The Beholder, a Maddie Richards Mystery (3 page)

“There’s no problem, Sergeant … I’m okay.”

“Officer, we don’t need you upchucking on any evidence. Move your ass.”

“You got a heart of gold,” Jed muttered, then grinned at Maddie.

She made eye contact with the county’s chief medical examiner, Dr. Jonathan Ripley—the detectives called him Rip. He lowered his eyelids some and slowly shook his head. Abigail Knight’s severed breasts had not been found.

Maddie raked a hand through her hair; it flopped back into place. She stared blankly at the medical examiner, her face betraying her question. “Exsanguination,” Rip said. “The lady bled to death.”

Maddie ran her dry tongue across her drier lips. Dr. Ripley went back to moving as though he needed three hands.

She walked into the adjourning master bath with its double-sized hot tub and overhead skylight. For a moment she fantasized living and loving in such luxury. After shaking off her twinge of guilt about having such thoughts in the middle of such carnage, she drifted downstairs.

In the kitchen she opened the refrigerator and the dishwasher; the fridge held nothing unusual and the dishwasher was empty. On the counter she found a statement from Marta’s Maid Service and a bill from a local dry cleaner. The documents had not arrived in an envelope for neither had been creased.

Through a window she saw a few cops and media men looking at KC like it was a hot night and she was a cold beer, and they wanted to take a swig.

Maddie went back upstairs. The thermostat in the Knights’ master bedroom had been pushed down to 66 degrees. The cool felt good mixing with the heat pouring in through the front door, but she doubted a woman would strip down to her underwear in such a low temperature.

“Be sure to dust this thermostat for prints,” Maddie called out to one of the crime scene techs. He nodded.

She had not seen any flowers or plug-in air fresheners to explain the lavender-like fragrance she had discerned on the stairs. Maybe Marta’s Maid Service had sprayed something before leaving. Or perhaps the killer had both sweetened and cooled the air in his private abattoir.

On a settee near the bed a black garter belt was tangled up with a lace pushup bra. Five inch black heels lay tossed on the floor, the kind with straps that wrapped part way up the leg. The laces darkly decorated the carpet like anorexic snakes that had been caught playing the children’s game, Freeze. The nylons may have also been on the settee until the sicko used them in a manner for which they were never intended. And, last but not least, a neatly folded red babydoll nightie waited on the vanity.

If Mrs. Knight had already been wearing the babydoll, the woman would have tossed it aside as she had the garter belt and bra, not folded it. And if she slept naked, the nightie wouldn’t be out at all. Could the killer have been neat enough to fold it after removing it from her unconscious body?
Abigail Knight might have known her killer, put the red babydoll out for later, and met him wearing the black heels and nylons.

“Bill.” Maddie said, summoning over Bill Molitor, the head of the evidence team. After telling him to check the babydoll for trace evidence, she asked, “What’s this ring marking on her nightstand?” She held her hair against her forehead and bend down for another look. “It’s too big for an ordinary cup or drinking glass,” she added, coming upright to face the department’s main man for such things.

“If what made it is still around, we’ll find it,” he said, reassuringly.

“Your guys find any blood that might not be the victim’s?” Jed asked.

“No. Not yet anyway. We have found a few hairs, but no blood trace. The killer had to have gotten some blood on himself but he didn’t clean up here. We’ll process the hairs.”

Maddie’s first rule of homicide said that common thugs screwed up everything. The second rule said that the brainy killers rarely messed up on the big stuff. This meant that when dealing with premeditated killers, the prominent clues were often misdirection. If this were not true, as Jed had once put it, they would not be eligible for membership in the brainy killers’ club.

Maddie worked homicide cases the way she and her son put together jigsaw puzzles. First you build the border, then you keep moving and refitting the inside pieces until they formed a picture.

Jed had found a couple of Abigail Knight’s outfits in plastic bags hanging on a rod inside her closet. His description of the items—such as a man can describe women’s clothes—matched up with the dry-cleaning bill Maddie had found on the kitchen counter.

In Mr. Knight’s closet, Maddie saw a third picture of the dead woman in a silver and black frame gracing the top of a built-in teak chest of drawers. In this picture Abigail Knight had posed naked, sitting on the floor with her hands braced behind her and one knee raised. The pose reminded Maddie of the shiny silhouette of a woman featured on the mud flaps of a million trucks crossing America at any moment. Next to the picture, a large musical instrument, she thought a double bassoon, sat in a matching teak stand.

Back in the bedroom, she walked up to Dr. Ripley who was bent over the body. He arched his back and said, “Same set up as the black woman last week. The killer had taped her mouth to keep her quiet. Then later after she died he yanked the tape off her mouth, pulling off her lips along deep cut lines. The gauze stuffed down her throat,” he shined his light into her torn mouth, “muffled her screams while she died an excruciatingly painful death. The black woman last week was Sergeant Brackett’s case right?”

“Brackett told me,” Jed interjected, “that Folami Stowe, the black woman, had been hit over the head from behind with some blunt object that hadn’t been found at the scene.”

“Apparently,” Maddie said, “Folami Stowe knew her attacker or trusted him for whatever reason. That sound right to you?”

Her partner nodded, small nods.

“Same here,” Rip said. “The killer bludgeoned her from behind then tied her up. The blood spray indicates he removed her breasts while she was alive. The minimal blood near the head said he waited for her to bleed out before skinning her face. He would have wanted her dead so her head would be pliable.”

What Maddie hunted wasn’t human, at least not in the ordinary sense of the word. This had been the work of some creature that had gnawed through the membrane separating our world and some parallel universe of ogres. What frightened Maddie most, each year it seemed more of these beasts were burrowing through to visit our side.

“Bill,” she called to the crime scene head, “you were at the Stowe scene last week, right?” He nodded. “What’s different?”

“We haven’t wrapped this one up,” he answered, “but there are differences in how they were tied. This victim has a brass headboard and footboard. Stowe had a mattress and box springs on a metal frame.”

“What about the knots?”

“Same. Left over right,” Bill Molitor said, “probably a lefthander. That should cut your odds a bit.”

“Or a smart right hander,” Maddie retorted.

“Ah. Now that’s why you get the big bucks,” Bill replied.

The block-lettered macabre memo, “I’ll Get You, My Pretty,” written in blood above Abigail Knight’s bed leaked downward at the same descending angle Maddie had seen in the photos from the Stowe murder posted on the board at the station.

Abigail Knight’s lips, attached to a strip of bloody tape, had been found inside the bathroom trash basket that had been brought in and left beside her bed. The perp. had apparently moved the can there to avoid scattering his victim’s facial skin as he patiently peeled it away.

This Asshole’s definitely meticulous. Maddie wondered if he was a neat freak in other aspects of his life. Was he neat enough to have folded his victim’s nightgown after removing it from her body?

She turned to Bill. “Was there a wastebasket next to Stowe’s bed?”

“That one from the kitchen,” he said, “this one’s from the master bath. It likely means nothing more than here the kitchen is downstairs and he had this victim upstairs.”

According to the body of knowledge on serial killers, an organized and meticulous scene indicated that the killer was intelligent, did not live near the victim, and that his killing was not the fruit of sudden impulse. Also, more than ninety percent of history’s known serial killers have been males—white males.

Maddie knew this was not racial profiling, but fact-based profiling wherein race functioned only as an element, not a cause.

On the basis that it would take years to twist sick thoughts into such a complex plan of mutilation, Maddie pegged the killer’s age at plus thirty and, based on the history of serial killers, probably less than fifty-five. It was a wide range and she would hold it loosely, but a girl had to start somewhere.

Logic argued the killer would not have known these two victims from such different worlds. One lived in a neighborhood where Spam would be served, while the other dined on prime filets. So how did the perp get into such different homes? There were no signs of forced entry at either house. He could have offered Folami Stowe money for sex to get into her place, but the image of Abigail Knight did not include the likelihood of selling her body for cash. Then again, if the teenage boys were telling the truth, the woman’s libido was stuck in overdrive.

The guy could be Brad Pitt gorgeous? If so, given the sexual proclivities of his victims, he might have been invited into their homes. Or, he could be Quasimodo with a different approach? Is he threatening or charming his way in? None of these questions came with answers so she tucked the whole mess into a quiet corner of her mind.

“This guy likes ‘em pretty,” Jed said after moving close. “On the other hand, that could be a coincidence. The killing techniques are the same, but that’s where the clear similarities end. Folami was black, Abigail white. Do their skin colors tell us something about the killer’s perversion? Could it mean the next woman to go under his knife will be Hispanic, or European? Asian or maybe Native American?”

“You think he’s working the skin color palette?” Maddie said to paddle down Jed’s thought stream. “Are white and black women now safe?”

“We won’t find those answers here tonight,” Jed said, “but hopefully we will find them.”

What the murder scene had provided in the way of answers, well, information anyway was that the killer had not hurried. The butcher had waited for each victim to bleed out from chest wounds before skinning their faces. Forensics had found no sign of fresh semen at the Stowe scene, and neither Folami nor Abigail had been roughly penetrated by anything. Those were facts in evidence. But these facts were piggybacked by another question: Did the killer take the breasts as trophies to be used for his own self-gratification at some later time, in some safer place?

Maddie knew that not much more could be done tonight. Rip needed to get Abigail Knight’s body to his lab. She wanted to go home and hug Bradley, tuck him in, and thank her mom for yet another night of extra duty.

“Let’s get outta here, partner,” she said quietly while Jed was close. “You can catch the rest of the D’Backs game. Have your nightly cigarette, and go to sleep.” They started walking out.

“Not for a while,” Jed said, “I’m off to see the boys and their parents, then back here to meet Dr. Knight. In between, I’ll touch base with the neighbors; there’s only four close enough to have likely seen anything. Tomorrow I’ll check on the ones farther out.”

Carrottop was back on duty at the front door. His stomach acid had eaten right through the shine on one toe of his new blacks. The reporters all stood mesmerized, their human eyes and unfeeling camera eyes following the gurney as it bumped through the cracks in the sidewalk and driveway. This reverent spying continued until the dark body bag had been pushed into the back of the M.E.’s van.

The distraction had given Maddie and Jed time to get near their cars without being badgered by the media.

“How did you know I have a cigarette at night before going to sleep?” Jed asked.

“When we talk late, I hear you inhale.”

He saluted her sarcastically and opened the door to his car. “Nasty habit. I’m through with it, but it’s not quite through with me.”

Maddie pulled around Jed as he sat fiddling with his radio dial; she imagined in search of the final innings of his beloved D’Backs playing the invaders from Southern California: Los Angeles Dodgers.

If these two murders were connected, and the early signs screamed they were, the department would combine the cases. When that happened, Maddie wanted the lead. A rumor had been circulating that after the end of the year the department would break homicides out as a separate operation apart from the violent crimes unit where it now resided. The detective who solved this case would hold the brass ring for heading up the new division. Her competition was hard-ass Doyle Brackett who had put in ten years working homicides before transferring to vice, compared to Maddie’s current run of six years. Brackett had a hedgerow of gray hair that stood as erect as a regiment of eager recruits and, by contrast, a loose nose that drooped like it had no bones. He was also a charter member of a fraternity as old as fossils, the police department’s good old boy’s network.

Maddie wanted that promotion. She was also scared she might get it. Scared because the more demanding job might further her ex-husband’s argument that Bradley would be better off with his father and his father’s rich new wife. Then again, the prominence of the promotion and the higher pay grade might help her defeat Curtis’s claim for the custody of her son.

Does the shit ever end?

Chapter 4

Maddie struggled to return to the quiet, peaceful darkness. To sleep more, maybe even fantasize her ex-husband beside her, his hand on her naked hip. His laughing as he always did when her hair tickled his groin. She imagined their visit five year ago to the coast of Oregon. The memories of their night run through some bramble to reach the beach, dropping onto the sand. His licking the red welts the thicket had raised along the sides of her thighs. Why didn’t we hold onto it? Why do so few relationships grow from being in love to loving?