Her Dying Breath (10 page)

He indicated the ligature marks on the man’s neck. “Judging from the number of ligature compressions, she saved him only to strangle him again.”

“My god,” Nick said as he counted them. “There are twenty-one different slash marks in his skin.”

“Like I said, I think the unsub killed him, then revived him and killed him again.”

Nick tried to comprehend the mindset of a person who would repeatedly strangle another human. Was the crime personal? Someone who had a grudge against Logger?

Or a crime of passion where the sex act turned ugly?

“Did you find any other forensics?” he asked.

Dr. Bullock shook his head. “So far, no hair or skin cells. Looks like she was careful and knew what she was doing.”

Nick frowned. “You think it was a female?”

“Judging from the sexual act and the position of the body, yes. If a male, a gay man, had committed this murder, he would have left him facedown. There are also no signs of anal sex.”

Nick contemplated his comment. “Which brings us back to the fact that Logger is a big muscular guy who walked into that motel room expecting a good time.”

“It may have been good until his lover turned psycho on him,” Bullock said.

Nick nodded. “Either way, this perpetrator has a sadistic side. If she knew him, the kill could be personal. If not…”

“Then you’re dealing with a psychopath.” Bullock rolled the body sideways. “Take a look at this.”

Nick leaned over, his heart racing when he saw what Bullock was pointing to. “Jesus. She carved a number behind the man’s ear.”

“Number one.”

“Because this was her first victim,” Nick muttered.

Nick removed the paper cover-up he’d put on and tossed it in the trash. “Call me if you find anything else. I’m going to check
out the victim’s apartment, and talk to his ex-wife. Maybe she had a reason to kill him.”

Bullock frowned. “Men don’t usually hook up with their exes in motels.”

“Unless that was part of some sex game. At this point, I can’t rule anything out.” Besides, if the man had been cheating on her, his wife might give him the name of Logger’s lover.

There was another factor that weighed into the case. The text Brenda had received indicated that the perpetrator had left a present specifically for his father. Which meant that the killer wanted the Commander to know what she’d done.

Because Logger was connected to Arthur Blackwood? Or because the unsub was?

Was she another one of his victims, one who’d been programmed to kill for him?

And if Logger was number one, how many men did she plan to murder?

Brenda rose early, showered, and drove to Amelia’s place again. She hated to disturb the poor girl, but she couldn’t discount her as a suspect in the motel murder without talking to her.

Besides, Amelia knew Arthur Blackwood firsthand, had suffered from his cruel mind experiments.

Amelia might know who’d sent her the text.

She checked to make sure her mini-recorder was in her purse, then climbed out and walked up the stone path to the front door. More hints of spring showed in the tulips popping through the earth along the walkway.

The wind chimes tinkled in the breeze blowing off the mountain, a musical sound that reminded her of her piano lessons as a child.

Lessons she’d hated because she hadn’t been interested in music or attending a cotillion or impressing her mother’s snobby friends. Instead, she’d had her head buried in mystery novels and preferred helping the gardener dig in the earth to keeping her dress white and her social status pristine.

She knocked, taking in her surroundings while she waited. The complex seemed quiet, but she noticed several people congregating by the community center and wondered what was going on. Maybe therapy sessions or classes?

Today she hadn’t brought her cameraman with her, knowing that would intimidate Amelia. She wanted to broach the subject of a personal profile without scaring her off.

To do that, she needed to win her trust.

She knocked again, and a moment later Amelia opened the door. Even though Brenda had known the twins for years, Amelia looked so much like Sadie that it was still startling.

“Amelia, it’s Brenda—do you remember me from high school?”

Amelia’s eyes darted past her as if she was expecting someone to be with her. “I know who you are,” she said. “You used to gossip about me.”

“I’m so sorry for that,” Brenda said sincerely. “We were just kids, Amelia. I…wish I could change how I acted back then.”

Amelia studied her as if she was dissecting her. “You mean that, don’t you?” she finally said softly.

Unexpected emotions rose in Brenda’s throat. “Yes, I do. I know everyone thought I was so confident, but I was really insecure. I took that out on you and Sadie, and that was wrong.”

Amelia tucked a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear. “Is that why you’re here? To apologize?”

Brenda hesitated. “That’s part of the reason,” she said. “Can I come in? I’d like to talk to you.”

Amelia looked wary for a moment. “I don’t have many visitors. Or friends.”

Because Arthur Blackwood had toyed with her mind. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I’d like to be your friend.”

“You would?” Childlike hope laced Amelia’s voice.

“Yes,” Brenda said, realizing she meant it.

A slow smile tilted Amelia’s mouth, and she gestured for Brenda to enter. Brenda followed Amelia into the living area, which was attached to a studio where Amelia obviously spent most of her time. She’d seen some of the macabre paintings through the window when she’d peeked inside, but the dark colors and lines, the image of the black tunnel out of which the little girl was reaching for someone to pull her out, sent a shiver up her spine.

Today she noticed another canvas against the wall—an erotic portrayal of a couple engaged in disturbing sex acts.

No doubt some of the paintings were therapeutic, probably renditions of the horror Amelia had suffered at Blackwood’s hands.

But the S & M? Was that Amelia’s preference in sex? If so…it made her a viable suspect in the strangling death at the motel.

“Do you want some tea, or something else to drink?” Amelia asked.

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” Brenda said.

Amelia smiled, walked over to the L-shaped kitchen, and poured them both a glass of iced tea. Brenda’s gaze strayed from the dark, haunting paintings to another of two little girls holding their dolls in front of a Christmas tree. The girls were twins, obviously Amelia and Sadie. A happy memory.

Brenda had always wanted a sister; now she understood the reason she’d never had one.

“I saw you on television,” Amelia said, drawing Brenda’s thoughts back to the reason for her visit. “You told the story about the Commander. And then you were at that motel.”

“Yes, I’m working with the TV news crew now.” Brenda hesitated, carefully constructing her thoughts. “Amelia, I know you suffered terribly from what Arthur Blackwood did to you.”

A haunted look flashed across Amelia’s face, her smile fading. “I don’t like to talk about him.”

Brenda sipped her tea, willing herself not to react as the image of the dead man crept into her head. Amelia seemed so calm now, so desperate for a friend, not like a killer.

“I understand that,” Brenda said. “And I don’t blame you. But I’d like to help.”

Amelia wiped at the condensation on the outside of her glass. “How can you help?”

“I’d like to do a personal in-depth profile on you, tell your side of the story and explain what Commander Blackwood did to you, so people will understand.”

Amelia jerked her head from side to side. “Sadie wouldn’t like that.”

“Maybe I can talk to her,” Brenda said. “Assure her I won’t disparage you or your family. You deserve for everyone to know that you’re not crazy, that Blackwood messed with your mind.”

“I’m not crazy,” Amelia said, her tone sharpening. “You can’t say I am.”

Brenda touched Amelia’s hand. “I know you’re not—that’s why I want you to tell me what happened to you. Sometimes it’s cathartic for victims if they confront their abusers.”

Amelia shot up from the sofa and paced over to stand in front of the picture window that overlooked the mountains. “No, no, no—I just want to forget what happened.”

“All right,” Brenda said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Amelia traced her finger over the windowpane, relaxing slightly. Outside, the wind chimes swayed and tinkled, making Brenda wonder why Amelia had so many of them.

“I stopped by to visit yesterday, but you weren’t here,” Brenda said softly. “Where did you go, Amelia?”

Amelia’s eyes darted back and forth from her to the wind chimes. “I can’t tell you that.”

Brenda set her glass on a coaster on the table. “Why not?”

“Because it’s personal,” Amelia said, lifting her chin.

Brenda removed her phone, walked over, and showed the screen to Amelia. “Someone sent me a text, Amelia. I thought it might be from you.”

Amelia reluctantly took the phone and read the text.

“Did you send this?” Brenda asked again.

Suddenly the door opened, and Sadie and Jake barreled in. “Don’t say anything to her, Amelia,” Jake said.

“What are you doing here, Brenda?” Sadie rushed to her sister like a mother bear protecting her cub.

Brenda’s defenses rose. “I just wanted to talk to Amelia,” Brenda said.

Sadie rubbed Amelia’s back. “Are you okay, sis?”

Amelia nodded, a confused expression clouding her face as she looked back and forth between Brenda and Sadie.

“Amelia has suffered enough.” Jake took Brenda’s arm and ushered her toward the door. “Don’t come back and harass her, do you understand?”

“I’m not harassing her.” Brenda dropped a business card on the foyer table. “I want to be friends with her, to tell her side of the story so everyone will understand.”

“Maybe she doesn’t care if everyone understands,” Jake warned as he hauled her outside. “She deserves privacy.”

Brenda barely suppressed her temper. “I don’t want to hurt her, Jake. I think going public might be good for her.”

“You’re not a therapist, Brenda.”

“I know that, but I’ve read—”

Jake cut her off. “Please just leave.”

Brenda dug in her heels. “Did you ask her if she sent me that text about the motel murder?”

Jake spoke through gritted teeth. “Her phone records prove it didn’t come from her phone. It came from a burner phone.”

Brenda sighed. “Amelia left the premises here the night of the murder, Jake. She could have bought a burner phone while she
was out and disposed of it.” Brenda slanted her eyes toward the erotic artwork. “How about those?”

Jake pointed to her car. “I thought you said you wanted to help her. It sounds like you’re trying to hang her.”

Brenda shook her head. “I just want the truth, Jake.” Two residents walked by, and she lowered her voice. “As an officer of the law, I think you would, too.”

Jake’s eyes turned to slivers of ice. “Stay away from my family.”

Brenda yanked her arm away. “Does that include your father and your brother?”

Jake’s breath hissed out. “Yes.”

“I can’t do that,” she said. “I’m going to get the story, with or without your help.”

“You’re playing with fire, Brenda.”

“Maybe.” She flashed her phone at him, then opened her car door. “But like I told Nick, the killer invited me to this one for a reason. And I’m going to see it through to the end.”

Amelia pressed her hands over her ears to drown out the voices. Not Bessie’s or Skid’s this time, but the voices of Jake and Brenda outside, arguing.

“Amelia, please sit down,” Sadie said.

Amelia allowed her sister to pull her into a chair in the sunroom, where they usually sat when they chatted. “Are you okay?” Sadie asked.

“Yes.” Amelia struggled to control herself. She’d worked hard to prove that she wasn’t crazy, like everyone thought. Brenda said she wanted to tell her story, so the town would know that.

Was she lying, or could Amelia trust her? She had seemed sincere…

“Amelia,” Sadie said, taking on that worried edge, as if she was her mother. “What did Brenda want?”

“For me to tell her what happened.”