Safeword (9 page)

“I wonder what the hell happened to him to make him so goddamned self-centered,” I mused. Shaking my head to clear it, I switched topics, finally having a grip on my self-control. “This new vic, Doug Halloran. Do you think he’s another Stevenson?”

Myah frowned. “There’s nothing to dissuade me yet. Especially since the techs and Jencopale found seminal fluid on the body and sheets.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the same guy. Could have been consensual. They say he wasn’t gay,” I said, hooking a thumb in the direction we’d come from to indicate those who’d worked with him. “But he could have been closeted, and the sex happened before his attacker broke in. I can’t chase another serial killer, Myah.” A tinge of desperation colored my words. Thinking back to how naive I’d been just a year and a half prior, facing the start of my first serial case, I had been so sure of myself, so convinced of my own superiority that finding the perp was a foregone conclusion in my head, and the only question was when. With every successive murder, the guilt in my gut grew, putting tremendous pressure on me. I was so wrapped in my own head, I’d literally walked into the arms of a sadistic madman, dragging my boyfriend with me.

“Okay, say this is a repeater. I don’t think he’s a serial killer.” She ticked off points on her fingers. “There’s no sign of a ritual, which is what serials thrive on. Think about it, Gavin. The last one,” she said carefully, “made his victims suffer in very specific ways. That was about the manner of death, the humiliation. Each man was controlled from beginning to end, specific action was taken to elicit the desired reaction from each victim, and each body was left on display. Lane was proud of what he’d done. There’s little of that here. This guy used different ways to get into the houses. Yeah, he used their handcuffs to restrain them, but that could be because it was fast and easy. He didn’t bring his own weapon, just grabbed whatever was handy. Once he killed them, he left the bodies as they were, almost like an afterthought. That right there screams “not serial.” He tossed the houses. Both scenes were filled with destroyed items, not just rifled through. He ripped books, broke picture frames. If we find things missing from Halloran, I’m betting it’ll be all small stuff. He’s not organized enough to take the big items, which kind of sucks for us. He didn’t take either cop’s service weapon.”

“So what are you thinking?” I asked, pulling the car into my slot at the station and shutting it off.

“Rage maybe. Revenge. Both men were cops. Did they know each other outside of the job or work together on anything? Halloran was patrol, not detective, so any duplicate cases would be totally different roles. We need to have Halloran’s files pulled.” Great, going cross-eyed on more paperwork. “Could even be a coincidence they’re both cops. Maybe our guy is simply looking for something to steal, and the rapes are just opportunity he doesn’t pass up.”

I shook my head. “That doesn’t feel right. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Me either,” she agreed. “But until we know more, we work the evidence same as we did for Stevenson. Maybe we’ll catch a break on Halloran that will help us with Stevenson.”

“If they were done by the same perp—” I didn’t finish what I was going to say. My cell phone warbled on my hip with my brother’s cheesy picture on the caller ID. “Cole, what do you have for me?” I answered, holding a finger up to Myah.

“Email just came through from the state lab. I’m still at the Halloran scene, but I can forward it from my phone. I have a name on the Stevenson case. Positive DNA match from the state lab just came back.”

“I’M SENDING the file to you right now,” Cole said as I hurried to my desk and pulled my computer out of sleep mode. I could hear the other crime scene techs in the background and Cole stopped talking to me to say something to them. I bit back my impatience.

“Who is it?”

“His name’s Alex Dennan.”

“What’s his rap sheet?” I asked, opening the file that finally popped through my email. Myah brought her chair around our joined desks to sit beside me. Digging through a drawer, I came up with my hands-free earbuds with mic and passed one to her, plugging the other bud into my ear so we could both hear him without speakerphone; I hated competing with other bullpen noise.

The face smiling back at me from the email attachment threw me for a loop.
A kid? This isn’t a mug shot.

“He doesn’t have one. His DNA was stored in NDIS.” The National DNA Index System was a different section of the CODIS database, which stood for Combined DNA Index System. Generally speaking, the DNA hits we usually got came from the convicted offender and arrestee tables. NDIS housed the profiles for victims of violent crime.

I clicked the second attachment to open the documents pertaining to Alex Dennan.

“Fuck me,” Myah muttered, leaning close to read the screen. Cole spoke even as we scanned the words.

“Alex Dennan was abducted from his hometown of Dumas, Texas, on August 12, 2006, at age thirteen. He was on his bike on a Saturday, riding to a nearby convenience store for a Coke slushy and a hot dog. He was supposed to meet a friend there to go play video games. The clerk from the store confirmed Alex arrived and got his snack, but when the friend got there, no Alex.

“Apparently, Saturday afternoons in Dumas are slow. No one saw anything unusual at the convenience store, and Alex’s bike was locked to one of the newspaper machines. The friend saw it, and when he didn’t find Alex, he asked the store clerk to call the police. Surveillance footage wasn’t helpful because the cameras didn’t record the whole parking lot. That part of Texas had had weeks of drought, so there were no tire tracks, footprints, or much else in the way of evidence. No prints, no video, no anything. Local police put Alex’s DNA from a toothbrush in the system in case there were ever remains to identify.

“The parents wouldn’t give up, though. They started a foundation when the police suspended the search so they could recruit volunteers and keep going. Mrs. Dennan quit her job to devote all her time to finding the boy. She was relentless, until a sudden heart attack killed her in ‘08. Seven months later, her husband wrapped his car around a tree in a drunken stupor and died instantly. No trace of the kid was ever found.”

“Until now,” I said, frowning at the reports. “If he was thirteen in ‘06, he’d be nineteen or twenty now.”

“Cole.” Myah leaned close so the mic on my earpiece cord would pick up her voice. “Are you doing age progression on the case file photos of Dennan?”

“I can. I called you as soon as I got the hit from the state lab since I know you were waiting on this test. It’ll take a while, though. I’ll put it on Sugar’s desk, priority one, but it could be a couple days before we have a composite.” Sugar Kingsbury was Cole’s resident computer genius, and usually the busiest member of the lab rats team. He was an extremely soft-spoken man, and I didn’t think he’d ever uttered an unkind word in his life. Thus, the nickname. I had no idea what his real name was.

“That’s okay. I have a visit to Crossroads Correctional to set up.”

“Uh, okay,” Cole said, confusion clear even through the white noise on the headphones.

“Just get back to me when you have the composite. I have to contact the Dumas police and see if they’ll send me what they have on Dennan’s disappearance.”

“I’ll let you know if anything else comes up,” Cole replied.

I terminated the call and sat back, blowing out a deep breath and running my fingers through my hair.

“What’s going through that head of yours?” Myah asked.

“What are the odds that a few months ago, a man was arrested for kidnapping two boys, one of whom he held for four years, and a few months later, we get a hit for another boy who vanished seven years ago? And both situations end in St. Louis?”

Myah bit her lip, brow furrowed. “You think this has something to do with David Strange? That case is closed, Gavin.”

I shook my head. “Yeah, the kidnapper sits rotting away for a couple lifetimes in Crossroads as we speak. But it’s entirely too coincidental for the DNA of a boy who was kidnapped and presumed dead to turn up in the body of the detective who broke the case of a pedophile who abducted and imprisoned children. I want to rattle that asshole’s cage and find out what he knows.”

“Could be Dennan’s a runaway and life hasn’t been good to him since he took off.” Despite her playing devil’s advocate, there was no conviction in her argument. She didn’t believe in coincidence any more than I did.

“I guess that’s possible, but he was supposed to meet a friend. Doesn’t sound like the behavior of a kid about to hit the road.” Every possibility would be explored, though, and she was right. I couldn’t ignore it even if I felt in my gut there was a connection to Strange.

“The friend could have been covering for Dennan, giving him a head start.”

“Would he have called the police so soon after realizing his buddy was gone?”

“Doubtful,” she said. “We just don’t know enough.”

“No, we don’t. I’ll get on the phone to the Dumas police and Crossroads to set up a visit to Strange. You contact the Schofields and Trexalls to see if those two boys can be available to look at the age progression when Sugar’s done with it. If Strange has something to do with it, maybe Marshall and Jeremy know something.”

“Where was he when we arrested Strange?” she asked.

I frowned at my computer screen while looking up the Dumas police phone number. “I don’t know. But now, more than anything, I wish I did.”

§§§

THE HOUSE was dark and quiet by the time I stepped inside, sometime after ten p.m. I assumed Ben was in bed, maybe reading, maybe watching the evening news. When I stepped through the door, I was surprised to find the bedroom empty, the bed still neatly made. His car had been in the courtyard, so I knew he was home.

“Ben?” I called, letting my voice carry up to the cathedral ceiling, across the rafters and over the loft rail. I checked Ben’s home office in the hallway bisecting the kitchen from the dining room, but it was also dark, the lamp shade on his desk cold. He hadn’t worked at all that evening. I tried not to bother him, to be understanding about what he was going through. I missed him terribly, but if he needed space for whatever soul searching he was doing, I would gladly give it.

Calling his name again, I suppressed a shudder and began to climb the spiral steps to the loft. It was bad enough living in the house where Lane attacked us, but with the loft space having no other purpose than as Ben’s former playroom, I never had reason to go up there. Now, it was storage, and he’d had a hot tub installed, along with some weight equipment. I chose to work out at the station, so the loft was mostly out of sight, out of mind. But it was the only place I hadn’t searched, besides the basement, and Ben only went down there to choose wine from the extensive cellar he kept.

The loft came into view, darkened but for the light from the streetlamps filtering through the low windows beneath the sharply angled ceiling. Ben was sitting on the edge of the quietly hissing hot tub, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, lost in thought. He was so still, I thought he’d fallen asleep sitting up and was grateful he’d left the tub cover in place.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, approaching cautiously.

He said nothing, just held a hand out to me, which I took. He pulled me close, wrapped his arms lightly around my waist, and buried his face in my chest. I leaned against the hot tub, between his knees, resting my chin atop his head.

We stayed that way for a long moment. I concentrated on the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed, combing my fingers through his dark, silky hair. If he wanted to talk to me, he would.

Eventually, he spoke hoarsely. “I’m sorry, Gavin.”

Genuinely surprised, I asked, “What for?”

“Everything. Not saving you. Not doing a scene in six months. Not knowing what to do next.”

The last bit rent my heart, and I lifted his chin to look into the shadowed depths of his eyes. “So you’re not perfect either. Welcome to the club.” I’d hoped for a chuckle, but all I got was a sigh. “There’s nothing to forgive.” I didn’t want to rehash things. We’d said enough. Instead, I leaned down and kissed him, pouring everything I felt for him into it. Forgiveness. Hope. Love. He broke the kiss, nuzzling into my neck, his breath hot on my skin. I wanted to be closer to him, without anything between us: clothes, problems, long silences. “Let’s go to bed. I’m so tired.”

“Long day?” he asked, standing. He held on to me as we walked to the stairs, his solid body behind mine, arms securely around my shoulders with his hands clasped at my sternum. He nibbled my ear, and I shivered. It’s a miracle we didn’t fall down the steps, entangled as we were.

“Another cop found dead.” I explained the case, Trent being assigned to help, and Cole’s fortuitous phone call with information that only raised more questions. “I dug up David Strange’s employment records. Seems he was working in Amarillo at the time Dennan vanished, and Dumas, Texas, is less than an hour’s drive from Amarillo. Tomorrow, I get to deal with Strange’s lawyers, because if I don’t inform them of my wish to chat with their client concerning a case he hasn’t been charged with, I’ll be in violation of the pedophile’s constitutional rights.” I stopped speaking, feeling the beginnings of a rant building about Marshall Schofield’s and Jeremy Trexall’s constitutional rights. It wasn’t anything Ben hadn’t heard before. As we readied for bed, I released a weary sigh. “It exhausts me to think about it. I want out of my own head so bad I can taste it.”

“No,” he snapped.

I whipped my head up to look at him, pausing mid-climb between the sheets. I went red, realizing what my words had sounded like. “I wasn’t asking for a scene.”

“Implying, pressuring, asking... same thing, Gavin. Knock it off. Neither of us is ready. So much for forgiving me, huh?” He stretched out on the mattress and rolled to his side, facing the opposite wall, effectively shutting the subject down.

Oh, fuck that noise.
I straightened and rounded the bed, crouching in front of him. Voice as even as I could make it, I looked into his shuttered face.

“One of these days, I’m going to have to make a decision. Either you’ll trust I’m healed enough to give informed consent and believe me when I tell you what I need, or I’ll realize you’re always going to think I’m too fragile to handle submitting again. Either way, our relationship is in your hands. Do us both a favor and don’t squeeze it to death while you’re busy wringing your hands in worry.”

It was out of line and such blatant disrespect, I hoped he’d punish me. I hoped it would break through the shell of protection around his dominance and unleash it, even if it meant pain. Frankly, pain would have been welcome. Something to prove Ben’s claim over me hadn’t disappeared altogether.

On my knees, I felt my muscles slide into the present position, hands behind my back, right wrist in left palm, head lowered, knees shoulder-width apart. I pulled in hard, jagged inhalations that flared my nostrils while I listened for movement, a hitch in his breath, or some sign I’d gotten through. There was nothing for a moment. Then I heard the rustle of sheets and the click of his bedside lamp as he extinguished the light.

Anger prickled behind my eyes, sharp and stinging. The heavy weight of all I’d been carrying finally became too much. I had half a mind to remain kneeling all through the night, so he’d find me waiting for him in the morning just as he’d left me. I considered sleeping on the floor on his side of the bed, punishing myself on his behalf. Both actions would prove a point I no longer needed to make. It wasn’t as if Ben was unaware of what I wanted, needed.

Once my vision adjusted to the darkness, I rose to my feet and sniffed, swallowing the barbed ball of thorns in my throat. Taking the blanket hanging over the back of Ben’s reading chair in the sitting area of his—our—bedroom, and a pillow from my side of the bed, I slunk to the living room and got cozy on the lonely couch.

§§§

THE NEXT four days were bad enough to convince me taking retirement under disability was a viable option. My nerves were so taut, the lightest vibration to them would have broken me. Strange’s lawyers were playing games with us about seeing their client, and I had two conferences with Crossroads Correctional get postponed due to scheduling conflicts on their end. Canvassing Doug Halloran’s neighbors and friends turned up nothing. Halloran was a boy-next-door, sand-volleyball playing, Sunday-football watching, elderly-neighbor-helping slice of apple pie who had a string of ladies all interested in more, but they couldn’t pin the man down. He was a good officer, respectful of his superiors, and bright. Or he had been. Until someone cuffed and beat him, raped and stabbed him, then stole his laptop, video camera, and iPod. Pawn shops were still coming up a bust, and the Dumas police had
snail mailed
the case files for Alex Dennan’s disappearance. There was, apparently, too much paperwork to email. Or the cops there didn’t want to admit they weren’t digitized completely yet. Either way, we were waiting.

At home, Ben and I hadn’t spoken about the night he’d apologized. There wasn’t anything to say. It was his move. We pretended nothing had happened, and when I called Dr. Ribaldi the next morning to explain the situation and get her advice, she’d assured me I had every right to articulate my needs and decide if our relationship was meeting those needs. She told me to stick to my guns, though the only gun I wanted to stick anywhere was my service weapon in The Walking Mouth’s microphone. I wanted to hear the feedback just before pulling the trigger, blowing the infernal thing to smithereens. She’d somehow gotten wind I was one of the officers assigned to Stevenson’s and Halloran’s murders and it seemed I spent as much time dodging her as I did in pawn shops.