Blood of Eden (8 page)

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Authors: Tami Dane

BOOK: Blood of Eden
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Not now.
Was that an eyelash bat?
I threw up a little in my mouth. This was wrong on so many levels.
I dumped my stuff on my desk, plopped into my chair, and quickly consumed my pathetic excuse for a breakfast while waiting for my computer to power up. I eat fast; my Netbook runs slow. By the time I had my fave sites loaded on my browser, JT was strolling in, looking fresh and scrumptious and ready for work.
The chief paid me a visit while I was reading an article on infectious diseases on
ResearchGate.com
. “Good morning, Skye. We've had some interesting developments in our case. How did you and JT make out yesterday?”
Interesting wording—“make out”?
Wishing I had something earthshaking to tell her, I shook my head. “We didn't get much. There is an ex-fiance who's—”
“Hold off on the update until we're all together.” She lifted a hand, halting me midsentence. “We're all here. Conference room. In ten. For a briefing.”
“Okay.” The minute the chief had wandered off to talk to someone else, I headed for JT's cubicle. He was on the phone; I pretended I wasn't trying to listen in, and watched the rest of the team going about their morning rituals. I didn't rap on his divider until after he'd ended the call. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” His smile made my insides do cartwheels. Would I ever get over this crush? “Did you get anywhere yesterday?”
“Not really, but Brittany dug up something interesting on Chapman. McRoy also uncovered some information on Deborah Richardson. Which first, Richardson or Chapman?”
“Chapman,” I said.
“He has a sealed juvenile record and a more recent conviction for stalking a coworker.”
That was interesting, indeed. “Okay. He's no Boy Scout, but we don't have any concrete reason to believe he had anything to do with his ex-fiancée's death ... yet. Now, what about Richardson?”
“She just wrapped up a very messy divorce a couple of months ago.”
I was confused. “Divorce? Didn't Chapman say they'd been engaged for over
two years
?”
“Yep. Evidently, she was engaged to Chapman while she was married.”
And my mother wondered why I was in no hurry to get married? Although I wanted to believe two people could fall in love and stay in love for the rest of their lives, I had yet to see it. Was anyone happily married these days? “Okay, so we have a potentially pissed-off ex-husband, an ex-fiancé who wasn't ready to be an ex, a dead woman who hasn't been sick a day in the last several months but died from dengue hemorrhagic fever—”
“And hasn't ever traveled out of the country,” JT added.
“About that. This morning, I checked the statistics of dengue hemorrhagic fever infections in the United States. According to CDC data, contact between the Aedes mosquito and U.S. residents is so limited that the vast majority of cases of dengue in the States is acquired elsewhere by travelers and immigrants. The last documented outbreak of dengue in the continental U.S. was in Southern Texas in 2005. A small outbreak occurred in Hawaii in 2001. No other outbreaks have been verified since. However, dengue is a significant problem in parts of South America. Do we know if our victim has traveled to Texas recently? Or Hawaii?”
“We don't, but we can find out. I'm sure the CDC is working the case. They may know the method of transmission already.”
Noticing the other team members were moving toward the conference room, I glanced at the clock. “I guess we'd better get in there.”
“Yep.”
“The chief said there were some interesting developments in the case last night. Do you know anything about that?” I asked.
“Nope.” He motioned for me to go first. I led the way to the conference room, checking the Clock of Doom on my way to a seat. Two hours, thirty-eight minutes.
Would somebody else really die when that clock ticked down to the last minute?
Chief Peyton cleared her throat and gave the room a somber-faced sweep with her eyes. She really did have a flair for the dramatic. Despite my cynicism, I found myself sliding to the edge of my seat.
“First, we have identified all three victims. Their names are Debbie Richardson, Hannah Grant, and the most recent victim is Laura Miller. In addition, we have determined in the last few hours that all three deaths are indeed murders,” she announced gravely. “We are dealing with a serial killer. There are some issues with the DNA analysis, but the lab found foreign saliva on the victims' necks, and they were able to extract DNA. It matches in all three cases.”
Identical DNA. Huh. That was hard to dismiss.
But did it prove inconclusively that the victims were murdered?
“In addition,” she continued, “upon further examination of the bodies, proof of a struggle, specifically skin and blood under the fingernails, was discovered. The DNA from that material matched the samples found at the neck.”
I glanced at the clock.
If what the chief was saying was true, in exactly two hours, thirty-one minutes, and seventeen seconds,
someone else was going to die.
Imagination is more important than knowledge.
Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.
—Albert Einstein
7
Try as I might, I could no longer deny the fact that the three deaths we had been investigating weren't simple cases of virulent diseases. Somehow, someone was using infectious agents to kill women. Brunette women, in their early thirties—two out of three residing near a park.
Debbie Richardson, Hannah Grant, and Laura Miller.
Why those victims? Why that mode of killing?
We were still a long way from answering either of those questions.
I shared my discovery that two of the three victims lived on properties bordering a park. I hadn't known Miller's identity, so I hadn't had a chance to locate her home yet. The chief verified that she lived near the same park that Debbie Richardson did. JT shared the names of Richardson's ex-fiancé and her place of work, hoping we might discover a link tying her to the other victims, besides the park. None of the victims worked together. As a matter of fact, the other two victims, a medical sales rep and a librarian, worked in different towns. However, they lived within a half mile of each other. That, we all agreed, was significant.
When it was Brittany's turn, she gave us the lowdown on Trey Chapman: “The juvenile record includes one conviction of petty larceny. That's it. Don't ask me how I found that out.” She grinned. “He's currently unemployed. Hasn't kept a job for more than six months in the last three years. Tends to take jobs at places frequented by wealthy, single women, like spas, restaurants, and retail stores. I get the feeling he's a leech, a pretty boy who hooks up with rich women and lives off them, but I doubt he's a killer.” She punched a few keys on her laptop. “I also did some digging into Deborah Richardson's ex-husband. He's squeaky-clean, hasn't even had a traffic ticket in the past five years. He has his own accounting firm, which is running in the black. Outside of the messy divorce, which, on closer examination, wasn't so messy—he voluntarily gave his ex-wife the home and custody of their daughter—there's no reason to suspect him of any crime.”
Chief nodded. “Good work. I'll let you get back to it.”
“Thanks, Chief.” Brittany excused herself.
Chief Peyton motioned to Fischer. “Fischer, what do you have on Laura Miller?”
“She was a sales rep for a medical supply firm. She owned the house she lived in, but shared it with a longtime friend and her friend's daughter. She lived a relatively quiet lifestyle when she wasn't traveling for work. She spent her spare time at home, writing. She was working on a novel. She hadn't dated anyone recently, hadn't been acting different, and hasn't traveled anywhere south of the Virginia–North Carolina border. Her roommate noticed nothing out of the ordinary before her death. And she hadn't appeared sick.”
Just like Debbie Richardson.
Gabe was the only one who didn't have anything to report. Whatever he'd been doing yesterday, it hadn't been working on our case.
“All right. Let's take a look at our unsub,” Chief Peyton said, moving to the whiteboard and uncapping a black dry-erase marker. “What do we know about him or her?”
“Do we know from the DNA his or her gender?” I asked.
“At this point, no.” Chief Peyton wrote a capital
G
and a question mark.
“His or her mode of killing is disease,” I stated.
“He bites his victims, leaving marks that are not characteristic of a human bite,” JT added, pointing to the close up of one of the victim's neck wounds. “We see only canine punctures. No incisors. And no lower-teeth marks.”
“He must have some seriously long canines,” Gabe said. “Could be wearing fake fangs.”
Could be. But why?
“Is he delusional?” I asked.
Chief Peyton shook her head. “I doubt it. The killings don't appear to be that of a disorganized killer. However, we don't have an MO yet. All we have is a victim type—female in her thirties, brunette, and living close to a park or school. But we don't know yet how he approaches or overcomes his victim, what tools he uses in his killing, or the time and place the crimes occurred.”
“What about a signature?” I asked. “Are the bites a signature? Could he be killing to bite, rather than biting to kill?”
Chief Peyton nodded. “It's a possibility.”
Tapping his pencil against his notebook, Fischer added, “The unsub doesn't kill right away. He relinquishes control after the attack, risking the victim identifying him. That's the action of a confident killer—”
“Or a disorganized one,” I added. “Psychotic killers don't fear being caught, because they don't realize what they've done is wrong.”
“True. We have a lot of work to do.” Chief Peyton pointed at the clock. “And not a lot of time to get it done. We have just over two hours to figure out who the unsub is and stop him, or another woman is going to die.” She pointed at Fischer. “Fischer, I want you and Wagner to go through the coroner's reports for all three victims with a fine-tooth comb. Look for any clues that might lead us to a crime scene. Trace evidence, fibers, that kind of thing.” She pointed at JT. “JT, I want you and Skye to retrace the steps of all three victims on the day they died. Where did they go? Who did they talk to?”
“But there's no way they could have been infected the same day they died,” I piped in. “The diseases were too far progressed. Take Laura Miller, for example. The incubation period for malaria is seven days, minimum, meaning she was infected at least a week
before
she died... .” The significance of that fact sent a chill racing up my spine.
The next victim was probably already infected. She just didn't know it yet. There was a ticking time bomb set to go off inside her body.
How could we stop a killer who could be as much as a week ahead of us? And was there any chance we could save his next victim?
“That may be true. They may have been infected days, or weeks, before they died. But what about the fresh bite marks? Not to mention, the foreign DNA sample that was found on all three victims?” the chief asked. “They couldn't have possibly picked that up a week before their death.”
Which meant what? The unsub was going back to visit his victims after they collapsed? Why?
Every member looked sober as we gathered our things and headed toward the door. Somebody nudged me as I was leaving the room. I twisted to look over my shoulder. As I suspected, it had been Gabe.
“What?” I snapped, worrying I'd hold up JT. We had important things to do. Now was not the time for silly schoolyard games. When Gabe didn't say anything right away, I motioned toward JT's cubicle. “JT's waiting. We have a lot to do.”
“Yeah. I know. This won't take long.” He grabbed my elbow—he actually had the nerve to touch me—and pulled me off to one side. I glared at his hand and clamped my lips shut. “Look, I know you're mad about the BAU, but I wanted you to know I had nothing to do with that.” He honestly expected me to believe that pile of dog poo?
“Okay, whatever.” I jerked my arm out of his grasp and tried to muscle my way past him. He was such a freaking huge ox. Why was he blocking the way? “Gabe.”
“You don't believe me.”
“No. Of course, I don't. But that doesn't matter. None of this does. Right now, what matters is JT, who's standing over there by the elevators, twiddling his thumbs, wondering why I'm wasting time having a tête-à-tête with you.”
Looking almost pathetic, Gabe shrugged. “You're right. Good luck, Sloan.” He stepped aside to let me pass, and I scampered to my cubby, crammed my Netbook into the case, slung the strap over my shoulder, and headed for the elevators. I gave JT an I'm-sorry smile and checked the elevator call button to see if he'd already pressed it. Yep, it was glowing red.
“Which victim do you want to check out first?” I asked, catching my breath after the mini sprint I'd done to catch up to him.
“I was thinking about that.” The elevator door slid open and JT motioned for me to go in first. “All three fit the same profile, so I don't think it matters. But I think we'll go with Laura Miller.”
JT drove, leaving me free to think. Now that the case had taken a sharp left, into Life-or-Deathville, I wanted to do my best to help. Nobody would hear any smart-ass comments about the Clock of Doom from this girl again.
I flipped to the copy of Fischer's notes. He'd made a copy for every member of the team and left them on the table. “This guy's thorough,” I said, impressed. “He included a minute-by-minute breakdown of Miller's final day.”
“That'll make it easier. I'm assuming we need to start at her house.”
“Yup.” I reread the itinerary. “Damn, I wore the wrong shoes this morning.”
“Why's that? I don't see anything wrong with them.”
I glanced down at the butt-ugly, cheap vinyl pumps. The man was no judge of shoe quality. “Our victim ran over five miles that morning.”
He sniggered. “Ah, I see.”
I stared down at my feet. Five miles in those shoes, and I'd be crippled for weeks. “I have an idea.”
“What's that?” He flipped the turn signal and glanced over his shoulder, inching onto the freeway.
“You jog the route, and I'll follow you in the car.”
“Sure. We can do that.” He pointed at the gearshift. “You do know how to drive a stick, don't you?”
Shit. Why hadn't I noticed that before? “Um, the answer to that would be no.”
“I'll let you give it a try when we exit.”
“No, that's okay.” My toes cramped at just the thought of hiking five miles in pumps with man-made uppers and absolutely no arch support. But there was no way I was going to drive JT's car. I'd tried driving a stick once. It had been a car I'd found on a used-car lot. A fierce little beast, a Mazda something-or-other, red. I wanted to buy that car so bad. It took me at least ten minutes to get it off the lot when I'd tried taking it for a test drive. Then I stalled it in the middle of an intersection as I was trying to make a left turn. There was a Frito-Lay truck barreling at me at about a hundred, or so it seemed. The ending was pretty predictable. The truck won. The Mazda wasn't so fierce after that.
I vowed never again to attempt to drive a car with a standard transmission.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Positive.” I sighed and wiggled my toes in my shoes, enjoying them while they could still move without causing agony. All too soon, we rolled up to what I assumed was Laura Miller's house. It was nothing special, a carbon copy of the other Colonials on the street. Vinyl siding. Faux-brick facing. Along the front of the house was a weedy flower garden. The petunias were looking a little neglected.
“I'm hoping the victim's husband will know the exact route his wife took.” JT switched off the car and climbed out.
I followed him up the front walk.
I glanced at my cell phone. “It's after nine. What if Mr. Miller left for work already?”
“I called him this morning. He said he'd wait for us.” On the porch now, JT rapped on the off-white–painted front door.
“Smart move.”
The door swung open and a pleasant-looking man greeted us with a weak smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Miller. I'm Agent Thomas.” JT flashed his badge. “This is Miss Skye.”
I offered the man my hand. “I'm sorry for your loss.”
He shook it. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us.” When Miller stepped to the side to let us in, JT headed inside. As usual, I followed. We entered into a living room with beige carpet and walls. The house's interior wasn't any different from the exterior. Relatively neat, while at the same time showing a few signs of neglect, including a pretty hefty coat of dust on the bookshelves lining one wall of the living room.
“How can I help you, Agent Thomas?” Miller asked.
“We'd like to confirm the information you gave to Agent Fischer, regarding your wife's activities the day she died.”
“Sure. Like I told the other agent, my wife took her morning jog and then went to work. She liked to stop at Einstein Brothers for a bagel and coffee on her way into work. That was probably her last stop before ... before ...” He scrubbed his face with his palm, glanced at a family portrait sitting on the fireplace mantel, and sighed.
“I'm sorry, sir,” I said after glancing at the photo. “I realize this must be hard for you. We'd like to try to find some answers for you ... and your daughter. Can you tell me if your wife ran the same route every morning?”
“Yes, she did. She took Trotter up to Clarksville Pike, then came back down to Great Star Drive and back home. It's about six miles, round-trip.”

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