The Killing League (18 page)

Milford stepped in and swung again.

The real deal, he thought.

75.

Mack

Mack barely spoke to Adelia and Janice when he got back home. Instead, he went straight to his office, shut and locked the door, cracked a beer.

Bullshit. Utter bullshit. That’s what Whidby was full of and people would die because of it.

He slammed the beer like a triathlete chugging Gatorade after a sixty mile bike ride. Fuck it, he thought. He had to get this thing figured out.

Mack slammed the folders down on his desk and picked up the phone. Reznor had given him the files that had finally come through from Charleston Municipal Hospital and the Georgia Trucking Bureau.

On the flight down, he’d studied the hospital records. Of the employee information, he’d found three people that fit his profile.

Mack picked up the phone and dialed the hospital’s administration office and asked for the name of the person who had corresponded with Reznor.

When he got the person on the phone he told him what he needed. In short, he read the man the three names he had winnowed down from the major list. They fit his profile: the person would be at least thirty-five years of age, no more than fifty-five, most likely somewhere in the middle. The person would be a low-ranking employee, not a doctor or a highly skilled technician. The person would be single, with no children. The person would also have been at the hospital for at least seven years.

But most importantly,
the person would have taken an abrupt and uncharacteristic leave of absence within the last few days.

The man promised to call Mack back as soon as he checked the details.

Mack looked at the files from the Georgia Trucking Bureau. This would be much more difficult and take significantly more time than the hospital information. The trucking bureau had names and records in the thousands. Plus, the records were incomplete and haphazard, unlike the hospital’s information.

Mack cursed Whidby again. If the man had just given him a team of junior agents to go through this kind of labor-intensive work, he could make some real progress in as short amount of time as possible.

The phone interrupted his thoughts and he thumbed the connect button.

Of the three names, two were currently working their shifts at the hospital. The third employee had asked for time off due to a family crisis.

She was a forty-seven year old nurse who was single, with no children. She had been a nurse at the hospital for nearly seventeen years.

The administrator gave Mack the name but it meant nothing to him.

Ruth Dykstra.

76.

Lady of the Evening

He had chosen a woman for her, and she knew the reason. It was a competition, after all. Amanda Dekins knew that she was good with men. Knew how to manipulate them. Trick them. Kill them.

So this time, the Commissioner had pitted her against a fellow female. She almost laughed. ‘Fellow female.’ What a stupid phrase. Yeah, she had a pussy. But she was about as far from what it meant to be a “woman” than anyone could imagine.

She wasn’t too worried. She’d read through the file notes of her target. The woman was a crime scene investigator — one of those tech geeks who on television were able to scrape some little bit of skin from the inside of a lampshade and catch the killer. Typical Hollywood bullshit.

Well, the woman, named Sophie Tarallis, hadn’t done anything that dramatic, but her extremely thorough work had helped catch a serial killer in Milwaukee nearly ten years ago. It had been her big claim to fame and she was frequently seen on television in a show about cold cases.

Amanda Dekins nodded. It made sense. This was Round Two.

The stakes were definitely getting higher.

She realized that pitting her against a woman actually made it easier, in some ways. Maybe what the Commissioner saw as a challenge was an advantage.

So Amanda Dekins chose to look at it that way.

The Tarallis woman drove home the same way every day from the Dallas Crime Center, except on Friday nights when she and two of her coworkers usually stopped at a trendy bar across the street and had a martini.

Dekins dressed in a simple business suit with sensible shoes and drove her rental car to a nearby park. She got out, locked it, and walked back to the street, about a quarter mile from the bar her target was most likely about to leave.

She spotted an apartment complex nearby and stood in the shadows. Fifteen minutes later, she saw the Honda Accord driven by Tarallis.

Dekins pulled the shirt from her waistband so it hung untucked, messed her hair and kicked off one of her shoes. She dashed into the street, directly in front of the Accord. The car skidded to a stop.

She went to the driver’s side window and screamed. “My boyfriend’s drunk and he’s going to hurt me!” She glanced back at the apartment complex, her eyes wide with terror. “Can you just give me a ride away from here? Anywhere?” she said. She started crying, although if the target looked closely, she wouldn’t see tears.

The woman gave a quick look at the apartment complex, then back at Amanda Dekins. Dekins saw she was a small woman, with salt-and-pepper black hair pulled back in a bun. The woman looked at dead bodies all day. No wonder she didn’t have much style.

Dekins knew what the woman saw. A woman still pretty, but clearly past her prime. Probably a divorced, legal secretary living in a shitty apartment trying to put her life back together. A woman who maybe had a pattern of choosing the wrong kind of man.

“Get in,” the crime tech said.

“Thank you so much,” Dekins said as they pulled away.

“I’m calling the cops,” the crime tech said. She had her cell phone pressed to her ear as she drove.

“No, it’s okay,” Dekins said. “Just turn up here at the next block, I’ve got a ride coming. But I couldn’t wait any longer, I think he was going to kill me.”

The woman thought about it, then snapped her phone shut.

“There’s a little park over here where I’m meeting my sister,” Dekins said.

Sophie Tarallis pulled her car off the main road, drove down two blocks and pulled up behind the main picnic area of the little park. Dekins saw her rental car about twenty feet behind them.

“Okay, this is perfect,” she said.

A moment later, Sophie Tarallis became the central piece of evidence in a grisly crime scene.

77.

Mack

Mack hung up the phone. He had just given Reznor the name of Ruth Dykstra. He’d explained his profile, what he’d found out about the woman.

He urged Reznor to order a search of Dykstra’s house and try to find the woman.

In the meantime, he settled back in with the Georgia Trucking Bureau’s records.

This was going to be tough. The profile he had developed would fit too many candidates. White male. Low education. Loner. Difficulty socializing with women. Probably in his late twenties to mid thirties.

Mack went at it for two hours, and quickly had a pile of at least twelve possible suspects.

He sighed, pushed back from the desk and cracked another beer.

He looked out the small window above his desk. He could just make out the peak of a neighbor’s house down the street. A few cirrus clouds streaked the sky, a star fruit tree swayed in the gentle afternoon breeze.

Mack’s eyes dropped to the small card on his desk. He had almost thrown it away, but had instead saved it for some reason.

KL.

What did that mean, anyway? He’d never gotten a call from a KL Landscaping or anyone else.

Mack thought about the people who had died in the last three days. He wanted to smash something. He looked at the beer bottle in his hand.

He’d been violated and he was suddenly enraged. Who’d been watching him? Who had installed the spyware on his computer? How long had they been watching him? What were they after?

Mack thought about the victims. Nahler. Tomlinson. Dragger. They all had violent crime in common, in one way or another.

But they had another thing in common.

Him
.

He’d worked with Nahler. Had met both Tomlinson and Dragger.

He’d never met Judge Lyons, but had been in the same courtroom with him at some point. And Deborah Pugh had interviewed him for background on one of her books.

Fuck
.

Mack’s eyes fell again on the card with the KL logo.

Images and words along with names crashed through his mind as he raced toward some kind of conclusion. He felt it.

The cases he’d been studying. He presented some of them at Quantico, during his lecture. He thought of his notes.

The Dragger murder and Nahler killing he could tie to two active serial killer cases.

Did the other killings also tie to some of the cases he’d been studying? If so, which ones? And that meant that more victims were coming soon.

Would they be related to Mack somehow? Who else had he worked with, been associated with him in terms of violent—

A shot of sheer terror ripped down his spine.

He jumped to his feet and raced to the phone. One name glowed before his eyes in blazing neon white.

Nicole
.

78.

Blue Blood

During the murders, the arrest, and the media circus that followed, Mrs. Frances Knowles did the unthinkable regarding her now infamous son.

She admitted his guilt.

Unlike most serial killer parents, who staunchly defend their children against their alleged crimes by steadfastly proclaiming their innocence, Frances Knowles admitted that her son was a monster.

“I always knew something was wrong with him,” she told a reporter from People magazine. “There were always dead animals around the house and lots of weird pornography. People being tortured, that sort of stuff,” she said. “Deep down I always thought I’d given birth to some sort of devil. No wonder his father ran away from us.”

Although she never expressed sympathy for any of her son Timothy’s victims, she did express relief and gratitude to the judge and jury that sentenced her son to death by lethal injection.

“I never should have had him in the first place,” she said.

Douglas Hampton knew all about parents who were quite fond of pointing out their children’s faults. From an early age, his mother had lamented how worthless he was, that he wasn’t deserving of the Hampton name. Later, he realized that she was furious with her husband and was taking it out on their son. But that realization was too late. The seeds of a black hatred were sown in his very soul. And when the first faint stirrings of sexuality appeared, those seeds ignited and blossomed like a mushroom cloud inside him.

Now, he stood on the doorstep of Frances Knowles’s pathetic little house in some godforsaken little town in Ohio. He had a briefcase in his hand and was dressed in a nice Armani suit, a charcoal pinstripe.

He rang the doorbell and waited. When there was no response, he banged his fist on the flimsy wooden door and called out to her. “Hello, Mrs. Knowles?”

Hampton heard movement, and then the door opened. The old woman stared at him.

“I’m with Brochman, Evans and Leverett,” he said, naming the high-powered law firm that, according to the Commissioner’s notes, her son had hired to defend him at his trial.

She stared at him without speaking or registering his comment.

“The good news is, I have a substantial check for additional revenues generated by your interview with People magazine,” he said. “The bad news is, you have to sign a few forms.”

He gave his best smile and when she looked into his eyes he kept them as wide open and friendly as he could. If he had been able to “think” a little twinkle into them, he would have done so.

Hampton knew that the woman had never been able to escape her son’s notoriety. According to his notes, Frances Knowles was approached at least once a month, either in person or on the phone, for an interview. She had declined them all.

However, the woman had recently called a repairman to look at the boiler in her house. The Commissioner figured that she needed money.

Hampton watched the old lady struggle with her decision.

“Okay, why don’t you come in,” she said.

79.

Nicole

Nicole stood in the kitchen at Thicque. Everyone had left for the night, but she had dawdled, wanting to enjoy the satisfaction of another great evening. She loved it here. This was her place and even now, over the soft sounds of jazz from the sound system, she could still hear the voices and laughter of the people who had come here for a great meal, good wine and the company of good friends.

Sometimes that’s how she hoped her restaurant felt to people who came here, like a friend you’ve just met but feel like you’ve known all your life.

The thought of friends triggered a brief flare of anger in her mind over Kurt. When the investigator had told Nicole her new “friend” was actually married, it had briefly thrown her for a loop. Especially because he had clearly given off the vibe that he was interested in Nicole as more than just a friend. Despite that she hadn’t been looking at him in a romantic sense, it made her upset that he had lied to her. Well, he hadn’t lied, but he clearly omitted the fact that he was married. If it wasn’t being dishonest, it was grossly misrepresenting.

She went through the dining room, straightened a few chairs that weren’t quite lined up perfectly with the others. Lifted one of the linen curtains whose bottom hem had snagged imperceptibly on the wooden window sill.

Satisfied, Nicole went back into the kitchen. She turned off the stereo, pulled a stool up to the small stainless steel table situated near the dining room door.

This was where she kept her travel notes, files, menu plans and other paperwork that wasn’t private. In fact, she encouraged her kitchen staff to peruse recipes, her descriptions of meals she’d had while traveling abroad and suggest menu items or cooking methods. So far, no one had-