Deadly Abandon (6 page)

Early forties, the man was about as lethal as an RPG sailing through an open window. An ace detective, Millette had an arrest record Sully admired and a mind as sharp as a stiletto. He had also raised the red flag on Rainey Dubé’s murder, while the MBPD had passed it off as an accident.

Sully closed the folder to focus instead on the man entering his office. “Come in, Sergeant. What have you got for me?”

“You might want to take a look at these.” Millette crossed the room and dropped several thick file folders on his desk.

Pushing his coffee mug aside, Sully cleared some space on his blotter and reached for the folders. “What are they?”

“Cold cases for the Mallard Bay area, beginning thirteen years ago. I’ve found four deaths raising a lot of questions. They have marked similarities to both Rainey Dubé’s murder and Miranda Greene’s death, although I know we’re still waiting for the findings on Greene.

“These are the dossiers of four other women who died under questionable circumstances, the findings on their deaths listed by the coroner as being inconclusive. Three appeared to have drowned and the fourth died in a fire of mysterious origin. While the fire is a different type of death, I included it because there still might be a connection to the other cases.”

Sully thumbed through the folders and processed their contents. This old information supported his serial killer theory. If these deaths were murders, there could be a psychopath on the loose who had been killing for the past thirteen years, at least, and getting away with it.

“How did you find these, Millette? Some of these aren’t just cold cases—they’re cold as ice.”

The other man shrugged. “I’ve had them for a while. I like to review old cases whenever I have a chance between my active files. It seems a shame these women died and nothing was ever done about it.”

“Nice work.” Sully flipped the last folder closed and handed them back. “I want you as the primary on Dubé’s investigation. Word just came down the woman was strangled. Apparently being in the water delayed the bruising pattern around her neck.

“Hand off everything else you’re working on to Chartrand and Brown. You’re taking the lead on this, and also on Greene’s suspected homicide. But, I’ll be working with you every step of the way and I expect to be kept fully informed.”

Millette nodded while shuffling the files in his hands. “You got it, Lieutenant.”

“Good, just as long as we understand each other. Sal Clemente is working full-time on the investigation as well, and he’ll report to you. Pull the evidence on these cold cases and have it run through forensics again. God knows, evidence processing has improved over the last thirteen years. Maybe we’ll get lucky, or at least be able to determine if these deaths were accidental, or not. Because if these cases are connected to Dubé and Greene, we’re heading into the biggest shit storm the city has ever seen, and we’re going to be smack-dab in the middle of it. I need answers and I want them yesterday.”

“I’ll get right on it. Is it too soon to call in a profiler?”

“Probably, until we have more information.” Circling a pencil on his blotter, Sully thought about his sister and came to a snap decision. “I have someone in mind; I’ll give her a quick heads up. I’ll tell her what we have so far and see what she has to say, off the record. We might be way off base here. I want to be sure before we sound the alarm.”

“Sure, Loot, whatever you say.” Millette gathered up the files and exited the office.

Sully wasn’t fooled. He knew Millette hated his guts. He had been overlooked for promotion when Sully came from the outside to head up Homicide due to his extensive military background. The grapevine also buzzed Millette was doubly pissed, because Sully still hung with the military in a reserve capacity. He cursed, switched mental gears and grabbed for the phone. Joelle. Would she even talk to him?

His sister had been a behavioral sciences profiler with the RCMP for three years before turning her formidable talents to mystery writing. After the
incident,
as she liked to refer to it, the one that almost took her life.

Now, he worried she had another incident
in the making, if the hate e-mail glimpsed by her assistant was anything to go by. But, he would
not
have that particular conversation with his sister. Besides, his friend Hawke was keeping an eye on her.

Joelle answered his call on the third ring. “Hey, little sister, don’t hang up. I need your help, big time.”

“Just as long as you aren’t trying to drag me back from Houston, Sully. I’m a big girl now. I don’t need any of you macho males trying to run my life.”

“Hey, not me, kid. Pop told me he has already tried and it was a no go.” Sully leaned back in his chair, his voice lowering a notch. “Seriously, Joelle, I may have a serial killer working the area and I need your expertise.”

The line was quiet for a second. “I’ll give it a shot, but I’m a little rusty. It’s been a long time since I’ve done profiling for a living. Tell me what you’ve got.”

He brought her up to speed on the cold cases, as well as Rainey Dubé’s murder and potentially, Miranda Greene’s. There was silence again on the telephone line.

“Well, that’s not much to go on. Do you have any communication from the creep? Notes left at the crime scenes? Phone messages or emails? Maybe some mementos left with the bodies?”

“Nothing has turned up so far. The fire has me stymied, too,” Sully admitted. “Five of the deaths simulated drowning, if I include Dubé and Greene. I’m not even sure the fire death is connected.”

“Motive is important here, not the killer’s methods,” his sister offered. “Serials need to satisfy their sadistic fantasies. And they will play out those fantasies to achieve some kind of sexual gratification. In the cases you’ve described, water and fire are both symbolic cleansing rituals. If you do have a serial operating in your area, and I think it’s possible, I suspect he’s justifying his kills by thinking of the women as unclean. It’s his reason for preying on them.”

“How does he choose his victims, Joelle? None of these women were prostitutes, or had criminal records.”

“Why does a serial killer choose one woman over another? Why is
she
the one? Sully, those are questions profilers have asked for years. Sadly, it can amount to very simple things. For example, it could be the color of her hair, the clothes she wears, or maybe he just has easy access to her. He stalks her for days—sometimes months—before he attacks her, because it’s all part of the thrill for him, part of his fantasy.

“He learns everything there is to know about her, goes inside her home, touches her belongings, and may fondle himself in her bed. He plans several escape routes. And when he tires of hunting her, he moves in for the kill. He probably also keeps souvenirs of each victim to help him relive his sexual highs.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“A geographic profiler will tell you he usually kills near where he lives. It’s his comfort zone and he won’t stray too far out of his territory, which should make him easier to find. By the way, if these killings started thirteen years ago, you’re searching for a male in his mid-thirties to early forties now. I think he’s Caucasian, the same as his victims. He is also probably quiet and very ordinary in his private life, because he won’t bring unwanted attention to himself. This is why he’s been so successful, because he blends in so well. And he is highly organized. Otherwise, he would have been caught years ago.”

Sully heard her suck in her breath over the line. “Watch your back, bro. You get in the guy’s way and he will come after you with both barrels. He may enjoy the sudden recognition of his talents, but he doesn’t want to be stopped. He’s been getting away with murder for a lot of years and now he’s escalating, judging from the short timeframe between Dubé’s and possibly Greene’s murders.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged, “The unsolved cases seem to be spaced much farther apart. Unless he’s committed other atrocities in between we don’t even know about.”

“It’s possible. And if there is a serial killer operating in your area, he’s worked undetected under the noses of the Mallard Bay police force for a lot of years.”

“Yeah, which surprises me,” Sully admitted. “You’d think someone would have clued in.”

“Honestly, it doesn’t surprise me at all,” Joelle said. “Forensic techniques and DNA collection were still in their infancy when these killings began, not to mention police databases weren’t around to share information. This killer’s smart—smart enough to kill in the boonies where local police had jurisdiction. None of these cases were ever brought to Montreal Homicide, were they?”

“No. Most of them appeared to be accidents, at least on the surface.”

“See what I mean?” Joelle’s fingernails
tap, tap, tapped
on her headset through the line and caused him to wince. “He can’t stop now, Sully, even if he knows you’re on to him. And he won’t want you hunting him down and depriving him of his fantasies. He places absolutely no value on human life.”

In other words, he is one sick son of a bitch
. “Thanks, kid. I appreciate the heads up.”

“Yes, well, be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Same goes. By the way, I’ve been reading your books. You won’t believe it, but I actually caught a guy who faked his own death by following the plot of your first novel.”

His sister’s voice rippled with laughter. “I never thought I’d see the day you would actually read my stuff, let alone learn anything from it. Then again, a lot of what I write is loosely based on actual case files I studied while with the RCMP.”

“Oh, I’m learning a lot, kid. Maybe we can talk about it when you come home for a visit? I love you, and I’m just starting to figure out what makes you tick. Take care of you, little sister.”

“You take care of you. Sully? I love you too.”

“I know, kid. I know.” He sighed as she hung up; praying to God she would stay safe and come back home so they could work on being a family again. They had a lot of catching up to do. Wounds needing to heal had festered far too long.

****

Breeana was exhausted when she arrived home late that evening. As manager of her son’s hockey team, she attended every hockey meeting. The meeting tonight had turned into a free-for-all, once the kids’ parents started arguing about fundraising and the team budget. The get-together droned on for hours.

A headache throbbed behind her eyes. She needed some aspirin. The truth was, she still hadn’t heard from Sully and there wasn’t anything on the radio about Rainey’s death. Couldn’t the blasted man keep her informed? Was it too much to ask?

She sighed, recognizing the unfairness of her complaints. He had a job to do, after all, and it didn’t include reporting back to her about the case. If she was really honest with herself, she would admit she wanted to hear the sound of his voice.

Plugging in the kettle, she sank to a chair while waiting for the water to boil, willing all wayward thoughts of the lieutenant out of her mind. Tea and aspirin in hand, she eventually dragged herself upstairs and along the hallway.

Opening the door to Cody’s room, she peered inside. Always the mother bear, she needed to see her cub tucked in his boy cave, even if the cub in question was fast becoming a man, already five inches taller than her and outweighing her by fifty-five pounds.

Bruiser and Bear lay sprawled on the opposite side of the queen-size bed where Cody snored softly. The dogs lifted their heads and eyed her through heavy-lidded gazes. It was pointless to demand they get off the bed. Boys will be boys and dogs will be dogs. It was easier to turn a blind eye and save her battles for the important stuff.

After showering, Breeana tumbled into her own bed. Lying in the dark, she listened to a June squall gusting across the lake and the rain pounding the dormer roof in a staccato rhythm. She loved the smell of rain, but not tonight. She rose and cranked the windows closed, locking them, an uneasiness gripping her as she gazed across the lawn and down to the black expanse of Lac St-Louis.

The normal sounds of the house settling took on an ominous feel. She was grateful for the distraction when her phone rang; however, she did breathe a sigh of relief to hear her answering service.

“Dr. McGill, I’m sorry to bother you so late but there’s been an accident. We have a report of a dog hit out on Highway 20 in the storm. The police are requesting to transport to you for surgery.”

Breeana slid open the wardrobe door and hauled out some clothes. “What’s the status on the dog?”

“A probable broken leg and several lacerations.”

“Tell them to come ahead. I’ll be at the clinic in fifteen minutes.” She disconnected, tossed the phone on the bed, and dressed in sweats and a rain jacket before scribbling a fast note to Cody to leave under a magnet on the fridge.

The storm battered her SUV as she drove. Lightning cracked, illuminating the road ahead as she white-knuckled the drive along Lakeshore in record time. She swerved into the parking lot and braked to a halt. No sign of the police transport vehicle yet.

Punching her code into the security system, Breeana rushed inside, switched on lights as she jogged down the corridor, and hurried to do the surgery set-up. The walk-in buzzer sounded as she retrieved surgical instruments from the autoclave. Seconds later, the lights went out, plunging the surgery into darkness.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

No answer.

Her eyes cut to the angled blinds where streetlights still penetrated the slats. Her brain kicked into gear, her sixth sense sounding the
D-A-N-G-E-R
alarm. This was no ordinary power failure.

Someone had cut the electricity inside the clinic, someone out in the pitch-black reception area where the breaker box was located. And she’d bet her bottom dollar…he hadn’t brought in a dog with a broken leg for treatment.

Breeana berated herself for being so careless, for not verifying the emergency before heading into the night and making herself a sitting target. She knew in her soul Rainey and Miranda had been murdered. Was their killer after her now?