Waking Nightmare (21 page)
Simple enough to finish it then. To drag the body deeper into the alley. Drop it long enough to open the trunk of the car, then pause, just for a moment. There was something dramatic about the smoker’s pose, his arms flung out theatri cally.
Impulse had one booted foot lifting, to be brought down sharply on the man’s outstretched palm. The resulting snap and crackle sounded like dry leaves crunching underfoot. There were twenty-seven bones in the human hand. Another grind of the heel ensured that every last one was broken.
Snap, crackle pop. Almost like the breakfast cereal.
The thought summoned a smile but too much time had been wasted. A sense of urgency began to grow. The man’s body was heaved into the trunk, and the lid shut.
The sound of the car engine sliced through the darkness but there was no one in the vicinity to notice. The man would be delivered alive, although slightly damaged. A small enough favor in exchange for the supply of drugs. Then a four-hour drive to catch the red-eye flight back to Savannah and finalize the next selection.
Although truthfully, the choice had already been made.
Laura Bradford.
So beautiful. And so deserving of something extra special, arranged just for her.
Chapter 10
The task force morning briefing was already in progress when Abbie slipped into the room. Commander Dixon had kept her cooling her heels in his outer office for a half hour prior to their ten-minute meeting. Although he didn’t have time to read her updated profile then, he’d promised to do so by the end of the day.
She was much more anxious to get Ryne’s take on it. But that would have to wait until this meeting was over.
“So that’s it on the newest ViCAP update. I’ll narrow down these hits to any that sound remotely like our guy and check them out.” Ryne looked at a uniformed officer standing near the back of the room. “Bolen, anything on the surveillance of Juarez?”
“He never left the apartment on my watch, Detective. Nobody in. Nobody out.”
Ryne frowned. “So that means no one has seen him since we kicked him loose and he went home?” He glanced at Holmes. “Isaac, did you check with his workplaces?”
The man’s nod sent his droopy jowls jiggling. “He hasn’t gone to work since. Calls in daily claiming to be sick.”
“I’d feel a lot better if we had a visual.” Ryne looked at the officer standing next to Bolen. “Sackett, when you relieve Landis this morning, I want you to go to Juarez’s door. We need to be positive he’s really in there scamming sick leave.”
The man nodded and Ryne went on, “Isaac, let’s keep working that list of Juarez’s relatives and known acquaintances. I want to know this guy inside and out by the end of the day. Who does he come into contact with? Who does he talk to? Wayne and Nick.” His attention shifted to the next two men. “What have you got on the prostitute interviews?”
“Well, Wayne here got a bad case of the clap.” The only men in the room who didn’t show appreciation for McElroy’s humor were Ryne and Cantrell. “But it looks like a dead end. Plenty of sickos out there, but no previously unreported assaults or anything like we’re looking at.” Nick gave Abbie an insincere smile. “Sorry, Tinkerbell. Guess you’re batting zero.”
“I’d still like to see your notes, particularly for any professionals involved in S and M.” When Nick didn’t answer, she added, “Something might jump out for me that didn’t for you.”
McElroy shrugged. “Sure. Whatever. Robel has the copy.”
“What about the rock found in Juarez’s shoes?”
Cantrell answered Abbie’s question. “You mean the shoes that were in his closet, but that he claims aren’t his? It matches the rock at Billings’s place.”
“And so do the particles in the vehicle,” Ryne noted.
Cantrell went on, “Lab identified it, and so far we’ve got it being sold at a dozen places in the vicinity. Discount and home improvement stores, nurseries, landscaping outfits . . . probably find it in half the yards in Savannah.”
Ryne said, “Cantrell and McElroy, see if you can get a lead on the shoes themselves. Where are they sold around here, can they ID the customer who bought them . . .”
“That’s a long shot,” murmured Cantrell.
“Yeah. And so’s your next assignment. Research the manufacturer of that syringe we found. Who are their clients, where are those syringes available around here? You know the drill.”
“Shit,” muttered McElroy.
“That’s a succinct and accurate summation of what we’ve got on this guy so far, Nick.” Ryne’s voice was sharp. “We have a few prints of Billings’s from the vehicle, plenty of Juarez’s, and some others from the interior and on the plates. We’re still running them all through IAFIS and our state and local databases. Who wants to bet that we’re going to get lucky with that?” The room was silent. Ryne gave a grim smile. “Exactly. So we follow every possible lead, long shot or not. I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly want to stand around and wait until the next rape, hoping he’ll leave us his calling card.”
Those words struck a chord with Abbie. She waited until Captain Brown had finished a quiet conversation with Ryne, before he followed the rest of the men out of the room. She strolled to the front table. “You know, maybe he already did. Leave a calling card, that is.”
Ryne didn’t look up from the papers he was replacing in file folders. “You have a gift for telling me exactly what I don’t want to hear, you know that?” He finished putting the papers away and glanced up at her, a wry smile on his face. “You’re talking about the use of Juarez’s vehicle, right?”
Abbie nodded. “If the evidence doesn’t point to Juarez as the rapist . . .”
“We don’t have all the evidence yet . . .”
“Then we know why those plates were left on his Bronco, even after the rape was completed,” Abbie continued, propping a hip on the corner of the table. “The perp couldn’t count on the fact that Ethel Krebbs would identify the vehicle.”
“But with stolen plates on it, he upped the likelihood that the police would trace it eventually. And there it’d be, all gift-wrapped for us with blood traces from the victim still inside.” He braced both hands on the table to survey her. “You have a devious mind.”
“And you’ve already thought of this yourself.” Abbie was half disappointed, half pleased that their thoughts had taken a similar path.
“I have a devious mind, too. So you’re the profiler. What kind of guy would go to those lengths?”
The reminder shouldn’t have been necessary. She
was
the profiler on the case. A highly skilled investigator. Which didn’t explain why Ryne’s proximity had her throat drying, her breathing uneven. Irritated with herself, she straightened, putting a bit more distance between them. “He’s smart. His goal isn’t necessarily to engage the police, but a distraction . . . he’s careful enough to plan for that.”
was
the profiler on the case. A highly skilled investigator. Which didn’t explain why Ryne’s proximity had her throat drying, her breathing uneven. Irritated with herself, she straightened, putting a bit more distance between them. “He’s smart. His goal isn’t necessarily to engage the police, but a distraction . . . he’s careful enough to plan for that.”
“Yeah. We have to consider the possibility anyway. None of the prints on the plates match Juarez. So it was no surprise that we found none at all on the protective needle tip or on the empty syringe barrel.” He said nothing more, just looked at her for long enough to make her jumpy. “You should have come with me to Dixon’s last night.”
The sudden change of topics took her off guard. “You had a good time?”
He grinned. “No, it sucked. Never seen so many bloated egos in one place.”
His words surprised a smile from her. “You’re right. That does sound like something I’d enjoy.” The thought struck her that his charm, when he chose to use it, was even more formidable than the grim sardonic persona he’d worn the first day they’d met. And infinitely more attractive.
Ryne reached back to hook a chair with his foot and dragged it close enough to sink into. “I managed a few minutes alone with Dixon. The captain and I convinced him that a press conference would do more harm than good at this point.”
She shared the relief that sounded in his voice. “Good. See? You didn’t need me after all.”
His gaze went molten. “I wouldn’t say that.”
His low smoky tone wiped her mind blank. She wasn’t good at this. She didn’t have experience with the sexual banter that was part of the male-female dating ritual. And the men she’d chosen to get involved with must have been just as inept as she. There was undoubtedly a cause-and-effect relationship there, but she didn’t bother to follow it. At the moment, she could focus on nothing but Ryne.
He was wearing a muted striped jacket she’d seen him in before, with a gray shirt, dark trousers. Yet it was too easy to picture him again in his apparel from the gym, with his muscled arms and legs bare. Maybe because that image had taken up permanent residence in the back of her mind, choosing the most inconvenient times to reappear, unsummoned.
“What’s that?”
She followed the direction of his gaze and realized with a start that she was mangling the file folder from gripping it so tightly. “Oh. It’s yours, actually.” Thrusting it at him, she gratefully seized on the reminder of work. “I’ve updated the profile on the rapist. I think I know how he’s been selecting his victims.”
The interest in his expression morphed abruptly from personal to professional. The swiftness of the change made her a little envious. And curiously relieved.
“You do? You should have said something. You could have shared it with the team.”
“I wanted to talk to you first.” Nerves demanded an outlet, so she turned to pace. “I stopped to see Dixon first. Gave him a copy. There’s an extra copy there to share with Captain Brown. I worked on this most of the night. At first I thought it was too far-fetched, but there are just too many coincidences.”
“And they are?”
She turned to face him again. “I didn’t see it at first. He doesn’t seem to be choosing them based on a certain type. He isn’t finding them in the same sort of occupation or location, aside from the city itself.” As she warmed up to the topic, she felt surer. But she knew Ryne was going to be tougher to convince. “We’ve looked at the victims as a group, trying to find patterns. But it’s when I started to really focus on each of them as individuals that it struck me.”
“Abbie.” She stopped abruptly at his gentle interruption. “What are we talking about here?”
She drew a deep breath, met his gaze steadily. “I think he’s choosing women who have some deep-seated fear or phobia. And then I think he’s carrying out the rape in a fashion designed to maximize their suffering.”
He was silent a moment. Two. “Okay. Most women have a natural fear of being assaulted . . .”
“No, it’s more than that.” She crossed the room to take the file folder out of his hand. Flipping it open, she extracted the top sheet. “Look at this. He went to a great deal of effort to dump Barbara Billings in the sound. Why? What’s the point? It’s an unnecessary risk of exposure for him. He had ulterior motives.”
Ryne frowned. “Yeah, he did. She had eighty-seven knife wounds on her body. Eighty-seven. Most were shallow enough to make sure she didn’t bleed out, but you know what saltwater feels like on an open wound? He’s a sadist. You’ve said it yourself. He just wanted to prolong the torture.”
“Exactly.” She nodded. “He wants to prolong the torture, but even beyond the time she’d be rescued from the water. He wants her to suffer all her life.” At his uncomprehending look, her voice grew urgent. “She’s terrified of water, Ryne. She watched her father drown when she was seven. She nearly drowned herself. She hasn’t so much as gone swimming in a wading pool ever since.”
“An unfortunate coincidence. But what you’re suggesting doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. She’s been reduced to sponge baths since the rape, did you know that? Her mother said just the sound of water running in the tub gives Barbara severe panic attacks.”
He was wearing that impassive expression that she remembered all too well. But she wasn’t going to let him close her out. Riffling through the pages in the folder, she withdrew another. “And Tracy Sommers. She’s suffered from claustrophobia all her life. Could barely manage elevators.” She shoved the paper at him, but he didn’t take it. “The perp placed a plastic bag over her head and repeatedly suffocated, then revived her. Now she can’t work. She can’t force herself to get in a car, an elevator, a stairwell . . . I’m telling you, Ryne, this is the link.”
“It can’t be.” He shoved back from his chair and rose. “He’s picking them because they fit some criteria of his, that’s what you said. Some element that intensifies his own sexual arousal. It was in your first profile. At least that made sense.”
She ignored the insult. “It still fits. Except the criteria that arouses him is the opportunity to inflict suffering that doesn’t stop. It doesn’t end when the assault is over.” Hearing it out loud, after mulling it over since yesterday, just cemented her certainty. “He thinks he’s suffered,” she said, half to herself. “He thinks he’s been traumatized in a way that can never, ever be healed.” Perhaps it took someone with personal experience of that kind of torment, who had been the recipient of that purposeful infliction of emotional pain, to recognize its presence in another.
“And now he’s found a way to make other people suffer profoundly. Maybe for the rest of their lives. His satisfaction doesn’t end when the assault is over because he ensures his victims long-term agony. And long-term pleasure for himself, because of it.”
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