Waking the Dead (25 page)
“You’d better.” The man sounded faintly disgruntled. “Because I have a feeling you’re going to get a match. When I went through Marissa’s credit card statements again, I found some charges made in Oregon about eight months before she went missing.”
Cait went still. “Charges for what?”
“Apparently she stayed in that area for a few days. A place called Springs Resort.” He rattled off the dates. “There’s another charge to River Adventures, out of Springfield. Her mother said she went up there with a group of friends for a long weekend, even though it wasn’t exactly her cup of tea. Apparently she wasn’t the outdoorsy type.” The man paused for a moment. “If those remains turn out to be hers, maybe she came to the killer’s attention on that trip. Which would blow my theory on the ex and make it more likely that we’re looking for a local up there.”
“That’s still a big ‘if’ at this point.” The cautionary words were as much for her as they were for Drecker. But it was difficult to tamp down the flare of excitement she felt. “You might want to check the ex’s background. See if he’s familiar with this area.”
Drecker’s laugh held real amusement. “I’ll do some digging, but I wouldn’t count on it. That guy is more the martini and manicures type than a nature lover.”
After eliciting the man’s promise to make the arrangements for the test immediately, Cait hung up. And took a moment to still the vortex of adrenaline swirling inside her. If the DNA profile showed the elder Recinos was a blood relative of the remains of female C, the entire case took on a whole new light. Possibly provided motivation, if the money angle panned out. It would certainly give Drecker the justification to dig further into the money trail.
But it also just might blow her tentative profile of the UNSUB all to hell.
The thought had her frowning as she rejoined Sharper. Money was an all too common motivation for murder. But an offender who took the time to paint tiny scenes on bones was definitely outside the norm. It could point to affection for the victim or ego on the part of the UNSUB. The former was far more likely in the case of a serial offender.
Regardless, she needed another briefing with Andrews to update her on the latest development. She stopped a couple feet away from Sharper and pressed the speed dial number for the sheriff. “We need to talk,” she said without preamble when she got the woman’s voice mail. “Get back to me as soon as you can.”
When she’d finished, she squatted to tuck the phone back in the zippered front pocket of the bag, pretending not to notice Zach’s intent stare. “I’m ready to head out.”
“You get a break in the case?”
She slanted him a glance. Sharper wasn’t directly involved in this investigation. The information she gave him had to be guarded. But he wasn’t stupid, either. He was going to draw his own conclusions based on what he observed when they were together. What he overheard. And there was little she could do about that. “Maybe. We’ll see.” She stuffed the wrappers into the bag and rose, shrugging into the straps. “Ready to move?”
The intensity of his stare was its own answer. “Sharper, I can’t discuss it. You know that.”
“Sure.” Unsurprisingly, there was an edge to his tone. “But you can damn well discuss why you need a fingerprint sample. That involves me, right? We can agree on that?”
“We need elimination prints,” she said calmly. But she recognized the storm brewing inside him. Wondered at it. “If it makes you feel any better, my assistant and I have to be printed, as well as the officers from the sheriff’s department who were at the recovery scene.”
Something in his expression eased a fraction. “So . . . what? You got a print from one of the bones? Because I didn’t touch any of them. I told Andrews that when I reported them.”
Skirting his question, she started walking. “The more people we eliminate, the closer we get to finding the suspect.” A hand on her elbow stopped her. Her gaze lingered on it for a moment before lifting to his face.
“So you’re saying whoever left that print doesn’t have a record. Because there’s a national database for that, right? If this guy was in the system, you’d already have a name.”
He was, she thought ruefully, entirely too shrewd for her peace of mind. “I guess that’s what I’m saying.”
“Christ.” He dropped his hand but didn’t step away. “Easier to believe it’s some big-city bad guy with a sheet a mile long. But this means it could be anyone. A person no one would suspect. Isn’t that how it usually goes?”
“You said once you thought the killer was local.” It was looking even likelier after what Drecker had told her today. And although they were a ways from determining that for sure, she was growing increasingly certain he was right.
He gave her a grim glance and began to head out. “Almost has to be. At least from the area. Walterville, Vida, Nimrod, Blue River, McKenzie . . . someone had to have lived in this area for a long time to know it as well as this guy does. I’ve lived around here all my life and I never knew that cave existed. Maybe he moved away after living here as a kid, but I doubt he went far. Unless . . . you don’t think all those bones were dumped there at the same time, do you?”
She matched him step for step and tried to keep up as easily with the direction of his thoughts. “No.”
“So the guy made multiple trips. Probably at night. Could have camped somewhere around here. Brought the bones with him, then struck out at night to dump them. But campsites mean people, and that’d be a risk. No, chances are he came in alone, left the same way. How far is he going to drive to get rid of them? Not far, I’m guessing. Not more than a couple hours. Can’t risk being stopped and having human skeletons found in the car.”
So engrossed was she in his litany that she narrowly avoided being smacked in the head by a low-hanging branch he’d let go of after dodging beneath it. As it was, the twigs on the branch caught her hair, and she stopped to release it. “First you say he lives around here, then you say he might be two hours away. Which is it?”
He turned to shoot her an impatient glance, saw her dilemma, and relented. Swiftly he walked back toward her and batted her hands out of the way. “You’re making a mess of it. Let me.”
His hands were quick and curiously gentle as he worked the strands free, but there was no trace of gentleness in his expression when he released her to step back. “Put your hat on,” he said gruffly. While she dug in her pack, he seamlessly switched topics. “What I said was, he had to have lived here for a while at some point. Although I guess we shouldn’t assume the killer is a man. Those bags weren’t that heavy. Someone in shape, someone like you, could probably have made that climb up Castle Rock carrying the bag. But whoever it is, they knew this place. The way I know it. The way Jim Lancombe, the groundskeeper at the Springs Resorts, knows it. They’re familiar with every square inch, same as me. Which makes using that cave as a dump site even worse, in my mind.”
It may have been the longest speech she’d ever heard him utter. It was easily the most impassioned. “Why?” Because he’d turned and started walking again, she fell in step, too. But she wanted, needed, the answer to her question. “Why does it make it worse?”
Minutes passed. Long enough for her to think he wasn’t going to answer. But finally he said, “It seems like a desecration, I guess. This is one of the few truly peaceful places I’ve found on this earth.” He sent her a quick sidelong glance. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
But she thought she did understand. At least a little. She headed for the mountains and forests in Virginia at least monthly, if the job allowed. Immersing herself in the tran quility found there never failed to ease her stress.
She had no illusions about the sort of missions he’d taken part in while in Afghanistan. What all those commendations and medals listed in his military record must have cost him.
A man like that, she reflected as she hurried to catch up with him, would be in dire need of peace.
Chapter 12
Sheriff Marin Andrews paced the length of Cait’s motel room at the McKenzie, puffing on a cigarette with short staccato pulls. “And this detective . . . Drecker . . . he suspects Recinos’s ex?”
“Yes, but if Marissa Recinos turns out to be our female C, Drecker has to be wrong about that. Her ex certainly didn’t have motivation for killing all seven of the victims.”
“Where are you on the profile of the UNSUB?”
The woman was as agitated as Cait had ever seen her. She’d been chain-smoking since she arrived here, and Cait had never seen her with a cigarette before. It made her glad she’d taken the time to complete the profile after she and Sharper had parted ways that evening.
Crossing to the desk, she picked up the file folder lying on it and handed it to the sheriff. “This is only a preliminary,” she stressed. “It will evolve quickly if this lead pans out.”
Andrews took the folder but didn’t open it. “Why don’t you give me the highlights?”
Unsurprised, Cait complied. “Without factoring in any of the unknowns about Recinos, I’m guessing our guy is a native to the area. Possibly still lives around here.” She thought for a moment of Sharper’s assessment. He, at least, seemed convinced that was true. “Early to midthirties. In good shape. Either he lives outside city limits, or he has access to a place outside of town.”
Andrews squinted at her through the smoke. “Because of the beetles?”
“Not necessarily. I’ve known people who keep them in their garages, but not our guy. Before the bones are ready for the beetles, he has to deflesh them. That’s messy and there’s going to be a distinctive smell. No one’s going to do that in town and not have neighbors know about it. It’s going to take a well-ventilated area, and he needs privacy and time. I’m guessing he’s marginally employed.”
The sheriff snorted. “You just described about fifty people in these parts that I could name personally.”
Cait was half thinking out loud. “I just can’t quite figure out what he does with the tissue once he defleshes the bodies.”
“We can be sure he doesn’t bury it, right? Or else he’d bury the whole body, bones and all.”
“Those paintings on the scapulas . . .” Cait paused, the images flashing through her mind. “Those are likely the reason for his method of disposal. Not the act of using the dermestids. Not the cave itself. It’s all about those paintings. He has to mark the victims in some way. Maybe they’re a way to brand them as his.” Serial offenders were often bizarrely possessive about their victims. “The method he uses will have something to do with his experiences, his ego. It symbolizes something for him. Power, maybe. Affection. Even remorse.”
“If this victim does turn out to be Recinos, all those images are about her. Symbols of her life. And death,” the sheriff added.
Understanding that she was referring to the last image of the skull, Cait nodded. “But I’m talking about why he feels the need for the drawings in the first place. It makes more sense if they depict his hunt. If he stalks them first, I could understand him painting symbols of things he’d learned about the victim in that process. It’s an exciting time for the hunter, on the trail of his prey. In that case, the images would be more a tribute to his cleverness than having much to do with the victim personally.”
Andrews dropped her spent cigarette into the water glass Cait had given her to use as an ashtray. “You said affection. Does that mean he knows the victims?”
“It’s possible, but I doubt it. At least if he’s acquainted with them it’s only in the manner by which they came to his attention in the first place. But it’s not unusual for the offender to feel emotionally close to the victim at the time of death.” Seeing the shock in the sheriff’s stare, she lifted a shoulder. “The act of murder is often seen by the offender as intimacy. Perhaps the most intimate act he or she is capable of.”
“But you don’t think these crimes had to do with rape?”
“There’s no way to tell with only skeletal remains, unless the rape was violent enough to result in a fracture. But it would be unusual for a serial rapist to target both males and females. A sadist, maybe. Someone motivated by the deliberate affliction of pain. Problem is, without tissue—”
“—we can’t verify whether the victims were tortured, either.” A flicker of frustration crossed Andrews’s face. “I’m beginning to wonder if defleshing and decapitating them are both merely part of his MO. They help him enact the crime and avoid detection.”
“It’s possible.” It was important when establishing a profile to remain open to other ideas. Each new piece of evidence they acquired could morph the document to a degree. Cait nodded at the file folder the woman still hadn’t opened. “But as I wrote in there, I’m guessing if we find the offender, we’ll find the skulls.”
“Because he’s the type to take trophies?”
“Because he’s expended so much time and energy on them. Not to mention talent. And it just defies imagination that he disposes of the skull, flesh, and bones all in different ways.”
Andrews rubbed her eyes with the heel of one palm. She looked, Cait thought, the way Barnes had sounded on the phone . . . was it just this morning? Like she needed to sleep round the clock.
“All right. Let’s plan on briefings each evening, at least by phone. But update me more regularly as you get details on the Recinos angle. What’s on your plate for tomorrow?”
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