Touching Evil (14 page)

"Every detail helps me see him. Eventually." Every
detail, every throb of agony and anguish she had felt right along with Hollis. And Ellen. And Christina.

"Do you have a sketch yet?"

"No. Not yet."

John said, "Andy, I know your boss would hate it, but is there any way we can see the Mitchell house today?"

"We?"

"Maggie and me."

Maggie wanted to protest but bit back the words. She had so far managed to hide from Andy her reaction to actual scenes of violence or suffering and intended to keep it that way if she had any choice. It was difficult enough to do what she did without having to also cope with the increased uneasiness or even fear she knew most of these cops would feel if they saw one of her little . . . performances.

She had no idea what John thought of what he had witnessed on Saturday, but she didn't doubt he and his friend had discussed her. His supposedly psychic friend.

She felt cold. And worried. Was she moving too fast? Could she afford not to? It was so desperately important that they stop this monster before he destroyed more lives, but what would be the price demanded if she chose the wrong path? And who would have to pay it?

"Maggie, are you up to it?" Andy asked.

She nodded. "I'm fine." A lie, but she thought it was probably a pretty convincing one.

"I know Maggie usually walks the scene eventually," Andy said slowly, "but why you, John?"

Because he wants to watch me.
But Maggie didn't say that, of course. She just waited silently.

"I suppose," John said, "because I'm trying to ... immerse myself in the investigation. To see everything. And who knows, Andy—I may see something all you cops miss. I may not be trained in police work, but I usually don't miss many of the details when I turn my mind to something."

It was the truth, Maggie thought. But not all of it.

Andy drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment, eyeing John intently, then shrugged. "I'll okay it. I wanted Maggie to walk it anyway, and you might as well go along, although I doubt you'll find anything we missed. The forensics team should be just about finished up by the time you can get to the house, and Mitchell has given us permission to do whatever it takes to find his wife, so I don't imagine he'll object. If he even notices, which is doubtful."

Maggie got to her feet when John did, but paused to ask Andy, "Is there anything else? Anything new?"

Only someone who knew him well would have seen the hesitation before he replied, "No, nothing. At least until we have the forensics report later today."

Maggie pretended she didn't know him well and nodded as she turned away. She'd have to come back here later and corner Andy, try to find out what was going on. Unless it was her, and not John Garrett, he didn't want to tell.

She didn't much like this. If it came down to it, where would her loyalties have to lie? With the police or with John? That shouldn't have been a question, but it was. And she knew why it was.

Pushing those troubling thoughts aside for the moment, Maggie followed John from the station. He didn't speak until they were on the steps, and then it was to make a wry request.

"Would you mind if we went together in my car? I'll bring you back here afterward to get your car." He grimaced slightly when she looked at him quizzically. "I don't know if you've noticed, but these days any unaccompanied man moving around the city tends to draw quite a few suspicious stares, especially in a neighborhood such as the one we'll be visiting. Aside from disliking the way it makes me feel, I'd just as soon avoid the undue attention."

Maggie half nodded and went with him to his car, and it wasn't until they were on their way that she said, "It's the not knowing, of course. As far as most of the women in this city are concerned, any man they don't know could be the rapist—and sad to say there are probably far too many women who aren't even sure of the men they do know."

"That is sad. It must be hell to look at someone you believed you could trust and realize you aren't completely sure anymore. And hell to be on the receiving end of that doubt."

"I imagine so."

He glanced at her. "Imagine? Can't you feel it? When they do, I mean."

"Why ask when you don't believe it's possible?" Maggie made her voice a little dry but still casual. "Is that why you wanted me to go with you to the Mitchell house, by the way? So you could watch another . . . performance and explain it away?"

John was silent for a moment, then said, "I hate it when Quentin's right. He said you'd probably lived with doubt and disbelief most of your life."

"He'd know, being a seer. Not that you believe that either." She realized abruptly that they weren't heading for the address of the Mitchell house Andy had provided but in another direction entirely. Where—

"That's an old-fashioned term for it, isn't it? Seer?"

Maggie shrugged, feeling a slow little chill crawl over her skin. "I suppose. Anyway, he said he didn't see things, just knew them."

"And you?"

"What about me?" She clung to casual disinterest and fought the rising panic.

John drew a breath and said softly, "When you walk through a place where something violent happened, do you see things? Know them? Or feel them?"

Repeating her earlier answer, Maggie said, "Why ask when you don't believe it's possible?"

"I never have believed it's possible, but that doesn't mean I can't change my mind, Maggie. Not long before I called Andy and found out about the Mitchell woman, Quentin told me another woman had been taken. He knew."

"I'm sure you explained that away. It could have been a lucky guess." She knew where they were going now. Damn.
Damn.

"It could have been. But if so, there've been a lot of lucky guesses over the years, too many times he knew things before he should have. And then there's you."

Stolidly, Maggie said, "I'm just overly sensitive, that's all. With a vivid imagination."

"I guess you've heard that a lot during your life."

"Enough."

"Okay. But at least I'm trying to have an open mind. Give me that much credit."

After a moment, she said quietly, "I'm sure you use calculators and computers and other machines in your
business affairs; do you really have to understand the nuts and bolts of how they work in order to be satisfied with the information and answers they provide?"

"No. But I have to trust that the information they provide is accurate and reliable, and sometimes that requires at least some level of understanding. And you're not a machine. I really do want to understand you, Maggie."

Deliberately, Maggie half turned in the seat to look at him steadily. "If your friend Quentin hasn't convinced you in years of trying to, then what hope do I have? At least the things he tells you can be verified, predictions backed up by fact when those predictions turn out to be true. But what I do? What I do isn't backed up by anything, really. It's all subjective. Besides, I don't have the spare energy to jump through hoops for you, John. Just tell yourself I have a peculiar skill honed by half a lifetime of working with the police, and let it go at that. I can't prove anything to you."

"Can't you?"

"No."

He pulled the car over to the curb and stopped, then looked at her, his jaw tight. "I know a way you can."

She didn't have to look to know where they were. "No. I can't."

"Because the interview with Hollis took too much out of you?"

She had to be honest. "No."

"Because you have to save your energy for the Mitchell house?"

"Partly."

He nodded as if an inner belief had been confirmed. "But not completely. So what's the rest of the answer, Maggie? Andy told me you never walked through Christina's apartment after she died. Why not?"

Maggie drew a short breath. "I have my reasons." Reasons he wouldn't understand, let alone believe.

"What reasons?"

"Private reasons."

"Maggie—"

"John, I'm not going to walk through Christina's apartment. Not today."

"And you won't tell me why."

She shook her head slightly in a brief but final negation.

"I'm trying to understand this," he said, his voice slow, as though he chose his words carefully. "Because it's such a simple question, Maggie—why did my sister kill herself? I think you could answer that question, so I have to wonder why you won't even make an attempt. Am I asking so much? Just walk through her apartment and tell me what you see. Or know. Or feel-

Andy hung up his phone and scowled at Jennifer as she approached his desk. "Please tell me you have something," he begged.

She sat down and said, "We didn't expect forensics to find anything, especially not this quickly. So something else must have put you in a bad mood. Or somebody. Drummond?"

If anything, Andy's frown deepened. "I don't know
whether to look forward to the day he's sitting in the governor's mansion or dread it. He'd be mostly out of my hair—but God help the state."

"Let me guess. Samantha Mitchell or her husband has a Very Important Friend in government?"

"Hell, they know everybody. At least according to Luke. And
everybody
is yelling at him to find the lady, pronto."

"I guess you told him we're trying to do that."

"I mentioned it, yeah."

Jennifer smiled. "Well, here's something else to brighten your day."

He braced himself visibly. "What?"

"While Scott's trying to track down those missing files, I've been taking a closer look at that book I got from the library. There aren't a lot of specific details on the series of murders in 1934, but there was one very interesting thing. It turns out the cops were undecided whether to call it six victims—or eight. Six was the official verdict, but there was a lot of doubt, apparently, among the investigating officers."

"What kind of doubt?"

"They were positive the first six victims were killed by the same man because of the similarities. The women were always raped and killed somewhere else and their bodies dumped later in remote or deserted spots, he always beat them up badly, the women always bore defense injuries, and he never tore their clothing."

Andy blinked. "Never?"

"No. The bodies were always discovered dressed, all the buttons fastened and nothing ripped. Which is interesting in several ways. For one thing, the women were always found without underwear. No bras or panties, no girdles or stockings or slips. Just their outer
dresses. And there was usually very little blood or dirt on those dresses."

"So he stripped them—and then dressed them afterward, but without their underwear. Kept the underwear as trophies, maybe?"

"Maybe. But think how difficult just the mechanics of it had to be. By the time he finished with them, the women were either dead or dying. And instead of dumping them somewhere, naked, which would certainly have been the easiest and simplest thing to do, he takes the time and trouble to dress them in their outer clothing. Almost as if... he was trying to protect their modesty."

"You been talking to the shrink?" Andy wanted to know.

"No, but I've listened to her talk about this sort of thing before, so I feel safe in making a semieducated guess about it. I think the detail is important, Andy. It could be something as simple as the fact that the 1934 killer lived during a more . . . modest time. Or a quirk of his psyche—he'd defile them in every way possible, but it was for his own enjoyment. When other men saw the women, they had to be decently covered."

"Sounds like the sort of quirk entirely likely in one of these twisted bastards. Okay, it makes sense to me. It definitely sounds like those six women were killed by the same man. But there was doubt about two more victims?"

"Uh-huh."

"Why? The M.O. was drastically different?"

"Two young women found in remote places, having obviously been raped and killed somewhere else, badly beaten, with defense injuries, and wearing their virtually undamaged outer clothing all neatly fastened."

"Sounds like the same guy."

"Yeah, except for one addition."

"Which is?"

"Their eyes were missing. Cut out—with absolutely no finesse."

Andy stared at her a moment, then drew a short breath. "Shit."

"Yeah. Knowing what we know now about the escalation and evolution of this sort of sick predator, I say those last two victims belong with the first six. He had just grown more violent, and more creative. Which means eight, Andy. Killed within the space of about eighteen months."

"Which may or may not mean we could have a year and four—or three—more victims to go."

"If our guy is copycatting earlier crimes, yeah. The killings that started in 1934 sure sound familiar. All of our victims survived the attacks, and only one actually died of her injuries, but that could be as much luck as anything else; they were found before they could bleed to death, unlike the women in 1934. We have naked victims, but that may just be because our particular monster has fewer hang-ups than his predecessor did. Or a better knowledge of forensics."