The Seventh Victim (20 page)

“I’d worry if you did.” Raines glanced at the white-hot sun. “I swear I’ll never bitch about the rain in Seattle again.”

Santos’s expression remained neutral.

So much for humor. “Can I see the body?”

Beck held out his hand. “This way. We kept her here so you could see the positioning, but we’re going to have to move her soon. The heat’s not helping.”

Raines stared out across the grassy field. “Let’s get to it.” He accepted rubber gloves from Beck, donning them as he had thousands of times in the past. Death’s sick, sweet scent trailed out toward him even before he reached the body. Automatically, he blocked out the stench.

The woman lay on her back, her hands crossed over her chest. She wore a white dress and no shoes, and her blond hair was strewn out on the ground behind her. There were blue and purple fingerprint marks around her neck. “Take away this damn heat, and I could be back in Seattle at one of my old crime scenes.”

He squatted by the body. The skin under the victim’s arms and the back of her legs had darkened. Once the heart stopped pumping, the blood settled to the lowest points of the body. In her case it would be the back side of her body.

“You have any theories on your killer?” Beck said.

“You’ve read my files.” He studied the marks on the woman’s neck.

“I did. Twice. But I’m looking for the ideas you had in your head but never wrote down.”

All cops had theories that they weren’t willing to make a matter of record. “I wrote down all my theories until Lara Church was attacked. After her attack and survival I suspected a shift in the killer.”

“Elaborate,” Santos said.

“She was not only raped,” Raines said. “But she was beaten. And she survived. No other victim was assaulted or left alive.”

“Killers change,” Santos said.

“I know. They have stressors just like we do. But this guy was one hundred percent consistent. He didn’t rape the first six women, and he didn’t make a mistake. Suddenly, he rapes and nearly gets caught. I’d have said he was a copycat if not for the penny.”

“Lara could have been his target all along,” Beck said. “The first six could have been a warm-up.”

“That was my thought. I kept thinking this guy must know her. But I couldn’t prove it, and of course she could not remember.”

“What about the men in her life?” A hard edge sharpened Beck’s words.

“I checked them all out. Her boss at the department store where she worked was clean, as was her landlord. Her professors. The men she’d dated casually. All had alibis the night of her attack.”

“Tell me about the men she dated,” Beck said.

“As you know from the files, there were three. I leaned on them hard, but all three had alibis for Lara’s attack and the first six murders.” He glanced toward the highway and then at the body. “He’s playing his game all over again, practicing and playing with others before he goes after Lara.”

Tension clawed at the muscles in Beck’s back. “He’s playing before he strikes.”

“It’s my theory.” Raines stood. “You behind Lara talking to the press?”

Santos’s gaze shifted to Beck.

“No,” Beck said. “She did that one all on her own.”

“Got to give her credit,” Raines said, nodding his approval. “She’s not hiding this time. Taking the bull by the horns, so to speak.”

Beck shook his head, wishing he’d never suggested she go public.

Chapter 13

Sunday, May 26, 4
PM

Beck, Santos, and Raines spent the afternoon in the autopsy room with the medical examiner. The exam had been eerily similar to the last. Bruising around the neck. Signs of sexual assault. When the exam had concluded, the three had tossed their scrub gowns in a hamper and convened in Dr. Watterson’s office.

The doctor kept his space neat and organized. Books on the shelves were in alphabetical order, and the stacks on the desk were precise. Dr. Watterson was obsessive about all the details of an autopsy and his life.

The medical examiner eased into a chair behind his desk. Santos and Raines took the seats on the opposite side of the desk, while Beck remained standing by the door.

Raines removed a clean handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed the sweat on his forehead. “These killings are more violent than Seattle. Time has made him more brutal.”

For a moment the air hung heavy with tension.

“I’d be willing to bet that the killer lives or works near the exit on I-35,” Raines said. “I always thought he knew that stretch of Route 10 in Washington well.”

“Why do you say that?” the doctor said.

“Most of us are creatures of habit, and we stick to the same routines.”

Beck had stuck to what he’d known in the Misty Gray case. Long hours and dogged determination had added up to failure.

Santos stared at the tip of his scuffed cowboy boot. “Insane habits make sense to the insane.”

Raines nodded. “Exactly. Just like you and I tend to shop for food, shoes, or clothes at the same stores, this nut shops for his victims in the same way.”

“So how do we find him?” Santos said. “We know he likes blond students, but that’s a wide description with so many schools around here.”

“We’re looking for someone who lived in Seattle or nearby. He’s familiar with Washington’s Route 10 and I-35 in Texas. Likely knows Lara Church even if it’s a passing acquaintance, though I would guess he’s built up an elaborate fantasy life about her.”

Dr. Watterson leaned forward, his gaze intent on the conversation. “Today’s victim showed more trauma than the last.”

“Lara Church,” Beck said. “We start with her. Raines gave us a good history on her life in Seattle, but I want to know what she did between then and now. I also want to know about the summers she spent in town when she lived with her grandmother.”

“I kept tabs on her over the years,” Raines said. “I can give you my logs.”

“You kept tabs on her for seven years?” Beck said.

Raines remained relaxed as if his brand of intensity was normal. “I tracked her through her Social, DMV, and the one credit card she carried.”

“Did you follow her?”

Raines nodded. “Not always. But I checked in on her from time to time. I also monitored crime stats wherever she lived. No Strangler-like cases until Austin.”

Beck studied the former detective, wondering if he was capable of such obsession. “Your notes would be helpful.” He shifted his attention to Santos. “Can you dig into her past in Texas? Her grandmother’s name is Bower.”

“Be glad too.”

“You had her talk to Dr. Granger?” Dr. Watterson said.

“She won’t consider it,” Beck said.

“She saw an army of shrinks in Seattle.” Raines’s deep voice held no censure. “The lady developed an intense dislike for psychologists.”

Beck would keep stoking the fire until the heat forced her to cooperate. “Remind DPS again that if any report comes up with her name on it, I want to know about it.”

Santos rose. “Will do.”

Until this was over, Lara was a marked woman.

After Lara glanced at her watch and realized how long she’d left Lincoln alone, guilt chased her the last mile home. She’d not intended to stay in town for so long, but a visit to the grocer had turned into a marathon of questions and answers from strangers and acquaintances. Everyone had read the article. And questions ranged from kind to downright rude. Her stand had cost her privacy.

She’d only read the article through once. Vera had quoted her several times and clearly she’d done some digging on the Seattle cases. But Lara had no desire to read it again or to dissect her past.

Hopefully, her fifteen minutes of fame would pass quickly.

Gravel crunched under the tires of her car as she pulled in front of the house. Keys jangling in her hand, she got out expecting to hear Lincoln’s welcoming bark. The dog had a deep
woof
that could carry for miles.

But Lincoln didn’t greet her with his barks. Instead there was only silence, coupled with the hissing and rattling of her truck engine as it cooled. Worry rippled up her back, tightening around the back of her head.

Beck and this morning’s story forgotten, she hurried up the front steps and fumbled with her keys. In her haste, she dropped the keys. “Lincoln! I got chew sticks at the store!”

She scraped the keys off the porch floor, found her house key, and shoved it in the lock. The lock turned and the front door swung open. “Lincoln! Where are you, boy?”

An eerie stillness confronted her the instant she stepped into the house. Immediately, anxiety prickled her skin. Everything was in its place, and yet everything was wrong.

Clutching her keys, she shouted, “Lincoln!”

As the silence grew louder and louder, her worry simmered hotter and hotter. She moved from room to room, calling the dog’s name. But there was no sign of him in the house. What had happened to him?

She rattled the knob on the back door and found it secure. With today’s heat forecasts she had been adamant about keeping him inside even as he whined to go back out. Could he have slipped out as she was locking up this morning? She closed her eyes, replaying each moment of the morning step by step. Lincoln had been on the living room sofa when she’d left, giving her his best doe-eyed, don’t-leave-me look.

Where was he?

She moved out of the air-conditioned house into the dry heat. She stood on the small brick patio and called the dog’s name again and again. Nothing. She glanced back at the door. No sign of break-in there or on the front door.

And then beyond the potted herb planters and flowerpots she spotted a tuft of hair in the brush. She raced across the yard to the woods, her heart thundering and her stomach tightening with spasms. Her worst fears were realized when she saw Lincoln lying in the dried shrubs.

She dropped to her knees and carefully ran trembling hands over his head. “Lincoln.”

He didn’t respond to her voice. Dear God, he was dead. Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks. And then she noted the slight rise and fall of his belly. “Lincoln!”

She touched his warm nose panting out jagged breaths. In and out. In and out. The cadence was sluggish, but he was breathing. His tongue and gums were pink, a sign that he was getting enough oxygen, but she wondered for how long.

She inspected every inch of his body and found no signs of blood, wounds, or broken bones. Fearing he might have been poisoned, she knew she had to get him to an emergency vet as soon as possible. For a heart-stopping moment she panicked. Who should she call? It was a Sunday afternoon.

“Shit. Think, Lara. Think!” Quickly, she raced back into the house and opened her laptop. Her hands trembled so that she mistyped
Emergency
and
Veterinarian
so badly she wasn’t sure if the search engine would turn up anything. However, it spit out the name of a twenty-four-hour service in northwest Austin.

She grabbed her keys and hustled through the house to her truck. She fired up the engine and drove the truck around the side of the house, unmindful of the wilting flower beds her grandmother planted years ago. She parked her truck right next to Lincoln. The dog weighed seventy pounds, and unconscious his body would be unwieldy.

Later she’d never know how she got Lincoln in the bed of the truck, but she’d managed it.

She covered the shepherd with a quilt from her living room couch and kissed him on the muzzle. “Hang on, boy.”

Lara slid behind the wheel, ground the gear into reverse, and backed out the path she’d just dug in the yard. A quick spin of the wheel and a gear change, and she was headed down the dirt road back toward town. The twisty, winding roads didn’t allow for top speeds, and she did not want to jostle Lincoln too much, but she kept the pace faster than reason dictated. When she hit the main road, she floored it.

The speedometer nudged ninety more than a couple of times as she wove in and out of traffic. As she skidded around Austin and headed north, the stress and panic that had first gripped her melted to a laser-sharp resolve. Just get him to the doctor.

As she took her last exit, she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights of a police vehicle. “You’re gonna have to wait, pal.”

She didn’t break speed, and the cop stayed on her tail. Up ahead she spotted the vet hospital and slowed to make her final right turn. Breaks squealed to a halt as she stopped in front of the main door.

She slid out the door and ran inside the vet hospital before the cop could react. She dashed to the receptionist desk. “I’ve got my dog in the car. I think he’s been poisoned. He’s a shepherd and he weighs at least seventy pounds.”

The girl nodded and reached for the intercom just as the cop burst into the vet hospital. His hand was on his gun grip, his dark eyes sparked with adrenaline and anger.

Lara held up her hands in front. “Let me get my dog to the doctor, and then I’ll do whatever you want.”

Midsized with dark hair, gray eyes, and a thick, black mustache, the cop shook his head. “Outside, now.”

Lara glanced back at the startled receptionist. “Are you going to help my dog?”

The young girl nodded. “Someone is coming up to get him right now.”

Lara nodded and followed the cop outside. “He’s in the back of the truck. My dog. Lincoln.” She’d been so focused on the trip here, but now her brain unraveled with emotion and fear.

The cop directed her to the back of the truck and glanced inside at Lincoln. The dog was still breathing but painfully still. “What is wrong with him?”

“I think he was poisoned.”

“Do you know how fast you were going?”

She kept her gaze on Lincoln. “I didn’t care. Too fast. I don’t know.”

“I need for you to sit in the front of your truck.”

“Can’t I stay with Lincoln?”

The front door of the hospital burst open, and two young men appeared with a gurney. “There’s nothing you can do for him now. They’ve got him.” The sharp edges of the cop’s voice eased. “I need to see your driver’s license.”

She slid behind the wheel and dug her wallet out of her purse. She handed it to the officer and watched in the rearview mirror as the technicians loaded Lincoln onto the gurney and took him inside.