A Dark Mind (32 page)

“Is there a problem?” Lizzy asked Jessica, obviously sensing her anxiety.

“Nope.”

“Jessica has been busy,” Hayley said. “Not only did she check on my mom, she’s going to school, studying, and working too many hours on the Dominic Povo case. She also managed to get pictures proving that two of the six workers’ compensation claims were fraudulent. Both cases were closed in record time. The insurance company is impressed.”

Lizzy nodded. “Perfect. Thank you, Jessica.”

“Sure, it’s what I do,” Jessica said without looking up. Yes, it was true, two cases were closed, but Hayley was the one who had done all of the work, pictures included. But, of course, Hayley had no choice but to give Jessica the credit, since nobody could know that Hayley was out gallivanting around town.

“Somebody’s at the door,” Hayley said.

Lizzy walked across the room, looked out the peephole, and then opened the door.

It was Stacey Whitmore from Channel 10 News.

“I need to talk to you,” Stacey said.

“Come on in.”

As Lizzy locked the door behind her, Stacey stepped farther inside. Instead of her usual two-piece suit, she wore dark designer jeans and black ballet flats with gold chain accents. A white silk blouse peeked out from beneath a fitted red jacket. Every hair was in place. Although the woman was well dressed and looked put
together, it was easy to see that she was on the verge of having a mental breakdown. Jessica knew the feeling, and her heart went out to the lady.

“These are my assistants,” Lizzy said, gesturing toward the girls. “This is Jessica and Hayley.”

Stacey nodded. With introductions out of the way, Lizzy and Stacey moved to the kitchen. “Can I get you anything?” Lizzy asked.

“No, thank you. I came because I need to get something off my chest.”

“Should we move to the backyard for privacy?”

The woman looked at Jessica and Hayley and then shook her head. “No need. Here’s fine.”

“OK, what’s going on?”

“It’s about Michael.” Stacey gestured toward the television set. “It’s all over the news. They think he’s the Lovebird Killer. He’s the FBI’s number one suspect.”

Michael wasn’t the only suspect, but Lizzy didn’t say anything about that.

“You knew about this.” Stacey rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t.”

“What does the FBI have on Michael? You told me yourself you were at his house. What did they find?”

Hayley looked at Jessica and mouthed the words “What’s going on?”

Jessica shook her head, letting Hayley know she had no idea.

“Off the record?” Lizzy asked.

“Off the record,” Stacey answered.

“The connection between Michael and the Lovebird Killer has to do with the pine sawyer beetle.”

Stacey narrowed her eyes, her surprise apparent. “Pine sawyer beetles,” she said under her breath.

Lizzy nodded. “Right now, it’s my understanding that the beetle is their only connection.”

Stacey pulled out a stool and took a seat. She looked dazed.

“Evidently, the Lovebird Killer is fascinated with the beetle. Over the past five years, he’s left the beetles somewhere in the vicinity of the bodies, on or near his victims.”

“So what you’re telling me is they found this beetle at Michael’s house. The real killer could’ve planted the insect there. It’s just as he said—he’s been set up. That makes sense, don’t you think?”

Lizzy said nothing. Kassie’s abduction changed everything, and yet she didn’t want to say too much and risk putting Jared in further danger.

“If I remember correctly, Channel 10 News ran a story about the pine sawyer beetle once,” Stacey said, her eyes suddenly alert. “God, it had to be at least ten years ago. The story involved an elderly couple. If I remember correctly, they were embalmers and it was discovered that they had stuffed two dead bodies with those same beetles.”

“You weren’t working for Channel 10 News at the time.”

“I’ve been watching every show since I knew I wanted to be in broadcasting. I would memorize every movement the reporters made: how they talked, their expressions, what they did with their hands. I was in my last year of college and the media had Lewinsky and Clinton, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. We had economic turmoil and hurricanes over the Caribbean to worry about. Nobody cared about a few bodies stuffed with beetles.”

Jessica felt sick to her stomach. Gross. A few minutes ago, when she and Hayley had been scrambling around, Jessica had
grabbed a file from the coffee table, hoping to look busy. A business card had slid out of the file and onto her lap. Jessica fiddled with the card while she listened to Lizzy and Stacey talk. When she finally examined the card closer, she saw the name “Belle Gunness” scribbled on one side. Something wasn’t right. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on where she might have met the woman or why the name was so familiar.

Hayley was clacking away on her keyboard, as usual. “Yep, she’s right,” Hayley said. “The couple’s names were Karen and Todd Beck. They were embalmers and they lived in Lincoln, California.” Hayley looked at Lizzy. “Didn’t you go to Lincoln today?”

Lizzy nodded.

“It looks like the Becks pleaded guilty and were let off with a slap on the wrist,” Hayley added.

“I’ll call my assistant,” Stacey said, “and see if she can locate the transcript.”

Jessica looked at Lizzy and held up the card for Lily’s Flower Shop. “This business card for Lily’s Flower Shop was one of the vendors Jennifer Dalton was using for her anniversary party, is that right?”

Lizzy nodded.

“Did you see the name scribbled on the back of the card?”

“I did,” Lizzy said. “I went to the shop and talked to the owner.”

“Did you talk to Belle Gunness?”

“I asked about her, but the owner said she would be gone until Thanksgiving. What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Jessica said. “Her name sounds familiar, that’s all.”

I hated all my life. I hated everybody. When I first grew up and can remember, I was dressed as a girl by my mother. And I stayed that way for two or three years. And after that I was treated like what I call the dog of the family. I was beaten. I was made to do things that no human bein’ would want to do.

—Henry Lee Lucas

Sacramento

Friday, June 8, 2012

The call that Kassie Scott was missing came in at exactly 7:43 p.m. on Friday. By 9:22 p.m., the FBI had a plan.

Drew Scott, the man who had called in saying his wife was missing, was instructed to go immediately to the market on 10th and Oak. He was to go into the store, buy milk, and return home. He was told where to park and to leave his car unlocked. He was to be quick, get in and get out.

Furthermore, the agency told Drew not to be alarmed when he returned to his car and found a man hunkered down in the backseat. That man would be FBI agent Jared Shayne. If Drew’s wife, Kassie, had been taken by the Lovebird Killer, then that meant, more than likely, the killer would be watching Drew’s every move.

Two minutes after Drew parked his car at the market, exactly as instructed, a large delivery truck obstructed all views of the vehicle, allowing Jared less than thirty seconds to climb into the vehicle unseen. The plan had been put into place after it was determined that the chance of being seen sneaking an agent into Drew’s car was far less risky than sneaking an agent into Drew Scott’s house.

It all happened fast, so fast that not even fifteen minutes passed between Drew’s leaving his house and returning home with milk and an FBI agent’s being stashed in the backseat.

Drew pulled into his two-car garage and hit the remote clipped to his visor. Once the garage door came to a close, he said, “You can come up for air now. It’s all clear.”

Jared put a finger over his mouth, letting Drew know that it would be in his best interest if he didn’t talk aloud. Jared quietly opened the car door and climbed out of the vehicle, bringing with him a bag filled with tools to collect evidence. Since the crime technicians would not be allowed inside until this was all over, which could be days, he had been instructed to collect all the evidence he could on his own.

He would start with evidence that was considered fragile, anything that could be contaminated, like blood, hair, fingerprints, and fibers. First on the list: photograph any and all areas that looked as if they had been disturbed. He had a bright light and a magnifying glass, but if he got really lucky and the perpetrator washed his hands with, say, a bar of soap, a photograph could possibly do the trick. Otherwise, Jared would use his flashlight and black powder.

He would be looking closely at entries, exits, and all hard surfaces. If furniture had been moved or objects had been disturbed, that would be his starting point for gathering evidence.

Before he did any of that, though, he would make sure the place was empty and secure, and that nobody was hiding out.

Although agents had been planted on the street within minutes of being made aware of Kassie Scott’s disappearance, they had been instructed to stay well hidden.

With the bag strapped over his shoulder, Jared slipped on a pair of latex gloves, pulled out his Sig P226, and motioned for Drew to remain quiet and stay where he was until Jared was finished checking out the house.

Jared stepped into the kitchen. The only light in the house came from a couple of wall sconces in the next room. He flipped the switch on the wall to his right. At first glance, everything looked sterile and untouched. At second glance, he bent down and saw a small knife protruding from under the cabinet where often molding called toe kick was installed in newer homes. He returned his gaze to the garage, where he could see Drew frozen in place, nervously watching Jared’s every move.

It was difficult to tell what Drew might be thinking. He was pale, his eyes unblinking. The man probably had a million questions. More than likely, he was worried about his wife. And yet he seemed calm—too calm.

Jared didn’t want to put himself in Drew Scott’s shoes, not even for a minute.

Leaving the knife for now, Jared continued on to the main living area at the front of the house. He flipped another switch, lighting up the room. The front door was locked. No sign of a break-in. Four high-back chairs surrounded the dining room table. One of the chairs was knocked over. The table’s centerpiece, a bowl of plastic fruit, had also been moved. He added those two things to his mental what’s-wrong-with-this-room list and continued on, gun loaded and ready.

Next stop was a cherrywood curio cabinet in the dining room. The glass door was partially open. Empty spaces were obvious because of the markings left in the thin layer of dust, though the open door and the missing items were not what had immediately caught his attention. It was two live pine sawyer beetles crawling inside a lidded crystal heart dish.

They had their man.

Lizzy’s face flashed within Jared’s mind. He gave his head a quick shake to clear his vision.
She’s fine
, he told himself. He had seen her this morning and talked to her less than an hour ago. Something kept niggling in the back of his mind, though, making it difficult to concentrate.

He looked at the beetles. The Lovebird Killer had been here—might still be here. Focused, he continued onward. He checked the guestroom: nobody under the bed, nothing but winter coats and a collection of ski boots in the closet—nothing out of place. Moving on, he exited the bedroom and headed upstairs. At the top of the landing, he stood still. There was a noise—a dripping faucet to his right.

With slow, methodical steps, he entered the master bedroom. The right side of the bed had been disturbed. Another mental note: ask Drew if he had sat on the bed or taken a nap before reporting his wife missing. Jared glanced at the open book, but didn’t touch it.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

An insomniac’s nightmare.

The bathroom was all glass, marble, and titanium fixtures. It was an open layout with nowhere to hide. He shut off the valve that was making the racket. And that’s when he heard a scratching sound coming from the bedroom. Could be a rat in the attic—could be a killer.

On full alert, he stepped out of the bathroom and listened. The door to the closet was shut. As he walked that way, his feet sank into plush carpet. Pushing down on the chrome handle, he opened the door to the closet.

The inside of the closet was dark, nothing but shadows. He reached his left hand inside, brushed his fingertips against the wall until he found the light switch and flipped it on.

The inside of the closet was shaped like a horseshoe and nearly as big as the guestroom downstairs. His gaze went from the disheveled shirts hanging precariously from wood hangers to the carpeted floor beneath. A section of the carpet was tousled and stained. There had been a scuffle, and this, Jared quickly concluded, was where it had all started.

Gun drawn, he took slow steps toward the island in the middle of the walk-in closet where both sides met. A walk around the island gave him a full view of the entire closet. The shelves above his head were covered with shoeboxes and an assortment of accessories like purses and hats.

He stopped to listen again. The scratching noise had stopped.

He would open drawers later. For now he focused on the shirts near the light switch. Heading that way, he bent down and noticed a lone button and what looked like blood smears on the carpet.

John and Rochelle

Sacramento

June 2007

“Oh, God, what have I done?” Rochelle cried out, her hair dirty and stringy around her face.

Both of his hands were unrestricted now, and John worked frantically at the ropes around his ankles. The right leg came loose. One more ankle to go and he’d be free. “Rochelle,” he said. “It’s OK. We’re going to get out of here.”

She appeared to be delirious, her eyes wild as she rambled incoherently, her chains clinking as she paced a small area of the room. She was confused. In all the frenzy she had accidentally stabbed him more than once with the screwdriver, and she couldn’t handle the possibility that she might have hurt him. The pain was intense, but he tried not to alarm her. He used his shirt to stanch the flow of blood.