Under Cover of Darkness (12 page)

He stared down at them and a heat rose from within him. It was cool in the room, but he was beginning to perspire. Such were his powers of concentration. He was focused on the details of each deadly pose. The position of the hands. The tilt of the head. The display of the victim. This wasn't simple reminiscing. He regarded these photos not as windows to the past but as blueprints--for the future. It all had to be perfect.

He left the photos neatly arranged on the bed beside him and crawled beneath the covers. Naked and somewhat aroused, he checked the clock on the nightstand. Not quite four P
. M
. Just enough time to revel in his fantasy. Then to work.

He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.

Chapter
Thirteen.

Andie didn't normally fret over what people thought about her, but Victoria was different. Competition for a spot with the elite ISU was almost prohibitive. A good word from Victoria could go a long way. A bad word would slam the door.

In truth, Andie wanted more than just one woman's approval. Certain colleagues in the office refused to let her wedding disaster die quietly. Just today some jerk had left a doctored photocopy of the FBI shield in her in-box with the FBI motto--Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity--changed to Infidelity, etc. Though it was the groom who had slept with the maid of honor, the joke was on the bride who had announced it at the ceremony. A bang-up job as profile coordinator might silence the morons at the watercooler.

Victoria had seemed mildly impressed by Andie's torture analysis at the task force meeting, which was borne out by the photographs from Minneapolis. But without so much as a word to Andie, she had spent the rest of the day studying the files alone in a small, windowless office that was the perfect home-away-from-home for a special agent from the ISU. The Investigative Support Unit was quite literally buried beneath the earth back at the FBI Academy in Quantico, two stories below the gun vault.

By four o'clock Andie figured it was time to get a rea
d o
n Victoria's thinking. That was a dangerous prospect, considering the amount of time Victoria spent thinking like a serial killer. Undaunted, Andie walked down the hall and knocked on the door.

It opened. Victoria was blurry-eyed behind her reading glasses. "Yes?"

"Sorry to interrupt," said Andie. "But have you got a minute?"

Victoria seemed distracted but stepped aside and let her in. Crime-scene photographs were spread across the table, like pieces of a gruesome puzzle. Andie wasn't a total neophyte, but it unsettled her to stare into the bulging eyes of a strangulation victim.

Victoria returned to her seat, facing the photographs.

Andie pulled up a chair. "This will just take a minute." "It's okay," said Victoria. "I needed a break anyway." "I've had something on my mind since the task forc
e m
eeting."

"Was there something we didn't cover?"

Andie felt baited. It was as if Victoria knew why she had come. "Actually, yes."

"Your bookend theory?"

"That's the one."

Victoria smiled thinly. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to come talk to me about it."

"I'm not pushing it. I'm just curious, that's all. It did make front-page news this morning. But in, the whole three-hour meeting, you hardly mentioned it."

"Everyone in that room had read this morning's paper. A serious discussion about it would have galvanized their thinking. It's like I told you in the car. If it's a bogus theory, we don't want to give our task force a full head of steam heading in the wrong direction."

"Why are you so sure it's bogus?"

"I didn't say it was."

"Do you think it has any merit? Possibly, I mean?"

"Would it make you feel better if I said I did?"

"Maybe."

Victoria raised an eyebrow. Andie said, "Okay, yes, it would. And that's not because I'm some kind of egomaniac. It's just that your little speech in the car this morning left me twisting in the wind."

"How do you mean?"

"You said it was okay that my theory leaked to the press, so long as I was right."

"That's right."

"Well, I don't think it's fair to hoist the blade up the guillotine and then give me no indication as to whether you think I was right or wrong."

Victoria nodded and said, "That's a fair complaint."

Andie wasn't sure if she was agreeing with her or simply acknowledging her right to gripe. "So, what do you think about the bookend theory?"

"It has definite appeal, if you focus on the first two victims. Both white males, fifty-one years old. Same hair and eye color. Divorced, middle-class. From a victimology standpoint, the only apparent difference is that one drove a 1989 Ford pickup and the other's was a '93. And, of course, the similarities don't end with the choice of victim. Both were strangled and stabbed exactly eleven times after death, mutilated and degraded the same way, left on display in their own living rooms. And. here's something I just picked out of the police reports. In both cases the television was on when the cops arrived. Tuned to the same damn station. KOMO, channel 4."

"So you understand where I'm coming from," said Andie.

"Of course. But there are dissimilarities, too. Until we construct a more complete profile of the killer, it's hard to know if these differences are meaningful psychological indicators or just cosmetic changes in m
. O
."

"But like you say, the more you review these three cases, the more viable the bookend theory becomes."

"I didn't say that. I said the two men were remarkably similar."

"Jane Doe was also strangled."

"Yes. And unlike the men, she was photographed alive, and the pictures were sent to the Torture Victims' Institute."

"But it was the same kind of rope in all three cases. Doesn't that make you think that victim number four will look a lot like her, maybe even have her picture sent to Minneapolis?"

"Not enough to put it in the newspaper."

Andie withdrew, deflated.

Victoria shifted gears quickly, as if not to let all the air out. "By the way, what did you make of the busted eardrum?"

"The what?"

She glanced at her notepad. "I was just reading the final autopsy report on our Jane Doe, hot off the press. Didn't you pick up on that?"

"I guess I didn't focus on her ears."

"Says she had a ruptured right eardrum. Strangulation obviously creates pressure in the head, but I've never heard of it causing an eardrum to burst. Interestingly, we don't have any kind of ear trauma in the two male victims."

"You're saying what? My bookend theory is out the window because victim number three had a busted eardrum?"

"Right now the flaw in your theory isn't as subtle as that. The various similarities and simple fact that the same rope was used in three confirmed homicides tells us we probably have a serial killer. But it's hard to label our serial killer a so-called 'bookend killer' when we have only one set of bookends. There's no way to be certain there will be a match for Jane Doe."

"That's being a little conservative, don't you think?" "You want to send this city into a panic? Thanks to thi
s m
orning's newspaper, every thirty-something brunette in Seattle is probably looking over her shoulder."

"Maybe that's not a bad thing."

"Or maybe it's a terrible thing. Maybe we've just lulled every blonde and redhead in King County into a false sense of security."

She suddenly understood Victoria's reluctance to embrace her theory--at least publicly. "Maybe it is premature to give our killer a name. But let's look down the road. Say the killer next strikes a woman who matches Jane Doe as closely as the two male victims matched each other? Or, let's say Beth Wheatley is already victim number four, and Jane Doe isn't just another thirty-something brunette. What if it turns out she's also the wealthy mother of a sixyear-old daughter and was estranged from her high-powered husband--just like Mrs. Wheatley?"

"Not to be difficult, but I don't take anything at face value. I would probably check Mrs. Wheatley's ears." "And if there's a busted eardrum?"

Victoria glanced at the photos on the table, then back at Andie. "Then I'd have to say we're dealing with one scary son of a bitch."

Andie's voice filled with trepidation. "And I would have to say you're right."

Gus didn't really want his daughter to see it. In fact, he hadn't even told Morgan he was going to be on the evening news. Carla had. Gus hadn't explicitly told her not to tell Morgan, but he'd expected his sister to have more sense. The fact that he'd tried to keep it a secret only seemed to make Morgan more determined to watch.

She was parked on the leather couch a good fifteen minutes before the five o'clock local news. He wasn't about to let her watch, even if she was more mature than most sixyear-olds. He did take a few minutes to explain why the reporters had come by the house, what he had told them. H
e k
ept reminding her of the zoo story. It was a safe image, her mommy off by herself watching the polar bears. He wished it were that simple.

"Please, can't I watch?" she asked.

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"But I want to see Mommy's picture."

"I'll videotape it for you, okay? And then we can tal
k a
bout whether you can see it." "why?"

"Morgan, there's no debate." He spoke in his stern discipline voice that told her he meant business. She pouted but followed him obediently to her room.

"You promise you'll let me see the tape? Please?"

"I promise to think about it," he said, then closed the door.

It was exactly five o'clock when Gus returned to the room.

"Good evening," said the newscaster. "Tonight's top story . ."

It wasn't Beth. He felt let down, though no one had told him it would be the lead story. Still, he couldn't help but feel that his was the important story, far more important than the latest flap over political campaign fund-raising.

He plugged a tape into the VCR, as he promised he would. He felt cold as he waited, doubtful he would let Morgan watch the recording any time soon, dead positive he could never have prepared her for the live broadcast. He wondered if he was prepared.

Finally, the news turned local. "In other news, the wife of a prominent Seattle attorney is reported missing . . ."

Gus went numb at the sight of Beth's photograph on the screen. It was worse than he had anticipated, seeing his wife on television with the dramatic graphic MISSING played alongside her.

The young anchorwoman said, "More on this story from investigative reporter Vince Daniels."

Gus was taken aback. He had never talked to a Vince Daniels. It had been a woman who had come by the house to interview him. The story was taking an unexpected tack.

The screen flashed to a stocky reporter standing live outside the state courthouse. He had a microphone in one hand, papers in the other.

"Judy, this is not the first time alleged acts of violence have touched the Wheatley family. In court documents obtained exclusively by Action News, Beth Wheatley filed this domestic-violence complaint against her husband, Gus Wheatley, the managing partner of Seattle's most respected law firm. The report was filed five years ago, at a time when insiders tell us the couple was contemplating divorce. Although the Wheatleys did reconcile, in this explosive report Mrs. Wheatley alleges a pattern of spouse abuse that lasted over a year. Abuse that didn't end, she says, until he physically struck her."

"Vince, is there any indication that police are investigating a possible connection between the abuse and Mrs. Wheatley's disappearance?"

"So far police aren't talking. But we will be watching this story very closely."

A stunned Gus grabbed the remote control and switched off the television. He was already shaking as a voice startled him from behind.

"That's why you didn't want me to watch." It was Morgan.

He hadn't heard her sneak out of her room, but it was

too late to scold her and tell her to go back. "Morgan--" "Did you hit Mommy? Did you make her go away?" "Morgan, no."

He saw hatred in her eyes, then fear. She ran from the room. Gus hurried after her. "Morgan, please."

She only ran faster, straight to her room. The door slammed in Gus's face. He tried the knob. It was locked.

"Morgan, let me explain." He knocked and tried the knob again.

"Go away!" she shouted.

He wanted to tell her it wasn't true--that he had never hit Beth, that she had withdrawn the complaint. Crucial details that a sensationalist newsman hadn't bothered to report.

"Morgan?"

"Just go away!"

He pressed his ear to the door. His mind whirled, then stopped, as though he'd hit a stone wall at full speed and was crushed beneath the fallen rubble.

Inside, he could hear Morgan crying.