The Soul Catcher (41 page)

FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.

M
aggie spread out the files on the counter Keith Ganza had cleared for her, shoving high-tech microscopes out of the way and setting empty racks of vials clinking.

“Should we wait for Detective Racine?” Ganza asked, glancing at his watch.

“She knew what time we were going to get started.” Maggie tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. Just when she was starting to be impressed with Racine, the detective did something to annoy her all over again. “The only case I could find on VICAP,” Maggie began, “is a floater fished out of Falls Lake just north of Raleigh. They found her about ten days ago.” She pulled out the scanned photos she had downloaded. “She was a twenty-two-year-old college student at Wake Forest.”

“A floater?” Ganza hovered over her shoulder. “How long had she been in the water?”

“Coroner’s report says several days.” She showed him a faxed copy. “But you know as well as I do that it’s pretty tough to figure time of death with a floater.”

“This doesn’t sound like our guy. What was VICAP’s match?”

“Actually there’re quite a few things. Her mouth was taped shut with duct tape and a piece of paper was found shoved down her throat. There’re handcuff marks on the wrist and several ligature tracks on her throat.” Again, she pulled out more scanned photos, close-ups of a mutilated neck and welted wrists.

“Was the hyoid crushed?”

Maggie ran her index finger down the coroner’s report until she came to the notation. “Yes. And check the photo. There’s a lot more bruising than from a cord. This guy likes to use his hands when he’s ready for the kill.”

Ganza held up a full-length scan. “Looks like livor mortis on her backside. She may have been sitting when she died. Would have had to be sitting for hours before he came back and tossed her in the water. But why toss her? Our guy likes to pose his victims.”

“He may not have tossed her,” Maggie said. “The Wake County sheriff told me they had some flooding in that area about two weeks ago. The lake came up over its banks.”

“Well, she’s washed pretty clean. Any DNA samples found at all? How ’bout under her nails?”

“Nope. All washed away.”

“I have the preliminary DNA results from the Brier girl,” Ganza said while he shifted through the documents Maggie had laid out.

“And?”

“There was some foreign DNA under her fingernails, but it doesn’t match the semen.” Ganza didn’t sound surprised. Maggie wasn’t, either. Whether Senator Brier wanted to believe it or not, the evidence seemed to point to consensual sex, probably earlier in the evening.

“Also found some foreign fingerprints on the Brier girl’s purse. We’ll check them against what we have in AFIS,” Ganza continued. “’Course, the way you girls share your belongings with one another, it might not lead us anywhere.”

“Goes to show you what you know about girls, Ganza. I don’t share my things with anyone, let alone something as personal as a purse.”

“Goes to show what you know about girls, O’Dell. When was the last time you carried a purse?”

“Okay, good point.” She felt her cheeks flush, surprised that he had noticed such a detail about her. Yes, she hated to admit it, but it was true that she had been anything but the typical teenage girl, and it looked like she was far from the typical woman. Still, it was embarrassing that this scruffy, weathered, forensics relic knew more about women and their accessories than she did.

“One other thing.” This time he went to the metal cabinet in the corner and brought back a plastic evidence bag. Inside, Maggie recognized the slide with a piece of transparent tape attached. It was the slide she and Stan had made from the residue found on Ginny Brier’s neck. “Hang on to that for a minute,” he told her as he walked to the door and reached for the light switch. “Now, keep in mind that whatever cord or wire or rope this guy is using has to be covered with this crap, okay?”

He shut off the light and the glittery substance on the slide began to glow in the dark.

“What in the world?”

“If we can figure out what it came off of, it might be able to tell us something about our guy.”

He snapped the lights back on.

“What about something used in a magic act or for a theater production?” Maggie asked. “Maybe some novelty store or costume shop might be able to tell us.”

“Could be. But I’m wondering, does he use it because it’s a nifty prop or because it’s something he has handy all the time?”

“My guess is it’s a nifty prop.” Maggie held up the slide again. “This guy likes attention. He likes putting on a performance.”

When she looked back at Ganza, he was picking through the assortment of documents again. He pointed to the fax copy of the crumpled piece of paper found in the floater’s throat. “No ID, no cyanide capsule, no quarters. What was this?”

Despite the wrinkles and creases, it looked like some kind of schedule with a list of dates and cities. Maggie pulled out another piece of paper from her jacket pocket.

“Recognize this?” she asked as she unfolded a copy of the Church of Spiritual Freedom’s pamphlet. The one Tully had found after Reverend Everett’s Saturday night rally. On the inside was listed the dates and cities for the organization’s fall schedule of rallies. “Take a look at the first of November. That week’s designated rally was at Falls Lake State Recreation Area in Raleigh, North Carolina. Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence, because you know—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You don’t believe in coincidences. So how does the homeless woman fit into all this? There was no rally close by. And if Prashard’s early assessment is correct, she was also killed Saturday night.”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Maggie, you know all this means is that someone wants us to make a connection to Everett. The murder of Senator Brier’s daughter looked like it could be revenge for the deaths of those boys in the cabin. But the rest—the floater, the homeless woman…” Ganza waved his hand over the spread of photos and reports and faxes. “All it means is that someone wants us to make a connection to Everett. Doesn’t mean he’s involved.”

“Oh, he’s involved,” Maggie said, surprised by the hint of anger in her voice. “I don’t know how or why, but my gut tells me the good Reverend Joseph Everett is somehow responsible. Maybe not directly.”

“Or maybe even directly,” Racine said, appearing at the doorway. Her spiky blond hair looked windblown, her face flushed, and she seemed a bit out of breath. She came in and held up a copy of the
National Enquirer.
The front-page photo showed Ginny Brier holding hands with Reverend Everett. Without looking at the newspaper, Racine read the headline aloud. “Moments Before Her Death, Senator’s Daughter Attends Prayer Rally. Photo credit by our good pal Benjamin fucking Garrison.”

“Garrison?” Maggie wasn’t surprised. Though she had met him only briefly at the monument Sunday morning, she hadn’t trusted him or his reasons for being there. “Okay, so Everett met Ginny Brier. No incriminating evidence there. And no harm done. We already knew she was at the rally. Why so steamed, Detective Racine?”

“Oh, it gets much better.” Racine practically ripped the pages, flipping to the inside, creasing the fold before turning it back around. This time both Maggie and Ganza came in for a closer look.

“Son of a bitch,” Ganza muttered.

“I should have known I couldn’t trust that bastard,” Racine said through gritted teeth.

Maggie couldn’t believe it. The page was filled with crime scene photos, photos of Ginny Brier’s dead body, black boxes strategically placed over her private parts, but nothing to hide the horrible, brutal rest. Nothing to cover those terrified eyes—frozen in time, eyes wide open.

E
ric Pratt could hear and feel the chipping and splintering of his fingernails as he dug them into the grooves of his handcuffs. It had become a new habit, useful only in that it prevented him from digging the jagged nails into his own flesh.

He should have been grateful that the guard had let him keep his hands together instead of locking them at his waist to each side. He knew his captors had misread his polite behavior, perhaps even thought he was harmless. Though not entirely harmless—he rattled the shackles on his ankles, reminding himself they were there, readjusted himself in the chair. He needed to stop squirming. Why couldn’t he sit still?

As soon as the woman entered the room, Eric had felt a wet chill sweep over his body. She had introduced herself as a doctor, but Eric knew better. The woman was small, well dressed, about his mother’s age, but very attractive. She carried herself with confidence and ease despite the high-heeled shoes she wore. He found himself watching her legs as she crossed them, making herself comfortable in the steel folding chair. She had smooth, firm calves, and from what he could see of her thighs, she was really nothing like his mother.

She was explaining why she was here. He glanced at her mouth, but he didn’t need to listen. He knew exactly why she was here. He had known the second she walked in the door.

She was the woman clothed with the sun. Her reddish-blond hair had been a dead giveaway. It circled her face like the rays of the sun. Of course, she would possess warm green eyes and a quiet, captivating manner, a polite and hypnotic voice and a body that could distract and tempt. Father Joseph had outdone himself this time. He had sent a vision straight out of John’s description of the Apocalypse. Had he honestly believed Eric wouldn’t recognize her?

Sweat trickled down his back. Her voice hummed in his ears, the words no longer separate but strung together as melody—Satan’s death song, lovely and mesmerizing. He wouldn’t let it hypnotize him. He wouldn’t let her draw him in and incapacitate him. But she was good. Oh, she was clever with that kind smile and those sexy legs. If Brandon’s visit hadn’t prepared him, he may very well have been taken into her web, ensnared before he realized what the true purpose of this visit really was.

Click, click—
his fingernails picked at the metal. One of them was bleeding. He could feel it, but he kept his hands in his lap, pretending to be calm, pretending the fear wasn’t clawing inside him, ripping at the walls of his stomach and trying to race up his throat to strangle him.

He looked into her eyes, saw her smile and quickly looked away. Was that her secret weapon? If she couldn’t hypnotize him with her voice, would she use her eyes? He wondered how she might kill him, and his eyes scanned the length of her, looking for bulges in her clothing.

The guards would have allowed her in with anything she cared to conceal. They would want no part of the mess, even if they were able to stop her. After all, Father had told them the woman clothed with the sun had special powers, according to the gospel of John, St. John the Divine, Revelation 12:1–6. She was light. She was dark. She was good and evil. She was a messenger of Satan and could disguise herself easily.

Suddenly, Eric remembered a newspaper article Father had read them just months ago. No member was allowed newspapers or magazines. There was no need when Father took the burden upon himself to relay those news items that were relevant and from sources that could be trusted.

But now Eric remembered the story of a foreign diplomat who had been visiting the States from some evil empire. Eric couldn’t recall the country. The diplomat had been slain in his hotel bed and reports were that the woman who killed him did it while straddling him, waiting for him to come and then slitting his neck. Father Joseph had used it as an example of justice being done. Was that where he had gotten the idea of sending this woman?

Eric noticed her tapping the pencil, the eraser smacking the notepad—the notepad, a decoy left on the table, not a single note scrawled on it. The pencil had been freshly sharpened, its lead a dagger’s point. He could distinguish some of the words that came out of her mouth, words like
help
and
cooperate.
He knew better. He refused to be sucked in by her code words. They could just as well have been words like
kill
and
mutilate.
He knew their true meaning.

Tap-tap, tap-tap—
he watched the pencil and tried to ignore the panic squeezing the air out of his lungs. The room felt smaller. Her voice droned on.
Tap-tap, tap-tap.
His heart pounded in his ears. Or was that the pencil?

He made himself look into her eyes. He had cheated Satan once before. Could he do it again?

E
ric Pratt could hear and feel the chipping and splintering of his fingernails as he dug them into the grooves of his handcuffs. It had become a new habit, useful only in that it prevented him from digging the jagged nails into his own flesh.

He should have been grateful that the guard had let him keep his hands together instead of locking them at his waist to each side. He knew his captors had misread his polite behavior, perhaps even thought he was harmless. Though not entirely harmless—he rattled the shackles on his ankles, reminding himself they were there, readjusted himself in the chair. He needed to stop squirming. Why couldn’t he sit still?

As soon as the woman entered the room, Eric had felt a wet chill sweep over his body. She had introduced herself as a doctor, but Eric knew better. The woman was small, well dressed, about his mother’s age, but very attractive. She carried herself with confidence and ease despite the high-heeled shoes she wore. He found himself watching her legs as she crossed them, making herself comfortable in the steel folding chair. She had smooth, firm calves, and from what he could see of her thighs, she was really nothing like his mother.

She was explaining why she was here. He glanced at her mouth, but he didn’t need to listen. He knew exactly why she was here. He had known the second she walked in the door.

She was the woman clothed with the sun. Her reddish-blond hair had been a dead giveaway. It circled her face like the rays of the sun. Of course, she would possess warm green eyes and a quiet, captivating manner, a polite and hypnotic voice and a body that could distract and tempt. Father Joseph had outdone himself this time. He had sent a vision straight out of John’s description of the Apocalypse. Had he honestly believed Eric wouldn’t recognize her?

Sweat trickled down his back. Her voice hummed in his ears, the words no longer separate but strung together as melody—Satan’s death song, lovely and mesmerizing. He wouldn’t let it hypnotize him. He wouldn’t let her draw him in and incapacitate him. But she was good. Oh, she was clever with that kind smile and those sexy legs. If Brandon’s visit hadn’t prepared him, he may very well have been taken into her web, ensnared before he realized what the true purpose of this visit really was.

Click, click—
his fingernails picked at the metal. One of them was bleeding. He could feel it, but he kept his hands in his lap, pretending to be calm, pretending the fear wasn’t clawing inside him, ripping at the walls of his stomach and trying to race up his throat to strangle him.

He looked into her eyes, saw her smile and quickly looked away. Was that her secret weapon? If she couldn’t hypnotize him with her voice, would she use her eyes? He wondered how she might kill him, and his eyes scanned the length of her, looking for bulges in her clothing.

The guards would have allowed her in with anything she cared to conceal. They would want no part of the mess, even if they were able to stop her. After all, Father had told them the woman clothed with the sun had special powers, according to the gospel of John, St. John the Divine, Revelation 12:1–6. She was light. She was dark. She was good and evil. She was a messenger of Satan and could disguise herself easily.

Suddenly, Eric remembered a newspaper article Father had read them just months ago. No member was allowed newspapers or magazines. There was no need when Father took the burden upon himself to relay those news items that were relevant and from sources that could be trusted.

But now Eric remembered the story of a foreign diplomat who had been visiting the States from some evil empire. Eric couldn’t recall the country. The diplomat had been slain in his hotel bed and reports were that the woman who killed him did it while straddling him, waiting for him to come and then slitting his neck. Father Joseph had used it as an example of justice being done. Was that where he had gotten the idea of sending this woman?

Eric noticed her tapping the pencil, the eraser smacking the notepad—the notepad, a decoy left on the table, not a single note scrawled on it. The pencil had been freshly sharpened, its lead a dagger’s point. He could distinguish some of the words that came out of her mouth, words like
help
and
cooperate.
He knew better. He refused to be sucked in by her code words. They could just as well have been words like
kill
and
mutilate.
He knew their true meaning.

Tap-tap, tap-tap—
he watched the pencil and tried to ignore the panic squeezing the air out of his lungs. The room felt smaller. Her voice droned on.
Tap-tap, tap-tap.
His heart pounded in his ears. Or was that the pencil?

He made himself look into her eyes. He had cheated Satan once before. Could he do it again?