Killer Instinct (4 page)

Chapter
Seven

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
My sister busts me that night.

Nonchalantly, I shuffle the pictures I’d taken from Mom’s case under my notepad. “Last-minute homework.”

“In Mom’s office?”

I nod to her desktop. “She’s got Excel.”

Daisy narrows her eyes like she suspects I’m lying.

I ignore her and go back to the Excel file I had launched in case this exact thing happened.

The thing about snooping around is that you have to do it in the open to be most effective. If I had closed and locked Mom’s office, if I had scrambled to cover things up, or if I had gotten real chatty, Daisy would be suspicious. Keeping things out in the open allows me to fake honesty, fake normalcy.

My sister’s the absolute last person I want having something on me.

“I got grounded,” she tells me.

I nod. I know.

She sighs, and I hear more than see her scoot off. What the hell is she doing up at one in the morning anyway?

She gets something from the refrigerator, and then one of the stairs squeaks as she heads back up to her bedroom

I bring the pictures back out from under my notepad.

A female severed head stares back at me—brown eyes wide and blond hair matted to her head. Found in a swimming pool in Falls Church and identified as one Cynthia Hughes. Twenty-five years of age and a preschool teacher from a place just down the road.

The rest of the body is yet to be found.

According to the one and only report I’ve already read, the head was severed with a sharp knife. This case closely matches a decapitation that occurred this same time one year ago in Oregon, two years ago in Arizona, and three years ago in Tennessee.

“Closely matches”
is the key phrase. There are some differences, but the report doesn’t detail those.

I browse the document again—all the cases are unsolved and occurred exactly one year apart in the month of September. If it’s the same killer, the FBI will find an arm next, then a leg, followed by the other arm and leg. The hands and feet get delivered at the very end in a cooler to the local police station.

I recognize this. Last year the Oregon decapitation made national news, and I added it to my journal. Looks like Mr. Decapitator Serial Killer has made his way to Northern Virginia and Washington, DC. My life can’t get any better. A serial killer right in my own area. How great is that? Like I have a front-row seat to the latest feature.

I scan the picture of the head and the report and then send it to my e-mail. I put everything back exactly how I found it.

I glance around Mom’s office. Her briefcase had been very full. So where’s the rest of it? My gaze lands on her triple-locked file cabinet. Probably in there. I could pick it, but with three locks, it’d take a while.

The stair squeaks again, and my temper flares at my idiot sister. Why is she still up? I grab my stuff, head from the office, and run right into Mom.

She blinks. “What are you doing?”

It’s not like my family to prowl the house this late. “I was using your computer to finish some homework.”

“Oh.” She yawns. “Well, get to bed. You’ve got school tomorrow.” She heads into her office. “And I’ve got a case that’s keeping me up.” With that, she closes the door.

I just bet she’s got a case that’s keeping her up.

Mr. Decapitator, welcome to Washington, DC.

Chapter
Eight

DAYS LATER THE DECAPITATED HEAD
has made the news, and Mom is more than irritated at the press leak.

Although there has not been an official statement yet, reporters are already linking it to the other cases and stating that if it’s the same killer, a handless arm will be next.

After school today I’ll dive in and research the other killings. There have to be four parallel points for murders to be linked. Some killers know this and purposefully don’t leave four to throw investigators off. Other killers definitely leave those four so everyone knows it’s a serial case.

I’ll be curious to see what’s applicable in this situation.

At school, though, everyone is buzzing about something entirely different.

Lindsay, our senior class president, was killed over the weekend by a drunk driver. I’d always liked Lindsay. She’d been a popular one that was truly, sincerely nice. I’d always thought she’d be one of those people who would go on to do great things in the world. Her death puts things in perspective. Our lives really are fragile and can be forever extinguished with one single event.

It’s a powerful thought to know I
could
have been that one single event in the Weasel’s life and yet I chose to save him, when someone as nice as Lindsay has died. Did I off-balance the greater good? Did saving the Weasel in some cosmic way write Lindsay’s death sentence? Logically I know the two events can’t be related, but my mind still goes there.

“There are grief counselors on campus today if anyone wants to see one.” My homeroom teacher interrupts my thoughts.

Several sniffling girls and a couple guys raise their hands to go.

While our homeroom teacher usually makes us remain quiet, today she’s given us permission to talk about what happened. Around me voices buzz.

“Poor Lindsay . . .”

“And her family . . .”

“God, she was always so sweet to me. . . .”

“Yeah, she always smiled in the hall even though she didn’t know me. . . .”

“I hope the man who did it gets life. . . .”

“No, didn’t you hear? It was a woman. . . .”

“They say she got off. Something about an alibi . . .”

My ears perk up at this last part. The bell rings, and I head straight to the library for my TA job. Putting in for this gig was a calculated move. I knew it would give me a block of “me” time with the high-tech computer stations.

But being the good TA that I am, I go straight to the librarian first. “Mr. Bealles, anything you need me to do?”

He waves his hand as I know he will. “Nope. Do your homework.”

I park it in front of a computer, log in, and immediately begin researching. This is something else Reggie taught me. To the common user, school computers are firewalled. But going in a back door permits unencumbered access to the Web. The kids that know this use it for Facebook or porn. I use it to research.

Yes, Lindsay got hit by a red Mini Cooper registered to a Heather Anderson. She claims her car was stolen and that she hadn’t been driving. Her work associate corroborated her alibi, and she was released from police custody.

According to the report the driver of the stolen Mini ran from the crime scene and is still at large.

“Hi, Lane.”

I glance over my shoulder to see Zach standing right behind me. He smiles. “Or should I say Slim?”

“Lane’s fine.”

He nods to my computer screen. “My gut tells me that woman’s guilty.”

My gut tells me the same thing.

“Someone needs to make her pay for what she’s done.”

Yes, someone does. But what an odd thing for Zach to say. I’m usually the only one to think those things. Or perhaps others have the thoughts but never put voice to them.

He comes around to stand beside me, and I get a hint of his boy-scented bodywash. “You going to the memorial service?”

I shake my head. Funerals are not for me. “You?”

“No.” Zach leans his hip on the side of my computer desk. “I didn’t even know her.”

“True.” I log out of the computer and stand, more to put space between us than anything. I don’t care for people in my personal area. “See you later, then.”

“Lane?”

I turn to see him still casually propped on the desk. “Yes?”

“Would you like to go out with me sometime?”

My freshman year I got asked out by a boy in the science club. My sophomore year it had been this guy that lives across the street. My junior year, science club again. I said no to all three of them. Dating just isn’t something that interests me. Zach makes the fourth guy to ask me out, and I tell him what I told the other three. “No, thank you.”

“Why not? Is it because I’m a junior?”

“No,” I honestly tell him. “Aren’t you dating Daisy or something?”

“No.”

“Well, you should probably clarify that with her.”

He nods. “Okay. Then will you go out with me?”

Persistent. I’ll give him that much. “No.”

“Hm.” Zach pushes away from the desk. “Do you think I’m cute?”

I give him a good solid look. “Yes. You’re not like most guys.”

“How do you mean?”

“You’re blunt and well-spoken.”

“And most guys aren’t?”

I think through all the boys I hear talking around school. “No, I don’t consider a lot of them well-spoken.”

Zach silently studies me. “I’ll guess that you intimidate people.”

“What about me is intimidating?”

“You’re intelligent. Independent. And, clearly, you’re not here to impress anyone.”

I don’t have a response. He’s correct on all three accounts.

He takes a step toward me. “I’ll see you around, Lane.”

And with that he’s gone.

If he asks me out again, I might say yes. Dating is, after all, what normal teenagers are supposed to do at night, right? I don’t exactly do normal things in the evenings. Plus, I’m a senior and I’ve never been on a date. Quite frankly, Dr. Issa is the only male to have elicited any type of female response in me. Dr. Issa’s twenty-five, though. Eight years between us may not be a big deal when you’re older, but it’s a big deal now.

Yes, if Zach asks me out again, I’ll probably say yes. He’s cute, friendly, not an idiot, and it’s the normal thing to do.

Chapter
Nine

OVER THE NEXT WEEK
I do as much research as I can on the recently found severed head and suspected link to past killings. All I find are news articles, but I want the meat of the story. I want all the details reporters either don’t have or brush over. It’s in those details where I’ll really get to know the serial killer, the Decapitator, as several reporters labeled him last year.

During this same week I do a little more research on the Heather Anderson drunk-driving case. In Northern Virginia, there are areas with red light cameras and areas without. Unfortunately, where Lindsay got hit and killed was in an area not covered by cameras. So Heather’s stolen-car story cannot be corroborated one way or the other, hence the strength of the alibi.

Also during this same week I purposefully do not follow Heather. Not only does it heighten my own anticipation, it gives her time to get comfortable in her unindicted status. Because comfort leads to resuming normalcy, resuming normalcy leads to mistakes, and mistakes lead to her getting what she justly deserves.

On Tuesday night I follow her for the first time. She gets off work at six from a medical center where she’s employed as a lab tech. Her Mini Cooper is still impounded, so in a rental car she stops by the grocery store and then heads home, where she stays for the rest of the night.

Same thing Wednesday and Thursday, and I begin to doubt my suspicions. Maybe her stolen-car story is true. On Friday she goes to happy hour with work friends. I park outside the restaurant/bar and write an entire ten-page essay for English class while I’m waiting for her to emerge.

At eleven p.m. she stumbles out arm in arm with her drunk work friends.

Here we go.
I turn my dash-mounted camera on to record.

One of the coworkers climbs into a cab that’s already waiting; the other lights up a cigarette and trips off down the sidewalk heading toward, I assume, the nearby apartment complex.

Heather fumbles with her key fob and finally gets behind the wheel. She swerves her way out of the parking lot and down the road. I crank my engine and slowly pull out. I knew I was right. I knew it.

Hovering in the right lane, she drives twenty miles
under
the speed limit, manages to brake at a yellow light, and runs a red light. I glance around, assure there are no cameras or cops, and gas my Jeep through the red light too.

She merges onto a highway, hangs in the right lane, swerving, overcorrecting, and gets honked at several times by passing cars. Then she exits, drives straight into and out of a shallow ditch, pulls in to a 7-Eleven convenience store, opens her door, and pukes. Gross.

She continues puking and I look away. Luckily, I’m not one of those people with a gag reflex. She wipes her mouth, and another mile down the road she turns in to a bar where some guy is waiting.

With a goofy, inebriated grin he staggers over and gets in.

They swing their way to a liquor store; Heather goes in and a few minutes later comes out with two black plastic bags heavy with bottles. I cannot believe the liquor store owner actually sold her more alcohol. He should be arrested just for that.

The two of them dive into the bags, crack open bottles, and continue drinking. It makes me sick just watching it. It’s only been about a week since she ran Lindsay over, and she’s so blasé about it. What, she has no conscience? She should have been scared straight into AA after what she did.

Across the street and down a couple of blocks sits a park. Heather drives in the yellow turning lane the whole way, pulls straight into the park even though a sign says it’s closed, crashes through a line of bushes, and comes to a stop on a soccer field. If this had been hours before, there’d still be families here. Heather would’ve plowed them right over. Just the thought of that disgusts me.

I watch as they both slowly pass out.

I hit the stop button and slip the tape out from the recorder. I’d like to go over and beat her up . . . or worse, but (a) she wouldn’t feel it, and (b) this tape will do more long-term damage. Heather Anderson’s officially busted, and while I’m not completely satisfied, while I’m not satiated, at least Lindsay and her family will get some justice for the tragedy in their lives.

I’m not satiated. . . .
And I’m not sure when my next opportunity will come to be. With that thought lingering, I climb from my Jeep and stalk over to the car. I open the driver’s door and stare down at Heather’s pathetic, passed-out self. Lindsay had gone through the windshield. I’d say it’s the least Heather deserves. But . . . I can’t do that. It’s taking things too far. I came for justice—not revenge.

The next morning I mail the tape unmarked to the cops with a
Sure she’s innocent?
note inside. If the cops don’t put her behind bars after this, I’ll definitely hunt her down and make her pay. I
will
take things too far.

• • •

“Did you hear that woman who killed Lindsay is in jail?” I hear at school on Monday. “Someone trailed her and sent a video in.”

“Maybe it was the Masked Savior,” a guy jokes.

I really do hate that name.