Face Off (22 page)

“I don't think so. Look. This is the hospital report when he was seven. The one where his mother killed his father. See? There is no indication of any injury to his private parts. Then two years later, he was admitted to a hospital in Twin Falls, having supposedly injured himself accidentally with an electrical cord. Actually, I have reports from seven different hospitals showing severe injuries over a period of about eight years after his father's death.”

“How could that be? Surely old injuries would have shown up.”

“Not necessarily. When you look at the injuries, a chilling pattern develops. I see electrical shock, small burns, fingernails and toenails missing, heavy bruising around the stomach area—where no bones will break—just hurt like hell. Shit like that. And there were a number of old scars from cuts, but according to the hospital notes, his mother explained them away with a variety of stories.”

“Good God! What kind of a monster was she?”

“I don't know. Everyone who ever had any dealing with her said she was an angel—including the hospital employees. It's right there in their notes.”

“What about the brother? Did he suffer the same injuries?”

“Not that I could find. He was sick a lot, that's what the neighbors I talked with said. There were still a few around who remembered the family. The brother died not long after the mother left town. Clark stayed around for a few years, then he took off.”

“Did the neighbors seem to think the mother was an angel, too?”

“Oh, yeah. A dear, sweet, God-fearing angel. I heard it at least a dozen times.”

“Still no info on where the mother is now, or what her married name is?”

“No. A few people remembered that she had moved to Alaska when she left Idaho. No one seemed too surprised she had remarried. She was a real looker with—get this—long, blond hair.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

*   *   *

“Isn't it ever going to quit raining?” Jessie said as she dashed across the parking lot with Suzanne. “It's almost dark now, and it's still coming down. It was hard enough seeing the road in the daylight. It will really be yukky now!”

They both reached the car at the same time and tumbled in, shaking water from their hair.

“I think we should go home for a little while,” Suzanne said, fatigue overcoming her. “And before you start objecting, hear me out. We both could use some dry clothing and a bite to eat, and since we never made it to the grocery store today, I suggest we order pizza. That will give us a little time to dry out and regroup. I know you are not going to want to quit. I understand that. But we won't do Amy any good if we're too tired to think.”

“I guess you're right,” Jessie said, feeling Suzanne's weariness and knowing she needed a break. “And it
is
about three hours past my suppertime. I am sort of hungry, now that I think about it.” Jessie turned solemn. “Why were you frightened when you took Jim's arm back at the station?”

“Boy, nothing gets by you, does it?”

“Well, let's just say we had better not ever try to keep secrets from each other,” Jessie said.

Suzanne nodded. “I don't know what it was when I took Jim's arm. All at once I experienced a feeling of dread—of doom. I hope nothing is going to happen to him.”

“Me, too.” Jessie sat back in the car seat, pulling her seat belt a little tighter. She also hoped nothing was going to happen to her friend. For the last several minutes, she had been seeing flashes of Suzanne in her mind's eye—and the image was growing darker, just as it had done with her aunt Vera. Jessie wasn't certain if Suzanne could sense the danger when they touched, and was equally uncertain whether there was anything she could do about it, even if she did see it.

Chapter Twenty-two

Floyd's eyes darted back and forth between the parking lot and the old brownstone. He had been watching the place for almost an hour, coming to the conclusion that some of the tenants used the front entrance, and some the west side. He assumed it had to do with which part of the building their apartment was located.

He had driven through the parking area earlier, checking for the vehicle Clark had told him about—an old gray Cutlass, license number R2R 576. It was nowhere around.

Getting into the building was not going to be a problem. As near as he could tell, there was no security of any kind, not even a locked outer door.

He felt in the deep pocket of his raincoat for his gun. His hand wrapped comfortably around the 9 mm Colt that had set him back a pretty penny, but which was rapidly becoming his best friend. It was far and away the greatest confidence builder he had ever owned. He snapped the nine-round clip into place, feeling in his other pocket for the metal piece that made the Colt worth every cent he had paid for it. He smiled as he screwed the silencer into place.

Clark had told him he would be here—as backup if nothing else. Probably a good idea, since there might be two of them in the apartment. If it was going to be messy, he wanted no part of it. He didn't mind killing, as long as it was fast and easy, with no surprises. If it was going to get complicated, he would let Clark handle the whole damned thing.

He hadn't really realized what a nutcase Clark was until he had killed the Murphy girl for him. Shit, he was still having nightmares over that little piece of work! A friggin' nut, that's what Clark was. A friggin' nut! Cutting those girls up like that, taking time to slather on all that makeup. Floyd felt a little shiver of anxiety race down his arms. Yeah. Just as soon as they had finished their little project tonight, he was going to hightail it out of town and never look back.

*   *   *

As he limped along in the rain, Willie Rodriquez deeply regretted never learning to drive a car. He was wet clear through to his boxers, despite the small black umbrella he was carrying. He had tried to reach Jim at the station, but had been cut off three times by a harried-sounding operator who informed him each time that Jim was on another line. Finally, he had decided just to walk the fourteen blocks. Served him right for getting suckered in and giving Jim a bum steer.

Willie took his white handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and wiped moisture from his face as he trudged along. It had been a long time since he had fallen for a street plant. Who would have guessed the slimy-looking man shooting pool at Charley's wasn't on the level? It had taken him two days to trace back the rumors, but Willie was certain now they had been a plant, arising initially from the dark-haired sleazeball who had shaken him down in a friendly little game of pool.

Willie didn't like someone trying to make a fool out of him, especially not when it involved his good friend, Jim Stahl. He hadn't yet come up with the jerk's right name, but he would get it. He would damned sure get it! All he knew for positive was that the name wasn't Floyd Webster, as he had been told.

Willie was fairly certain he had not been singled out because the man knew about his link to the police. The guy calling himself Floyd had been in and out of a hundred different places, slyly dropping small innuendos about the butcher here and there—almost always asked as a question. “Say, what's this about some guy living with Clark? I heard it was some pro with his fingerprints burned off. You hear anything like that?” It hadn't taken long until the matter was a regular buzz on the streets.

It was an old trick, sometimes started by attorneys looking for a little ammo in court, sometimes started by relatives trying to get their family member off. It was extremely hard to trace back to a source. If the man had not personally used Willie to help start the rumor, Willie would probably never have been able to track the story.

Fire flashed from Willie's eyes as he walked along, dragging his bum leg. He would report in to his friend, then he had some more checking to do. Before the night was out, he was going to have the asshole's real name. He hadn't worked the streets of Kansas City over twenty years for nothing!

*   *   *

The uneasiness had been growing in Suzanne since leaving the precinct. It was just an overall feeling of apprehension. It seemed to her that she was missing something. Something important. What? She took her right hand from the steering wheel and began massaging her temple.
Think! What is it! What have you overlooked?
A hard knot began forming in her stomach.

*   *   *

The chaos at the precinct had only abated somewhat as Jim made his way to Caswell's office where Harry was waiting. The nasty weather had at least slowed the number of people who were actually coming to the precinct to offer suggestions about the investigation, but the phone lines had been going nuts. With the knowledge that the butcher was still on the streets, citizens were calling by the hundreds with their own suspicions. It always amazed Jim how many people were willing to go on an anonymous tip line with accusations against people they had known all their lives. Even after two of the bodies of the missing girls had been found, over a thousand calls had been logged with suggestions from the public as to where they might be found. It was insane.

The door to Caswell's office was closed. Jim tapped out a short beat and stuck his head in. “Anything new I need to know about before I go home?” He had been at the station for twelve hours. It was now after eight o'clock and Ruth had been waiting dinner since six. He was tired and feeling every one of his sixty-three years.

Harry motioned him on in with a wave of his hand, explaining quickly the new information Connors had brought.

“Huh!” Jim grunted. “That makes Clark almost a perfect match to the FBI profile, then. Have you informed Caswell?”

“Hell, no,” Harry answered. “The last thing he said to me before leaving tonight was that he wanted a new list of suspects on his desk come morning. I'm not mentioning any more on Clark until we can nail it down.”

Jim gave a long sigh and sat down. “Harry, we have no DNA match, and the body parts found in Clark's apartment have no bearing on this case. Just how, exactly, do you plan on nailing it down?”

“Damn it, Jim—something isn't right! So those fingers and toes we found floating around in formaldehyde were old and gangrenous. What the hell were they doing in Clark's apartment? Where would you even come up with something like that? What could he possibly be doing with them?”

Jim shrugged. “I suppose there is a chance Nordyke was right. I don't suppose there is a cop anywhere who doesn't know that serial killers have a custom of saving little mementoes, like body parts, from their victims. Maybe one of our boys was certain Clark was the killer, so he decided to—”

“You don't believe that, Jim, and neither do I,” Harry interrupted. “Besides, where the hell would one of our boys come up with that stuff? They're not exactly something you have lying around!”

“You're right about that!” Jim stood and started for the door. “But I'm fried. I'm going home and sleep on it—just as soon as I run something through the computer.”

“What's that?”

“Let Freedom Ring. I sort of vaguely remember that slogan from somewhere.”

“Good. I was going to do that next. I can't say that it means anything to me, though, except as the end of some song like the
Star Spangled Banner
or something.”

Jim gave him a wry smile. “I thought it came from
God Bless America.
”

Willie Rodriquez walked into the room, leaving a trail of water dripping behind him. “You are both wrong, señores. It is the last line of
My Country 'Tis of Thee,
one of my favorite songs!”

“Willie!” Jim said in astonishment. “You look like a drowned rat! What are you doing out on a night like this?”

“I come to apologize, Jim,” Willie said. “I told you wrong about the butcher. He got me on an old trick—one I have never fallen for before.”

“He? Who are you talking about?”

“I don't know the man's real name. He said it was Floyd Webster, but I'm certain that isn't right. For two weeks he has been planting stories on the street about Clark having a roommate, someone with his fingerprints burned off, that sort of thing.”

“So your info was wrong?” Harry asked.

Willie nodded. “You both seemed so certain about Clark I decided to dig a little deeper. I learned this Floyd Webster had started the stories.” He looked at Jim. “I'm sorry, man! I should have thought of a plant right away, but this guy seemed like such a worthless character, I never thought he'd feed me no line of bull.”

“That's okay, Willie,” Jim said. “Don't worry about it. This investigation has been screwy right from the beginning. You aren't the only one who has problems.”

Neither Willie nor Jim could understand the look that crossed Harry's face.

*   *   *

Suzanne drove into the small parking area on the west side of her apartment building. By now the knot in her stomach was a burning cauldron of acid. Something was wrong. Her fingers trembled as she removed the keys from the ignition and turned to Jessie. “Can you think of anything we didn't tell Harry? I just can't shake the feeling that we have overlooked something important.”

Jessie shook her head. “No. But, Suzanne, I keep seeing you in my mind, and your image just gets darker and darker. I'm afraid for you. It's just like with Aunt Vera.” There. She had told her.

Suzanne reached over, taking Jessie's hand. The instant she touched the younger psychic, she saw it, also. It was an unnerving vision. “It's probably nothing,” she said, shaking it off for Jessie's sake. “We've been placing ourselves in danger. I'm sure that's all that it is.”

As they dashed from the car into the apartment building, both psychics felt an overwhelming flush of fear, but neither saw the cold eyes following their every move.