Freak (21 page)

Jardin and Schneider were a couple of assholes, there was no doubt about that, but that didn’t matter. Sheila loved Puget Sound State. She was in no way ready to leave. She was only forty, for Christ’s sake, and she’d been planning to teach for at least another twenty years. What the hell would she do if she lost her job? She loved academia, loved being in a grand lecture hall, loved watching the faces of her students light up as a concept that was previously confusing to them finally made sense. She loved the debates, the questions, the exchange of ideas. Who was she if she wasn’t a professor of psychology?

The door opened a moment later and Dean Simmons gestured for her to come back inside. Sheila squared her shoulders and followed him in, taking her place back at the table.

“Okay, Dr. Tao,” Louise Jardin said. Her face was flushed, and it was clear that the discussion Sheila had been excused from had been heated. “You shall remain a professor here at Puget Sound State. But you’re on probation for the next three terms, and should any other incidents occur with students,
or should your sex addiction affect your teaching negatively in any way, we will have no choice but to let you go. Long, lengthy legal battle be damned.”

James Schneider nodded. So did Lara Duncan, but the corners of her lips turned up slightly.

Beside her, Dean Simmons touched her arm and smiled.

Sheila let out a breath. “Thank you, everyone,” she said. “I promise I won’t let you down again.”

She exited the boardroom for the last time, keeping her feelings in check until she got back to her office a few minutes later, where she closed the door and slumped into her chair, utterly exhausted.

Sheila had managed to save her job, but barely. Goddamn that Abby Maddox. The psychopath had not only ruined her reputation, she had nearly damaged Sheila’s career, something Sheila had spent half her life working on and which meant everything to her.

She hoped the bitch burned in hell.

JERRY DIDN’T WANT
to look, but it was hard not to stare at the body. He’d already seen her at the hotel that morning, but here, under the bright white lights of the morgue, no detail was spared.

Alice Bennett’s nose was broken in two places, eyes swollen shut, lips split, and she was missing two teeth. Both cheekbones were smashed. Her head was split open and there was gray matter and blood matted through her dark hair. The zip tie was pulled so tight she wouldn’t have had a chance in hell of getting the damned thing off, even with scissors or a knife. The skin above and below the zip tie was bloated. Bite marks dotted her torso and neck, and one ear had been chewed off completely, thanks to the damned rat.

Whoever had done this to her had really gone to town. The question was, why? Why bash her in the head and the face, and
then
strangle her with a zip tie? Why the rat? Why such anger?

The medical examiner was eerily calm as she pointed out the things she wanted them to see. How anybody could do this job was beyond him. Jerry would rather pick up garbage at the side of the road all day than work with dead bodies.

Phoebe Castor, however, seemed to enjoy her job, and even
managed to look rather cute dressed in scrubs and a pair of oversized goggles. Bending over the body on the table, she extracted a green pine needle with some sort of tool that resembled tweezers. “Don’t get too excited, boys.” The ME’s dark eyes were bright behind her glasses, her expression serious. “It’s from an evergreen.”

“Perfect, since we live in the Evergreen State.” Torrance jammed his hands in his pockets as if he were afraid to touch something. “There are only about a hundred million fucking evergreens here.”

“But how many are in that area of downtown Seattle where she was found?” Phoebe said, unfazed by Torrance’s gruff tone. Cleary she was used to the homicide detective’s surly demeanor. “Not very many, I think.”

Jerry said nothing. His stomach wasn’t feeling too good. The dim sum was churning in his gut, and the four Tums he’d chewed when he got here didn’t seem to be helping. It wasn’t just the poor girl on the table, beat up and carved up, that was getting to him. It was the smell in the room, a nauseating mixture of formaldehyde, bleach, and decomposing human being. Dead bodies, he was discovering, had a very specific odor, one that was strong enough to seep into the fibers of your clothing and never come out. There was nothing quite like the sweet decay of rotting meat.

“It looks like these carvings were made by the same weapon as what we found on the previous victims,” Phoebe was saying. The body was now turned face down, and the ME’s gloved finger was tracing the pattern of the letters. “Long, sharp knife, maybe not quite at surgical quality, but not far off. But the letters are different.”

“How so?” Torrance stood over the body, his eyes scanning every inch of the victim’s back.

“With the other three victims, the letters were neat and evenly spaced, like the killer took the time to make the carvings legible.” Phoebe peered closer at the body. Jerry turned his face away, content to listen to her voice rather than look. “But this time, they’re messier. The spacing is uneven, and shallower, as if they were done fast.”

“So he was in a hurry?”

“Maybe. Or he was acting on some kind of emotion.” Phoebe straightened up and pulled her glasses off. They left red marks on her cheeks, but she was still adorable. “That part’s up to you guys to figure out.”

Jerry looked down at the folder in his hands, open to show a color printout of Alice Bennett’s driver’s license photo. Her looks had been far above average, and it was hard to reconcile the DMV picture with the body on the table. Whoever had killed her had wanted to destroy her beauty. Jerry wasn’t a profiler and truthfully didn’t think much of the profession, but any layperson could see that whoever had killed her had wanted to make her as ugly and horrific as possible.

“Four vics,” Jerry said. “Four vics and the best lead we have is a socially awkward teenage freak with a genius IQ and a strange obsession with serial killers.”

Torrance shrugged. “Like I said, if it fits, it fits.”

“Should we go pick him up?”

“Still waiting for the DNA test to confirm that the hair found on her really is Blake’s. Judge won’t sign the warrant otherwise. Soon as we get the call, we’re gone.” Torrance’s face was dour. “I had a tough time getting him to consider this one. Because Blake’s so young. No criminal record, no nothing other than his blog and the posters on his walls.”

The phone rang in the small room, and all three jumped a little. Pulling her latex gloves off, Phoebe reached for the
phone. She murmured into it for a few seconds and then hung up. “Guys, the hair analysis came back. DNA is a match for Jeremiah Blake. You’ve got your Jack the Zipper.”

“You did not just say that. That’s gotta be the cheesiest nickname ever.” Torrance groaned. “Which is why it’s gonna stick.”

Jerry was disturbed. “But he’s just a kid,” he said, more to himself than to Phoebe or Torrance.

“Yeah, and the kid’s a killer,” Torrance said. “So let’s go get him.”

IT WASN’T TOO
late to turn back. Even though she knew the client had paid and was waiting for her on the other side of the hotel room door, it wasn’t too late to change her mind.

Or was it?

Tammy Kachkowski (professional name: Tara) stood in the hallway of the Watercrest Hotel and raised her hand to knock. But her fist stopped a few inches short of the painted steel door. Shit, she really didn’t know if she could do this. Taking a deep breath, she took one step back, running her fingers through her long, dark hair, attempting to calm herself. Her heart was beating so hard and so fast, she could almost hear it.

Was she really ready for this? Yes, she needed the money, and no, she wasn’t a virgin. God knew she’d had her share of crappy boyfriends and one-night stands. And really, that’s all this was, right? A one-night stand? Only with two very important differences: There would be no expectation of a relationship on her part, and she would get paid. Quite well.

But if anyone found out what she was doing, she would never live it down. Her poor but stoutly religious parents would certainly disown her, and her friends? Forget it, they’d never speak to her again. She’d be a pariah if word of this ever got out.

And oh God, what if the guy was ugly? Or worse, had terrible hygiene? What if he liked it rough? The client had requested a two-hour Girlfriend Experience, and Estelle had been adamant that Tammy take it, because GFEs were a good way to get started in the business. They mimicked real dates, with conversation and flirting and everything. There wasn’t supposed to be anything kinky, no toys, no bondage, and definitely nothing backdoor.

Tammy closed her eyes and took another deep breath. She now understood why a lot of the girls drank and did drugs. Alcohol would have helped a lot right now. She stepped forward and raised her hand again, but before her knuckles could make contact with the door, it swung open. She stared at the client in surprise.

He was younger than she expected, maybe a few years younger than herself, and while not handsome, he was far from ugly. Thank God—she was worried he’d be really old. On the contrary, he looked like he was still in high school. Skinny, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, he was barefoot, his hair still damp from a shower. She could smell soap and water. Okay, cool. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

“Hello,” he said with a shy smile. “I was worried you were going to change your mind. I saw you through the peephole.”

Tammy felt her face flush. “I’m sorry. I . . . I was just thinking that . . .”

He opened the door wider. “Come in,” he said. “We’ll talk inside.”

She stepped into the room and the door closed behind her. “I just have to—”

“Check in with your agency,” he said, still smiling. He turned the lock and fastened the latch. “I know the drill. Take your time.”

She turned away from him slightly, placing her purse on the dresser and reaching for her phone. Lynne from the agency picked up right away.

“I’m here.” Tammy lowered her voice, but the client didn’t appear to be eavesdropping. He had gone to sit at the edge of the bed and was flipping through the TV channels. “God, I’m so nervous,” she said. Her heart continued to thump in her chest. It was almost painful.

“Relax, honey,” Lynne said. Tammy had never met Estelle’s assistant—she’d only met Estelle herself, at the interview—but the woman had always been kind to her over the phone. “It’s going to be okay. Just listen to what he wants, be yourself, and try and have fun. The first time’s always tough, but I know you can do this. It’s nothing you haven’t done before. Pretend like you’re on a date.”

Easier said than done, but Tammy knew she was just trying to help. “Do I call when I’m finished?”

“No need, unless you want to,” Lynne said. “I know you made it there on time, and that’s all I need to know. Good luck, honey.”

Tammy stuck her phone back in her purse and turned to the client. Sucking in a breath, she stepped forward. “I’m Tara,” she said.

“I’m Jeremiah.” His eyes flickered up and down her body, even though she was fully clothed in jeans and a sweater. “Wow, you’re really beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She sat down beside him on the bed, wondering what to say next.
Think
. What would she say if she were on a date and really liked him? She leaned in a little, nudging his shoulder with her own. “You smell great. I like your T-shirt. Act of Mercy . . . that’s a local band, right? I think they played at my college pub once.” She traced the logo with her finger, a
white skull with a bleeding bullet hole in its forehead. “They were pretty good. The lead singer is very talented.”

“You’ve heard of them?” The client seemed surprised. “They’re not that big yet. I’m a huge fan, try never to miss a show. Just saw them play the other night at the Pink Elephant.”

She grinned at him. “You must have fake ID.”

That won her a laugh. “I do, yeah,” he said. “I’m only eighteen.”

“I’m twenty-two,” she said, then stopped. Shit. Was she supposed to tell him that?

“I like older women. So did my dad. He had a thing for . . .”

“What?” she said.

“Girls like you. Working girls.” He leaned in and kissed her. Surprisingly, he was good at it. His tongue traced the outside of her lips. “Mmmm. You taste good.”

“I’m not really a working girl,” Tammy said, trying not to sound defensive. “This . . . this is my first time.”

He shrugged. “You’re getting paid, aren’t you? Makes you a working girl in my book. My dad would have loved you. He’d always tell me, why buy a girl dinner when you can just buy the sex?”

It felt wrong for him to stereotype, but she wasn’t in any position to argue. He continued to kiss her, and she found herself becoming aroused. His hand slid under her sweater, and in response, she ran a hand up his thigh. He was already hard.

“Lift your arms up,” he said, nuzzling her ear. “I want to undress you myself.”

She obliged. He pulled her sweater up over her head, and she heard the crackle of electricity as the fuzzy cotton rubbed against her hair. “Static,” she said, and they both laughed.

He pushed her gently back onto the bed and started kissing her stomach. She stiffened at first, feeling a little exposed without
her top on, but after a few seconds she had to admit he was damned good at what he was doing. Pulling down the front of her lace bra, he licked her nipple, and she sighed with contentment. Yes, okay, very nice. Would it always be like this? If so, this would be the easiest way in the world to make money.

She closed her eyes, enjoying his tongue on her breasts, losing herself in the experience. Seriously, this was awesome. She felt the client—dammit, what was his name again? Oh, right, Jeremiah—move on top of her, and she spread her jean-clad legs slightly so she’d be able to feel his erection better.

Then something cold pricked her neck, and her eyes flew open.

He was staring into her face. “Don’t move,” he said. “You move and it will slice right through your neck, and that’s not how I want to kill you.”