Aberration Page 9

  “Not unless they’re in prison for something else or they die,” TK added.

  I stood and rounded the table. TK made way for me as I moved toward a photo of Sorenson’s body laying atop a thick bed of garbage. I pointed to it. “He’s not dead. I’m telling you. He collected Sorenson’s trash for six weeks. This guy is a meticulous planner. He is still out there, and he’s going to kill again.”

  Talia sighed. “Well, none of the police departments have any viable suspects. Now that more of the evidence has been processed, both Denver and Ardmore have asked us to revisit our profile, so let’s go through it again. What’ve you got?”

  My left hip vibrated. Discreetly, I checked the number on the display of my cell phone—Jory for the third time that day. My chest tightened. I had tried to distance myself from him, to give him some time to rethink ending his marriage, but he was not going away.

  I cleared my throat, focusing on my present task. “Caucasian male between the ages of 35 and 45. He’s either self-employed or he has a job with a comfortable income that allows him to travel.”

  “A sales job?”

  “Could be,” TK said. “If he’s a good salesman and smooth talker, it might explain how he is able to spend so much time at each scene without there being any kind of struggle. Although Agent Bishop thinks that he uses a gun to control the scenes, and I agree.”

  “He’s organized, methodical, controlled,” I continued. “Either that or he’s the luckiest murderer in the country. He leaves no prints. No neighbors hear or see anything. The bodies are posed, and there is minimal evidence of a struggle. Also, he brings what he needs to the scene—besides the pillow and couch cushion—and takes it with him when he is finished. Looks like his weapon of choice is a small aluminum baseball bat—even though the damage is inflicted postmortem. Both the ME in Denver and the ME in Trenton concur on that.”

  “He’s single,” TK said. “A loner but one who can get along easily in social situations. To people who know him, he’s probably a nice guy who’s very quiet, keeps to himself, and can be a little obsessive about things.”

  “He drives a newer car, probably a sedan. Nothing flashy,” I added. “He won’t want to draw attention to himself. Also, I don’t think we’re going to find a criminal record on this one. He may have committed crimes before, but he hasn’t been caught.”

  Talia stopped taking notes and rubbed the cap of her pen over her bottom lip. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “He’s obviously successful enough professionally to move around the country with ease and flexibility. A criminal record would have impeded that success,” I explained. “Plus these crimes show a level of sophistication that indicates someone who has probably committed crimes before. He’s clearly honed his art—you don’t get this good without practice committing crimes.”

  “Good, good,” Talia said.

  “He may have a history of mental illness, probably clinical depression. He has some college education,” TK said.

  “Let’s talk about the sexual element of these crimes,” Talia said, motioning to the pictures of Boyd Henderson.

  “I don’t think there is a sexual element,” I said.

  Talia’s eyebrows rose. “Even with the women’s clothing?”

  “None of the bodies showed evidence of sexual assault or abuse,” I pointed out. “No semen at any of the scenes. If we operate on the theory that these killings are about humiliation, we may be looking at revenge murders. Georgette Paul may have denied him a job. Henderson’s friends and colleagues described him as a misogynist. The women’s clothing emasculates him, puts him in his place, so to speak. Sorenson had a reputation for treating people like garbage, and the killer made him spend his last hours in a heap of garbage.”

  “You don’t think these crimes were committed by a woman?” Talia asked.

  “Hairs were found at the Sorenson and Henderson scenes. We just got the labs back on those today, and both hairs belonged to a Caucasian male—to the same male—so our UNSUB is definitely male. He may want it to look like a female killed the victims,” I replied.

  Talia stood and walked slowly around the table. She tapped her pen against the photos of Paul and Henderson, the ones showing their pulpy skulls up close. “There was a case in Texas where a husband caught his wife in bed with another man. He killed them both. He stabbed his wife seventy-six times and the medical examiner counted fifty-five separate blows to the other man’s body, made with an aluminum baseball bat. The husband was angry.”

  “You don’t say,” TK said.

  Talia grimaced and tapped the photos once more. “If these are revenge killings, why don’t we see a greater degree of violence?”

  “Maybe the murders aren’t revenge for something the victims did to him, maybe they’re revenge for something these victims did to someone else. Maybe someone he loves. The ‘for you’ makes more sense in that context.”

  TK nodded, his fingers rattling against his thighs, as they did when he was onto something. “I don’t think the UNSUB takes pleasure in killing. I mean he smothered both Paul and Henderson. Sorenson’s cause of death came back as arsenic poisoning. It was in the trash, and Sorenson ate it. These killings seem less about pleasure and more about retribution.”

  Talia moved down the wall of photos. Her blonde hair swayed as she tipped her head to one side. “So the UNSUB writes ‘for you’ at each scene but why? His loved one will never see it—unless he photographs the scene before he leaves.”

  “That’s why I think we should consider the possibility that there are two UNSUBS—in that case, the loved one might be there,” TK said. “The words are symbolic. The killer writes them as a show of his love for the other UNSUB.”

  “Serials do a lot of things that only make sense to them or only have meaning to them. That’s why signatures are unique. If the words are symbolic to him, the loved one could be dead. He’s sending the message along with the dead into the afterlife,” I said.

  Talia turned back to us. She planted her palms on the table, leaning into it. “Either way, I think if you find the person all three vics have in common, that will lead you to the killer.”

  “So far we haven’t found any commonalities,” I said. “But I’ll call the locals and ask them for lists of every person the victims knew. We can cross-reference.”

  She checked her cell phone display. Her brow furrowed. “Okay,” she said. “Get on it. I’ve got to get to another meeting.”

  She breezed out of the room, leaving us alone with the For You Killer file, which had grown exponentially over the last six weeks, as more and more evidence poured in. I plopped into a chair with a heavy sigh. I used my foot to swivel the chair back and forth lightly, rocking myself. My mind drifted back to Jory, and the way he had kissed me goodbye before returning to Portland. It had been weeks, but I could still feel his mouth soft against mine.

  “You look pale,” TK said as he began gathering up paperwork.

  I smiled, trying to look sunnier than I felt. “This case is full of dead ends,” I said. “I don’t like it.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t like the armed robberies in Seattle or the serial rapist in Boise. Maybe we should put out a memo to these assholes and tell them to do their dirty work on someone else’s turf.”

  I laughed. “That’s funny,” I said. “If only it were that easy.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WYATT

  September 15th

  Fat gray clouds hung low in the Portland sky. Wyatt thought he’d had his fill of blistering sun on the East Coast, but the Oregon weather was making him glum. He stood at the window of his second-floor room at the Paramount Hotel, using his binoculars to spot Jory Ralston going into the Starbucks across the street. Ralston was fifteen minutes later than he had been the day before. He managed to find a parking spot right out front t
his time. He strode into the coffee shop with a confidence that gave Wyatt heartburn.

  He’d known about Kassidy’s affair with Jory Ralston since its inception, but Wyatt had never taken it seriously. Wyatt had made a point to find out everything there was to know about the man three years earlier when Kassidy had taken a prurient interest in him. There wasn’t much to know. The guy worked ninety percent of the time. He was unhappily married to his high school sweetheart who was sleeping with their next-door neighbor.

  As far as Wyatt could tell, Ralston and Kassidy rarely saw one another. He hoped Ralston’s most recent visit would be another isolated tryst. Wyatt was thinking of ways he could slip some kind of poison into Ralston’s morning coffee when the man emerged from Starbucks with a cup, in conversation with another patron—a man. They lingered near Ralston’s car, laughing and exchanging what Wyatt imagined was witty banter. Finally, the other man patted Ralston on the back and walked off. Ralston got into his vehicle and pulled away.

  Wyatt sighed. As much as he wanted to harm Ralston, he had vowed not to do anything that would hurt Kassidy. He would have to let the man go—until or unless he became a threat to her happiness. Besides that, Wyatt wasn’t in Portland for Ralston. Not this trip. He checked the clock at his bedside. Time to get to work.

  It took a half hour to get from the Paramount to Megan Wilkins’ home. He parked a half block away, across the street. From where he was parked, he could see that Wilkins had pulled her mini-blinds up. He could see her moving around inside. His thoughts kept floating back to Kassidy with Jory Ralston.

  Wyatt sighed and tried to focus on the task at hand. He shifted in the seat of his rental car so he could pull his prepaid Tracfone from his back pocket. He slouched down so that anyone passing by would not be able to see him immediately, then dialed Wilkins’ home phone number. She picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?”

  He waited.

  “Hello?” she said again. He could see her standing in her living room, the cordless phone pressed to her ear. He exhaled as loudly as he could, his breath almost a moan.

  “Who is this?” she asked, her tone brusque and dismissive, like an old schoolmarm chiding a prankster.

  He spoke in a sing-song voice. “Meg-an,” he said, drawing out each syllable in her name.

  Her breath caught. “Megan’s not here,” she said, without conviction.

  “I know it’s you, bitch,” Wyatt snapped, switching to an angry tone.

  “Leave me alone,” she said, her voice rising.

  He saw her move to her front windows and glance up and down the street. He slid farther down in his seat, so his bent knees were jammed against the underside of the steering wheel. Next he whispered, “I’m watching you, Megan. I’m always watching you.”

  He heard a gasp and then, “Leave me alone!” He peeked out the car window to see her mini-blinds falling. She had difficulty with one, yanking the slats until they bowed in the middle. He heard her labored breath and the sound of her struggling to close them. Finally, a thwack as the last set fell down onto her windowsill.

  He started breathing heavily, feigning sounds of exertion, then pleasure. “Megan,” he groaned.

  She made a sound like a dog makes when you step on its paw. But she didn’t hang up. She never did. No matter what he said to her or how many times he called, she stayed on the line. Fucking idiot.

  He gave one final, drawn-out moan then hung up on her. He waited five minutes and called again. This time he hung up as soon as she said hello.

  She emerged from her home twenty minutes later, looking pale and drawn, and shooting glances all around her. A jogger ran past her porch, and Megan jumped, one hand flying to her chest. She turned back toward her door to lock it. Her hands shook. From where he sat, he could hear the clatter of her keys. She dropped them twice before completing the task.

  Wyatt noticed the tremor in her shoulders as she reached the sidewalk, headed toward the diner where she waited tables. It was only a few blocks away. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a sloppy bun. She wore all black. Her clothes were tight and her thick middle strained against her shirt. She carried her waitress apron in one hand. A heavy coating of make-up caked in the premature wrinkles on her face. She was his age—Kassidy’s age—but she looked much older.

  She had once lived in his hometown, and in middle school, she had made the Bishop girls’ lives absolute hell. As a girl, Wilkins’ loneliness and desperate need for attention had made her an insufferable bully. The behaviors she’d exhibited as a twelve-year-old, which drove her friends away, had succeeded no better in her marriage, chasing her husband away after only a few years. Divorced for twelve years now, Wilkins had no meaningful contact with other human beings other than at her job.

  He watched her slip out of sight. Twenty minutes later, her teenage daughter came home. Like clockwork. The two Wilkins women deviated little from their routine, which worked out well for Wyatt. As he waited for her to let out their cat, a fat, gray tabby, he reached into a bag on the passenger’s seat and pulled out a can of wet cat food. Gourmet, the can read.

  “It will be gourmet, all right,” he muttered as he peeled the lid back, wrinkling his nose at the rancid smell. He spread some arsenic atop the brown mush. The cat never seemed to go very far. In fact, like its owners, it kept mostly to a routine. It would be sauntering past Wyatt’s vehicle in a matter of moments. Wyatt opened his car door and dropped the open can onto the sidewalk. He waited until the cat had scarfed down half its contents before driving over to the diner.

  He parked in the back corner of the parking lot, where he was less likely to be noticed, and changed his clothes in the car, donning the persona he had created just for Megan Wilkins in the last several weeks. A dirty tee-shirt covered in sheetrock dust and a pair of painter’s pants. A Portland Trailblazers hat topped off the ensemble.

  She greeted him with a wide smile. “You’re back,” she exclaimed.

  He smiled at her, the kind of smile women loved. The kind of smile that made a woman feel like she was the only person in the room. It had taken him a long time to perfect it. The trick was to show some teeth and let the smile reach your eyes. Let your eyes linger on them, and act like you’re looking at something you’ve been craving. The flush crawling from Wilkins’ collar to the roots of her hair told him that it worked.

  “Hi, Megan,” he said softly, with a faint Southern accent. “How’ve you been?”

  He sat on a swivel stool at the counter. Almost instantaneously, she pushed a steaming cup of coffee toward him, leaning over the counter, her ample breasts resting on it. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said conspiratorially. She looked around to see if any of the other patrons were listening. “I’m not doing so good, truth be told. It sure is good to see a friendly face, though.”

  Wyatt let his smile transform into a look of intense concern. “You getting more of those calls?”

  She pressed a palm over her heart. For a split second, she looked as though she might cry. “I got one today. Just before work. It was just awful. He said he was watching me.”

  “You really should call the police,” Wyatt said.

  She looked away, fingering the tops of the sugar packets that sat between them. “And say what? He didn’t exactly threaten me. He just said he was watching me.”

  Wyatt poured some creamer into his coffee and stirred it. “Have you gotten anymore…gifts?”

  Wilkins laughed drily. “You mean dead flowers on my front door step? Yeah, twice last week. In a paper bag, no less.”

  “Did you call the police for that?”

  She shook her head. “What for? There’s nothing they can do.” She caught a glare from one of the other waitresses and straightened up quickly. When she smiled, it looked forced. “You want the usual? Cheeseburger, medium well, with a cup of soup instead of fri
es?”

  Wyatt smiled back at her. “You got it. Thanks, Megan.”

  She bustled about, waiting on other customers, occasionally returning to him to chat him up. She asked a lot of questions about his fake job as a painting contractor, his fake divorce, and his fake teenaged daughter. To her, his name was Dylan, and he had moved to Portland from Alabama two months earlier. He tried to keep it simple so that he wouldn’t slip up in subsequent conversations. Then again, he wouldn’t be keeping up this ruse much longer.

  Megan Wilkins’ day of reckoning was fast approaching.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  KASSIDY

  September 28th-29th

  The nausea came on quickly. I knew in an instant that I would never make it to the bathroom in time. In that moment, the distance from my office to the ladies’ room at the end of the hall seemed impossibly long. I bent over the small trash can beside my desk and vomited. When my cell phone rang I answered it without thinking.

  “Bishop,” I croaked.

  “Kass?”

  The sound of Jory’s voice sent my stomach into a tailspin. I bent over the trash can again in case there was anything left of my lunch waiting to come up.

  “Kass?” he said again.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Sweat, cool and slick, gathered along my spine. In the last month, we’d had a handful of conversations which basically consisted of me telling him that I was scared of having a real relationship with him, and him assuring me that he would never hurt me. We were going in circles. Today I just didn’t have the energy to talk to him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I lied. But I’d been sick on and off for almost a month. It was just like this—the nausea was abrupt and violent. One minute I was fine, and the next I was vomiting in the nearest toilet or trash can. If it continued much longer, I’d be forced to take the pregnancy test I was desperately avoiding.