Shoes.
The
walls were lined with shelves that held more shoes than she’d ever seen outside
a store. They were grouped by the pair, heels out. Dozens of shoes.
At the end of the top row was a pair of stretched-out
pumps with a tiny heel next to the five-inch leopard skin stilettos she’d
pulled from her own closet, just hours before.
My shoes. God, please help me. I swear I’ll never turn
a trick again. I’ll flip burgers, I’ll do anything. Don’t let me die here
.
Desperate, Lindsay yanked at the ropes as he came down
the stairs, but they were too strong. She drew another breath to scream, but
again it came out hoarsely pathetic.
His expression went from expectant to furious the
instant he came into view. “You’re awake. When did you wake up? Godammit,” he
snarled. “I was only gone five minutes.”
“Please,” she begged. “Don’t kill me. I won’t tell. I
promise I won’t tell.”
Pain speared through her when the back of his hand hit
her mouth. She tasted blood.
“I didn’t say you could speak,” he snarled. “You’re
nothing. Less than nothing.”
Terror clawed. “Please.” The pain was worse the second
time, his ring hitting her lip.
“Silence.”
He was naked and erect and she tried to get calm. It was just sex. Maybe this
was a bondage fantasy. She dropped her dry, burning eyes suggestively to his
groin. “I’ll make it good for you. I’ll give you what you need.”
She cried out when his palm struck her cheek.
“Like I’d put anything of mine in anything of yours,”
he said with contempt. He climbed on the bed, straddling her. “You
give
me nothing. I
take
what I need.”
His hands closed around her throat, tightening his
grip.
Can’t breathe. God, please
. Lights danced before her eyes and she
flailed, trying to draw just one breath.
Just one
.
His laugh was faraway, tinny. Like she was in a
tunnel. The last thing she heard was his groan as he climaxed, his seed hot on
her frozen skin. And then… darkness.
Breathing hard, he stared into her face, now slack in
death. Withdrawing his hands from her throat, he clenched them into fists. It
should have been
better
. He’d needed it to be
better
.
Dammit
.
She’d woken earlier than he’d calculated and he’d missed her postsedation
hallucinations. During the hallucinations was always the optimal moment.
Whatever he whispered as they were going under, they
experienced as they awoke. The abject terror in their eyes when they were
waking… He’d learned long ago that their fear was far better than any drug,
sending his orgasm into the stratosphere.
That had been denied him today. His breathing began to
slow, his racing thoughts to settle. Which was the primary objective. The
orgasm was just… incidental.
Nice, but completely unnecessary. He climbed off her,
staying away from the blood sullenly oozing from her lip. He was always careful
with the trash he collected. Hookers and addicts, crawling with disease.
Disgusting.
It was late. He’d shower her stink off of his skin,
get dressed, and do what needed to be done. He hoped somebody had found Martha
Brisbane. He’d been waiting for days, the need to move forward to the next
victim growing every hour. He couldn’t move to the next victim until the police
found the last one. That was his own rule.
Rules kept order and order controlled chaos. The
higher the chaos, the greater the chances of discovery and that wouldn’t do at
all. So he’d follow his own rules.
He looked at the body on the narrow bed. She’d served
her purpose. A diversion, a means to keep his mind clear while he waited for
someone to discover Martha. Once he got his mind prepared for a kill, he had to
move. If he didn’t, his mind raced too fast.
Options, scenarios, outcomes
. It was distracting, and he couldn’t afford to be
distracted. In his line of work, he had to be sharp, every day.
Now, more
than ever
.
He grabbed the steel handle in the concrete floor. The
slab moved silently on well-oiled bearings, revealing the pit where he’d
disposed of dozens of bodies over the years. Hookers. Addicts. Trash nobody
would miss.
The world is a better place without them here.
Dozens of
victims and the police had never had even a whiff of suspicion.
He sniffed in disdain. “Modern-day heroes,” he
muttered, quoting the shallow, pathetically written article all the detectives
claimed embarrassed them, but he knew better. They’d secretly preened, thrilled
to be so elevated in the public’s regard.
They were simply thugs with big guns and very small
brains. Easily manipulated. He should know. He’d been manipulating them for
years. They just didn’t know it.
That was about to change. He’d bring them down,
humiliate them. Show everyone what they really were. The premise of his plan
was quite simple. He’d do what he’d been doing for years—killing women right
under their noses. He looked into the pit.
But not like this
. Not
quietly. Not discreetly.
And not the dregs of society no one would miss.
He considered the six women he’d chosen. Single women
who lived alone, but who had family and friends who’d grieve their loss in
sound bites covered by a sympathetic press who’d quickly lose patience with
their precious Hat Squad.
Which was the point of it all. The six he’d chosen
would capture the public’s attention, command their ire in a way no skanky,
lice-infested prostitutes ever could.
Of course the irony of his choices wasn’t lost. His
six had never walked a street or shot up, but they were hookers and addicts
just the same. They simply plied their trade and fed their addictions in less
traditional venues.
They were women, after all
.
He’d had to change his MO in other ways. No bringing
them here where he had disposal down to a science. Instead he’d posed them in
their homes, leaving clues of his choosing. He didn’t touch them, couldn’t risk
putting his hands around their necks. He’d correctly anticipated the loss of
the tactile would detract from the experience.
And he’d had to hold back. He couldn’t release himself
on them. Any killer that left DNA behind was a fool. The strain of killing
without the physical release had been a bit more difficult than he’d expected,
but this hooker had taken off the edge.
It would be worth it. Headlines would scream SERIAL
KILLER UNCHALLENGED and COPS CLUELESS.
So true
. A serial killer, the
people would quail, in their own midst.
Oh my
. If they only knew he’d
killed in their midst for years.
Oh my
.
How many victims would it take before they wised up?
Martha was the third of his six. But they hadn’t
found Martha yet and he was growing impatient. Fortunately he was disciplined
enough to stick with his plan, falling back on the tried and true for relief.
He dragged the hooker’s body to the pit and rolled her
in. He threw her clothes in after, except for her shoes. Those he would keep,
as he’d done dozens of times before.
He donned the coveralls he’d taken from the man he’d
hired to dig the pit, twenty years before. Who, bullet in his head, had become
its first inhabitant. He shoveled lime from the steel drum into the pit,
covering the body.
Quicklime hastened decomposition of flesh without the
fuss and muss and foul odor, but one had to be careful. It was powerful stuff,
highly reactive with moisture. He kept his basement dry with dehumidifiers,
with a side benefit the preservation of his shoes.
The pumps he’d taken from the feet of his first victim
nearly thirty years ago were in as good condition as the shoes he’d taken from
victims over the last three weeks.
He finished the hooker’s burial by adding dirt to
cover the lime, pulled the handle on the slab to cover the pit. Just as he’d
done dozens of times before.
But although this killing had fulfilled its purpose,
it was a shadow next to the triumph he’d feel when the police realized they had
a bona fide serial killer on their hands.
Sunday, February 21, 7:55 p.m.
Sorry again. I gotta get a new phone,” Jack said,
crossing Martha’s bedroom.
Noah had been waiting, stewing for half an hour. Jack
had said he’d change clothes, but his eyes held a satisfaction any man would
recognize. He’d had sex with Katie. While a victim hung from her damn ceiling.
That was it.
I’m going to have to report him
.
“Whatever, Jack,” he said coldly, but if Jack detected
his fury, it didn’t show.
“So, introduce me to the lady with the Bette Davis
eyes and get this party swinging.”
The ME techs were impatiently waiting to cut the body
down, but Noah had wanted Jack to see the scene.
I shouldn’t have bothered.
I might have a new partner soon
.
“Martha Brisbane,” Noah said tightly. “Forty-two,
single. Found by her neighbor.”
“It’s cold in here. Did the neighbor open the window
or did Ms. Brisbane?”
“The neighbor said the window was open.”
“Well, it could be worse. It could be August. Shit.
Are her eyes glued open?”
“Yes,” Noah bit out. “They are.”
Just like the
other one.
“That’s one you don’t see every day.” Then Jack shrugged.
“At least this should be quick. I might even get back to Katie in time for
dessert.
If
you know what I mean.”
Noah bit his tongue, saved from a response by ME tech
Isaac Londo. “So now that Detective GQ’s
finally
here, can we
finally
cut her down?”
“No,” Noah said sharply.
“I got twenty on tonight’s game,” Londo grumbled. “I
want to get out of here.”
CSU’s Micki Ridgewell looked up from putting her
camera away. “What’s the big deal, Web? The vic strung herself from the
ceiling, kicked the stool away, and died.”
Jack frowned, as if finally realizing something was
up. “What’s wrong here?”
You want a damn list?
“This scene,” Noah said. “I’ve seen this scene
before.”
“Well, of course you have,” Micki said reasonably.
“After fifteen years, you’ve seen almost every crime scene before. So have I.”
“No. I’ve seen
this
scene before, down to the
placement of the victim’s shoes.”
“I haven’t,” Jack said, dead serious now. “When did
you see it and why didn’t I?”
“Friday morning, a week ago. You were home… sick.”
Jack tensed at Noah’s hesitation, flags of angry color
staining his cheeks. “I was.”
Noah let it slide. This was not the place for
confrontation. “It was Gus Dixon’s scene. I’d borrowed his mini recorder
because mine broke and I needed to interview a witness.” For a case he’d closed
without Jack, because Jack had been
sick
. “On my way back from the
interview, Dix called. He needed his recorder at a scene, so I took it to him.”
“And it was this scene?” Jack asked, eyes narrowing.
“A hanging?”
“Exactly. The stool was overturned, same distance and
angle from the body. The vic wore this dress and the same style shoes. One shoe
lying on its side, the other standing straight up. The type of hook, the noose,
the open window, everything is the same.”
Micki frowned. “Déjà vu all over again.”
“But this victim was hung,” Londo said. “Petechiae in
the eyes, the ligatures on her throat… All the injuries are consistent with a
short-drop hanging.”
“Dix’s was the same,” Noah said. “But her eyes are
glued open just like Dix’s victim.”
Jack winced. “I was just kidding about the Bette Davis
eyes.” Studying the scene again, Jack pointed to the stool. “You done with it,
Mick?” He picked it up and, placing it directly under the body, stepped back,
and Noah’s suspicion was confirmed.
The stool sat two full inches lower than the tips of
Martha Brisbane’s toes.
“Holy fuck,” Londo muttered. “Was that the same on the
other hanger, too?”
“I don’t know. When I got there some other ME techs
had already cut her down.”
“This vic couldn’t have stuck her neck in the noose
and still been able to kick the stool away,” Micki said quietly. “Somebody
helped her.”
Noah looked up into Martha’s wide eyes. “Somebody
killed her.”
“And went to a lot of trouble to make it look like a
suicide,” Jack said. “Any note?”
“We haven’t found one,” Noah said.
Micki took more close-ups of the red stilettos. “No scuffs.”
She held a shoe next to the victim’s foot. “And too small. Why go to all this
trouble and leave the wrong shoes?”
“I wonder how many others he’s staged,” Jack said.
“And how many we missed.” Noah nodded at Londo. “You
can take her down now.”
“Let’s check this apartment,” Jack said, “then go talk
to the neighbor who found her.”