Strip Search (11 page)

“Maybe we oughta ask her how she felt, lyin’ in that basket, cryin’ for a mother who wouldn’t come.”

Danielle didn’t understand, couldn’t follow. The throbbing in her head became more intense. A moment later, her other arm was locked into the cuffs. She was pinned down, spread wide and vulnerable, unable to escape.

“A mother like you doesn’t deserve to be no successful businesswoman, if you can call it that.” He straddled her, but made no move to remove her clothing. Again, despite his position, Danielle sensed no aspect of sexuality in anything he did. All she sensed was violence, rage. A fiery determination to do harm.

“That was…so long…ago…”

“Sometimes justice is slow. But it always finds you in the end,” he said, as if reciting something he had heard but only barely understood. “It’s in the equation.” He reached under his overcoat and, to Danielle’s horror, produced a long-handled axe.

The shock was enough to jolt her system and force her into action. She thrust her body upward. Weak as she was, it was enough to throw him off balance. The instant his grip weakened, she raised a knee with all the strength she could muster, straight into his groin. He fell off the bed howling, clutching himself.

She knew she had to act quickly. These handcuffs were just props, not the real thing. After all, they didn’t want any of their actors to be inadvertently hurt. You were supposed to be able to shake them loose at will. All you had to do was pull hard. And so she did. She yanked down with her right arm as fast and as hard as she could.

Nothing happened.

She pressed her lips together and tried again. She was not going down without a fight, not after so much time, so much work. Danielle pulled again with enough force to shatter a wooden plank.

But nothing happened. Her arms were still trapped.

And a moment later, she felt another set of handcuffs snap around her left ankle.

The little monster stood beside her, his face flushed and full of rage. “I brought my own handcuffs,” he said simply, nostrils flared. “I replaced yours before you came in here.” He locked the fourth and final handcuff onto her other leg, and Danielle knew she was helpless. Unable to resist. At the mercy of a madman.

He recovered his axe and resumed his position on top of her. With a swipe of his left fist, he knocked her across the face.

Her head once again slammed against the brass railings. Her eyelids fluttered. She was almost gone now, she realized. In so many ways. Almost gone…

“Are you…going to kill me?” she asked.

“Is that what you think? That I’m just some—some crazy killer? That I’m doin’ this because I want to?”

“Then…what…are you going to do?”

“What the numbers dictate. The branding iron is still heating. But we don’t have to wait for that.”

“Wh—what?”

“You are Binah, the Godhead. You have dishonored your connection to the Sefirot. So I must remove your identifying feature. Your aspect of the primordial human form.”

Her eyelids were so heavy; this time, she let them fall. “I still…I don’t understand…”

“It’s really very simple,” he said, as he grabbed the front of her hair. Danielle felt the cold sharp blade at the base of her neck. “I’m going to remove your head.”

THE ALARM CLOCK was like a shrieking banshee, relentlessly shattering every nerve in my body. It had taken me hours to fall asleep. I’d stayed at the office way too late, in part to show O’Bannon I was working hard, in part because I was so desperate to come up with something useful, some kind of lead. But I didn’t. Soon they would be expecting me to give them a profile, and I had nothing, nothing but the most obvious well-known profiling constants that would hardly justify my salary. I’d come home a wreck, pacing the floors, desperate for a drink. Tried to watch junk television, but couldn’t concentrate. Turned out the lights, but my eyes wouldn’t shut. The LED on my clock told me it was three in the morning long before my body finally succumbed to sleep.

This case was getting to me, in the worst possible way. And I knew where this was going to lead. How long could I resist? How long could I keep my face out of a bottle when I was feeling this kind of stress?

I finally stumbled out of bed, eyes blurred, and forced myself into the shower. That helped a little. At least enough to get me going. I remembered all the stuff they told me back in detox. I quietly recited my personal mantra. I know I have a problem, I said, over and over again, as the water cascaded down my hair, my face, my long flat stomach. But I will not give into it. I want to be a better person. I am trying to be a better person.

I said it over and over again. But I didn’t believe it.

I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my head, and heard the doorbell ring. Who the hell was that? Couldn’t be anyone from the office; I wasn’t due for another hour. Darcy? He’d dropped by unexpectedly before, but never this early.

I threw on a robe and made for the front door. All I had to do was glance through the peephole before I unchained, unlocked, and threw my apartment door open.

“Amelia!”

“Hiya, sweetie.”

“What are you doing here this time of the morning?”

“Just checking on you. How’re you holding up, sweetie?”

“Oh, fine. Why?”

She gave me a long look. “To tell the truth—you looked a little shaky in the office yesterday.”

“Me?” I glanced at myself in the mirror over the faux-fireplace. “I don’t see anything.”

She squeezed my hand. “I know when something’s wrong. What is it?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know if I can really explain it. It’s just…I’m feeling a lot of pressure. This killer…” I shook my head. “He’s seriously twisted. The type who’s likely to repeat. And we’ve got no logical leads. So everyone is expecting me to do my little empathy magic trick and point them in the right direction.”

“And?”

I gave it to her straight. “And so far, I’ve come up with nothing. It’s making me crazy. My hands are shaking. I can’t concentrate. I can’t sleep. I’m a nervous wreck.”

The corner of her mouth turned up. “Good girl.”

My forehead creased. “Have you been listening to this conversation?”

“Yes,” she said with a laugh. “And it tells me one thing for certain. You aren’t drinking.” She gave my hand another squeeze. “You’re just having an anxiety attack. Believe me, I’ve been there.”

“You have?”

“Of course. Who hasn’t?”

“Then—what did you do?”

“Well…if you really want to know…” She picked up her purse and fished around in it for a few moments, finally producing a small smoked plastic bottle. A pill bottle. She opened the lid and popped out a tiny blue pill, then put it in my hand. “Here. Take one of these.”

I stared at it like it was a dead fish. “What is it?”

“Valium. Nothing major. But it will ease the strain a little. You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to get started on drugs.”

“This is harmless.”

“Will it make me sleepy? I’m going to put in a long day.”

“Possible. Maybe you should break it in half. See how it goes. It’s easy to do; it’s perforated down the center.”

“Well…I’ll give it some thought.”

“You do that.” She headed for the door. “I’ll call you tonight. Maybe after the police dogs let you go, I can pick you up and we’ll do the town.”

“That would be so wonderful.” And I meant it. I felt better already.

“Just remember one thing, kiddo.” She turned and placed her index finger against her nose. “Chasing sickos is your job. Not your life. When I pick you up tonight, I expect you to leave all that behind. In fact, every night, whether I’m there or not, I expect you to leave it behind. I know how obsessed you can get. I don’t want to see it happen again. You are a wonderful person. So take care of yourself.”

I felt my eyes getting itchy and was immediately embarrassed. “Why are you so nice to me?” I asked, my voice breaking.

“Don’t you remember? My first day on the job. You complimented my plastering technique.” She winked. “See you tonight, girlfriend.”

She gave me a kiss on the cheek. And then she was gone.

I WAS DRIVING DOWNTOWN when I got the call on my cell phone. It was Chief O’Bannon, who gave me an address and told me to meet him there immediately.

“What’s up?” I asked, as I pulled into a driveway and turned back in the opposite direction.

“There’s been another killing.”

I felt a lightning bolt race up my spine. “By the same killer?”

“Can’t say for certain. But…”

“Yes?”

He paused. “I think so. I hope so.”

“You
hope
so?”

“Yes. Because if there’s more than one creep running around doing this…God help us all.”

OF COURSE I KNEW what DannyDunn Studios was, although I’d never been here before. Its proprietor was almost a legend in town, the former porn star who took control of the whole shebang. The uniform outside the front door waved me in and I climbed a flight of stairs to the main soundstage, which had been roped off by yellow crime scene tape. All the usual suspects—the coroner techs, the forensic CSI crews, the videographers—were busily going about their appointed tasks. I spotted Granger standing in the middle of the action supervising, which is a nice way of saying he wasn’t actually doing anything.

I crawled under the crime scene tape and boldly approached. “Before you throw a fit,” I said, “O’Bannon told me to come out here.”

“I know.” His voice was odd—sort of…distracted. And absent the usual malice.

“So what happened?”

“Another murder.”

Oooo-kay. We’ll do it the twenty questions way. “Do we know who the victim is?”

“No positive ID. But we’re pretty sure it’s Danielle Dunn. She hasn’t shown up for work, and she isn’t at her home. Didn’t come home last night.”

I couldn’t believe it. It was like hearing that someone had offed Steven Spielberg. In a Vegas sort of way. “And you think it was the same killer?”

Granger still sounded odd, and he wasn’t looking at me. “Very possible.”

I rolled my hands around themselves. “Because…”

“There’s no body. Again. Just…” He swallowed. “A head.”

“Excuse me.” I was breathing heavily and my heart was palpitating. I looked around till I found the nearest bathroom, then closed the doors behind me.

I knew what the men would think and I hated it. They would assume that I was about to be sick, that I was going to throw up. But that wasn’t the reason. I ran some cold water, then fished around in my pocket until I found what I wanted. The little blue pill.

I put the whole thing in my mouth, then swallowed. I sat down on the toilet with my head between my knees and waited until I felt better. Or at least until my knees stopped knocking.

Chopped off her head. Mary, Mother of God. What kind of person was this killer? How could I possibly hope to catch him?

WHEN I FINALLY FELT READY—and able—I walked back to the crime scene as if nothing had happened. I had no idea how quickly that little pill was supposed to take effect but—maybe it was just the placebo effect—I did feel better. Calmer. More level-headed. Better able to do the job everyone was expecting me to do.

I closed my eyes and took a personal inventory. No—it wasn’t any placebo effect. I
was
calmer. And thank God for it.

I had no idea where to start, and no one was crying out for my attention, so I approached the crime scene the way I liked to do it—dead reckoning. Hard to explain, at least to anyone who wasn’t born with this gift or curse or whatever it is. In the old days, when adverse weather prevented sailors from using their standard navigational devices, they resorted to dead reckoning. They put away their toys and relied on their gut. They used their accumulated wisdom, talent, and experience to guide the ship to its destination. And that’s what I did, in my own way, at crime scenes. There was no way, intellectually, to sort through all the possible sources of information and deduce what was important and what was not. So instead of killing myself trying, I closed my eyes, let my mind drift, and navigated by instinct rather than information. It was almost like having a sixth sense, but it was real, not some nonsense like ESP. It was why they paid me the big money. Or a tiny stipend, at any rate.

I considered what I knew so far. What were the salient elements? Decapitation. Face…removal. Assaults at the workplace. What could I deduce from these facts? What psychological likelihoods could be determined?

The killer is obsessed with certain facial characteristics…. The killer is collecting faces…. The killer denies his victims’ identities by making them impossible to identify…. The killer is making a protest against certain industries or businesses…. The killer is harvesting organs…. The killer gets a sexual charge out of mutilation….

No. None of it sounded right. Or to be more precise, none of it
felt
right. It didn’t explain everything. Deduction was getting me nowhere. What could I induce? That is, what probabilities could I assume from what was known?

Not many. Because not much was known. Except this: Signature murderers never stop until they are caught. And this creep had a hell of a signature. So it was safe to assume that he would strike again. And again. Until he was stopped.

I opened my eyes. This was getting me nowhere. I couldn’t even find a pattern in the selection of the victims. What on earth did a successful star and producer of adult films have in common with some young immigrant working fast food?

I strolled across the room to the oversized brass bed; it appeared to be the center of attention. Tony Crenshaw was hunched beside it, scraping a sample of something into a test tube.

I couldn’t help but notice that the sheets were a dark blackish red. “So this is where the deed was done?”

“Probably. What I’m seeing suggests a blood loss so enormous that the victim couldn’t possibly have survived.”

I walked away, shaking my head. I really didn’t want to hear any more. I spotted Amelia crouched on the floor about ten feet from the bed, near the top of the stairs. She was taking an impression off the floor. Guess she got the call from O’Bannon, too.