Face Off (9 page)

Jessie looked down, picking absentmindedly at a frayed spot on the couch. “Pretty dumb, huh?”

“I don't think so, sweetie. There has to be a reason you are picking up these images. They all have to tie-in together somehow, with Amy. We have to trust what you are seeing and work from there.”

Chapter Nine

By late afternoon, the day that had started off as merely a hot May day had turned into a record-breaking scorcher, with the temperature soaring to nearly one hundred degrees. Even the few clouds which had begun drifting in, offering hope of rain, did nothing to squelch the oppressive heat. Inside the police station on Locust, tempers rose as steadily as the mercury.

“We have no choice, gentlemen,” Chief Caswell all but shouted over the murmur of disgruntled voices. “Nordyke is already screaming. Seems somebody tipped him about the eyebrow and semen, so we can't claim this was a copycat killing.”

“Did you tell him to keep his mouth shut about that?” Harry snapped. “We don't want the
Star
printing those two facts or some asshole will decide to off his wife and blame it on the butcher.”

“I didn't put it quite so succinctly,” Caswell answered, sounding annoyed. “I did inform him we were not releasing that info to the press.”

“Why can't we hold him as a material witness, if nothing else?” Jim asked. “It seems to me, since body parts were found in his apartment he would at least be a witness we should protect.”

Caswell rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. “Yeah, I thought of that, but Nordyke beat me to the punch. He said if Clark was wanted as a witness, he would personally see to it he returned whenever we wanted him, but since he had already spent almost two weeks behind bars for murders he did not commit, it would be a
gross infringement on his rights
for him to spend so much as another hour locked up!”

“Damn it, Chief! Clark is as guilty as hell,” Harry interrupted. “You know it and we all know it. We can't let him be released.”

Caswell looked hard at his number one detective. “No. I don't
know
it, McDermott. We have another killing
identical
to all the other murders, only this one takes place when our star suspect is in jail.
He
didn't do it, so where the hell does that leave us? And remember, Davis couldn't account for the body parts found in Clark's apartment. They didn't come from any of the known victims. He has always said not to assume too much until we get the report back from the FBI. Sonofabitch, Harry. Did it ever occur to you that maybe you were wrong?”

Harry refused to concede. “Look, we don't even know for certain if this killing
was
done exactly the same as the others. We won't know that until Davis gets finished with the body and gets the DNA evidence back on the semen.”

“Did I hear my name being taken in vain?” The door to Caswell's office pushed open to reveal Chief Medical Examiner Stanley Davis. “Thought you boys might want to know what I found.”

“Thanks, Stanley.” Harry smiled at the little man. “I really appreciate you stopping by. And if you've brought us evidence that will keep Clark in jail, I'll kiss your shiny bald head.”

“Well, damn!” Davis laughed. “Much as I hate having to miss out on that, I'm afraid this killing is, for the most part, similar to the others.”

“But not exactly?” Harry asked.

Davis took a seat at the front of the room, spreading papers out on the edge of Caswell's desk. “Let me start with the similarities. First, the cuts were in the identical areas as all the others—except that these were a little rougher cut, more like the cuts found on the first two or three victims.”

“So what does that mean?” Caswell asked.

“I'm not sure. As the murders progressed—as more and more girls were killed—the killer learned a little about joints and bones. The last girls butchered were—if you will pardon the expression—carved
more professionally.
But this one again looked like the killer had a little rough time. Maybe he was in more of a hurry, I don't know. The face was made up with the identical makeup used on all the other girls. Same brand. Same colors. I personally ran the tests twice to be certain.”

“Shit!” Harry slammed his notebook down on his leg.

“And of course you know,” Davis continued, “the right eyebrow was shaved, then penciled in, same as all the others. I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I don't think you'll be keeping Clark behind bars on my findings.”

“Well, that just about tears it then.” Caswell heaved a long sigh. “We have the wrong sonofabitch in jail!”

“You mentioned differences,” Jim said. “How exactly was this one different?”

“This girl was raped, for openers.
Really
raped, not just made to look like it. She was a virgin, too, just like most of the other victims. Also, she was killed by suffocation. She didn't bleed to death like the others.”

“Was she dead when the dismembering began, then?”

“Yes. She was raped first, then suffocated. After that, nicks were gouged on the body, the makeup was applied, the limbs cut off and the semen placed on her torso—not necessarily in that order. And we'll have to wait for the DNA report to know about the semen.”

“Are you saying this girl wasn't tortured? On all the rest of the victims, you were certain they were alive when the gouging was done and even for a short time when an arm or leg was being removed. As I recall, one girl was still alive when her neck was being cut.” Harry looked at the diminutive ME for confirmation.

Davis nodded. “That's right. She may not have been conscious, but she was damn sure still alive.”

“Any other differences?” Harry asked.

Davis shook his head. “No. Everything else pretty much matched all the other killings, except for one thing, which may or may not be helpful. I think the killer vomited as he was cutting up the body. He tried to clean it all up, but some had mingled with the victim's blood.”

“There were at least two others who vomited at the scene,” Jim said, remembering the hallway. “Could it have come from them?”

“No. This was right on the body and had been wiped up. I assume your men would know better than to pull a stunt like that?”

“Of course,” Caswell stated flatly. “So what do you think this means? Is our killer getting squeamish at this late date?”

“My bet is that it was a different killer,” Harry said. “And no, I can't explain how he happened to know all the details from the other murders which weren't released to the public. But I'll bet my sweet ass this was a copycat!”

“You don't have one shred of evidence to back up that theory,” Caswell said. “There were certainly more similarities than differences.”

“If it
was
a copycat,” Jim said, “then it looks to me like he would have to have some tie-in to us. And by
us
I mean the handful of detectives working this case. Either someone in our unit has been talking, or”—he looked at Davis—“someone at yours.”

Davis shook his head. “It can't be coming from my office. I've worked alone on these murders, and as you know, my wife does all the transcribing of my notes.”

“I can't believe anyone from our offices has been talking,” Harry said. “If they were, the
Star
would have it by now.”

There was a light tap on the door and Officer Karnitz entered. She walked over to Chief Caswell. “Sir, Andrew Nordyke is back. He's demanding we release Clark. What should I do?”

Caswell threw one arm in the air in exasperation. “Release him. We can't possibly hold him now.”

“Just a minute, sir,” Harry said. “Give me a few minutes to set up a tail. If he
is
the butcher, we don't want to give him the opportunity to start in again.”

Chief Caswell rubbed at an ache in the back of his neck he couldn't quite find. “All right. But watch yourself. I don't want Nordyke on my ass!”

As Harry left the room, the full implication of the examiner's findings hit him. Either Clark was totally innocent, or someone close to the investigation had leaked detailed information and a copycat killer had struck. He wasn't happy accepting either of those premises.

*   *   *

“How about we clean up your apartment before we go for groceries? I think you'd feel a lot better if we got rid of at least part of this mess.”

“What? No bulldozer?”

Jessie looked scornfully around the littered living room. “Well, since we don't have one, it looks like we'll have to do it.”

“
We
don't have to do anything, young lady. I'm perfectly content with the way things are.
You're
the only one who can't seem to live with it.”

“That's not true,” Jessie stated confidently. “It's bugging you, too. You're just afraid to open up and admit it. You like
hiding out
in this jumble.”

Suzanne made a low bow. “Yes, Doctor Freud. Geez, kid! Since when do fourteen-year-old girls care that much about what a place looks like?”

“Are you kidding? Our
barns
are cleaner than this apartment. The state board would condemn our dairy farm if it was kept like this. And besides that, you smoke too much. Don't you know those things will kill you?”

Suzanne threw up her arms in mock surrender. “Okay! okay! One vice at a time.” She looked around in frustration, then nodded her head slowly. “Yeah, I know this place is a dump. I haven't really done much since I moved in here. I haven't even unpacked most of my boxes. They're still piled in a storage room off the kitchen.”

“Maybe that's why you don't have anything on the walls, huh?” Jessie answered. “And why there isn't even anything sitting around to make it look like
home.
”

“Maybe that's because I never considered it home. I sold my
home
when I left Omaha.”

“Oh, pooh! Home is where you're at. My mom sets more things around when we stay at a motel, than you have here.”

Suzanne hated to admit it, but she knew Jessie was right. After Miss Emily's death, she had spent weeks redoing their house; making it hers, but still with a touch of Miss Emily. Furthermore, she had kept it clean—and done the washing, the ironing, the cooking. Here, she had turned into a vegetable who locked herself in her apartment and shut out the world. She made her mind up quickly.

“Okay, sweetie, you win. Let's see if we can put some order back in my life. God knows I could use it!”

*   *   *

Across town, Randal Clark took Nordyke's hand, pumping it up and down. “I can't thank you enough for getting me out of there,” he said with a nod back at the building he had just exited. “I can't stand being penned in. Drives me nuts!”

Andrew Nordyke couldn't explain the slight ripple of goose bumps that traveled down his arms at Clark's touch. He hoped to God he hadn't made a mistake insisting on his client's release. No. Clark couldn't be the butcher. The murder last night had pretty much cinched that. Up until that point, though, he had thought Clark as guilty as hell.

“Good luck, Randal,” Nordyke said. “And don't forget what I said about a tail. I have a hunch they may follow you around for a couple of days. If they make a nuisance of themselves, call me.”

Clark's weathered face broke into a wide grin. “I'll do that now. I surely will!” He turned and walked up the street. He would sure as hell get rid of a tail. It had been almost two weeks since he'd had any fun! He wondered if there was any chance the girl was still alive. Amy. Amy with the long, blond hair, the sea blue eyes; Amy, the young girl he had followed as she went to church each Sunday and to choir practice on Wednesday; Amy, with her innocent, wide-eyed look, her gentle ways. He knew what she was really like, the whore! She was just exactly like all the others. Pretending to be so good—so pure! Fooling everyone! Everyone but Randal Clark! He was on to all of them. The bitches!

Give him an honest to God hooker every time. At least they didn't pretend to be someone they weren't. You knew where you were right up front. No phony sweetness and goodness act.

Randal thought of all the things he was going to do to Amy—if she was alive. A ripple of excitement traveled down his spine.

But first he had a bone to pick with Floyd. That double-crossing ass had almost cost him his freedom.
Don't rape her
he had told him. Just
pretend
to rape her. He had laid it out for him step by step. But no. Floyd couldn't keep his pecker in his pants and had almost blown the whole thing.

Still, he
did
get me out of jail. And now it will be
his
DNA on file, not mine. Maybe the bastard did me a bigger favor than I thought!

*   *   *

Suzanne stood at the entrance to the living room and surveyed their handiwork. The floors were vacuumed, the furniture shining, and Jessie had even rummaged around in boxes until she had located a few pictures for the walls. The curtains were pulled back, letting sunshine filter through sparkling windows. She looked at Jessie with genuine admiration. “You're a whiz, kiddo! We did this entire apartment in three hours.”

Jessie looked around. “Hey, this place is really cute—when you can see it.”

“All right, all right. I admit it. The place looks better and I feel better. Are you satisfied?”

Jessie's eyes twinkled. “Not quite. We have to do the laundry and go shopping for groceries.”

Suzanne flopped down on the couch. “You're a slave driver. Do you know that?” She looked up at Jessie expecting a flip answer. Instead, she saw Jessie sink to her knees and begin shaking violently.

Jessie's head snapped back and she felt a hard, gripping pressure around her chest. She emitted a loud, gut-wrenching moan. “No! Oh, nooooooo!”