The Pawn (23 page)

All four of us studied the items intensely.

“OK,” said Lien-hua. “What do you see?”

Ralph shook his head. “Any of these things could be hers or someone else’s. There’s no way to know.”

We all donned gloves before touching anything. I pulled out her credit cards and shuffled through them, glancing at the names on the cards. “Nope. These are all hers.” I uncrumpled the receipts, compared them to the credit cards. “These are all hers too.”

“The billfold, maybe?” said Tucker. “Could it be someone else’s? He wants us to know. He wouldn’t leave something we couldn’t link.”

Lien-hua flipped the billfold over and shook her head. “It’s embroidered with her initials . . . Wait a minute.” She pointed to the hairbrush. “Jolene has blonde hair.”

“Yeah, so?” I said.

Lien-hua picked up the brush and held it up to the light. “This brush has red hair in it.”

“That’s it!” said Ralph. He turned to Tucker. “Process that now. I want fingerprints, DNA—” The crime scene technician reached for the brush, but Ralph stopped him. “No offense, buddy.” He pointed to Tucker. “You do the fingerprinting. You’re the best we have.”

“I’m on it,” said Tucker.

He hurried off with the brush as the timid crime scene guy scooped up the rest of the purse’s contents and followed him to the lab.

“OK, good,” said Ralph. “Let’s see where that leads us.”

“It’s possible it might be something else in the purse instead,” I said. “Let’s not get too excited yet. Either way, he hasn’t linked all the bodies for us—”

“I still want to know why he skipped Bethanie,” said Lien-hua impatiently. “She was killed between Reinita and Mindy. Did he get started with her maybe, and she resisted, and that’s why he didn’t leave a clue? Or was he interrupted before he could leave it?”

“Maybe something went wrong,” said Margaret, “and he panicked?”

“He didn’t panic,” said Lien-hua. “The one thing this guy doesn’t do is panic.”

“Besides,” I said, “he would have had the contact lenses with him already; he would have come prepared to leave them no matter what. After all, he left the pawn and the yellow ribbon. Besides, the ring points to Mindy, not Bethanie. It’s like he skipped right over Bethanie, like she’s not part of the series.”

“Yeah,” said Ralph. “And if Tucker’s right, then he didn’t start leaving these clues until Reinita.”

“Order matters,” I said. “There’s something about the order we’re missing.”
Why did he start with Reinita? What happened?
I stared off into space, processing everything.

I looked up at the faces on the wall. The beautiful pictures of the dead women.

Someone had already added Jolene’s picture to the mix.

Patty. Jamie. Alexis. Reinita. Bethanie. Mindy. Jolene.

Alexis and Bethanie were found the farthest away from Asheville.

Maybe he didn’t skip Bethanie.

I thought back to the basement at Grolin’s house. The workbench. The bookcase. The cat.

Maybe he didn’t kill her.

The cat.

Suddenly I remembered something I’d heard years ago. “Only the most foolish of mice would hide in a cat’s ear,” I muttered. “But only the wisest of cats would look there.”

“What?” said Ralph.

I walked around the table to look at the pictures on the bulletin board. “A saying I heard once. It means the best place to hide something is often the most obvious place because it’s the last place anyone would look.”

Margaret looked at me quizzically.

“We’ve been looking for what all the victims have in common, right?” I glanced around at the team. “But what if only some of them had something in common?” I pointed to the wall. “Alexis and Bethanie.”

Margaret shook her head. “What are you saying?”

“What if you wanted to kill someone but also avoid suspicion?” “I’d make sure I had an airtight alibi,” she answered. “I don’t see what this has to do with—”

By then Ralph had caught on. He stood up. “Or you could make sure you wouldn’t need one at all.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s right.”

Margaret shook her head. She still didn’t understand.

“OK,” I said. “Let’s say I wanted to kill off Lien-hua here.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Just for discussion purposes. If we were friends and then suddenly she showed up dead, I’d be a suspect, right?”

“Well, maybe,” said Margaret, glancing at me derisively. “If you had motive, means, and opportunity.”

So, she was getting a little of her old spunk back. That was good.

“OK,” I continued. “What if I had all those things, but she’d obviously been killed by someone else, say a serial killer. Same MO. Same signature. What then?”

Suddenly it all began to sink in. “A copycat?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I said. “Two killers instead of one. That would explain why the geo profile was off. It would also explain why he started linking the crimes with Reinita—”

“Because someone else killed Alexis, and he wanted to separate his work from the copycat’s!” said Lien-hua.

Ralph grabbed the manila folder containing the medical examiner’s reports. “Hmm. The wound pattern was the same in each case, but it looks like the cuts weren’t as deep on Bethanie and Alexis.” He flipped to another page. “And the pawns—the ones found at Alexis and Bethanie’s sites—were cut with the same lathe.” He studied the photos carefully. “But the graining of the wood might be slightly different. Could be a different set. I’ll check it out.”

“Why didn’t we notice that before?” asked Margaret.

“Because we weren’t looking for it,” I said. “We were assuming rather than examining.”

“Wait,” said Lien-hua, “toxicology, remember? Different drugs for Alexis and Bethanie.” She hit the table with her hand. “He can’t stand that someone else would share the spotlight.”

“He’s telling us which ones are his,” mumbled Margaret.

Wait a minute. Never assume. Theorize, test, revise.

“OK,” I said. “I’m hypothesizing here, but let’s see what we’ve got. If someone else killed Alexis—found out about the ribbons and the chess pieces, I don’t know how, but let’s say he did—then the Illusionist—”

“Grolin,” said Margaret.

“Whoever he is, he’s following the case on the news, right, Lien-hua?”

“Absolutely.”

“He hears about this other body, knows he didn’t kill her, and doesn’t want to—what did you say?”

“Share the spotlight.”

“Right. So he decides to link his crimes for us in another way—a way nobody could possibly copy, leaving clues to his future victims. This way he keeps playing the game even though someone else has reached across the board and started taking some of the pieces.”

Everyone seemed to be tracking, following my train of thought.

“OK,” I said. “Let’s use this as a working theory, but before we jump to any conclusions, let’s see if this hairbrush leads us anywhere.”

Ralph began to point to each of us like a drill sergeant clicking off jobs on a duty chart. “Lien-hua, revamp the psych profile based on five victims rather than seven—leave out Alexis and Bethanie. Pat, rework the numbers on that geo-whatever computer program of yours. Let’s see where that takes us. I’ll get the interrogation room set up.”

Margaret just stood motionless by the table, stunned. “Two killers,” I heard her whisper as I hurried past her to my desk. “And one of them knows where I live.”

44

Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid had only met one true psychopath in his life.

As a teenager, Aaron had spent four months in a state-run group home for adolescents in southern Mississippi. The state didn’t call them orphanages anymore. Of course not. Much too negative-sounding. Instead, it was a “group home.” As if calling a place like that a “home” would turn it into one. As if anything could do that.

Of course, the idea was still the same—children who’d lost their parents and were no longer cute and cuddly little babies whom couples might actually want to adopt get to live together until “they’re old enough to move out and become a burden on society.” At least that’s how the staff at the group home used to put it when they thought the children were out of earshot.

It was their idea of a joke.

So that’s where Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid met the psychopath—during his stay at the Oak Island Group Home in La Cruxis, Mississippi.

Sevren was a gray, cold pool with deep currents. On his first day there, he ran into Lucas, an ape-like high school senior nearly six years older than him, in the hallway. Lucas bullied all the other kids and they all hated him, but none of them dared cross him.

The two students stood staring at each other, neither moving. Neither flinching.

“Out of my way,” said Lucas, glaring at the newcomer.

Sevren just eyed him. Expressionless. Impassive. Unmoving.

“I said, step aside,” growled Lucas, moving closer.

He pushed Sevren against the wall and smacked him hard in the gut. As Sevren gasped for breath, Lucas leaned close. “I heard about your mama, little boy. What she did for a living. She deserved to get cut.”

And then, something happened. Something snapped in the wiry little boy who had just arrived. As quick as an asp he grabbed the older boy’s throat and squeezed. Lucas beat on Sevren with his massive fists, but it had no effect. It took five other kids to pull Sevren off, and Lucas spent the next four months in the hospital trying to learn how to swallow again.

Of course, the other kids were glad Lucas was out of the picture. So when the administration asked about the fight, they just told them Sevren was acting in self-defense, which was mostly true. And instead of being sent to juvenile prison he was allowed to stay at the home.

Sevren became a coiled serpent, always watching, always evaluating, always calculating. But what impressed Aaron the most wasn’t his roommate’s physical strength but his ability to manipulate people, to control them. In fact, he was almost as good at it as Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid was.

Almost as good, in fact, as Father.

But of course, that’s not what makes a person a psychopath, just having the ability to manipulate others. If it were, someone might actually consider Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid a psychopath. But no, persuasion, admirable though it is, isn’t enough. To be a psychopath you need to lack empathy. You need to have a complete disregard for what other people are feeling or experiencing.

Even now, Kincaid remembered watching CNN when Gary Ridgeway, the Green River Killer, was captured back in 2001 after a nineteen-year killing spree in the northwest. After he was finally convicted of killing forty-eight women (and claimed to have killed forty-one more), the investigators asked him what made him different from other people, and he summed it all up in three simple words: “That caring thing.”

Psychopaths lack that caring thing. They act on impulse, don’t feel guilt, don’t respond emotionally the way the rest of the world does, and have an insatiable need for power and control. Some don’t feel fear. Some can’t find sexual fulfillment unless their partner is in pain, or dying, or dead. Usually it’s the agony of others that brings psychopaths the most pleasure.

So that was Sevren. No conscience. No guilt. No fears. No regrets.

They say psychopaths begin exhibiting signs of their pathology at age fifteen.

Sevren was an early bloomer.

One day after school, Aaron had snuck behind the group home’s south wing to grab a smoke out of sight of the host family’s window. It was April in Mississippi. Hot and steamy. Humidity you could taste.

Just after lighting up, he heard sounds in the nearby woods. Screeches. High-pitched, primal, something other than human.

The noises were coming from a clearing up ahead. Aaron knew the place. The teens would meet there sometimes late at night to drink or smoke pot around a bonfire.

He heard the sound again. What was that?

And then, laughter. Quiet and calm. And a cold voice oozing through the trees. “You like that, don’t you?”

Aaron saw a flicker of movement in the meadow and stepped quietly onto the path.

Another cry, this time sharper. Definitely not human. Some kind of animal.

What was going on?

He had to see.

But then the screech was cut off abruptly, swallowed by a burst of strange, moist, gurgling sounds. “There, now. That’s better,” said the voice.

Aaron edged forward and peered through the underbrush. He was close enough now to see a figure kneeling, working at something with his hands, humming. Whatever he had on the ground in front of him lay hidden from view.

Aaron took another step closer. Who was that? Only his back was visible.

Maybe it was the movement, visible out of the corner of his eye, or the soft sound of footsteps on the forest floor, but the figure stopped what he was doing. Froze. So did Aaron.

Time crashed to a halt. To Aaron the moment smelled like spring rain and flowers and earth and blood, and then the person in the meadow turned his head slowly and rose in one smooth, serpentine motion. Aaron recognized him right away.

“Hello, Aaron.” Sevren was holding a pocketknife smeared with dark blood. More blood dripped from his hands and forearms down onto the leafy forest floor.

Aaron let his eyes follow the descent of the drops of blood. And that’s when he saw what his roommate had done to the cat. Somehow the poor creature was still alive. It flopped what was left of its head back and forth feebly, finally facing Aaron. Tried to look at him. Had no eyes left to do it.

“What are you doing, Sevren?”

“A little experiment.” Sevren cocked his head slightly and shook out his fingers, splattering warm blood onto the young leaves. “You won’t tell, will you?”

For a moment, just a moment, Aaron thought of running. Somewhere deep beneath the gurgles of the dying cat he could hear the sounds of the jungle and the screams and pleading prayers of the dying children. And the babies crying in the dark.

Somewhere beneath the sounds.

The dream called to him. He thought of running from Sevren, from this meadow, from everything, escaping like he had when he was ten, running and running and running forever, but this time he stood still. Something kept him there, drew his eyes toward the gruesome scene.