Vengeance is Mine - A Benjamin Tucker Mystery (3 page)

She then presented a split screen image. “What you’re looking at here are traces of bloody footprints left at the Greentree and West Pine Meadow crime scenes, respectively.” She flipped to the next slide. “These are those same footprints digitally enhanced. They are identical. Both are men’s size eleven, right-foot prints. The sole pattern matches high-top work shoes sold under the names Taylor Work Outfitters and Johnson & Burns, distributed in ten states in the southeastern U.S., including North Carolina.”

“The reason we’ve concentrated on the right shoe print is this anomaly here.” She pointed to the screen. “There appears to be a small piece of the right heel missing. You can see it in both photos. These prints are significant evidence if we can find the matching pair of shoes. For that reason, this information cannot be released to the media.”

She advanced to a slide showing a Bible. “The Bibles at both crime scenes were the King James Version, Pure Cambridge Edition,” she said. “They appear to be in new condition. Other than those of the victims, no prints were present, and in both cases, they were found only on the front and back covers.”

The presentation was finished with several magnified photos of carpet strands that I didn’t give a crap about, but I guess they proved the same strands were found at both crime scenes, possibly from carpet in the perpetrator’s car.

Dreckmann left, but no one noticed. All eyes were focused on FBI profiler Special Agent Lainie MacKenzie as she walked to the front of the room. She was tall and trim with hair more red than auburn, pulled straight back into a bun. Her flat heels and perfectly tailored navy-blue pantsuit accentuated her long, slender legs. She displayed a presentation and began.

“You’ve probably heard the media refer to our subject as The Headless Corpse Killer. Such references are detrimental to these types of investigations because they present the subject as a monster—almost supernatural in nature. He is, in fact, a human being, prone to the same imperfections as any other individual. In short, he makes mistakes, and it will be these mistakes that will result in his undoing.

“I refer to our subject as Jack Plum—Jack, as in Jack-the-Ripper, and Plum, as in Professor Plum from the board game Clue.” A few muffled snickers could be heard, but they quickly stifled.

“Based on statistical studies, Jack Plum is a white male between twenty-five and forty years of age. He is a sociopathic underachiever with low self-esteem. He has completed high school with poor to average grades but possesses no formal education beyond that. Because of his antisocial tendencies, he is not married or involved in a romantic relationship.”

Lainie explained that Plum had difficulty relating to authority figures, such as supervisors, police officers, clergy, and the like.

“He’s unable to interact appropriately with the public,” she said, “thus eliminating sales personnel, telemarketers, and insurance agents as probable suspects. Instead, he works with his hands … and he’s good at what he does. We could be looking for a carpenter, plumber, electrician, cable TV service technician … something like that.

“Plum has no outstanding physical or behavioral traits. He will not stick out in a crowd. However, he is narcissistic, psychotic, and sexually deviant. He feels no remorse for these attacks, no matter how hideous they may be.”

She continued talking as she flipped through her slides. “You are all here to determine who has committed these horrific acts. As a profiler, I am tasked with answering
why
—why these particular victims, why kill them in this manner, or for that matter, why kill them at all? The answers usually lie in the perpetrator’s signature.

“You’ve heard earlier that he removes the heads of the victims and takes them with him. These are not souvenirs or trophies. I theorize that he takes them to provide visual sexual stimulation during masturbation, reliving the entire experience with each ejaculation.”

“Christ,” I muttered softly.

MacKenzie added, “These victims were not chosen because of anything
they
had done to him. They were chosen because they have significant physical characteristics or traits that are similar to someone
else
who betrayed him, probably during his adolescence. This betrayal was likely some form of abuse, physical or sexual, at the hands of someone he trusted—a parent, sibling, neighbor, teacher. When the object of his betrayal is identified, you will find that she was a white female of medium build with long black hair worn in a braid at the time of the abuse. She, too, has probably been murdered and also decapitated by Plum.”

“He will eventually be driven to contact authorities or the media. He believes he is smarter than all of us and has a need to prove it while he increases the body count to impress us. I am surprised we have not yet heard from him.”

Lainie pointed to a police sergeant to my left who had his hand raised.

“What’s the significance of the Bibles?” he asked.

 She nodded. “Good question. It’s no coincidence that both Bibles were open to Romans 12: Verse 19.” She pulled a notecard from her pocket and read from it. “‛Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ These are vengeance killings with religious and sexual overtones.” After responding to a couple of mundane questions, she sat down.

Lieutenant Netter finished the session by giving miscellaneous details that were similar about both crime scenes. In both instances, all doors and windows were bolted and locked except for the front door, which was closed but unlocked. There were no signs of forcible entry, so the victims may have let Plum in the front door. Also, the crimes occurred in the late afternoon or early evening.

He wrapped up by giving assignments to the non-local investigators. I would develop theories on how Plum gained access to the victims in their homes. The SBI would dig into the backgrounds of the victims to search for any common threads between them, and how they may have previously come across the instrument of their demise, Jack Plum. They would also investigate the Bibles and where they may have come from. Agent MacKenzie was working on other cases and needed to get back to Quantico for a few days. She would refine Plum’s profile as more information became available, and she would return if there were new developments.

Netter, Cox, and I left the building together.

Lauren Roman, the blonde investigative reporter from News 14 Carolina, was waiting with her cameraman. As we walked, she shoved her microphone in Netter’s face.

“Lieutenant,” she said, “would you give us a breakdown of what was discussed at the task force meeting?”

“I have no comment,” he replied. “We’ll be scheduling periodic updates with the media, probably starting tomorrow. Until then, I have no comment. I’m sorry.”

Roman continued badgering. “We’ve been hearing that members of the task force, such as you, are taking these crimes very personally.”

Netter stopped and looked at her. “I can assure you that all members of the task force are highly professional and understand the importance of this investigation. There are no personal feelings at play here.” He began to walk away but Roman persisted.

“Lieutenant, would you comment on the rumor that there’s a satanic cult performing human sacrifices in the Raleigh area?”

He pulled out a cigar, bit the end off, and spit it out. “Whoever started that rumor is a fuckin’ idiot.”

The incompetent interrogation by Lauren Roman was disgusting. I was more qualified for that position than she was, but I didn’t have blonde hair, long legs, and perky breasts. However, I was convinced my ass was every bit as nice as hers.

Cox walked off to his car and Netter joined me next to the Jag. “I guess they’ll have to bleep that part out,” I said grinning.

“Stupid bitch,” Netter said as he took a drag on his cigar. “I gotta tell ya, Tucker. I want this motherfucker bad. I take it real personal when someone does something like this in my town.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Personal? What about that
professional
bullshit you just handed Roman?”

He angrily flicked the ash from his cigar. “I lied,” he said.

CHAPTER 4

It was sunny and warm when I got back to the estate, and Oscar greeted me at the back door of the main house in a delirious frenzy. Even though I had let Roberta know earlier I wouldn’t be back for lunch, she still left a covered plate on the kitchen island for me. A yellow sticky note on top said “you eat this mister Ben.” On the way home, I’d grabbed a corned beef sandwich for lunch. I wasn’t hungry at all, but I lifted the cover just to take a peek. A large chunky chocolate brownie stuffed with pecans, three slices of Gruyere cheese, and a small bunch of purple seedless grapes—and a dog biscuit.

Oscar was watching my every move, wagging. “We don’t want to hurt Roberta’s feelings, do we, little guy?” After I drew a heart on the sticky note and stuck it to the refrigerator door, we took our goodies and headed for the guesthouse where I had my office.

I did all of my writing in the guesthouse. In fact, I did almost everything in the guesthouse. It had about eleven hundred square feet with a cozy living room, a gourmet eat-in kitchen, two guest bedroom suites, and its own attached two-car garage. That’s where I kept my Jaguar. The guesthouse felt like a home to me. The main house, with its ten thousand square feet, multiple master suites, personal gym, intercoms, and butler’s pantries, reminded me of an impersonal luxury hotel.

The outside of the guesthouse matched the main house, with tumbled taupe-colored brick and stone on the exterior, and a bronze standing-seam metal roof commonly found in the south. The guesthouse had a two-car attached garage on one side, and a cabana for the pool on the other side. French doors opened out from the guesthouse living area onto the deep cabana, and outdoor bathroom facilities provided showers and changing areas for pool users.

Oscar made a pit stop along the way and kicked up mulch and grass all over my shoes. “Thank you very much,” I said. He wagged.

It was time to return some phone calls and face the music. I sat at my desk and placed the first dreaded call to my agent. His assistant transferred me, and Howard picked up immediately.

“Ben,” he said. “I’m glad you got back to me. Good news! Winston-Salem Publishers has decided to run a second printing of
Deception
. A hundred thousand copies this time.”

I was shocked and didn’t know what to say. “That’s fantastic, Howard.”

“They’re also forwarding a ten thousand dollar advance.”

“Ka-ching!”

“You got that right. But the main reason I wanted to reach you today is that I’ve managed to book a TV interview for you tomorrow on
Carolinians In the News
. The interview will take place at channel fourteen studios in Raleigh at nine o’clock.”

I cringed. “Jeez, Howie, you know I hate doing interviews. I’m just not very good at it.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “You’ll be fine. Besides, you have to strike while the iron’s hot. We need to get as much publicity as we can, as soon as we can. The host will be Sally Briggum, and I’ve forwarded you the list of questions she’ll ask. It should be in your email. Also, Ben, word is out that you’re a member of the police task force investigating the Headless Corpse Killer.” There was excitement in his voice. “Briggum may ask questions about your involvement, but if she doesn’t, find a way to bring it into the conversation. What fantastic publicity!”

I reluctantly agreed to do the interview, and hung up the phone. After I ate a couple of grapes and shared a piece of cheese with Oscar, I reviewed the list of interview questions. Most of them pertained to people described in the book, including the killer, his family and friends, and the investigating officers. This might not be so bad after all.

The next call was still looming over me, and I took a deep breath as I phoned Steve Patterson, my divorce attorney. What now? He was nice enough, but I had never spoken to him when my blood didn’t boil. Maybe this call would be different. Maybe he just needed a signature we missed on some tiny, little document. Yeah, right.

Seconds later, I was on hold listening to the same background music I’d heard countless times before. Sickening, easy-listening acoustic-smooth jazz. The sound of it made me nauseous.

He finally picked up. We exchanged the usual niceties, and then he said, “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

“I figured,” I said. “Lay it on me.”

“Jennifer has filed a motion for an addendum to the property settlement. She’s asking the court to award her fifty percent of the royalties, past, present, and future, for your book,
Deception
.”

I shot out of my chair like a missile. “Jesus Christ!” I shouted. “I thought this property settlement thing was over a long time ago. Can she do this?”

“Unfortunately, yes. There’s no mention of
Deception
in the property settlement. She claims you were working on this project when the two of you were still legally married. Is that true?”

I narrowed my eyes and burned a hole in the wall. “Well, yeah. I had done most of the research, but I hadn’t finished the manuscript. Also, my decision to write the book is what she used as an excuse to throw me out and divorce me in the first place. She said it wasn’t ‘a real job.’ Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“In this instance, that’s all irrelevant,” Steve said. “You completed substantial work during the marriage which served as the foundation for the published book. Future revenues will be considered community property. She’s also claiming she was the breadwinner, financially supporting the family during this period.”

“Spare me. She might have been the only one of us with a traditional job at the time, but I was collecting unemployment insurance, and that was almost as much as she was bringing in.”

“I’m sorry, Ben, but you’re probably going to lose this. She may not get fifty percent, but she’s going to get something. I wish you’d told me about the book while we were still in the litigation phase.”