My Lost Daughter (35 page)

Shana was laughing so hard, tears were running down her face. She started picking the white stuffing from her hair and tossing it at May and Karen. Soon, everyone in the room was laughing.

She was free. She was out. Nothing else mattered.

“I think you need to shower and change your clothes before lunch,” Alex told her. He raised his eyebrows and gave her that look with his psycho eyes.

Shana made a face and tried to outdo him, then hurried off to her room. Michaela wasn't there, but she saw a stack of packages wrapped in red paper. Each package had a sticker that read, “To Shana, from Alex.” Nadine must have gone shopping the night before, or hit the stores as soon as they opened that morning. She began ripping open the packages and then walked to the door and yelled, “I love it, Alex. I love you. I love all of you. It's Christmas.”

Inside the boxes were jeans and cashmere sweaters, makeup and cologne. One box contained a black pantsuit with a white silk shirt trimmed in delicate lace. Shana was beside herself with joy. She tossed the green pajamas on the floor, then kicked them out the door. A round of applause resounded.

Inside the steaming shower, Shana soaped her body and washed her hair. “Thank you, God,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “Thank you, Alex. Thank Heaven for small favors.”

After Lee came in and dried her hair, she started playing with the cosmetics. All the colors were wrong, but she didn't care. She had complained about Brett's insistence that she wear makeup and dress in provocative clothing, but once a person began wearing makeup they felt naked without it. The lipstick was a bright red, a color she would never wear. She eagerly smeared it over her chapped lips, then
stood back to look at herself in the mirror. Shana had full lips and extremely fair skin. With the red lipstick, her mouth looked like a juicy red apple. The only other makeup was black eyeliner and mascara. She quickly applied it and her eyes became the focal point in her face. Since Lee had blow-dried her hair, it was wavy instead of curly and frizzy.

The only thing missing was underwear. She pulled on one of the white cashmere sweaters. There, for all to see, were two protruding nipples. What difference did it make, she decided. She hadn't worn underwear since her admittance. The jeans fit her waist and hips perfectly. Then she slid her feet into the soft suede shoes, marveling that they, too, were exactly her size. How did Alex know so much about her? She finished with the earrings and sprayed herself with cologne, a fresh innocent scent. Returning to the mirror, she saw a woman she'd never seen before.

“This is me,” Shana said to her mirror image. “This is the real me.” She turned her head upside down and brushed her hair until it was smooth and shiny, then walked out of the room, a new woman.

Everyone turned and stared. One by one, they stood, and Karen started clapping. Shana modeled for them, glide-walking across the floor and spinning around in circles. She walked up to Alex. “I feel so good,” she said. “I don't know how I can ever repay you.”

“We'll think of something,” Alex said, a broad grin on his face. “We have time for a quick game of Ping-Pong before lunch. How about it, gorgeous?”

“You're on,” Shana said, tossing her hair to one side. “But don't think for a minute I'm going to let you win.”

TUESDAY, JANUARY 19
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

Mary Stevens was on her way to John Adams's office when she ran into him in the hallway. “The Ventura PD found another body last night. They haven't had a chance to compare the wounds to the Washburn homicide, but the MO is identical. The victim was killed with a single shot to the back of the head.”

“Tell me more,” he said.

“This is the first time the UNSUB has killed a female. At this point, there are no immediate signs that the victim was suicidal. Of course, we'll know more once the autopsy is completed.” Adams headed back to his office and Mary followed. He waited for her to enter and then closed the door before taking a seat behind his desk.

“There's a pattern developing,” Mary continued, placing her hands on the back of the chair rather than sitting. “The most recent homicides in San Francisco occurred within a seven-day period. The two bodies surfaced in the Ventura area only a few days apart, and my bet is they were killed in the same time period. The tension must build up inside of him to such an extreme level that one killing no longer satisfies him. The homicides that occurred prior to
the San Francisco crimes were approximately a month apart. His bloodlust is intensifying.”

“And you need to be in Ventura right now. Isn't that what you're trying to tell me?”

“Yes.” She stared at the wall where photos of ongoing cases were pinned up, hoping Adams would comprehend the implications of her next statement. “And I need the full force of the Bureau behind me, sir. Regardless of my suspicion that some or all of the victims may have hired the UNSUB to kill them, we have a serial killer who has now taken six lives. If he keeps killing at the rate he is now, that number could double in a matter of months.”

Adams leaned back in his chair. “We don't know that as a fact.”

“No,” Mary said, pacing. “But I believe we have enough circumstantial evidence to establish that the crimes are connected. Every one of the victims was shot in the back of the head. I pulled up computer statistics on every homicide that occurred in the country last month, and other than the cases I've already identified, only three victims were killed by a single gunshot to the back of the head. We have stabbings, multiple gunshot wounds, strangulations, poisonings, and a variety of other means of death, but only four individuals were killed by a single perfectly placed shot to the back of the head.”

“Pack your bags,” Adams said, standing. “And get every piece of evidence you have on these cases to me by four o'clock so the team can work on perfecting your profile. You've done good work here, Stevens.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now get out of here and continue working. I should have listened to you sooner. Take my word. You'll have the full resources of the Bureau at your service until we capture this maniac.” He paused, patting his shirt pocket as if he'd forgotten something. “You're in charge, Stevens. I'll call your husband's SAC in Dallas and get his transfer date moved up. I want both of you in Ventura by tomorrow evening. Do you think the UNSUB is still in the Ventura area?”

“Doubtful,” Mary told him. “I think he's hiding out somewhere
between San Francisco and Ventura. I'm not even certain the murders occurred in the same area where the bodies were found. Washburn's last known residence was in Stockton. We need to consider the possibility that the UNSUB came to Ventura strictly for the purpose of dumping bodies.”

“Smart,” Adams said, looking somewhat bewildered. “Now I remember. I'm late for another damn meeting. Don't let them seduce you into taking a supervisory position, Stevens. You'll spend the majority of your time kissing ass and wading through paperwork.” He rifled through his drawers, finally coming up with his car keys. “You can share the rest of your thoughts with the team at our four o'clock meeting. If I'm not back in time, you can stand in for me.”

Mary walked out of Adams's office beaming.

 

Dr. Phillip Patterson's face was flushed in anger. He spotted Morrow heading down the hall. “Charles!” he yelled, but the other man kept walking. He picked up his pace and caught him in front of his office. “Stop right there,” he said, grabbing his arm. “I have to talk to you.”

“Take your hands off me, Phillip,” Morrow snapped. “What's wrong now?”

“I've had it, you hear me? No one is going to tell me what to do, certainly not a patient in my own hospital.”

Morrow place a hand over his mouth and yawned.

“You're a weasel, Charles, a disgusting weasel,” Patterson ranted. “You know what he said to me . . . your guy . . . your guy? He had the unmitigated gall to waltz into my office and order me . . . you got that? Not even ask me, but order me to discharge my patient, Michaela Henderson. You know why? You know why?”

Morrow removed his glasses and calmly wiped them with his handkerchief before replacing them on his nose. “You're repeating yourself, Phil. Maybe you should write yourself a prescription.”

Patterson ignored him. “He thinks Michaela may hurt your prize, the redheaded bombshell. Michaela Henderson has never
exhibited an act of aggression in her life. She's a self-mutilator. I refuse to discharge her. If I do, she may kill herself. All your man wants is a piece of ass and a room to do it in.”

“What's the big deal, Phil?” Morrow said, his eyes narrowing. “The Henderson woman's insurance ran out yesterday. Her husband is a truck driver. In case you've forgotten, Whitehall doesn't take charity cases. We're losing money as we speak. I don't know what kind of meds you've got her on, but the last time I saw her, she looked like a walking corpse. A little fresh air might do her good.”

Patterson was a large man, a former college linebacker. He seized the skinny psychiatrist by the shoulders and lifted him several inches off the ground, then dropped him. “I'm not discharging a suicidal patient, Morrow. And don't threaten to have my privileges revoked because two can play the same game. You want this person inside this institution, you play shrink to him. Count me out or I'll take my story to the press.” He glared back at Morrow before he turned and took off down the corridor.

Inside his office, Patterson fingered an open case file. Instead of dictating as he usually did, he scribbled some notes in longhand. Then he swiveled his chair toward the wall where his diplomas were mounted. He was leaving on a three-week vacation beginning tomorrow, traveling to Los Angeles to visit his ailing father.

Why had he let himself become involved in the underhanded dealings that went on at Whitehall? For forty-five years, his father had been a respected practitioner. While he was in L.A., he'd make some inquiries. He might be able to buy an established practice. Along with his father, his adult children also resided in the L.A. area.

Patterson picked up the file and ripped it apart. Why leave any evidence that he'd treated this individual? He massaged his temples. The man couldn't be classified as actively psychotic. There was no evidence of paranoia, no loss of reality, and no sign of mania, nothing that would fit a specific diagnosis. But there was something there, something menacing. He saw it in his eyes, a steely
control; a concocted disguise of normalcy practiced to the point of perfection.

Morrow could go down with this spook house and his income-producing schemes, but he was getting out. If he didn't disentangle himself fast, he might end up as a patient.

“God forbid,” he said, tossing the remnants of the file in the trash can.

QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

At precisely four o'clock that afternoon, six special agents, including Mary Stevens and SAC John Adams, were assembled around the long table in the conference room. Mary had arranged to have folders prepared for each agent. Inside were the police and forensic reports from the five unsolved homicides. The folders contained so much material, she had been forced to use spiral binders.

Copies of the crime-scene photos were pinned up on the large board similar to the wall in Adams's office. A projector was mounted on the opposite wall and a drop-down screen was located in the ceiling above the poster board. Most agents preferred to use the projector for their presentations. Mary had all the crime-scene and autopsy photos on computer and could have done the same, but it was her belief that an actual photograph made a more lasting impression than a slide flashed on a screen.

As soon as she tacked up the last image, she took her seat and waited while the agents took turns examining the images. The name of each victim was scrawled in Magic Marker above their photographs, along with the place and date of the crime.

Outside of papers crackling and feet shuffling, there was no talking or gossiping or cell phones ringing. This was serious business and the agents needed time to focus all their energy on assimilating the materials.

“I'm going to hand this over to Special Agent Stevens now.” Adams didn't need to elaborate. By his introductory statement, the agents knew it was Mary who had discovered the similarities in the homicides and Mary who was now in charge of an investigation
that could require the expertise of hundreds, even thousands of FBI and other law enforcement personnel over an unknown period of time. This wasn't television, where killers were captured in a few days. Mary, along with several other fellow agents, could end up investigating this case for the remainder of her career.

Today she was wearing a green wool blazer over a navy blue blouse and matching slacks. From the day she had signed on with the Bureau, she had ferociously fought the dress code, seeing no reason to dress like an undertaker in order to profile serial criminals. Adams had ordered her to tone down her clothing on more occasions than he could recall. She would follow Bureau standards for a while and then rebel again as she had today.

Mary had taken a seat squarely in the middle on the left side of the table, which enabled her to make eye contact with the other agents. “The first victim that we know of is Joseph Connelly, a fifty-one-year-old white male. He was married with two children but estranged from his wife at the time of his death. Connelly's body was found in a remote area on the outskirts of Dallas. As you can see from the photographs taken at autopsy, Joseph Connelly was killed by a single shot to the back of the head. A gunshot wound to the back of the head, as we all know, can damage the higher centers but as long as the brain stem remains intact, the victim will survive.

“The UNSUB who I believe killed each of the five individuals we will be discussing today made certain that didn't happen. The medical examiner in the Connelly case as well as the medical examiners in the subsequent homicides of Ralph Thomason, Gerald Madison, Richard Sherman, and James Washburn all came to the same conclusion.” She paused and scanned the faces around the table. The female victim the Ventura PD had discovered had yet to be identified and had not yet been autopsied, so Mary had decided not to include her until she received more information. Since the other victims were male, it was possible that the female was not related, even though she had been killed by a gunshot wound to the back of the head.