tell me,” she tacked on, in a show of cooperation he appreciated.

“The last person we’ve been able to locate who saw her was Josh. They’d been together at her place.”

“I’ve seen them talking together from time to time at the station, but hadn’t realized they had a thing going.”

“It wasn’t exactly ongoing, if Josh can be believed, which—and this is absolutely off-the-record—I’m not sure he can be. He said they’d just talked before. Until she picked him up at the gas station. Said it was a spur- of-the-moment thing that was totally unplanned.”

“Interesting.” Faith tapped the tip of her pencil on
the paper. “She didn’t necessari
ly seem like the spontaneous type. But I suppose you never know.”

“No. He did say she seemed edgy. Wired.”

“But he wasn’t with her when she was killed?”

“No. Apparently he fell asleep.”

“Not while watching any video,” she guessed.

“No. It was after they’d had sex.”

Will hated sharing something his son would undoubtedly prefer to remain private, but the truth was bound to come out as soon as the autopsy was made public.

“Sleeping with Erin so close to the time of her death could seriously compromise Josh’s situation.”

“Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know?”

“Picking up your son doesn’t seem like all that risky a thing to do, since beneath all that tough bad-boy bravado, he’s a good kid. A little lost, perhaps, but that’s not unexpected, given all the changes in his life the past year.”

“He’ll adjust.”

“Better if he has something positive to focus on. Something that boosts his self-confidence.”

“Excuse me. Have you had a child since the
last time we were together?”

She threw up her hands.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize
you’re the only father on the planet who’s earned his
perfect-p
arenting merit badge.
Getting back to your case, it was definitely reckless of Erin to go skating alone in the middle of the night
with the woods full of strangers.”

“Agreed.”

“Do you think she might have been meeting someone?”

“It’s always possible. But unlikely, unless she was into threesomes, because she’d asked Josh to go with her.”

“Poor Josh.” Faith dragged a hand through her hair. “He’s got to be feeling guilty.”

“I’d say that’s a given.”

“I know you don’t want any advice.” She leaned forward in her chair to press her point, her fantastic eyes earnest. “But you might want to get him some help. Perhaps have him see Drew Hayworth on a professional basis.”

“I thought the shrink taught at the college.”

“He does. But he’s just an adjunct professor there, which doesn’t exactly pay the big bucks, so he also has a small private practice. And he’s written a book on survivor guilt.”

Will thought about Josh going through the rest of his life thinking about ho
w things could have been differ
ent if only he’d stayed awake. If only he’d been at the lake to protect the girl with whom he’d been as intimate as two people could be.

Will thought back on those scars on Erin Gallagher’s wrists. Statistics on teenage suicide swirled through his mind. Along with the grim knowledge that although he locked up his Glock every night, if his son was determined enough, he could break into the steel box.

Or buy a gun somewhere else. This was
W
yoming, land where it seemed every other truck boasted an NRA bumper sticker while others proudly proclaimed that Guts, Guns, and God were what made America great.

“Christ.” He swiped a hand through the hair his father had been after him to cut. Some things, such as father-son hair disagreement, he’d discovered upon returning home, never changed. “This sucks.”

“I know,” Faith said. “And if it’s tough on us, it’s got to be a million times worse on Josh.”

When she was right, she was definitely right.

“I’m going over to the college to talk with Hayworth about the Gallagher girl after the press conference. I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to see how he thinks Josh is doing. Maybe set up some sessions.”

“That’s a good idea.” She leaned back and crossed those long legs again. He appreciated that she wasn’t going to be smug about getting her way. “When will you have the autopsy reports?”

“The body would’ve been waiting at the morgue when the medical examiner showed up for work this

morning. Unlike
X-Files,
where Scully performs those
middle-of-the-night autopsies, Heather Jackson pretty much works bankers’ hours, from nine to four.
So, I’d say, absent the drug screening and DNA, by this afternoon.” He glanced at the window. The hum of the generators from the news vans could be heard through the glass. As could the increasingly loud drone of voices.
“The damn natives sound like they’re getting restless.”

“Then you’d better go throw them some red meat.” She stood up and closed her notebook. “Thank you, Sheriff. I appreciate your cooperation.”

“It’s not like you gave me any choice.”

“Newsflash, Bridger.” She tucked the notebook back into that oversize red leather bag that was nearly the size of his day hiking pack. “I’m one of the good guys. I may still be pissed at you for trying to use me to get to my boss, no matter how noble your end goal. But I wouldn’t have climbed over you, your son, or a murdered girl to get even.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“There is just one thing.” She flashed him the first genuine smile he’d received from her since the night everything had fallen apart in Savannah. It was no less dazzling than it had been then. “Don’t look now, Sheriff, but you’ve got yourself a new partner.”

22

W
ill stared at her. “W
hat in the hell
are you talking about?”

Faith’s eyes sparked with a determined glint. “Despite the ten-year gap in our ages, Erin was a friend. I wish I’d been a better one to her, but it’s too late to change that now. But I can at least try to make amends by helping you track down the person who took her life.”

“That’s my job. And in case you haven’t noticed, cops and reporters are definitely not natural collaborators. And I don’t need a partner.”

“I’ll bet you had one in Savannah.”

“Sure. Another detective, who’d been trained to do police work. The Hazard sheriff’s department may not be the largest in the country, but we’ve got three deputies—Charbo
nneaux, Douchet, and Honeycutt—
working the case.”

“And I’ve no doubt they’re not only highly qualified but efficient. But none of them has a microphone. And a ready-made audience.”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“I could go on the air, maybe encourage him to call—”

“What part of
‘I
don’t want to turn this guy into some sort of celebrity like Ted Bundy or the Mansons’ did you not understand?”

She did her best to contain it, but accustomed to watching for tells—those little personal tics and behaviors that gave away emotions—from suspects, he didn’t miss a faint shiver.

It was good that she was scared; she’d stay safer that way.

“Surely you don’t think you’re after a serial killer. Whoever mu
rdered Erin has only killed one
person—”

“That we know of.”

He looked out the window, in the direction of the lake, recalling the scene in vivid Technicolor detail. The body was in Jackson, about to be attacked with saws and a claw hammer, and the bloodied snow had been scooped up and stored in ice chests for the lab along with the clothes she’d been wearing.

The snow that had been falling steadily all night would have covered the boot and truck-tire tracks, so that any sledder who happened by would never know that evil had been done there.

But Will knew. And the bitch was that he also knew he’d never be able to get it out of his mind. Which was one more reason he’d disliked working homicide.

Sure, vice often led to murders, but often as not, the victims were just as guilty as the perps.

They were not innocent, young college girls with their entire lives ahead of them.

Nor radio personalities who might just have more heart than sense.

“You will not, under any circumstances, interfere with my investigation,” he said through gritted teeth. “If I hear one word that sounds as if you’re trying to establish some sort of sick reporter/killer bond with the guy, I will pick you up, toss you into a cell so fast that gorgeous dark head would spin, then throw away the key.”

“I believe that just might be against the law. Even here in Wyoming.”

“Why don’t you ask me if I give a flying fuck?” he exploded.

As if he’d been li
ngering just outside, Sam Charbonneaux stuck his head in the door.
“Everything okay, Sheriff?” he asked mildly.

“Yeah. Everything’s just dandy,” Will lied.

“Okay.” Solemn brown eyes measured the situation. “Morning, Faith,” Sam said.

She managed a crooked, somewhat embarrassed smile. “Good morning, Sam.”

“Good program last night.”

“Thanks.”

“What did you need, Sam?” Will asked abruptly.

“Just wanted to let you know that Desiree got a make on that Explorer parked in your space.” Sam was suddenly studiously avoiding Faith. “Maybe I’d better fill you in on that later.”

“It’s not necessary. I already have a confession. Seems the perpetrator overlooked the sign.”

Sam grinned. “Didn’t I tell you that sign oughta be yellow? People notice yellow. That blue and white blends right in with the snow.”

“I’ll make a note to have the county maintenance crew repaint it.”

“Good idea. I also wanted to let you know that I finished checking out Erin Gallagher’s apartment.”

“Find anything?”

Sam glanced pointedly at Faith.

“She’s okay,” Will said. “Since everything you say is off-the-record.”

Sam seemed a little surprised by that, but Will knew he was far too professional to ever question a superior officer in front of a civilian.

“Nothing that points to a reason she was murdered.”

“No indication of drugs?” Although drugs weren’t the problem they’d been in the city, W
il
l knew that small towns weren’t immune.

“Nothing illegal, but apparently she wasn’t exactly the happy, carefree girl she appears to be on all those commercials, because along with some birth control pills, I found a bottle of Prozac and another of Clonopin. I know the first’s prescribed for depression, but I don’t know what the second one’s for.”

“It’s an antianxiety drug,” Will said. The doctor who’d diagnosed his glitchy heart had suggested he try it. He’d refused. “Had they been filled locally?”

“No. It’s one of those mail-order drug companies.
And the doctor’s from Park City, where I guess she used to train. I’ve got a call into his service, but he hasn’t gotten back to me.”

“Interesting,” Will mused.

“Yeah. I thought so, too. Funny thing, she didn’t have any skating memorabilia around.”

“She referred to skating as being her previous life,” Faith said.

“Odd she’d make that much of a separation,” Will observed.

“Maybe it hadn’t been as positive an experience as it appeared to outsiders. After all, we just see the glittery costumes and the glamour. The Olympic TV cameras never show young girls moving away from home, the hours of practice, the injuries, the pressure to constantly succeed. The isolation.”

“Doesn’t seem like much isolation when you’re appearing in front of millions worldwide,” Sam said.

“Millions of strangers,” Faith pointed out. “From the little Erin had dropped about her past, I had the impression that she didn’t know anyone—or about anything— outside of skating. She didn’t even go to public schools. She had a tutor four hours a day from the fourth grade. That was why—”
Unshed moisture welled up in Faith’s eyes. She swallowed, choking back tears.

“Why what?” Will asked. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a snowy white handkerchief.

“Thanks.”
Faith dabbed at her eyes. Her teeth were worrying
that lush bottom lip he’d been fantasizing nipping at only minutes ago.
“Everything was new to her,” she managed once she’d composed herself again. “There were times when she seemed like a two-year-old, who was just discovering that there was a world outside her previously small comfort zone. She was driven to experience everything. I suspected, to make up for all she’d missed.” Faith drew in a breath. Let it out. “Now she’ll never get the chance.”

“We’ll get the guy,” Will promised her yet again, just as he had Josh last night. “Why don’t you go start interviewing her friends and classmates at school,” Will told Sam. “I’ll get rid of the vultures and tackle the shrink.”

“Good idea,” Sam agreed.

The deputy said good-bye to Faith, then left them alone again.

“So.” Will rubbed his hands together, easing out stress-induced kinks. “Where were we?”

“I believe you’d just threatened to throw me in jail.”

“Right. I was also about to remind you that I said I’d get the guy. And I will. A lot faster and easier if I don’t have an amateur screwing up my investigation.”

“Now we’re getting to the heart of the matter.”

“Dammit—” He raked a hand through his hair again. Rubbed his heart, which was suddenly on the verge of doing backflips.

“There’s more involved than your ego, Sheriff. And I have a question.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He was beginning to remember another reason he’d realized right off the bat she wasn’t involved in that crooked congressman’s illegal activities. The guy, like so many other politicians Will had met, had surrounded himself with yes-men. Faith had a mind of her own, and if they hadn’t arrested the guy, he figured she would’ve only lasted another week or so working in the smoke- filled backroom deal making that seemed to be the norm in political life.

“I’m a reporter. Asking questions is what we do. If I’m not allowed to speak with Erin’s murderer, what do you expect me to do if he calls out of the blue?”

“I expect you to keep the tape running—you do tape the show, right?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Then have Mike call me the second the call comes in.”

He reached into the breast pocket of his starched shirt and pulled out a business card with his office phone, cell phone, and pager numbers on it.

“And try to keep the guy on the line.”

“Ah.” Another nod. “So, I am allowed to actually talk with him?”

He ignored her faint sarcasm. “Only if he calls.” A thought occurred to Will. “I’ll want to tap your phone. Just in case.”

“My home phone? Or the station’s?”

“The station’s for starters. If he does decide to call, we’ll include yours.”

“I can’t make a decision about something that important for KWIND, I don’t even know if it’s legal.”

“Okay, then I’ll call Fred Handley and get his okay.”

She scowled.
“
You know Handley?”

“Sure. He grew up in Jackson Hole. We both played football, him for the Broncs, me for the Timberwolves.”

“Please tell me you won.”

“We stomped them four years running.”

“Good.” She folded her arms and nodded decisively.

“Sounds as if he’s still as much of a jerk as he was back then.”

“I’ve no idea how bad he was in high school, but he’s a narrow-minded, chauvinistic jerk now. Part of the reason I really need to do this story,” she revealed, “is because he doesn’t believe women can do news. I intend to prove otherwise.”

“Sounds like old Fred. If his dad hadn’t been a mining bazillionaire, he would’ve gotten himself kicked off the team, and possibly expelled for sexually harassing cheerleaders. I heard one encounter beneath the bleachers after a game was a lot more rape than seduction.”

“I’m not surprised. He made my skin crawl.”

“Yet you went to work for him.”

“I needed a job.” The scarlet sweater dipped again when she shrugged. “Besides, he’s in Cheyenne. So far he hasn’t been moved to make the drive up here, and with any luck it’ll stay that way. What makes you think he’ll go along with tapping the station phone?”

“The valley doesn’t have any local television outlets
and the paper’s a weekly, which makes you the only media game in town. If he decides he wants some press and decides to call KWIND, that tape could prove a PR bonanza for Handley. Which would be especially helpful if rumors of him running for Congress are true.”

“Reflected fame.”

“Absolutely.” It did not escape Will’s notice that their thoughts were in sync. The only other person he’d ever met he didn’t have to explain himself to was Gray.
“I’ll walk out to the parking lot with you,” he said. “Unless you want to stick around while I throw some raw meat to the vultures.”

“Are you going to tell them anything you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m not telling them as much as I told you.”

“Then I may as well go. But you don’t have to see me out.”

“Actually, I do,” he said as he walked out of the office with her to the elevator. “Since I’m parked behind you.” As soon as the metal elevator door closed behind them, Will jabbed the red emergency button, stopping the elevator’s descent.