At the Stroke of Madness (22 page)

L
uc Racine fumbled with the tangle of keys he found in his pocket. Scrapple waited impatiently, staring at the door as if that might help open it. He knew the terrier was upset with him. He had ducked several attempts Luc had made to pet him.

“I’m not gonna have you eating people, okay?” he told the dog for the third time. “Even if they are dead already.” Only now Scrapple ignored him—not a flinch, not even a perk of an ear, no indication that he was listening—and he continued to stare at the door.

Luc would make it up to him. Surely there was something in the refrigerator besides sour milk. He sorted through the keys again, trying to concentrate, trying to remember. He used to be able to pull out the house key automatically without a second thought. These days it seemed to take all his deductive reasoning, or at least, all that remained.

Then as if in a sudden flash he remembered. He grabbed at the doorknob and smiled when it turned easily. He had stopped locking the door, afraid he would eventually forget to take the keys and lock himself out. Relief washed over him, so much so that he could feel a chill. It was becoming a typical response, his body reacting, first with surprise and disappointment then relief that the mind could still participate.

Losing his memory wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t know it was happening. That was the worst part. Laboring over shoestrings, unsuccessfully looping worthless knots and all the while knowing that tying his shoes was once something he did without a thought, let alone without a struggle. Learning to tie your shoes. How hard could that be? Easy enough for a five-year-old. Easy. Right. Only now Luc Racine wore slip-on loafers.

But forgetting Jules’s name. That was unforgivable. How could he have forgotten? He could hear what Julia would say to that, “You never forget the fucking dog’s name, but you can’t remember your own daughter’s.”

The house was cold, as if a window had been left open. Summer was certainly over. He didn’t need to see the flaming red of the turning oak leaves. He could feel it in the evening chill, hear it after dark in the chirp of crickets.

He stopped in the middle of the living room. He stopped and looked slowly around. Something didn’t feel right. It wasn’t like last night when he couldn’t recognize anything. No, something felt out of place. A clammy shiver swept through him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Coming back from the quarry he had gotten the same chill. He had followed the footpath, watching his feet so he wouldn’t trip over the protruding rocks hidden in the tall grass. All the way back it felt like someone had been watching him. Not just Watermeier or one of the others making sure he left, but someone watching. Watching and following. He had heard twigs snap behind him. Thought it was his imagination, but Scrapple heard it, too, growling once, then putting his tail between his legs, his ears back and hurrying home. He barely waited for Luc, only slowing because the wuss of a dog counted on Luc as his protector. There was something wrong with that. Something backward. Weren’t dogs instinctively supposed to be protective of their masters?

Now Luc checked around his own living room, looking for signs that he wasn’t alone. He looked out the windows, checking for anyone hiding in the trees. His only assurance was that Scrapple seemed content, stretched out on his favorite rug. Luc hurried to the front door, turned the dead bolt, then made sure the kitchen door was bolted, too. It was probably all in his imagination, although he couldn’t remember reading a thing about the disease causing hallucinations or paranoia. But then, how the hell would he remember reading about it when he couldn’t remember his own daughter’s name?

He shook his head, disgusted with himself. He stopped to check the meager possibilities for dinner, opening the refrigerator. There had to be something he and Scrapple could eat. He stared at the top shelf.

A twinge of panic rushed through him again. What the hell? Calm down, he told himself. It was nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing but his own stupid forgetfulness. And he grabbed the TV remote from the top shelf of the refrigerator.

“I’ve been looking all over the place for this.”

H
enry told O’Dell she could follow him to the morgue. She probably thought he was being considerate. He really just wanted her beside him when they walked out of the quarry together, when the media piranhas attacked. He already knew Stolz wouldn’t be any help. The M.E. seemed to have an allergic reaction to reporters and was long gone.

“So tell me, Agent O’Dell, from what you’ve seen, any ideas who I need to start looking for? And you can spare me the basics.”

“The basics?”

“Yeah, white male, twenty-something recluse whose mama abused him so now he doesn’t know how to respond to a woman except with violence.”

“How does Steve Earlman’s mutilation fit into that profile?”

Damn! He’d forgotten about Steve, didn’t even want to think about poor Steve.

“Okay, so let’s hear your basics on this one.”

“It’s too soon to give you a physical description, except that yes, he is most likely a white male in his twenties or maybe early thirties. He drives an SUV or pickup or has access to one. He probably lives alone on an acreage outside of the city, but he lives within fifty miles of this quarry.”

Henry glanced down at her, trying not to show his surprise or that he was impressed.

“This is all premature,” she continued without him prompting her, “but just from looking at the place he chose to dump the bodies says a lot about him. Most serial killers leave their victims out in the open, some even display their handiwork. It’s part of their ritual or, in some cases, part of their thrill to see others shocked by what they’re capable of doing. This guy goes through a lot of trouble to hide the bodies. He didn’t want them found. I’m wondering if he might even be embarrassed about what he’s done. Because of that, I’m guessing he has a paranoid delusional personality, which means he’ll feel threatened by us discovering his hiding place. He’ll think we’re out to get him, and it might make him do something irrational.”

“In other words, he might screw up, and we’ll be able to catch him?”

“He might panic and kill someone he thinks is out to destroy him. In other words, a panic kill. Yes, that could mean he screws up and leaves something behind for us to use to catch him, but it also means someone else could be killed.”

“Not at all what I wanted to hear, O’Dell,” Henry said, almost wishing he hadn’t asked. He already had the governor up his ass. What the hell would happen if this madman started killing again? Jesus! He hadn’t even thought of that.

As they got to the road, Henry noticed that the state patrol had arrived, two fresh officers to relieve Trotter and set up guard posts for the night. Earlier Randal Graham, the governor’s gopher, had offered the local National Guard. All Henry could think of at the time was that the locals would panic if they started seeing the fucking National Guard moving in. This was bad enough. He didn’t need to draw more attention.

“Sheriff Watermeier—” the media mongrels began the barrage as soon as he and O’Dell were in earshot “—what’s going on?”

“How many bodies are there?”

“Is it true a serial killer is on the loose?”

“When will the victims’ names be released?”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Hold on a minute.” Watermeier raised one hand and stopped O’Dell with his other by gently taking hold of her arm. She shot him a look, part surprise and part irritation, just enough for him to know that this was not in her plans. He didn’t care. What he did care about was retiring in a community that respected him. And that community damn well better think he was doing everything he could to protect it.

“I can’t tell you any details, except to say that yes, there are fifty-five-gallon drums, sealed barrels that have been buried under some rock,” he told them, slowing his words so that no one had an excuse to misquote him. “And yes, some of those barrels do have bodies inside. That’s all I can say about that right now. But I will tell you that we have everything under control. We have experts on the scene collecting evidence and we have—”

“But what about the killer, Sheriff?” someone from the back yelled, interrupting him. “You have a serial killer on the loose. What are you doing about that, Sheriff?”

Jesus! These assholes were hell-bent on starting a panic. Henry tucked his hat lower over his brow, as if to ward off further blows and hopefully to let them know he couldn’t be goaded into their hysteria.

“We’re working on that,” he lied. It was only the second day. How the hell was he supposed to have a list of suspects already? “That’s why we have Special Agent Maggie O’Dell here.” He gave her a slight shove forward. “She’s a criminal profiler with the FBI, up here from Quantico, Virginia. Her specialty is catching guys like this. So you see we’ve got the very best working on our team. That’s all for now.”

This time he grabbed O’Dell’s arm to lead her out of the crowd, Officer Trotter clearing a path for them.

“Have you brought in any suspects yet, Sheriff?”

“When will you give us more information? Like a profile of the killer?”

“That’s it, folks. That’s all I have for today.” He waved a hand at them and continued to plow through, shoving the cameras aside when they refused to move.

As soon as they were across the road, O’Dell wrenched her arm from his hold and without a word marched to her Ford Escort. He didn’t care if she was pissed. Tomorrow she would probably be long gone. All she wanted was to find her precious missing person, and there was a good chance the woman was waiting for them in the morgue.

H
enry told O’Dell she could follow him to the morgue. She probably thought he was being considerate. He really just wanted her beside him when they walked out of the quarry together, when the media piranhas attacked. He already knew Stolz wouldn’t be any help. The M.E. seemed to have an allergic reaction to reporters and was long gone.

“So tell me, Agent O’Dell, from what you’ve seen, any ideas who I need to start looking for? And you can spare me the basics.”

“The basics?”

“Yeah, white male, twenty-something recluse whose mama abused him so now he doesn’t know how to respond to a woman except with violence.”

“How does Steve Earlman’s mutilation fit into that profile?”

Damn! He’d forgotten about Steve, didn’t even want to think about poor Steve.

“Okay, so let’s hear your basics on this one.”

“It’s too soon to give you a physical description, except that yes, he is most likely a white male in his twenties or maybe early thirties. He drives an SUV or pickup or has access to one. He probably lives alone on an acreage outside of the city, but he lives within fifty miles of this quarry.”

Henry glanced down at her, trying not to show his surprise or that he was impressed.

“This is all premature,” she continued without him prompting her, “but just from looking at the place he chose to dump the bodies says a lot about him. Most serial killers leave their victims out in the open, some even display their handiwork. It’s part of their ritual or, in some cases, part of their thrill to see others shocked by what they’re capable of doing. This guy goes through a lot of trouble to hide the bodies. He didn’t want them found. I’m wondering if he might even be embarrassed about what he’s done. Because of that, I’m guessing he has a paranoid delusional personality, which means he’ll feel threatened by us discovering his hiding place. He’ll think we’re out to get him, and it might make him do something irrational.”

“In other words, he might screw up, and we’ll be able to catch him?”

“He might panic and kill someone he thinks is out to destroy him. In other words, a panic kill. Yes, that could mean he screws up and leaves something behind for us to use to catch him, but it also means someone else could be killed.”

“Not at all what I wanted to hear, O’Dell,” Henry said, almost wishing he hadn’t asked. He already had the governor up his ass. What the hell would happen if this madman started killing again? Jesus! He hadn’t even thought of that.

As they got to the road, Henry noticed that the state patrol had arrived, two fresh officers to relieve Trotter and set up guard posts for the night. Earlier Randal Graham, the governor’s gopher, had offered the local National Guard. All Henry could think of at the time was that the locals would panic if they started seeing the fucking National Guard moving in. This was bad enough. He didn’t need to draw more attention.

“Sheriff Watermeier—” the media mongrels began the barrage as soon as he and O’Dell were in earshot “—what’s going on?”

“How many bodies are there?”

“Is it true a serial killer is on the loose?”

“When will the victims’ names be released?”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Hold on a minute.” Watermeier raised one hand and stopped O’Dell with his other by gently taking hold of her arm. She shot him a look, part surprise and part irritation, just enough for him to know that this was not in her plans. He didn’t care. What he did care about was retiring in a community that respected him. And that community damn well better think he was doing everything he could to protect it.

“I can’t tell you any details, except to say that yes, there are fifty-five-gallon drums, sealed barrels that have been buried under some rock,” he told them, slowing his words so that no one had an excuse to misquote him. “And yes, some of those barrels do have bodies inside. That’s all I can say about that right now. But I will tell you that we have everything under control. We have experts on the scene collecting evidence and we have—”

“But what about the killer, Sheriff?” someone from the back yelled, interrupting him. “You have a serial killer on the loose. What are you doing about that, Sheriff?”

Jesus! These assholes were hell-bent on starting a panic. Henry tucked his hat lower over his brow, as if to ward off further blows and hopefully to let them know he couldn’t be goaded into their hysteria.

“We’re working on that,” he lied. It was only the second day. How the hell was he supposed to have a list of suspects already? “That’s why we have Special Agent Maggie O’Dell here.” He gave her a slight shove forward. “She’s a criminal profiler with the FBI, up here from Quantico, Virginia. Her specialty is catching guys like this. So you see we’ve got the very best working on our team. That’s all for now.”

This time he grabbed O’Dell’s arm to lead her out of the crowd, Officer Trotter clearing a path for them.

“Have you brought in any suspects yet, Sheriff?”

“When will you give us more information? Like a profile of the killer?”

“That’s it, folks. That’s all I have for today.” He waved a hand at them and continued to plow through, shoving the cameras aside when they refused to move.

As soon as they were across the road, O’Dell wrenched her arm from his hold and without a word marched to her Ford Escort. He didn’t care if she was pissed. Tomorrow she would probably be long gone. All she wanted was to find her precious missing person, and there was a good chance the woman was waiting for them in the morgue.