Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) (29 page)

An expression of horror and excruciating pain lights up her face. She passes out frequently. Short spells lasting for only a minute or so, and then she comes to. I try counting down the minutes, the breaths. Then, a howl. Like a hungry coyote. Or a wolf left alone to fend for himself. It comes from somewhere deep, deep within her. The sound shatters the quiet setting. It echoes like a rabid breeze through the rustling leaves. Nobody can hear. Nobody cares. She will be left alone in this sacred place I have prepared for her. To die. As I was. As my Mother was.

Far from the hectic pace of the village…

4:16 PM

47

The L
ounge at the Riverfront Howard Johnson’s was appropriately called “The Recovery Room,” since its location was in such close proximity to the Medical University.

Dan steered his car into the crowded parking lot. The banner advertising the bar hung prominently out in front. It made Wright chuckle at the implications.

“Whadaya say?” Dan glanced at his watch, realizing it wasn’t quite five yet. His Dad had a saying (funny Dan should remember). In order to avoid any amount of suspicion, wait until the sundial at least passed noon. Then one could guiltlessly partake of the creature. Even though his Father was one to never heed his own advice. He was usually up, long before Dan even made it downstairs, his favorite breakfast of champions – a thirteen ounce, longneck bottle of Budweiser.

Great. Wright probably thinks I’m an alcoholic.

Instead, Wright nodded “yes.” Unbuckling himself from the confines of his seatbelt, he opened the door and wrestled with an armload of case folders and files.

“Detective Hammer, with your usual characteristic instincts, this is a very good idea.”

Wright held onto the wooden handrail as he maneuvered up the steps, balancing the accessories in one arm. Halfway up, he waited for Dan to lock the car.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Dan closed the door and tucked the keys inside his jacket pocket, slightly embarrassed that Wright had caught him staring. They walked across a wooden planked outdoor deck toward the entrance. Screams from children splashing around in a nearby swimming pool echoed in the parking lot as they entered the moody ambiance of the bar. The sour smell of wood floors, draft beer and spilled whiskey perfumed the room. They stood for a moment, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dark before taking a seat at the large horseshoe bar. The place was relatively quiet, a nice respite before Happy Hour officially began.

“Thank God, they have peanuts.” Wright dove for the white ceramic bowl filled with the salty mix. A lasting mental picture -- Wright seated in Mrs. Stattler’s home, eating sugar cookies and drinking coffee from her delicate china cups, his pinkie finger extended in extreme refinement -- would haunt Dan forever.

“If you’re hungry, I can take you for some dinner. There’s a nice place…”

Wright cut him off. He cupped a handful of peanuts into his mouth. “No, thank you. This is fine.”

The bartender, a short woman with too much eye makeup and far too little clothing approached them with a hearty smile. “What will it be, Gentlemen?” Her accent was pure Southern.

“Beer. What do you have on draft?” Dan asked.

“What you see is what you get.” She pointed to the wooden pull handles decorating the shiny silver spouts.

“Bud Light for me.” Dan ordered first, stealing away a peanut. He looked around the semi-busy bar. Wright asked for a Dewar’s. Neat. The bartender scurried away, bending and scooping and pouring until she returned with Dan’s draft. She placed the frosty mug in front of him, the head foaming up and over the top. She delivered Wright’s drink, smiled politely and left. Her ass bounced off the coolers and lowboys as she pranced away.

“I got a funny feeling about this case.” Wright cleared his throat. He set his drink down and waved for the bartender.

Once again she appeared. “What’cha need, Sugar?”

“Could we please have some more peanuts, young lady?”

“Keep talkin’ like that and
you
can have whatever you want!” She gave Wright a wink before setting a fresh bowl down in front of them.

“What do you mean?” Dan asked, not sure if he should already know the answer, be guessing at finding one, or if he looked just plain damn stupid.

“Something isn’t right, it just doesn’t fit. I’m not exactly sure what it is. But my hunch is that boy, what’s his name?”

“Phillip?”

“Yeah, Phillip. I have a feeling he was set up.”

“Set up?”

“Everything seems a bit too neat. For my taste, anyway.” Another handful of peanuts unloaded into Wright’s mouth.

The act reminded Dan of a forklift, collecting, hoisting and dumping.

“Spicy ones.” Wright took another sip of his drink. “Usually, if the perpetrator is an organized offender, like what I’m witnessing here, there’s some cognitive mapping, a thought-out pattern. An event triggers the first killing; some stressful situation puts them over the edge. They become unsure of themselves, insecure. The fear of them being caught weighs heavy. Then, after several times out, they get a taste for it. They begin to feel omnipotent. Above the law.”

“That’s when they get careless.” Dan chimed in. He finished his beer and wiped the leftover froth from his mouth on his jacket sleeve.

“Absolutely. They fuck up, plain and simple. And that’s when we need to be on our toes. Be smarter than they are.” Wright waved down the barmaid. Again. “Excuse me. Hey, Honey, excuse me.”

“All right, all right, I’m coming. Another round?”

“Another beer, please, for the gentleman. I’ll take one too. On my check.” Pause. “Oh, what the hell, some more peanuts too, while you’re at it.” Wright checked around to see if any nosy patrons were loitering about before pulling the photographs out onto the bar. “No color prints?”

Dan sorted through the pictures. “Guess not.”

“You people certainly aren’t used to this sort of thing, are you?”

“That’s why we have people like you.”

“Locals usually can’t wait to get us out of their hair. They’re so afraid we’ll take the credit, like that really matters to us. If you could see the backlog of dead cases we have yet to wade through…”

“We all know, hell, it was taught to us at Quantico, it’s usually the local police that apprehend the suspect. That, persistence, and a lot of help from ordinary citizens.”

“We basically come in and just give you guys the addresses and telephone numbers.”

“Ah, there you go again.” Dan gave Wright a friendly nudge on the shoulder. They chuckled. It was a guy moment. Like Wright was already a buddy. A comrade. A partner.
Wallace.
It brought back memories. Wallace’s dry sense of humor, his sarcastic comments. A pang of emotion welled up in Dan’s throat. He swallowed it back with another mouthful of cold beer.

“Just kidding!” Wright snickered as he fanned the photos of the first female victim out in front of him. Her legs were spread-eagled, each ankle secured to two separate posts. Both hands were tied together and attached to another wooden stake above her head. “What’s particularly telling is the way her legs are separated. Spread out.” The girl’s body was badly decomposed. Ribs poked out through stretched skin. Her face was drawn to the side, covered with leaves, dirt and debris. Beside her was the vacant sight of the second victim. “Not a pretty scene.” Wright shook his head. “Did you ever identify the girl?”

“Nothing yet. We checked up and down the east coast, missing persons, all that. It’s only been three days since we found the body.”

“This isn’t a pissing contest but I’ve seen worse.” Wright zoned out for a second. He went somewhere far away. The only noise was the steady drone of the television screen above the bar and the intermittent sucking sound coming from the CO2 machine.  Wright returned and landed on the prints as if he’d never left. “If you look at this photograph, there’s more going on here than a staging element.”

They studied both pictures, carefully examining each detail, straining their eyes in the recessed light.

“Organized killers are methodical. They painstakingly plan their attacks, choosing their victim’s, allowing their fantasy to simmer and boil, fester until finally a stressor occurs. They lose their job, break up with a girlfriend, whatever. Then bang… they can’t stop themselves!”

“The fantasy’s been playing out in their head for so long, over and over again, that finally it just overpowers them. They have to act it out in the real world.” Dan repositioned himself closer on the barstool, enjoying this one-on-one contact. This one-on-one attention.

“Correct. And, fortunately for us, they always leave something behind. The best evidence is found at the crime scene. In this particular case, it’s blatantly obvious. Not only did the PERP leave a signature card, but also, he staged the entire elaborate scenario. These posts are positioned in a certain way…”

“Also, both victims had writings placed in small vials and inserted into their, well…  The second girl had “for her sins,” and the first had “for his sins.”

“How was it written? With what? Was it sent for analysis?”

“We sent it to Columbia for processing.”

“Columbia?” Harry groaned. “From now on, Detective Hammer, I give you full permission to send any and all things of this nature directly to the Smithsonian. In Washington. They have the best Forensics Laboratory in the country. In the world possibly. If you ever have a problem, call me. I have many friends up there. Columbia.” Wright shook his head.

“My guess, he used a syringe,” Dan interrupted. He understood Wright’s frustration. He felt just as dissatisfied with the backwardness of their system. “The wording was inscribed with the victim’s blood.”

“To divert attention. Like Phillip, the ambulance driver. That kid was definitely set up, Detective Hammer.”

“You can call me, Dan.”

“All right, Dan. We’re dealing with one complex, brilliant, wonderfully manipulative psychopathic mind here.”

Wright went back to the shots, pointing out the victim’s genital area. “I believe the mutilation aspect of the crime is personal. Particularly since the attack was directed at the female reproductive organs.”

“Could this be how the guy gets off? Sexually, I mean.” Dan thought back to the autopsy protocols. He did try to prepare himself somewhat for Wright. “No semen was found, inside, on, or around the victim.”

“Eliminating the female genitalia of the girls he abducts could be considered, although uncharacteristic, a sexual offense. It doesn’t always have to be penetration to be sexual. The more violent the act, the more mentally ill the PERP. That is generally the rule of thumb.”

Dan nodded.

“That could be a consideration,” Wright continued. “A fair amount of scenarios can and do take place against women who have been sexually assaulted, or molested, or even killed, without any evidence of violent sex, semen or penetration. In many cases, more than I care to admit, the act of penetration is enough. By anything. I’ve seen the whole gamut, umbrellas, sticks, even a baseball bat for God’s sake. All of this has to do with the PERP, unfortunately acting out his sexual fantasies against women.”

“The second victim had puncture wounds to her left breast. Pin pricks. Peculiar though, they were solely on one breast and only to one girl.”

“Further disrespect. My first take would be this person is young, late teens, early twenties, since he picks relatively low risk victims, teenage girls. He lives with a family member or relative in the general neighborhood and knows the surrounding area. He has difficulty in relationships, obviously with women, stemming from an unsatisfying relationship with his Mother…”

“Always blame the Mother…”

“He frequently visits hospitals. Could be a diabetic or have a chronic disease, asthma or allergies perhaps. He could also work a job in the healthcare industry, but I doubt it. Another piece of information and quite possibly the most important is this guy gets off on control. Playing God. He enjoys it! I get the feeling these victims are his first time out. But, it wouldn’t hurt to find out what VICAP brought back.”