Twisted (9 page)

“Interesting.”

Allison looked at Mark. “You think he’s married?”

“It’s possible.” His gaze went to Jordan. “It’s also possible he was saying that to put you at ease. And the detail about the mechanic . . . that’s part of his effort to deceive you. When people are being truthful, they don’t feel the need to throw in extra details to support what they’re saying. But if they’re deceiving you, they think they need that to make themselves more believable. Those extra details are a sign of deception, and you picked up on it.”

Allison watched Mark, fascinated. She used that signal all the time in suspect interviews, but she’d never pinpointed what it was.

“I’ve been over it and over it,” Jordan said. “There were so many little warnings I let myself ignore.”

Mark watched her, and Allison caught an intensity in his gaze that she hadn’t seen before. This woman was a treasure trove of information about someone he’d been hunting for more than a decade.

“Just . . . he looked so
normal
, you know? He had a minivan. He wore glasses and a Rice University sweatshirt. God, that’s my alma mater. I mean, I was wary at first, but I kept telling myself I was being paranoid.” She
stopped talking and stared at her lap. Tension hung in the air, and Allison knew they were coming to the tough part. “Then he attacked me. I turned my back and he was on me. I screamed and kicked, and he kept saying, ‘Shut up and I won’t hurt you.’ ” She looked Mark in the eye. “But I knew that was a lie. I
knew
it.” Her voice was fierce now. “He said it over and over again, when he threw me into the van and then when he was raping me. I wouldn’t stop struggling, because I knew in my soul that he fully intended to kill me.”

She stopped talking, and her words seemed to hover in the quiet room.

“The van,” Allison said gently. “Do you remember anything else about that, anything the police didn’t ask about?”

“Like what?”

“Anything inside it, for example.”

She shook her head.

“What about smells?” she pressed. “Maybe food? Or tobacco? Or some sort of cologne?”

Jordan looked away. “Paint.”

“There was paint in the van?” Mark asked.

“It wasn’t that strong. And maybe it wasn’t even paint, but some kind of chemical. I don’t know. That part is fuzzy, really. I mainly remember fear.”

She looked from Allison to Mark. “It was so
complete.
I knew he wanted me dead. So I pretended, hoping maybe he’d stop. And then he slit my throat and dumped me out.” Her hand drifted up to her neck. “He was in a hurry by that point, I guess because I’d put up such a fight, maybe he thought someone would hear us or
find us. He just shoved me out and peeled away, and the last thing I remember was staring up at those trees and thinking of Ethan.”

Her voice broke on the last word and she turned it into a cough. Allison watched her fighting the emotions and had to blink back tears.

Jordan took a deep breath. “Next thing I know, I’m in the hospital, some emergency room. I wake up, and it’s all these doctors and sheriff’s deputies, and everyone’s telling me I’m lucky to be alive.” She looked at Mark, then Allison. “People tell me that a lot, you know—that I’m lucky. It’s a shitty thing to say.”

The ride back into town was long and cold, and it wasn’t just because Allison’s heater was on the fritz. She couldn’t bring herself to talk. Mark was probably used to hearing stories like that, but Allison wasn’t, and she felt hollow inside. She remembered a similar feeling last summer, when she’d worked her first murder case. She’d learned that people were capable of unspeakable cruelty, and she wondered if she’d ever get used to knowing that. And if she did, what would that say about her?

“You all right?”

She glanced at Mark. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seemed a little uncomfortable back there.”

She tamped down her annoyance. She’d hoped he hadn’t noticed, but he seemed to notice everything.

“Honestly? I found it hard to be around her. I bet a lot of people do. That’s one of the things that sucks about what happened.” She shook her head. “If you want to
know the truth . . .” She trailed off, unsure if she should talk to him about this. She didn’t really know him.

“If I want to know the truth . . . ?” He was looking at her expectantly, and she settled her gaze back on the road.

“The truth is, she’s my worst nightmare. I mean, here’s this strong, determined woman. She’s tall. She’s in excellent shape—or at least she was. She was a freaking marathoner. And now she seems so . . . lost, I guess.” She gripped the steering wheel, upset for reasons she couldn’t articulate. Or didn’t want to.

“You identify with her.”

“How could I not?” She glanced over, and he was watching her with concern. She focused on the road, hoping he’d let it go. She didn’t feel like talking about it anymore—it felt too emotional.

“There’s a rape kit,” Mark said now, and she was grateful for the change of subject.

“Yeah, I asked about that.”

“And?”

“Sheriff’s deputy said it didn’t go anywhere.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

Allison stopped at a juncture and turned onto the highway that would take them back to town. “I assume it means they tested the DNA and didn’t get any hits.”

“Never assume.”

She looked at him. “What, you think he was being literal?”

He reached over and turned up the heater, as if that would help anything. Cold air blasted out, and he switched it off.

“I think every crime lab in the country is backed up,” he said. “Your state lab’s probably worse than Quantico. You want to know what they ask when an agent sends in a DNA sample for analysis?”

“What?”

“‘When’s the trial?’ ”

Allison’s throat tightened with frustration. She jerked her phone out of her pocket and dialed the Wayne County Sheriff’s Office. Deputy Brooks was off for the day, but she’d chatted with their dispatcher before, and she managed to finagle his home number.

“The Jordan Wheatley case,” she said by way of greeting. “What happened to her rape kit?”

The deputy paused, as if digesting this. “It’s at the lab.”

“Still? It’s been a
year.
”

“Hey, talk to Austin. I don’t run the state crime lab.”

“Well, have you ever thought of picking up the phone? What have you guys been doing up there?”

Beside her, Mark shook his head at her apparent lack of judgment. She supposed she was expected to play nice with these people, even though their laziness might have cost a woman her life.

“We’re not exactly front of their line.” Brooks sounded pissed now. “You know how many cases they get? And we don’t even have a suspect yet. You’re talking about a blind DNA test.”

“What about a private lab?” she asked. “The Delphi Center’s one of the best in the world, and they’re practically in your backyard. I can’t believe you didn’t—”

“Look,
Detective.
Don’t call me on a Saturday at my
home
and start criticizing the way we conduct an
investigation. We don’t have the luxury of hiring private labs whenever we feel like it. We have rules around here. Budgets. If we had a suspect to compare it to, that’d be one thing. But we don’t. And we don’t throw taxpayer money around on blind DNA tests every time someone gets assaulted.”

“She almost
died.
” Allison couldn’t believe she was hearing this.

“I know, all right? I interviewed her in that hospital. But the fact is, the sketch she gave us went nowhere. The vehicle description went nowhere. We don’t have a suspect, and until we do, that’s it. We’re waiting on state. You don’t like it, talk to the sheriff.”

Allison clenched the wheel. She felt Mark watching her, probably disapproving of the way she was handling this.

“How’d it go with her, anyway? She doing any better?”

His voice sounded concerned now, and some of Allison’s anger subsided.

“She was okay. Still having a hard time, I think.” She glanced at Mark, who was gazing out his window but obviously listening. “We may have a new lead, though. I’ll keep you posted.”

“I heard y’all brought a fed in on your homicide,” he said. “You really think it’s connected?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Shit.” A heavy sigh on the other end of the phone. “He wore a condom, you know. Chances are, that rape kit isn’t going to give us much.”

Allison bit back a curse. Jordan hadn’t mentioned the condom. But then, she’d skimmed over the most brutal
part of her attack with only a few words. Had she been sparing Allison’s feelings? Mark’s? Or maybe it was just too difficult to talk about.

“I’ll give Austin a call,” Brooks said. “See if I can rattle a few cages.”

Like you should have done ten months ago.

“Thank you,” she said instead, then tossed her phone in the cup holder with maybe a bit too much force.

Mark looked at her.

“Her kit’s sitting in Austin, untested. He pleads backlogs and budgets.”

Mark didn’t seem surprised.

“Anyway, her attacker wore a condom, so it could still be a dead end.”

“I doubt it.”

She glanced at him.

“They can get DNA off a single skin cell. Jordan fought hard, from the sound of it. That rape kit should include her clothes, her nail clippings. They should be able to get a profile.”

Allison shook her head. “I keep thinking of all the time wasted.”

“You’re going to have to make nice with that deputy. I want a look at their suspect sketch. Hell, I want a look at their entire case file.”

Allison’s phone buzzed from the cup holder, and she checked the screen. Not Brooks. His apology would have to wait.

“Hey, Kelsey, what’s up?”

Allison listened for a moment, and her stomach filled with dread. It was becoming a familiar feeling.

She hung up with her friend. Then she checked her
mirrors and pulled a U-turn in the middle of the highway.

Mark glanced at her. “Change of plan?”

“That was a friend of mine, Kelsey Quinn. I called her yesterday with some questions about the case.”

“Kelsey Quinn. Where have I heard that name before?”

“She’s a forensic anthropologist,” Allison said grimly. “We’re going to go look at some bones.”

The Delphi Center looked like a Greek temple that had been inexplicably transported to the heart of the Texas Hill Country. Mark remembered the fanfare when the place opened—first, because it was a cutting-edge forensic research facility, and second, because they’d managed to hire away some of the Bureau’s top scientists. Now, only five years later, the lab boasted the largest body farm in the country—which they proudly referred to as the body “ranch”—as well as a stellar reputation in law enforcement circles.

Allison said Dr. Quinn would be meeting them in the lobby, but Mark hadn’t expected her to blow in from outdoors. She strode up to them wearing an olive green ski vest and faded jeans with mud on the knees. He took one look at her auburn ponytail and recalled where he’d met her before.

“Special Agent Wolfe. Good to see you again.” She turned to Allison. “We met once at the FBI Academy. I was giving a talk to a room full of police chiefs.”

“Postmortem interval,” Mark supplied.

“I’ll take your word for it. It was a busy week.” She turned to the weekend security guard. “We all checked in, Ralph?”

He nodded silently from his place by the door, and Mark and Allison followed the young anthropologist into a narrow hallway. They passed a knot of people clustered in a doorway. Detectives, probably. Every one of them was packing and Mark had seen their unmarked vehicles in the parking lot.

“Deliveries,” the anthropologist said, following his gaze. “We get a lot on weekends. Cops bringing in blood and ballistic evidence. Always a few rape kits.”

“The staff works weekends, Doctor?”

“Call me Kelsey. And yeah, evidence clerks do.” She paused beside a door and flattened her palm against a panel to open it. “Plus, there’s that group that seems to be here no matter what day it is.”

“Which includes you,” Allison said pointedly.

“Hey, look who’s talking.” She nudged Allison with her elbow and glanced at Mark. “I don’t always work Saturdays, but we’re on a research dig.”

“I noticed the vultures.”

“That’s not us, thank God.” She shuddered. “I hate those nasty birds. Today’s recovery is fully skeletonized.”

Mark eyed her with amusement. The last time he’d seen the woman, she’d been giving an enthusiastic lecture on maggots, and yet a few birds gave her the shivers.

Or maybe it was the temperature. The corridor they were in sloped down dramatically, and it was colder than the one they’d come from. Mark felt like he’d stepped into a meat locker.

She stopped before a door with a small black flag depicting a skull and crossbones pinned up beside it. Again, she pressed her palm against a panel to gain access.

“Osteology,” she announced. “Otherwise known as our Bones Unit. You ever seen one before?”

Mark scanned the office, which looked like any other room full of cubicles. He glanced up. She’d been talking to him. “No, I haven’t.”