Conduit (7 page)

Coffee sloshed around in Lionel’s
favorite mug, threatening to spill over onto the blur of kitchen tiles beneath
his pacing feet. Barbara stared at him from the breakfast table, her empty
plate in front of her.

He ignored her gaze until her voice cut through his
thoughts. “Honey, just sit down with me and have a normal Sunday morning breakfast,”
she said. “You have all day to pace by your desk and worry about your case. For
now, I want you to fuss over me. When you’re home, you’re mine.”

Lionel stopped his restless movements and made his way to
the table like a robot obeying a new command from his master. Barbara always
used those words to get him to stop living his job at home and bring him back
to her.

“When you’re home, you’re mine” was an agreement they made twenty-four
years earlier on the night before their wedding. Barbara didn’t hesitate to
remind him whenever it seemed he brought the stresses of his work into their
home. Lionel appreciated her candidness, and accepted her correcting him in
moments like this. His home was his sanctuary away from all the madness of the
world, and Barbara ruled both him and their home with nothing but love.

While he always did his best not to dwell on work at home, this
morning he couldn’t help it, and Barbara sensed his struggle. He munched on a
crispy bacon strip and his eyes traveled over the face of his always beautiful
wife. She appeared much younger than he, with no grey hairs intertwined with
her shoulder-length brown strands and only minimal creases around her trusting dark
blue eyes.

Lionel was afraid to open his mouth and talk. He didn’t want
any of his manic concerns about the case to emerge in conversation and
interrupt the serene morning. Instead, he soaked in her presence as comfort.

“When we got married,” Barbara said, “I knew what you did
for a living. I knew being a cop’s wife wouldn’t be easy. When you made
detective, I supported you while knowing that things could be a little harder
for you than when you were a beat cop. Then you transferred to homicide and I
feared the things you’d see would leave their mark on you. I knew you wouldn’t
change, but I also knew you couldn’t do that kind of work without accumulating
some scars here and there.”

He reached for another piece of bacon instead of inserting
his thoughts into the conversation. Over the course of their marriage, he knew
when she expected him to respond and when she expected him to listen. The congruous
way in which they worked together and their accord resulted in very few
disagreements.

“I’m worried about you, Leo.”

Barbara had a way of cutting to the thick of things, Lionel
thought. She would prep her speech with soulful reflection, and just when she
lulled him with her words, she would slice him open with reality.

“I’m worried about me, too.” He didn’t realize the words
were coming out until it was too late.

Looking undeterred, Barbara said, “I’ve seen the news
reports. I know these are horrific crimes, but you’ve seen a lot of bad things.
You of all people can deal with it, and you have been dealing with it just
fine. So what is it about this case that has you so shook up today versus how
calm you’ve been the past couple months?”

Lionel took a quick swallow of sugary coffee. “I think I
made a mistake.”

Barbara’s concerned expression indicated that his statement caught
her off-guard. “Leo, you don’t make mistakes.”

“I asked Cassie and Emily to help out on this case. It’s just
for a few days to take a look. Maybe they’ll see something we can’t or find a
fresh angle we can work,” he said, before Barbara could chastise him.

Impatient tapping of her shoe sole came from under the table,
a sign of her disapproval. She sat in silence and sipped her coffee, but her rapping
shoe spoke for her, and Lionel didn’t like what it had to say.

“I shouldn’t have done it, but I’m desperate,” he said, holding
out hope she would silence her shoe from interrupting the discussion.

Instead of letting him squirm, he wanted her to voice her
displeasure with his decision, but she kept her mouth clamped shut.

Over-explaining his mistakes to justify them was one of his
flaws, but he couldn’t stop talking. “Too many women have died and we’re
nowhere close to stopping this guy from doing it again.”

He paused and waited for his astute wife to speak. When she
didn’t, he shifted his elbows to the table, rubbed his hands over his face, and
clasped them together in front of his mouth.

Barbara pushed back her chair and got up from the table, lifting
her empty plate. She lowered it next to the table and brushed a few stray toast
crumbs onto the plate. A loud sigh followed and she looked at Lionel. “Cassie
may be your niece by blood, but I’ve never treated or loved her any less than I
would a daughter.
Our
daughter.”

The words stung Lionel in a way few could. At the beginning
of their marriage, they learned of their inability to conceive a child. They
didn’t pursue adoption, convinced that somehow they would naturally become
parents, as if they could bend biological defects.

In the end it wasn’t her body, but his that betrayed their
desires for a family. Over the years he learned to not dwell on it, but he
still thought of his failure as an unforgivable one. Cassie, his sister Anne’s
daughter, filled the childless void in their hearts, but it didn’t lessen their
need for a child of their own.

“And Emily,” Barbara said. “She’s like Cassie’s sister and
another daughter for us.”

Though upset at his revelation for the moment, later that
night in the security of their darkened room, they would exchange apologies, cast
aside their down comforter, and share intimacies like newlyweds. Until then, he
would suffer stern glances from his lovely wife, though she wouldn’t bring up
the topic again after this morning. Their ritual of marriage suited them both,
but it was always a long wait until bedtime when they would make things right.

Even knowing this, Lionel’s need for a scolding overrode his
longing to end the conversation. He wanted Barbara to shout at him that she
agreed he made a huge mistake so he could suffer through his deserved punishment.
He lowered his hands away from his face and they clunked down on the table. “I
screwed up.”

“I think you may have,” Barbara said, without a hint of
condescension in her voice. “But you’re desperate, as you said. I don’t believe
you would have involved them if you knew of another way.”

“I definitely wouldn’t have. Shawn even questioned my
decision. I should have listened to him and not called them.”

Barbara blessed him with her small yet powerful smile. “When
Detective Edwards dwells on his mistakes, you know he’s truly sorry.”

With her words, the conversation ended. He reached for the
empty bacon plate to clear the table, but Barbara stopped him with a solid
glance. “I’d like to help my wife with the dishes if you don’t mind,” he said.

“In fact, I do mind. You’re going to be late for work. Just
go on and let us women take care of the homestead.”

He kissed her and headed toward the hall table for his car
keys and wallet. He’d already done enough damage and wasn’t going to push it by
disobeying her direct order.

The lock picks sank into the
deadbolt with ease, and David manipulated them until the lock gave way. He
removed the picks and pushed open the door to the one-bedroom apartment Jillian
Waters called home. He guided the door shut and to all those outside, there was
nothing amiss about the third story abode.

Jillian lived alone in a cigarette stench-filled apartment near
her work. David always avoided conduits who smoked, drank, or used drugs. His
experiments led him to the conclusion that those who partook in vices weren’t
as strong as others who kept their bodies clean. Much stronger than the other
conduits before her, David had to make an exception for Jillian, though she
smoked over a pack a day. He also very much desired to kill her.

She lived without the companionship of a small dog or cat. If
she chose between the standard house pets, he suspected her to be a cat person,
but he would not be in her home if she had one. Hairs from animals transferred onto
clothing easier than other fibers, and he had no intentions of transporting any
evidence from her home to his, if he could help it.

Edmond Locard’s exchange principle, a primary rule in
forensic science, stated he would take something with him, such as fibers from
her carpet, and he would unknowingly leave something behind. Because of this,
he intended to stay off her carpet to reduce the chances of the exchange
occurring.

He had also changed into a brand new pair of shoes before
coming inside the apartment building and left his own shoes in the front seat
of his car to better avoid leaving a trace of him in her unit. After he had
Jillian in the backseat of his car, he would replace the new shoes with his old
pair. The new shoes would go into a plastic bag until he disposed of them
somewhere far away from both Jillian’s apartment and his farmhouse.

Even if he did bring a fiber or two into her home by
mistake, it wouldn’t cause him great concern. His home had no carpeting and his
sedan, the most popular make and model from its year, also had the most popular
color interior. If the police ever linked the disappearances of the women to
him, the evidence would be circumstantial at best. Though he sometimes assumed
himself too careful, his analytical nature had taken him this far and he would
not alter his methods.

Standing in the hallway next to the kitchen, David surveyed
Jillian’s apartment. The 735 square foot layout was identical to the one the
apartment complex boasted on their website for Floor Plan B. He stepped from
the entry hallway onto the linoleum floor of the small kitchen and looked at
the living room over the breakfast bar.

Minimal furnishings decorated the living room. A worn-out green
loveseat and generic coffee table both appeared as if she purchased them at
either a garage sale or a thrift store. She had a small cathode television set
on an aged, wooden television cart. The potted plant in the corner of the room
appeared to be the only extravagance in the room.

David moved from the kitchen into the main hallway, which
also consisted of cheap linoleum flooring. To the left was a half-bath and further
down the hall were Jillian’s bedroom and the master bathroom. He crept down the
hall and peered through the open door of her bedroom, catching a glimpse of her
unmade bed.

Reason overcame his desire to burst into her bedroom and learn
more about Jillian, and he ceased his movements just before he stepped onto the
carpet. He couldn’t risk picking up fibers or leaving behind a stray impression
of the soles of his size twelves.

Instead of continuing into her bedroom, he pivoted and traced
his steps back into the hallway by the front door. There were two hollow wood
doors in the hall. With latex gloves secured over his fingers, he gripped the
doorknob of the second door. Had he tried opening the first door, closest to
the front entrance, he believed he would find the hall closet.

The other door, as was standard for these apartments, would
shield the furnace. David pulled the door open and smiled at his ingenuity. The
closet had just enough room for him to stand without touching the furnace. He situated
his body in the opening and closed the door.

David thought out his next movements, re-analyzing the plan
for anything that might go wrong. Jillian worked the Sunday morning shift as a
barista at the coffee shop two blocks over. During the week, she spent her
afternoons at Butler Community College taking classes in business. After she
returned home from work on Sundays, she sat at a desk in front of the window
facing the street and focused on homework. David had watched her for many hours
sitting at that desk during the last two Sunday afternoons.

When she came home for lunch today, she would walk down the
hallway and toss her belongings on the kitchen counter. Her next stop would most
likely be the restroom, during which he would emerge from behind the door and
wait in the entry hallway. When she moved back into the kitchen to prepare her lunchtime
meal, he would use his gun to coax her to leave her apartment with him. She
would come with him and get into his car, where he would drug her with a good
dose of Ketamine, administered in her neck with an already prepared syringe.

After she rested in his backseat, he would change his shoes.
Several miles down the road, on the way to his house, an alley ran behind a
string of businesses. The alley contained several dumpsters for him to throw
away the shoes he wore into her apartment. Plenty of homeless frequented those
dumpsters, and a brand new pair of shoes would not stay there for long.

Once he had Jillian safely hidden in the basement of his
farmhouse, he would let her sit in her fear until it built to an acceptable
level. Later tonight, they would begin the arduous but fulfilling task of
contacting Emily.

David smiled and waited.

Detective Sergeant Shawn Brandt sat
outside the autopsy suite, peering at the drab grey tiles beneath his polished
black shoes. The tiles mirrored his sour expression, and Lionel wondered if the
tiles turned Shawn’s mood bitter or if he caused the tiles to turn grey. Though
Shawn had an increasing amount of good moments as time moved forth, his face
still revealed his overall displeasure with life and his now ex-wife’s affair.

As he had time and again, Lionel thanked God for Barbara. Shawn
needed a Barbara in his life, but women like her were a rarity. It would be a
long road for Shawn on his search for one, should he ever learn to trust women
again.

Lionel sat in an uncomfortable padded chair next to Shawn
and leaned back. “Another beautiful day in the neighborhood,” he said.

“You’re late,” Shawn said. “Perry’s almost done. He’s mad
enough that he has to do an autopsy on a Sunday.”

Lionel’s conscience compelled him to offer an excuse for his
tardiness. “Barbara was berating me.”

Shawn glanced up at him for the first time, the sourness in
his face replaced by curiosity. “Barbara berating you? That somehow doesn’t
sound right.”

“Well, maybe not berating, but she could have started at any
second so I had to get out of there.”

Shawn laughed, one of his good moments in life. “Now I
really don’t believe you. What was this alleged berating about?”

“Involving Cassie and Emily in this investigation.”

“That would have made sense had you said that from the
start. You shouldn’t have involved them in something so nasty.”

Lionel picked up on the concern in Shawn’s voice. “Homicide
isn’t pleasant business, I admit, but I do think they can help.”

“How so?”

“They’re going to the memorial service for Diane Murphy this
afternoon.”

“Good angle to work. Cassie has a way with people.” A small
smile played on his lips. “She’ll probably have family and friends spilling all
their secrets by the end of the service.”

“I just hope one of those secrets is something we can run
with. Otherwise we’re going to spend more days in this hallway.”

“If he’s done with his message, do you think it’s possible
he’ll stop killing?”

Lionel scooted forward in the chair and leaned his elbows on
his knees. “He’s told us that he wants us to hear something, but we don’t know
what it is. Until we learn that, he won’t stop killing.”

“He’s a determined one. Messing up my golf game, too, with
all this overtime I have to work.”

Lionel glanced sideways at Shawn. “You don’t play golf.”

“I thought about it. Bought some clubs last week. They’re
sitting in the trunk still, begging to be used.” He stood up, stretched his
arms over his head, and leaned to his side. “I’m just glad you got us out of
viewing this autopsy.”

“Detective Aurelio has only attended one other autopsy. It
will do her some good to see this one and ask questions. Detective Timmons will
guide her questions so she gets used to this part of our job.”

“I think you just made all that up so you didn’t have to go
yourself.”

Lionel arched his eyebrows and smiled in response.

The door to the autopsy suite swung open and Perry Weinberg
ambled into the hallway wearing a surgical gown, hair net, and shoe covers. He
pushed his trademark dark-rimmed glasses around on his nose. Lionel rose from his
chair and joined Shawn to face Perry.

“Well, it’s official,” Perry said. “She wasn’t murdered.”

Perry’s attempt at humor would have worked better on his
assistants, Lionel thought. “Of course she was murdered.”

“Sorry, boys,” Perry said. “Official cause of death is heart
failure caused by myocarditis.”

“I didn’t play much Scrabble as a kid,” Shawn said. “Is that
some fancy new word for murder?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s inflammation of the myocardium.” Perry
peered over the top of his glasses at Lionel’s confused look. “That’s the middle
layer of muscle in the heart wall. It could have been caused by something as
simple as a virus and it can be fatal, as it was in this case. Her wounds weren’t
quite as extensive as the previous victims, so the heart failure could have
been her saving grace.”

“She may have died officially of natural causes,” Shawn
said, “but she wouldn’t have died when she did without the torture, so we still
have a case of murder.”

“Which is why I’m ruling it as a homicide,” Perry said.

“Obviously he didn’t intend for her to die while he was
working on her,” Lionel said. “He still had to carve his letter, so he did it
postmortem.”

Shawn rubbed his forehead. “We’ve been under the assumption
that he stalks his victims extensively before grabbing them. That way he knows where
and how to best take them without any witnesses. If that’s correct, he probably
would have known about her medical troubles and not picked her.”

“An interesting twist, but I think you’re reading too much
into it,” Lionel said. “What if she didn’t know about her condition? Even if
she did know about it, if she didn’t exhibit behavior during his stalking
period to reveal she had a medical problem, then he wouldn’t know she had one.”

“Again, you are in constant need of my insight to solve your
tiresome debates,” Perry said.

Lionel raised his eyebrows.

“She didn’t know about the heart condition. When her father
identified the body I asked about all medical conditions and any medications
she was taking.”

“And I bet he said she was in perfect health and no meds,”
Shawn said.

“I’ve got her blood off for a rush toxicology screening. That
might let us know if your killer gave her any kind of drugs before she died
that may have contributed to cause of death, but it will also tell us about any
recreational drug use. Her dad also said she didn’t drink alcohol, smoke, or
use illegal drugs.” Perry shrugged. “Of course he could be in the dark about
the extracurricular activities of his little girl and we’ll see cocaine on her
tox screen. I’ll know more when I get the results back.”

“I can’t say it hasn’t happened like that before with family
members not knowing what their loved ones are into,” Lionel said. “But somehow
I doubt it in this case. According to the families and tox screens of the other
victims, none of them had vices.”

Shawn frowned. “Do you think there may be something to that?”

“What do you mean?” Lionel asked.

“If this guy is picking up women randomly and there are no
connections at all in the victimology, there has to be a good chance that at
least one of them smoked or drank alcohol. It’s possible that out of six women,
one might even experiment with marijuana.”

“Their families all said they didn’t smoke or drink, and no
drugs showed up on their toxicology screenings,” Perry said. “What that means
is up to you. I need to get back to work so I can get home at a decent hour and
enjoy my day off, instead of playing detective with you two. If I find out anything
else I’ll let you know.” He paused at the morgue doors before entering. “Almost
forgot. No trace evidence on the body. We searched and searched, but he cleaned
her up good, just like all the others.”

After Perry disappeared behind the autopsy suite doors,
Shawn moved closer to Lionel. “Damn the no trace. I keep hoping—”

“We didn’t expect there would be any,” Lionel said.

“I am curious about this medical history thing. None of
these women drank or smoke. Those odds are pretty slim. Not as many people smoke
as they used to so that may not be strange, but at least one of them would have
had the occasional alcoholic beverage.”

“It’s definitely worth looking into,” Lionel said. “Why don’t
you check with the families and see if there are any connections, like all of
the victims are recovering alcoholics.”

Shawn grinned. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could tie this to
a wayward member of AA? Then we could wrap this up quickly and I could start working
on my golf swing.”

“It would be great,” Lionel said, “but I think the odds of
that are slimmer than you learning how to play golf.”