Fury (20 page)

“I can’t imagine losing her,” he said.

“Most people can’t imagine it even after it happens,” Corso said. “Something in them refuses to believe it’s possible to outlive a child.”

“I don’t know what I’d do,” he said. “What I’d get out of bed for in the morning.” He waved his arm around the room. “You get to a point in life where you’ve got everything you thought you wanted and when you think about losing a child or a wife…it’s like all of a sudden you realize none of it really means a damn thing to you. That only the people in your life are worth a goddamn thing. All the rest of this…” His voice got husky as it trailed off. “I have to go,” he said almost apologetically, as if suddenly embarrassed and overwhelmed by the magnitude of his blessings. “I can’t—”

“One minute,” Corso said. “Give me one minute.”

As Vincent started for the door, Corso kept on talking to his back. “The FBI profile of this guy says he’s a white male, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. A loner. The kind of guy who eats lunch by himself and has a hard time getting along with his fellow workers. Bad interpersonal skills. Single, but probably lives in a dependent relationship with a woman—maybe a sister or a cousin, something like that. Maybe has a history of petty crimes. Fires, assaults, things like that. He may have some sort of strict religious background. The Bureau thought there was a ceremonial element to the way the bodies were left. And, if the kids are to be believed, he drives a primer-gray Dodge van, with quarter-moon bubble windows in the back.”

Vincent Gabriel had stopped with his hand on the door handle. When he turned back toward Corso, his face was like concrete. “That’s it?” he asked tentatively.

“He’s probably had some stressor in his life lately. Something that’s set him off on another murder spree,” Corso added.

Gabriel blew air through his pursed lips and then ran a hand through his hair.

“Sound like anybody who might work for you?” Dougherty asked.

Vincent Gabriel shrugged. “Could be,” he said in a low voice. “Not what he drives or anything…but I might—” He stopped himself. “I’m not usually involved in the day-to-day operations.” He shrugged. “Tell you the truth, most of the time, I couldn’t tell you who works for me and who doesn’t, let alone what they drive.”

“But…,” Corso pressed.

“But lately…the local office…had…” He searched for the right phrase. “They had a really weird scene.”

“Weird how?”

Gabriel stared at his patent-leather shoes and nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Guy that’s worked for us for years. I get a call from his supervisor. Says the guy’s been getting increasingly weird lately. Says he’s concerned…” He looked up at Corso. “You know—the guy’s a gun nut. What with all the workplace violence…the supervisor thinks this guy might be dangerous or something. So he calls me.”

“This guy have any unusual stressors in his life lately?” Corso asked. “Something that could push him over the edge?”

“Yeah, the guy I’m thinking of…he has,” Gabriel said. “Two, in fact.”

He absentmindedly touched the lipstick on his cheek and then looked from Dougherty to Corso, as if pleading for absolution. “His mother died a month or so back and then…two weeks ago”—he looked up at the twirling fans—“I fired him.”

“What for?” Dougherty asked.

Vincent Gabriel took a deep breath. He looked tubercular. “Threatening to kill another employee.” He spread his big hands. “He was completely out of it,” he said. “He kept claiming the guy was stealing from his locker.”

“Any chance he was right?”

“We don’t have lockers.”

Saturday, September 22
11:02
P.M.
Day 6 of 6

“Got no damn use for no preacher,” Himes said to the sergeant. “Don’t be bringin’ his sorry ass in here.”

“You sure, Walter? I seen him bring comfort to a lotta men.”

Himes laughed. “He doan come in here to comfort the likes of me. He comes in so’s he can comfort the likes of you-all. So’s you can go home tonight, have dinner wid the Mrs. tellin’ yourself there’s some kinda difference between the killin’ you-all do and the kind they say I done.”

The sergeant folded his arms and looked over at Smitty. “Walter’s got a point there,” he said to the other man. “Not a whole lotta difference…not from Walter’s end anyway, is there?”

“No, sir,” said the younger man. “I guess there isn’t.”

11:04
P.M.
Day 6 of 6

The windows stood as dark and gray as tombstones. 1279 Arlen Avenue South sat a hundred yards back from the road. Junkyard to the north. Five acres of halogen-lit mini-storage to the south. At the back oozed the Duwamish River. Could have been a small farm at one time. Might have owned one whole side of the block, way back when. Probably sold off the street front to make ends meet. Nothing left now but a drive-way easement and a narrow strip of ground along an acrid river.

From the end of the muddy drive, a single yellow porch light revealed a peeling two-story facade cowering beneath a stand of mossy oaks. The clapboard siding now forming a shallow V as the structure sagged inexorably downward. In the distance a siren wailed its plaintive song. Closer, a junkyard dog picked up the note and rolled it into a long miserable howl.

“That’s gotta be it,” Corso said.

“What are we doing here, anyway?” Dougherty asked.

“I’ve got to be sure.”

“What? You think he’s going to have a sign or something?”

“I’d settle for a van with bubble windows.”

“You’re nuts.”

Corso shrugged. “All we’ve got so far is a big maybe. I want to be sure.”

He gave the Chevy some gas. Rolled past the driveway and parked in front of the junkyard, between a battered flatbed truck and an orange VW beetle. He killed the engine and the lights. Grabbed the door handle. “Come on,” he said.

“What if he shows up while we’re walking down his driveway?”

“Then we claim to be broken down and stupid. We saw a light and were looking for help.”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” Dougherty whispered.

“Come on. The driveway’s empty. Let’s just poke around a little.”

“What if he’s parked behind the house?”

“If it’s a van, we hot-foot it out of there and call the cops.”

“No way.”

“Okay,” he said. “Wait in the car…I’ll be right back.”

She grabbed him by the elbow. “You’re not leaving me out here alone,” she said.

“Come on, then.”

“I hate you.”

“Take a number.”

She punched him in the arm. Hard. “You go first,” she hissed through her teeth.

Corso pointed to the grass-covered berm running between the worn tire ruts. “Up here.”

The ditches on either side of the drive were a forest of dead dandelions, the unmowed summer stalks standing stiff and still in the unnatural light as Corso and Dougherty edged their way up the driveway toward the house.

As they came abreast of the house, it became obvious that no vehicle was present. Corso felt his breathing become deeper and more regular. Despite feeling like his throat was full of dirt, he managed to swallow a couple of times.

The end of the drive was worn in a circle. A well-trodden path led from the circle to the back door. To the right, what had once been a long outbuilding running across the back of the property now lay collapsed upon itself. Fallen to the left, with its walls and roofs fanned out along the ground like playing cards. At the far end, the tines of a rusted hay rake lay like the rib cage of some ancient metal beast.

The weed-covered backyard sported a pile of partially burned furniture. Corso walked over to the pile. Probed it with his toe. In the dim light, he could make out the soot-covered remains of a brass bed. A partially burned mattress and box spring, their floral prints scorched in some places, melted in others. Blankets and bedclothes. A couple of lamps and shades. Smashed picture frames. An end table, maybe two. A charred collection of old women’s clothes and under-things. All piled together in a smelly heap. Corso reached gingerly into the pile, pulled aside the pieces of a broken picture frame, and extracted the picture between his fingers. Turned it over. A color rendition of Christ expelling the moneylenders from the temple. Carefully, he put the picture back on the pile.

He dusted his palms together as he crossed the lawn to the back door. Grabbed the handle on the screen door. The rusted spring shrieked as Corso pulled open the door. In the junkyard, a trio of dogs began to bark. Corso rapped on the door with his knuckles.

“Hello,” he called tentatively.

The door swung inward.

“Did you…,” Dougherty sputtered.

He raised a hand. Scout’s honor. “I just knocked. It opened on its own.”

“Hello,” he sang again.

She read the gleam in his eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

He elbowed the door open. Poked his head in. “Anybody home?” he called.

Silence. Corso turned a dull red as he stepped across the threshold. Dougherty poked her head in the door. She could see past the room they were in, up the hall and into what must be the living room. Everything was a familiar red. “Darkroom bulbs,” she whispered.

They were in the kitchen. The room smelled of rancid milk and decay. The old-fashioned sink was piled high with dirty dishes. The counters awash in paper plates, takeout containers and empty beer cans. Rainier Lite mostly.

Corso started forward. She grabbed him by the belt, but he kept moving, towing her over the threshold and through the kitchen into what probably had been the dining room. A window on the left had been covered from the inside. Rough-sawn plywood had been nailed over the opening, the edges dented and split from the force of the hammer blows. To the right of the window, a gun case sat catty-corner. Full. Maybe a dozen weapons. All chained together through the trigger guards. From among the shotguns and deer rifles poked the priapic banana clip of an AK-47.

Corso moved forward. Peeked into the living room. Thrift-shop furniture along the perimeter. Knicknacks on the shelves. A rag rug on the floor. Big color portrait of Jesus—blond-haired and blue-eyed—over the mantel. Everything shipshape. Same red bulb burning overhead. Same window treatment. Half-inch plywood and ten-penny nails.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dougherty whispered.

Corso headed toward the stairs. “Let’s have a look upstairs.” Before she could protest, he said, “A quick cruise upstairs and then we’ll be gone.” He held out his hand. Dougherty released her grip on his belt and laced her fingers through his.

The stairs popped and groaned as they climbed, moving quickly now, like children running home after dark. No plywood over the windows up here. Tattered curtains over old-fashioned shades.

One bedroom on either side of the second-floor landing. Two rooms of some kind down the hall. Corso opened the door on the right. Hit the lights. Regular bulb. The room was bare. Completely empty, right down to the pine boards covering the floor. He pulled Dougherty across the planks, pulled open the interior door. Found the light switch to the right of the door. A bathroom. Similarly empty. Spotless and smelling of chlorine bleach.

Still pulling Dougherty along by the hand, he retraced his steps across the room, crossed the landing, and pulled open the opposite door. About half the size of the master bedroom across the hall, the room was military spare. A single bed along one wall was made to a precision seldom seen in civilian circles. Shoes stood in a perfect line in the mouth of the closet, where each hanger was precisely equidistant from its mates. The walls were bare except for a single marine corps poster: “The Free, the Proud, the Brave.”

Dougherty balked in the doorway, so Corso let go of her hand and crossed to the bookcase. What must have been every issue of
Soldier of Fortune
ever printed. Gun manuals.
Police Digest. Guns and Ammo
. Police manuals. The NRA newsletter. “A regular Charlton Heston,” Corso said under his breath.

“What?” Dougherty said from the doorway. Corso didn’t answer. Just moved from the bookcase to the dresser.

The top of the dresser was arranged with the same precision. A silver comb and brush set perfectly aligned. A candy dish full of change. Pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters, each in its own little space. Exactly in the center of the coins sat a brass skeleton key. Six huge bullets, fifty-caliber at least, stood like teeth along the back edge. At the right, half a dozen condoms, stretched out straight and neat in red foil packs.

“Corso,” Dougherty hissed from the doorway. “Come on.”

He nodded and returned to her side. She followed him down the hall. Another bathroom. Same precise arrangement. Bright, gleaming fixtures. Towels so neat the bathroom looked like one in a motel. Corso pulled open the medicine cabinet. Lined up like little soldiers stood a dozen or so pill bottles. Corso scanned the labels: Risperdal, Zyprexa, Haloperidol, Clozapine, Olanzapine, Sertindol. “What’s all that?” Dougherty whispered.

“Antipsychotic medication,” Corso said.

Back on the landing, they skirted the stairwell to the door of the remaining room. Locked. Corso shook the knob. Then stepped back and lowered his shoulder.

“Don’t you dare,” she said, wagging a fist in his face.

Instead of arguing, Corso turned and jogged back to the furnished bedroom. Dougherty stood transfixed. He reappeared a few seconds later with an old fashioned brass key in his hand. He put the key in the lock, turned it one way—nothing—then the other, and the lock snapped. He pushed the door open. The room was dark. Over Corso’s shoulder, Dougherty could see a plywood-covered window.

He reached inside, groping for the light switch. Found it. The room lit up like a ballpark. A dozen track lights hung from the ceiling along three sides of the room, spilling fans of white light down along the bare walls and boarded-over windows. Corso walked out into the middle of the room and looked around. On his left, a floor-to-ceiling curtain hung bunched in the far corner. His eyes followed the aluminum track around the room. Back to where Dougherty stood in the doorway. To her left sat a brand-new leather lounger and an oak end table. On the table, a crystal ashtray glinted in the harsh overhead lights. Beneath the odors of stale smoke and nicotine, something sickly sweet hung in the air.

Corso gestured toward the chair. “So, what? Somebody comes in here, pulls back the curtain, sits in their favorite chair, puts their feet up, lights up a smoke, and then what, stares at the walls?”

Dougherty took three steps into the room. “Weird,” she said. “It’s like a home theater or something, except there’s nothing behind the curtain.”

Corso walked to the far wall. Running his hands over the rotting plaster and splintered plywood, feeling for something not available to the eye. Nothing. He turned to Dougherty and shrugged. “Beats me,” he said.

“Let’s go,” she begged.

Corso started for the door. Then suddenly stopped. Tilted his head. “Or maybe,” he said tentatively, “maybe you come into the room and close the curtain.”

He walked to the corner, grabbed the edge of the curtain, and began to pull the heavy material along its overhead track. As he walked along the wall, he heard Dougherty catch her breath. And then again, as he moved along the far wall, rounded the corner, and turned back her way, something stuck in her throat.

She began moving toward the center of the room as if she were remote-controlled. Corso let go of the curtain and looked around.

Clothes. Women’s clothes. Complete ensembles. Pinned neatly to the inside of the curtain. Outerwear on the left. Underwear on the right. Nine complete sets, with room for at least one more.

Corso pointed to the set directly in front of him. “Victim number four. Jennifer Robison,” he said. Matching black bra and panties. A black, sleeveless blouse, silk maybe, and a pair of leopard-skin stretch pants. “That’s what she was reported to be wearing when she disappeared from the Northgate Mall.”

“You catch this?” Dougherty asked, pointing upward.

Written along the top of the curtain in bold black letters: “Behold the ten brides of Christ…who having strayed from his ways are now returned to the fold of our master, like lost sheep.” Then it started over. “Behold the ten…”

“Jesus,” he said as he moved around the room. The garments were attached to the curtain with little color-coordinated safety pins.

“Can you smell it?” Dougherty asked. She rubbed a white sports bra between her fingers and then held the fingers to her nose. “Smells like my grandfather.”

Corso leaned in close to the closet set of clothes. Recoiled. Then leaned in again. “Old Spice,” he said.

Dougherty looked ill. “You don’t suppose he—”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Corso said.

They moved quickly now. Doused the light and relocked the room. Hurried down the hall. Turned left into the occupied bedroom, crossed the room, and set the key carefully in the bowl of change.

Abandoning any pretense of stealth, they thumped down the stairs. They went the way they had come, to the back door. Corso peeked out. The yard was empty. He grabbed Dougherty by the hand. As they double-timed it around the house and back down the driveway, Corso pulled the phone from his pocket and dialed.

He kept it short and sweet. Didn’t give Densmore the chance to say anything other than his name. “Densmore…this is Corso. You listen to me, goddamnit. We got him. Dead to rights. He killed all of them. Past and present. His name is Patrick Defeo.” Corso spelled it. “He lives at twelve seventy-nine Arlen Avenue South. The driveway between Arlen Auto Parts and the Cascade Self-Storage yard. Call the chief and get the execution stopped and then get down here. Hurry. And bring the goddamn marines. He’s armed to the teeth. Lotsa backup. You hear me?”