Caribbean Rain (11 page)

Chloe placed her hands palms down on the table. “This girl, this Amanda Griggs, isn’t just someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What does that mean?” asked Manny.

“When I was working the terrorist unit in New York, our caseload diminished a wee bit, so I volunteered to work with the DEA and our own drug-enforcement division. We were working on a huge sting, focusing on the cocaine flow from the east coast to the west coast and how it got into the US from South America. There were plenty of creative smuggling methods, don’t you know. The stupid ones always taped the bags to their ribs or some dumb-ass thing; the clever ones, well, let’s just say an enema got us the evidence we needed. Hell, we even tracked mini submarines transporting shipments off the coast of Miami. Very ingenious and expensive, but effective.”

There was another air bump, but Chloe barely flinched this time. The woman was tough, another reason he wanted her in his life. “Now, that wasn’t so bad,” smiled Chloe.

“Speak for yourself,” said Josh. “Keep going.”

She continued. “Anyway, we kept coming up with a connection from Bolivia, an up-and-coming cocaine producer to the Caribbean, particularly Barbados. We came up with a few possibilities, even arrested two of them, but suspected the big fish had made himself untouchable, and we were right. This big fish, this man, this Randall Fogerty is better at covering his tracks than most. He is as deadly as a cobra and has less of a conscience. He thinks nothing of offing people who try to compete with him, or even his own people. Three times the DEA sent in undercover folks. None of them were ever seen again.”

Rubbing his chin, Manny spoke. “Let me guess. This girl is related to Fogerty, right?”

Chloe raised her eyebrows. “Oh, more than related. She’s his only child.”

“Oh man,” groaned Josh. “So this could be a hit job?”

“I think it could,” said Chloe.

Alex leaned forward over his paunch, elbows on knees. “And the rest of the killings are to cover up the real purpose for that hit?”

“I suppose that makes sense, but isn’t that going way out there to disguise one drug-related murder?” stated Sophie.

“Maybe, but it’s not unheard of, given the enemies this asshole has made,” said Chloe.

Josh sat back in his seat, frowning at the ceiling. “So my brother may have been just some kind of collateral damage in a freaking drug-war hit that went south?”

Chloe shrugged. “Maybe.”

“What do you think, Manny?” asked Alex.

“I think anything is possible, especially with people who have done what this unsub has done. Having said that, I think there’s a slight pattern change with each new victim.”

“What pattern change?” asked Sophie.

Manny got up, reached behind Josh’s leg, and took the briefcase containing Caleb Corner’s file. “I’ll let you know in a few. There’s something here that we’re missing.”

He felt every eye follow him as he moved to the backseat, away from the others. Somehow, going off alone made him feel more alive, more in tune with his purpose on this rock. He couldn’t ignore the passing thought that everyone had an intention, a reason for being alive. But most people were clueless to it and chose to remain that way rather than seek out that single purpose that put fire in their loins and a tingle in their stomach, like the one he had now.

Popping open the case, he pulled out the blue folder, and let out a deep breath.

Let’s see if I’m losing it.

The standard FBI organization of a crime scene file had one report processed on a pre-printed form and stapled to the inside left cover, a forensic report on the right, then pictures usually followed on the next pages. This file had no forensics report, a brief write-up by a Detective Julia Crouse from the SJPD, then five pictures. Five horrific pictures. No one should ever have to see this kind of carnage. He’d seen a few Hollywood horror productions in his time, some that gave him that little tinge of discomfort because the special-effects guy was good. Or maybe the FX man had deep-seated fantasies involving that sort of reality. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but figured it was a fine line between the two.

There was no fine line here. Caleb Corner had been murdered in the same fashion as the others—except he hadn’t been. His face had been hacked from his skull. There was a close up of his Park ID, resting on the neatly stacked ranger uniform. His heart immediately hurt for Josh.

The wounds on the dismembered body had the same smooth, precise edges of the others, and the angle of the blows looked similar, if not exactly the same. The killer had slashed poor Caleb into eight sections, then placed sections in a random order so that the body appeared like a puzzle out of order. What was the reason, the logic? Manny wasn’t sure. It could be nothing more than random actions, but Caleb’s neatly organized clothes said no.

That wasn’t the only difference. This killing had a more violent feel to it than the others, if that was possible; it felt more personal. Very personal. He was sure the unsub knew Caleb Corner, and as more than a passing acquaintance. It seemed as though a possible dislike or hatred had grown to insatiable rage. Scary to contemplate, impossible to ignore.

Manny’s mind felt the next thought far too clearly. He didn’t know how he knew, but he suspected the killer had taken his own pictures. A form of trophy? Or was it for something else. . . masturbation?

Good God. This one had
really
lost it. And, he suspected, was without any hope of recovering. This individual—and he was sure it was an individual—had gone way beyond any psychotic episode syndrome, but instead had immersed themselves completely into another reality, one that wouldn’t end with whatever mission these attacks represented. The killer would create another mission, if or when this goal was completed.

Turning the next page, the last picture displayed a side profile of the flora of the crime scene revealing a few broken branches from the tiny trees and enough blood to paint a small car. No doubt this was where Caleb was killed. Manny ran his fingers through his thick hair. Something wasn’t right. There was
too
much blood,
too
much splatter.

What the hell?

Rising quickly from the chair, careful to keep the folder secured, he rushed back to the table where the others were talking quietly.

“I want you all to look at the file pictures again and tell me what you don’t see.”

Chloe looked up from her phone, green eyes alive, and he couldn’t help thinking what a beautiful distraction she was. Good and bad at the same time, like chocolate. He shook off the thought and continued.

“There’s something missing at each body display. What is it?”

The others frantically opened the files and turned pages. A few moments later, Alex stood, his hands slapping the air.

“I’ve got it! This much blade work should have more blood, a lot more blood. In fact, there’s almost none on the ground, or around the scenes, at all, with the exception of Dan Griggs. There’s some on the body parts, and on the stacks of clothes, but not nearly enough.”

“Bingo. That’s it.”

“Okay, so what does that mean? Other than this killer moved the bodies before setting up the displays,” said Sophie.

“Firstly, I think it shoots down the theory of a hit on Amanda and her husband. They
were
in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“How so?” asked Josh.

“I think the killer had one central killing location. He or she, somehow, incapacitated the victims, at least four of them outside the tower, and killed them all in one spot. Then took them back to their individual camps to let the world see the killer’s work.”

“How do you know that?” asked Josh, his voice cautious, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Manny bowed his head. “There’s a picture in Caleb’s file that indicates that it's true.”

Josh stared at Manny, regained his composure, then spoke. “That seems like a hell of a lot of work, but say you’re right. Why? What purpose?”

“I think I can answer that,” said Chloe. “The fact that the unsub brought everyone to one location could mean he’s using that particular place as some kind of shrine or altar.”

“What? Really?” asked Alex.

“I think she’s right on. The victims’ campgrounds, outside the tower, were within a quarter mile of each other, so getting the people there and back couldn’t have been too difficult, even if he would have had to drag them.” His hand was in his hair again, and he continued.

“This one definitely has a different agenda, something else in mind. Also, remember when I said that there seems to be a slight pattern change? I believe this perp is enjoying each attack a little more than the last. The later victims are more mutilated, except with more purpose. He’s got bloodlust going along with his perceived purpose.”

The plane grew silent except for the sound of air flowing under the wings and the drone of jet engines.

Sophie spoke first. “Let’s go back a second. If the killer is about sacrifice and on a mission; what are the sacrifices for and why step out of his norm to attack those people in the Britton Tower?”

Manny shrugged. “I have no idea. The tower episode could have been an experiment. The killer could have just been testing the waters.”

“That seems right,” Chloe agreed. “He could be more comfortable in the forest, and he may have thought he made his point, whether at the tower or at the other site.”

“Maybe when we get to the scenes tomorrow, they’ll shed some light on that. But I think we have a bigger problem, maybe two bigger problems, than the why,” added Manny.

“The first has to be about Randall Fogerty.” said Chloe. “It’s just a matter of time before he finds out that his daughter was murdered by some lunatic running around in the rainforest. He’ll be less than happy, of course, and for a man like that, revenge is a way of life, and he won’t care if the FBI’s involved in the investigation.”

“Yeah, that’s one. The other is theory, but I’m about 99 percent sure I’m right.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “I think the reason he murdered Caleb at the altar, or whatever he thinks it is, is that he’s done with that area.”

“Done? You mean no more murders?” asked Alex, frowning.

“Yes and no. I’m sure the killer’s completed this phase, and unless I miss my guess, he’s going to the next level—and it will be far worse than this one.”

Chapter-21

The doorbell rang, startling him. It was almost eight o’clock, and he wasn’t expecting anyone, especially here. Placing his book on the end table, he rose from the recliner, moved to the stereo system, and turned down Paul Hardcastle’s greatest hits. He thought briefly of blowing out the vanilla-scented candle that, for some unknown reason to him, was one of the all-time greatest scents on the planet. Maybe something from an incident long ago in his childhood, of which he had no recollection, had triggered that eccentric appreciation. He left it burning.

Taking a look in the mirror, he grinned. He was still handsome, in his own way, as his mother used to say.

He watched his grin dissipate as quickly as it had appeared. For a moment, his mind went blank, then recovered. His mother would never utter those words again.

He clinched his hands and stood motionless. He had no need of external reminders regarding his mother’s demise. The voice of his rage took care of that.

Walking to the door, he peered through the peephole and saw a young, attractive, dark-complected woman shifting her weight nervously from side to side, glancing at the sky, then the door, then the sky. She was wearing white shorts and a tight, white tee shirt, revealing her assets. It wasn’t unusual to have a student knock on his door. It happened several times per month. But classes didn’t begin until next week, and never had he seen a student here. He swung the door open and felt the pleasant Puerto Rican air brush against his face. He never tired of how that felt.

“Good evening, young lady. May I help you?”

“Hello, ah . . . professor. Am I bugging you?” she asked, her voice thick with Puerto Rican heritage.

“Well, now that depends on why you’re here. Does it not?”

The young woman shifted her feet again, her breasts dancing as she did. She caught his eyes dart to her chest. He smiled even wider.

“My name is Anna. I don’t know if you recognize me, but I took one of your classes on Environmental Justice, and I’m here for some . . . advice.”

The tone in her voice was casual, yet he sensed a great excitement.

“I really don’t recall seeing you, but all right, Anna, what advice can I give you?”

“Can I come in? This may take a few.” Her voice was still native, but now seemed more refined.

What is she after?

This could be interesting. He’d had sex with more than one student, but oddly, he didn’t think her visit was about sex, and moreover, he only felt a passing interest himself. It seemed his libido was carving new territories into the vast unknown. But his curiosity was more than stimulated. He relented.

Motioning her inside, he closed the door and led her to the living room. He felt her stare, and it made him slightly uneasy. He didn’t like the feeling. It gave him a sensation that he hated: no control.

This
will
be interesting.

“Please sit on the sofa. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Thank you. And no thank you, I’m fine.”

Her accent had faded almost completely. Clever girl or nervous?

Settling onto the edge of his leather recliner, he gazed at her face. She returned the look, for a moment, then her sparkling, green eyes darted to the floor.

“What’s this about, Anna?”

“I’m not sure. It could be about me, maybe you, maybe something more.”

“Explain what you mean.”

“A question first. Hypothetically, what would you do if you saw something, a crime, so appalling, so barbaric, that it caused you to puke your guts out, but left you so sexually aroused that you had to take care of that arousal right on the spot?”

“That’s quite a question. Are we talking about you or a friend?”