The Coldest Fear (15 page)

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Authors: Rick Reed

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller

BOOK: The Coldest Fear
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CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
Angelina was used to putting in long hours, but she had never been in the basement of the police station so late. With its concrete walls and floors it felt like a tomb, and didn't smell much better. Jack and Liddell had gone to a meeting with Captain Franklin and Chief Pope, leaving her to do what she did best—analyze data.
She punched a key on her keyboard and was pleased when the video projector came to life and displayed a map on the wall. It would have looked better if she'd had some type of screen for a background, but the green-painted cinderblock wall would have to do.
Note to self: Bring a bedsheet to work tomorrow
.
She had set up their communications links with police dispatch and the detectives' office. Two telephones with dedicated phone lines had been run into the little room that Angelina had come to think of as the “war room.” The name was appropriate because this was where the battle against the bad guys was planned. She had taken a piece of A4 printer paper and a Magic Marker and printed
WAR ROOM
in big block letters, then taped this to the outside of the door. She knew the guys would get a kick out of it.
The next thing she did was to create a chart on her computer. She had taken some computer classes recently at the FBI Training Center in Quantico, Virginia, and what she was creating now was called “profile charting.” The idea was to dissect each case down into manageable events and then have a method of visually comparing the data.
As a computer analyst the idea was not new to her. She had been doing the same thing for the last five years without calling it profile charting, but after hearing it from the big boys, the FBI, the data gained credibility when she had to sell the value of the information to her bosses.
She entered the information from both of the murders into the chart and then punched a button to display the results on the wall. The only thing that jumped out at her was the fact that nothing jumped out at her.
The last thing she would do tonight was to run the victims' and witnesses' information through the computer to see what popped up. All she needed was a little luck, and that thought reminded her of a quotation attributed to Thomas Jefferson: “I'm a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work the more I have of it.”
She got down to work.
 
 
On the maternity ward the staff smiled at the killer as he carried the bouquet of flowers down the hallway. How ironic that his mother had taken a job at Deaconess Hospital in Evansville—less than an hour away from where she had abandoned her own children. Basically right under his nose, and on a maternity ward, of all things! The thought that the woman who didn't want her own children was responsible for bringing babies into the world was sickening.
She had shocked him when she tapped him on the shoulder and asked who he was looking for. At first, because of her huge smile, he thought she recognized him. Knew he was her son. But it was evident that she had no clue.
He had played this scene through his mind his whole life. He would walk up to her and without saying a word she would know him. She would wrap him in her arms and cry and apologize for leaving him. Of course he wouldn't forgive her, but that was what a mother was expected to do. Wasn't it?
He spotted her in the room with the newborns, but when she looked up and smiled there was no light of recognition in her eyes. She knew him from somewhere, but she had no idea he was her son. He was a stranger to his own mother. He handed the flowers to one of the men standing beside the viewing window and left.
So that was it,
he thought
. The grand and wonderful meeting with my mother.
But it didn't matter. Nothing would have changed what would happen now. As he followed her yellow Hummer down the dark streets he knew that there could be only one outcome. The bone axe would end another life.
He drove north on Browning Road, feeling a sense of comfort envelop him as he crossed Highway 57 and drove into the county, where a blanket of stars replaced the sodium-vapor streetlights' unnatural glow. It was quiet, as it should be an hour before midnight.
The yellow Hummer drove slowly. With so little traffic he was forced to remain at a distance, barely keeping the huge vehicle's taillights in view. Soon the narrow county lane widened at a gated community. He slowed and watched the Hummer pull up to a guard shack. Light shone out through an opening door and a man wearing a dark blue uniform stepped outside to greet the resident. No gun belt, no weapons. The guard was in his seventies and walked with a limp.
This will be easy,
the killer thought, and pulled into Oak Meadow Country Club Estates and up to the guard shack. He motioned to the guard that he was with the vehicle that had just gone through. Without even walking outside, the guard waved him through. He smiled as he followed the Hummer's lights.
Oak Meadow was a golf community. He wondered what she would be doing living here, and hoped that she wasn't married. That would complicate matters. When he had met her at the hospital he didn't see a wedding band, but that didn't mean much these days.
The big yellow SUV slowed near the driveway to an enormous house, a garage door rolled up, and the Hummer disappeared inside. Before the door shut again he was able to see that there was only room in the garage for one car. A moment later lights came on in a downstairs room, and then another one upstairs. The sounds of dogs came from inside the house. From their frantic barking he could tell they were small. A sign for an alarm company was stuck in the lawn beside the front door, but that wouldn't be a problem. He was sure he could get her to open the door.
As he sat on the street watching her house, his thoughts turned to Cordelia. After all, she was the one who had led him to their mother. In a way, he was sad that there was no social recognition when they had met at the Marriott. Cordelia's voice was soft and slightly husky like he had always imagined their mother's voice would be, but beyond that there was nothing familiar. He had looked in her eyes and seen nothing of himself there before he struck her in the face with his gloved fist. The blow had knocked her to her knees. He then stood behind her and swung the bone axe upward, driving the sharp instrument behind her jaw and up into her skull. Though the axe had a short handle, the blade was heavy and sharp and cut through her neck like soft butter.
He hadn't actually gone to the Marriott with murder in mind, but when she had called him at work that day and identified herself as his sister there was no hint of pleasantness in her voice. She was all business. And when he had agreed to meet her, she had threatened to go to an attorney and have DNA samples taken. He could never allow that to happen. There were databases available to law enforcement that would match his DNA and bring the posse to his door.
Cordelia had not only found him, but she had done what he had been unable to do all these years. She'd found their real mother. She even had newspaper clippings and a photo, and something that looked like police records. He wondered what she thought would happen when she finally found him, confronted him with her existence as his only sibling. Did she think he would be ecstatic? Could she have imagined what he would really do? He didn't think so.
He had killed Cordelia impulsively and it had been sloppy. He cleaned up as much as possible but knew he had left a lot of evidence behind. He was very knowledgeable about the practices of serial killers. So he was well aware of the problems with personal killings. When you kill someone you know, there is always a connection. Something that will eventually identify you as the killer. When you kill a stranger, there is no connection. Nothing to lead the police to your doorstep. The most prolific serial killers targeted prostitutes, the homeless, hitchhikers. The stupid ones target children.
That was why he had been so careful over the last decade to plan his killings, but also to vary the style and method. No pattern, no connection. Police profilers in eight states were looking for twelve different killers, when in fact, he was the one responsible for all of those killings.
But even with all of that knowledge, he had fallen into the trap of killing someone connected to him. Now it was just a matter of time before the police realized that the person responsible for killing Cordelia was someone close to her. All he could hope for was to make this process as long as possible. Gain some time to clear out of the area and establish yet a new identity.
He had been following the police investigation closely in the newspapers and on television. So far they had nothing. They were paying so much attention to the taking of body parts that they were missing the point. Serial killers take souvenirs for a reason. They don't leave their souvenirs behind for the police to find. Besides, taking body parts was not his style. He took their faces. That was where the true self resided. That was what he was taking from them. Their true selves.
He had spent too much time sitting on the street. It was time to go. But as he drove away from his mother's house he came up with a plan and turned around in a driveway.
He would do it tonight.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
Jack and Liddell spent the better part of two hours meeting with Chief Pope, Deputy Chief Richard Dick, and Captain Franklin to work out the details of the statement that would be delivered to the media in the morning. The television stations were angry that Arnold Byrum, an unknown newspaper reporter, had scooped them on the recent murders. They were accusing Chief Pope of playing favorites and deliberately cutting the other journalists out of the loop. Pope didn't want the media to find out that they had an inside leak, and while he didn't want to release anything that would be detrimental to the investigations, he knew that he had to throw them a bone.
Detective Jansen was still in the hospital “undergoing tests” and was not expected back to work for a few days. So far, doctors had found nothing wrong with him.
After the meeting they met Garcia in the new war room. Her hair was mussed and it looked like she had been sleeping, face-first, on the top of her desk.
“It's after midnight, Angelina. Don't you have a home to go to?” Liddell asked.
“Your wife called,” Angelina said. “And she asked if you could find your way home. She said it would be worth your while.”
Liddell grinned. “Guess I'd better go.”
“Don't worry about us,” Jack said. “We'll muddle through somehow.”
“What do you mean ‘us'?” Garcia said. “You got a mouse in your pocket?” And with that she clicked off her computer and picked up her purse.
“Nice one,” Liddell said, and put his arm out. Garcia looped her arm in his and they exited the war room together.
Jack spent a few minutes going over the printouts on Garcia's desk, but he knew it was a waste of time. He was tired, mentally and physically. What he needed was some junk food and a Guinness or two. Maybe then he could sleep. Or maybe just skip the food.
He flipped the lights off in their new office and locked the door.
 
 
Jack drove slowly down Lynn Road to the cutoff dirt lane that led to his cabin and pulled into the gravel lot behind his cabin. Two cars were already parked there. One was Susan's blue Honda del Sol. The second car was a black Mazda SUV. He didn't recognize it.
He switched his headlights off and rolled to a stop. Getting out, he drew his .45 semiauto Glock and walked silently down the side of his cabin in the darkness. He could hear soft voices on the porch and as he rounded the side of the cabin he was shocked to see Susan sitting on the front porch with Blake James, the anchorman from Channel Six.
Jack stepped into the halo of light coming from the kitchen window and Blake James jumped up from the porch swing, where he had been sitting very close to Susan.
“Hold on, Detective Murphy,” Blake said, holding a hand out in front of him and the other on his chest. “It's not what it looks like.”
“What does it look like?” Jack asked, still holding his pistol, although he had lowered the barrel toward the ground.
Blake let out a nervous laugh, and looked at Susan.
“Blake is a friend,” she said, and gave Jack an angry look.
Jack slid the pistol back into its holster and walked up onto the porch. “It's late. I think you should be leaving, Mr. James,” he said.
Blake's television smile was back in place when he said, “I only came to see if I could get a quote. Your chief is dodging us in favor of that newspaper guy.”
Jack looked at Blake, and the way the man held himself—every hair in place, polished white teeth—only a halo was missing. “You know I can't talk to you on the record or off without permission of the chief of police, Mr. James.”
Blake James stood his ground, and Jack muscled his way past the man, surprised at how strong he was. He'd always thought reporters were soft and timid. Blake reminded him of one of those guys who hangs out at the gym waiting to pick up women. Not quite a muscle-head, and just smart enough to be a problem.
“It's late. I'm going to bed. No comment.”
“Jack, that's rude,” Susan said.
Blake strode off the porch and turned, saying, “It's okay, Susan. We'll see each other at the gym.”
Aha,
Jack thought.
“And Detective Murphy,” Blake added. “You'll never catch your man by sleeping the time away. Time is a precious commodity.” When he said this he winked at Susan.
Jack stepped to the edge of the porch, only restrained by Susan's arm blocking his way. “We could step around to your car and discuss this some more, Blake,” Jack said. He knew his face was getting red and he didn't understand why Susan was taking up for this polished freak show.
Blake James held his hands up in submission. “I didn't mean to offend you, Detective. I report the news, I don't make it.” And with that he laughed and Jack heard the crunching sound his shoes made as he walked to his vehicle behind the cabin.
He heard a door open and then shut, then an engine start before he turned to Susan and said, “How could you bring him here?”
“I didn't invite him,” she said. “He just showed up.”
“Yeah, right,” Jack said, and immediately regretted the tone in his voice. “Look, Susan, I'm sorry,” he said, but she was already picking up her purse and fishing for her car keys.
As he watched her disappear around the side of the cabin he wondered if he should go after her. But it was too late. He knew that they would work this out better if they both had a good night's sleep.
Just then Susan came back around the side of the cabin. There was no longer a look of anger on her face, but what was there was worse. Jack saw pity in her eyes.
“You're a good man, Jack,” Susan said. “But I'm afraid for you.” She retreated the way she had come and he heard her car drive away.

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