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Authors: C. E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Stalker
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C
HAPTER
E
IGHT
“Well, there's not a lot I can tell from
this,”
said Elena Krieger, holding the evidence bag between her manicured thumb and forefinger as though it contained excrement. “I'm a forensic linguist, not a magician.” With her German accent, “linguist” came out “lingvist.”
Detective Butts snatched it from her and tossed it on his desk. “Well, pardon me for asking.”
It was ten o'clock the next morning—the two of them had been in each other's company less than fifteen minutes, and already they were quarreling. Perched on the side of Butts's desk, Lee was already regretting their decision to call in Krieger for a consult. If there were two people more unsuited to be in the same room with each other than Detectives Butts and Krieger, he hadn't met them. This was their fourth case together, and the air was still charged with their mutual enmity.
“It's
two words,
for god's sake!” she said, the base of her elegant neck reddening. Even at this hour in the morning, it was hard not to look at her. She wore a creamy pantsuit over a black silk blouse, her strawberry blond hair gathered back in a ponytail fastened with a gold clip. She crossed her arms over her stately bosom defiantly. “What did you expect me to say?”
“I don't
know
—nothin', okay?” Butts growled. “Sorry to waste your time.”
“I mean, there are no obvious grammatical mistakes—a lot of people misspell ‘you're' as ‘your,' so we know he's not a complete moron. Probably has a decent education.”
“That's something,” Lee said hopefully. Butts just shook his head and turned away.
“You probably knew that already,” Krieger remarked. “Based on your profile, I mean.”
“I've worked up a few ideas,” Lee said.
“Can I see what you have?” asked Krieger.
“I guess,” Lee said, with a glance at Butts, who threw his arms up in surrender.
“Sure, whatever. Stay, go—do whatever you want.”
“How kind of you, Detective,” Krieger replied icily. “I choose to stay.”
“What
ever,
” Butts muttered under his breath.
Lee copied the list he had made the night before onto the whiteboard, adding a couple of things he had thought of that morning.
•
Stabbing—phallic symbol—meaning of sword in particular?
•
Fear important to his emotional satisfaction
•
Threatening note—bold, taunting; challenging law enforcement
•
Knows Mindy & Sara, at least by sight
•
Careful planning, low-risk victim
•
Highly organized offender, profiles his victims
•
Blends in with social milieu of victims
•
Upper middle class, educated?
•
Probably white, young (25-35)
•
Possibly in theatre in some capacity, or a fan
•
Mask—part of ritualistic staging of the body
“I gotta say,” Butts said, “just about every guy in that theatre company fits this profile.”
“Except Carl Hawkins,” said Lee.
“ 'Cause he's black?” said Butts.
“More because he's the wrong age.”
“But the others—”
Lee nodded. “They all fit. And given all the factors, it has to be one of them.”
“Do you think he has a record?” Krieger asked, studying the list.
“He might have,” Lee said. “If he does, it could be Peeping Tom offenses, or even breaking and entering. On the other hand, he might have been smart enough to avoid getting caught.”
“None of the actors showed up on VICAP,” said Butts.
“He's just getting started,” Lee said.
“Jesus,” Butts said. The phone on his desk rang and he grabbed it. “Butts here. Yeah? Okay, thanks—yeah, let me know if anything turns up.” He turned to the others. “That was the crime lab. No prints on anything so far.”
“What about trace?” asked Krieger.
Butts shook his head. “Nothin'. The mask was wiped clean of any prints, so he musta worn gloves.”
“What about the autopsy?” asked Lee. “Is there a chance that might turn up something?”
“It's possible—the weapon might have left something behind that we can use to trace it,” said Butts. “So what makes you think this guy is gonna kill again?”
“Well, apart from the fact that he's threatened someone else—”
“Assuming the note came from him,” Krieger pointed out.
“Right. Assuming that, the bizarre nature of the crime points to someone who is motivated by something other than personal dislike for the victim. He didn't even take her money, and leaving the mask is highly ritualistic behavior. So is the sword, for that matter—if that's what he used.”
The phone rang again and Butts snatched it up.
“Detective Butts here. Yeah? No kiddin'? Yeah, fax me the results, great. Thanks.” He hung up and looked at them triumphantly. “That was the ME's office. We got trace after all. There were some fibers in the wound that didn't match the vic's clothing. Blue wool, like from a coat.”
“Well, that's something,” Krieger said.
Butts looked at his watch and frowned. “I gotta go meet Mindy's parents. They flew in from Ohio last night and I told them I'd stop by their hotel.”
“You want me to come with you?” Lee asked.
“Naw, that's okay—I know you hate it as much as I do.”
“I'll come,” Lee said, putting on his coat.
“One last question,” Krieger said to Lee. “Before you leave.”
“What's that?”
“Are you sure this killer is working alone?”
“It's likely, but no, I'm not sure. Why?”
“No reason—I just wondered.”
Butts frowned. “So you think one guy might be doin' the killing while the other one is writing the threats?”
“I just asked the question, Detective,” said Krieger. “I don't
think
anything.”
Butts grunted and put on his coat. “You got that right,” he said under his breath as they left the office.
Krieger's voice rang out behind them. “I
heard
that!”
Butts rolled his eyes as he and Lee walked through the precinct lobby. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
“Why, Detective,” Lee said. “I do believe you're in love.”
C
HAPTER
N
INE
Facing bereaved family members was one of the most uncomfortable tasks of homicide detectives, and the meeting with Mindy's parents was predictably draining. The worst part was that Lee and Butts couldn't give Mindy's parents any concrete information about her killer, other than to say they were working very hard to find him.
When Lee got home that night he was bone tired. Not for the first time, he felt the heavy relief in closing the front door behind him and slipping on the three locks, the tumblers clicking into place with a satisfying sound, locking out the demands of the world. He stood looking out of the window at the lone mimosa tree in front of his building before heading for the piano, hungry for the soothing purity of Bach.
When he was halfway across the living room, the phone rang. Without looking the caller ID, he answered it.
“Hello? Is this Lee Campbell?”
The voice was light, breathy, with a pronounced French accent. Lee knew immediately who it was. His first impulse was to hang up, but with the receiver halfway down, he stopped his hand.
“Yes,” he said. “This is Dr. Campbell.” He'd inserted his title out of panic, a feeble impulse to cloak his identity, but he heard how arrogant it sounded.
“Sorry, yes—Dr. Campbell.” She was being humble, polite, and it made him cringe. He would have preferred it if she were a slattern, a bitch, a French whore, but her voice was educated and refined.
“What can I do for you?” he said, trying to sound harsh but failing.
“My name is Chloe Soigné.”
“Yes?” He was going to make her say it, spell it out.
“I was wondering—did you get my letter?”
He wanted to make her grovel, but he wasn't going to lie to her. “Yes, I did.”
“Then you know who I am.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for not hanging up on me.” Her voice was tremulous, on the edge of tears. She was making it very hard to dislike her. He took a deep breath.
“Ms. Soigné, I appreciate your effort, and I don't blame you for—for what happened. But I have no wish to see my father.”
“And your sister? How does she feel?”
“My sister is dead.”
Her heard her gasp, then cough—a harsh, hacking sound, the cough of a very sick woman.
“I am so sorry,” she said when she regained her breath. “When did she—how long ago?”
“Six years ago. She was murdered.”
“Mon Dieu,”
she said softly. “That's horrible.”
“So my father knew nothing about it? It was in the papers here.”
“Alas, your father rarely reads the American newspapers. I am so very sorry. Have they caught the person who did it?”
“No.”
There was a long, lonely pause, and then she said, “I am very sorry to bother you.”
“Does my father know you've contacted me?”
“He has no idea. He doesn't even know how sick I am.”
“I'm sorry to hear you're not well.”
“I'm dying, Dr. Campbell—I have stage-four lung cancer. And I am very worried what will happen to your father when I am gone. That is why I was hoping you might. . . take pity on him.”
“Look, Ms. Soigné, I—”
“Call me Chloe, please.”
“I've lived this long without my father. I don't need to forgive him, and I don't want to see him.”
“I see.” Again she gave a little gasp and a cough, but mastered herself. “Perhaps in time your heart will soften and you will forgive him, or at least be willing to speak with him.”
“What makes you think he wants to talk to me?'
“I know he does. He is a proud man, and a foolish one in many ways, but I know he has thought about you and your sister constantly over the years.”
“Actions speak louder than words, Ms.—Chloe.”
“Will you at least think about it, Dr. Campbell? It's the wish of a dying woman.”
“All right,” he said, irritated at being manipulated so boldly. He thought he heard someone talking in the background, and she lowered her voice.
“I must go now—may God bless you.”
The line went dead. He stood with the phone in his hand, a link to broken promises and shattered dreams. He stared numbly out the window at the mimosa tree, its branches bare and cold in the bitter February wind.
C
HAPTER
T
EN
Sara Wittier pulled back the green brocade curtain covering the front window of her apartment and looked down into the street at the patrol car parked at the corner of Fiftieth Street and Ninth Avenue. They had just changed shifts about half an hour ago. The officer on duty had arrived with enough supplies to last a week: a huge bag from Dunkin' Donuts, another from McDonald's, and a large cup of coffee. It was too dark to see what he was doing down there, and she couldn't help wonder how these cops managed to stave off boredom. Was he allowed to listen to the radio or do crossword puzzles? Probably not—the killer could slip right by him unless he was watching every minute.
She shivered and let the curtain drop. Wrapping her arms around her body, she turned from the window and went into the kitchen. She wasn't hungry, but she longed for the comfort food could bring. Being an actress, and very young, Sara was given to self-dramatizing. Right now she was feeling sorry for herself. Since she couldn't have the comfort she craved—to feel safe—a bowl of Häagen Dazs would have to do in the meanwhile. Maybe it was an excuse, but she didn't care. After all, she was being
stalked.
She opened the freezer and pawed through her roommate's cartons of organic vegetables until she found the lone pint of chocolate ice cream in the back.
She pulled the biggest bowl she could find from the cupboard and scooped in generous spoonfuls of ice cream. She took the bowl into the living room and curled up on the couch, covering herself with the afghan her grandmother had knitted her. Pink and green, the school colors of Sweet Briar, her alma mater. She sighed as a single tear slid down her smooth young cheek. Her life of sororities and classes and weekends with the boys at William and Mary seemed light years away.
She ate slowly and rhythmically, spooning small amounts into her mouth with each bite to make it last longer. She knew there was half a day's worth of calories in this bowl of ice cream, but she didn't care. She might be dead in a few days, so she might as well enjoy herself.
She heard the sound of the dead bolt in the front door and practically leapt from the couch, the afghan still wrapped around her shoulders, her heart beating hot and fast in her throat. The door opened and her roommate Caroline sauntered in, her yoga mat strapped to her back as usual.
“Hi!” Caroline sang out, closing the door behind her. “What are you eating?”
“Ice cream,” Sara replied, sitting down again as thin, cold relief flooded her veins. She didn't want her roommate to see how frightened she was.
“That stuff will kill you,” Caroline said, tossing her yoga mat in the hall closet. Caroline was tall and thin and sallow, and full of opinions about everything, especially food and nutrition. The more her advice was unwanted, the more relentlessly she gave it, and it usually involved admonitions to avoid everything Sara enjoyed eating. Caroline seemed to take pride in everything she
didn't
eat—the list was endless and always changing. Just last week she had come home proudly declaring she had given up gluten—not because she was allergic to it, but because her friend Alice had stopped eating it. Caroline was obsessed with abstemiousness, as though self-denial was a competitive sport.
Sara leaned back on the couch. “I'm going to die soon anyway.” She noted with satisfaction the alarm on Caroline's face. She had recently suspected that her roommate was borrowing her clothes without asking, but she couldn't prove anything.
“Don't be silly—they'll catch that guy before he gets to you,” Caroline said, bending to touch her toes, effortlessly putting both palms on the floor.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Sara responded. “In the meantime, I'm going to have some Häagen Dazs.”
Caroline sat down on the carpet and stretched her legs out in a split. Sara knew she had just come from yoga class, so she didn't see why Caroline needed to stretch, but her roommate was always showing off how limber she was.
“That's not a real name, you know,” Caroline said, touching her nose to her left knee. “They made it up to sound Scandinavian.”
“Well, it's real
now,”
Sara said, “because I'm eating it.” She swallowed a big mouthful just to show she was right, and gave herself an ice cream headache.
Caroline shrugged and touched her nose to the other knee. The bones in the back of her neck stood out, poking through her yellowish skin. Sara thought her roommate would look a lot healthier if she would eat some red meat or cheese once in a while. She had given up meat years ago, and dairy ended up on her hit list after she took a nutrition workshop with Gary Null, the NPR health food guru. Sara called him the health food Nazi, which made Caroline livid.
“So are there any leads?” Caroline asked, twisting herself into some bizarre yoga-inspired pretzel shape.
“Not really,” said Sara. “He's stalking me now.” She looked at her roommate to see if her words had the intended dramatic effect, but Caroline was concentrating too hard on bending her body in unnatural ways. Sara decided to raise the stakes. “He cornered Mindy in the hallway of her apartment. That's where he ran the sword through her heart.”
In reality, the sword had pierced Mindy's stomach, but Sara thought “through her heart” sounded so much more romantic.
Through her heart.
It was as though she'd been slain by an overly fond lover.
The truth was that Sara Wittier, from Middleburg, Virginia, was too naive and too trusting to believe that life could be untimely ripped from her tender young body. In spite of her initial shock at Mindy's death, and the threatening note she had received, down deep Sara believed that death came to other people—the old, sick, and unlucky—but not to her. She was none of those things. She was young and healthy, and it never occurred to her that even healthy young girls could one day be very, very unlucky.

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