The Cold Room (23 page)

G
avin rose at seven, achy, tired. He'd spent most of the night in the basement, watching the doll, worrying about who had knocked at his door.

He went into the kitchen, yawning. Art was sitting at his dish, meowing mournfully at Gavin. Oh, damn it!

Gavin cursed his fragile memory—in the excitement of finding Kendra ripe for the picking on the side of the road, he'd neglected to stop for cat food. Art ate more than a cat his size had a right to, and Gavin was forever running out of food for him. He should join one of those clubs, buy it in bulk. He just never got around to it—it was simpler to grab Art's food when he bought his own.

No help for it, the cat had to eat. He made sure the house was secure, then drove the five miles to the Publix. He ran into the grocery store and bought several packages of Whiskas and a twenty-pound bag of dry food. That should keep them for a while.

At the self-checkout, he started thinking about yesterday, about his luck. His mood lightened. He got so excited he dropped his wallet on the floor. He needed to calm down; someone would notice. He paid for the cat food,
exited with the food in his reusable bags, then climbed in the Prius. He couldn't wait to get home, to see if he'd just been dreaming, or if there really was a new doll waiting for him.

He was two miles from home when he passed a Metro police car sitting on the side of the road. The officer inside the vehicle had a radar gun trained on him. Gavin wasn't worried, he wasn't a speeder. No sense in drawing attention to yourself. But to his surprise, the officer moved the patrol car out into traffic, right onto Gavin's bumper. Then he hit his lights.

Panic bloomed in Gavin's chest. Surely not. How could that have happened so quickly? Had the doll managed to get out of the box, found a way to call for help? The knock in the night; had the person come back and somehow entered the house? Oh, Jesus, what was he going to do?

The blue-and-white lights were still flashing frantically behind him. He knew he had no chance to get away, so he pulled over. Bluff. He could bluff. Think what Morte would do if he were caught like this.

Swallowing hard, he put down the window, flashing back to the scene just hours before when the luscious Kendra appeared at his side. This time it wasn't a stunning young black girl, but a thick and burly sandy-blond police officer. A weightlifter. Gavin recognized the signs; he was a fan of the gym himself, though he was more streamlined than this behemoth. The officer approached the window slowly, left hand on his hip. With his right, he touched the back of the car, palm down. He wasn't smiling. He came to the window and glared at Gavin.

“License, registration and proof of insurance, please,” the policeman said.

Gavin fumbled for the information. He managed to get the wallet out and his license in hand. Registration,
where was his registration? Oh, that's right, the console. Paper-clipped to his insurance card. Tennessee required proof of insurance, there were serious fines and you could lose your license without it. Something Gavin would never risk.

He handed the material to the officer, still not speaking. Gavin was scared to death. The officer took his information and returned to his patrol car.

It was five minutes before the officer returned to Gavin's window.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked.

“N-no,” Gavin stuttered. Stop blathering, Gavin. “No, sir.” His voice was shaking. The officer noticed.

“Everything okay in there?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry, I haven't been pulled over before.”

The cop got more conversational. “Ever?”

“Never.” Gavin gave him a small smile.

“Well, you're not wearing your seat belt. That's a ticketable offense. I'm going to have to give you a citation. You can pay it online or appear in court on July 17. Since you're a first offender, traffic school will wipe your record clean. I'd just pay the ticket and do that if I were you. No points against your insurance.”

Gavin didn't hear a word. The police officer was going to let him go. His seat belt! Gavin's hand went to his shoulder. No, he hadn't fastened it. What a lapse. He never forgot the seat belt. Scattered mind. He quickly clicked it into place.

“Yes, of course. I understand. Thank you so much. You're very kind.” Maybe he was pouring it on too thick. “I mean, I'll pay it.” Stop talking, Gavin.

The officer handed him the slip of hard white paper, then wished him a pleasant day. Gavin watched him get
back into his patrol car and speak on his radio. Not quite sure if he should leave or not, Gavin waited a few moments, then carefully turned the engine over, flipped on his blinker, and slowly eased back onto the road. The cop didn't follow.

He debated driving past his driveway, but the cop already had his address. No sense in pretending he didn't live there.

He needed to get rid of the doll immediately. What a thoroughly depressing thought. He needed to talk to Morte. Morte would tell him what to do. But Morte wasn't speaking to him. There had been no contact since his blowup yesterday. Now Gavin was in trouble, and Necro was the only place he could turn.

He unlocked the basement, ran down the stairs. He booted up the computer, started a private chat with Necro. No answer. Oh, all of his friends were deserting him in his hour of need.

He had to try one last time with Morte. Beg, plead, whatever it took.

He typed the words, chewing on his lower lip. He didn't hear anything but the tapping of his fingers on the keyboard.

 

Morte, I'm in trouble. I need your help. I swear on my life that I never knew there was a connection between us professionally. I'm still trying to digest that. But please, for now just forgive me. Talk to me. I need you. Please.

 

He sat back, swung his chair around to face the doll. She was staring at him. He could see the fury in her eyes. A warmth began to spread through his chest. He snatched up his camera and started taking pictures. He was so absorbed that he almost missed the discreet chirp that
signaled a new message. The doll shut her eyes and the spell was broken. He returned to his seat, delighted and relieved to see the flashing icon.

Morte had returned to the chat room.

 

Tell me the truth, Gavin. Yesterday was an accident?

 

Gavin's heart leapt into his throat. His brain wasn't working—his fingers typed the letters without mental command.

 

You're talking about the e-mail I sent to Tommaso? Yes. That was a fluke. Morte, tell me the truth. Are you Tommaso?

 

A pause, then the three letters appeared on the page.

 

Yes.

 

Gavin felt his world shattering with possibility. Tommaso was Morte. Tommaso. Was. Il Morte. Tommaso, the man whose work he most admired, the artist, the most incredible photographer in the world was also the architect of his online world, his sanity, the man who'd set Gavin free. The man who'd encouraged, loved him like a brother. Gave Gavin the only real family he'd ever had—that hag who'd adopted him didn't count.

He didn't know what to do.

 

Gavin, are you there?

 

Gavin fought tears as he typed.

 

I didn't know. I swear to you, I didn't know. Please don't be mad.

 

I believe you, Gavin. There's no real way for you to have tracked me down. I felt it had to be divine intervention. We were meant to be together this way. Through our words, and our actions. You have been an apt pupil.

 

Gavin started to breathe again. It was all going to be okay. Morte would fix things. He always did.

 

Now, tell me what's wrong.

 

Oh, Morte. I got a ticket.

 

A ticket? Like a speeding ticket?

 

No.

 

Gavin needed to tell him everything. The story spilled out, mistakes littering his words as he typed, careless and intense. When he finished, he sat back, panting.

Morte's answer came quickly.

 

Oh, you stupid, stupid boy. You knew better. You must get rid of the doll. You're on their radar now, whether they know it or not.

 

I can't get rid of her. It's not time yet.

 

Fool! Don't you understand? Think, for a moment, Gavin. You can't risk losing everything. Strangle the
bitch and be done with her. DO NOT PLAY WITH HER. Dispose of the body someplace quiet, don't pose her or leave a clue. Nothing that can be traced to you.

 

There was a pause, then another message appeared.

 

I think it's time we meet in person. Do you have a passport?

 

Yes, I do.

 

Dump the girl, pack a bag. I'll send you instructions and a plane ticket. Follow the instructions exactly, Gavin. We can't have you getting caught.

 

Morte?

 

Yes.

 

You've been calling me Gavin. How did you know my real name?

 

Gavin hated to say goodbye to his dolls.

The glow from the monitor bathed him in muted gray. He flipped through the pictures he'd taken, one by one. Slowly, so slowly. Light flashed across his face as the gallery forwarded to the next shot. His finger grew wet on the mouse, a droplet of sweat gathered on the cord. It slid down the white worm and onto the floor, making a dark spot on the concrete.

Click.

That was the one. That was his favorite. Oh, the fire, the fury in those wide brown eyes. The blush rising from
her depths, her cheeks aflame. He could practically hear the beads in her hair clicking in protest. Even the smattering of freckles on her latte-colored skin looked angry.

Defiant
was the best word for her. She refused to bend. Refused to acknowledge that her life was going to end. He could see it, forcing itself from behind the dilated pupils, some insane hope that he wouldn't kill her.

Click. He went past his favorite, but returned quickly to the earlier shot. The only noise was his labored breathing. He checked himself. Panting like a dog. How disgusting. He modulated his breath, then looked back at the screen.

There was that spark again, right there, the fourth shot. Oh, the power in those eyes. The slim jaw, the hollowed cheekbones, her clavicle sticking out like a sword from her shoulder. The hint of her breasts, just the slightest swelling. The memory of those dark ruby nipples.

Click.

The next shot wasn't as intoxicating. The spark faded to resignation. He'd captured the moment perfectly. He preferred the righteous indignation she'd showered into the lens, though there was something to be said for the moment of truth.

Click. Click.

Click, click. Click, click.

He really should listen to Tommaso's instructions and destroy his hard drive, erase everything. He couldn't travel with the computer anyway for fear of someone getting their hands on it or losing it. His finger lingered on the mouse. He couldn't do it. He couldn't destroy his whole world. He opened a spare thumb drive, copied all his photos onto it. Then he opened an administrative program, created a password protection system that would encrypt the files within. No one would guess this
password. He spoke aloud as he did it, talking to the doll. So sweet. Once he was done, he shut it all off.

Despite Tommaso's instructions, Gavin felt it was crazy to destroy something that might not need destroying. He would be coming back.

He abandoned the computer, turned on the small desk lamp. The forty-watt incandescent bulb highlighted the doll, drawing her away from the shadows.

She had never truly surrendered.

He had loved her. He loved her still.

But it was time to get rid of her. He got out the syringe he kept in cases of emergency, just like this.

He had power now. A more important journey. A purpose.

He was going to join his brother.

B
aldwin listened to Highsmythe's summary of his three murder cases with half an ear. Unlike Baldwin, he didn't seem the least bit hungover. Considering he'd outpaced Baldwin to the bottom of the bottle, that was telling.

Memphis was a good speaker, his thoroughness with the cases showing. His investigation had been done right, by the book, methodical and patient, truly a virtue in police work.

Baldwin tuned back in. He'd already heard all of this yesterday. The London murders had started three months earlier. Three prostitutes, three strangulations. All three were staged, all three left with a postcard of a painting: the first was
Flaming June
by Frederic Lord Leighton, the second,
Venus, Satryr and Cupid
by Correggio, the third was
The Tepidarium
by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema. All the paintings were of women reclining. The Leighton was the only one who depicted a woman clothed, and that particular crime scene matched—the victim wasn't naked but dressed in a long, flowing nightgown.

Memphis had prepared a slide show, was going through each scene in detail. He'd show the actual crime
scene, then the postcard, then the two superimposed together, then side by side. The resemblance of the dead victims to the paintings was uncanny.

All three women were strangled, all three were small and exceptionally skinny. It hadn't been determined whether they were starved like the Italian victims, or were skinny as more of an occupational hazard. All three women had been repeatedly sexually assaulted postmortem. DNA found on victim number three was the key to the match between Italy and London.

Il Macellaio was evolving into a more efficient, opportunistic killer, and something had changed in his life. Something that made him alter his preferred method of killing. Anything could tip a psychotic over the edge. There were common denominators that Baldwin could draw on to explain this sudden shift. A death, for example, or a significant job loss. A momentous stressor.

Adding in the total shift in the States to women of African descent, they had another confounding piece of the puzzle. The carabinieri had faxed a report—none of the few murders with black female victims matched Il Macellaio's M.O.

Baldwin relayed this to Memphis, who just nodded and turned the floor over to Baldwin's team so they could formulate their plan of attack.

Baldwin listened to Pietra discussing the forensics with Memphis, writing himself notes on what type of man he thought this killer was. When he was done, his notepad looked like chicken scratch, but he was beginning to feel closer to the truth.

He looked around the table. Files, photographs, paper for all the cases were stacked neatly along the center. His team listening hard, heads cocked at angles, notes being taken. A whiteboard to his right was full of conjecture,
the one to his left held facts. The left was meager in comparison. That would change after this.

Memphis tapped his finger on the edge of one of the Radnor Lake photos. “He's obviously escalating.”

Baldwin nodded. “Well, two bodies in two days, yes, I'd agree.”

“I mean escalating as an artist. His Nashville crime scenes were fully realized. The London scenes that I've worked weren't nearly as elegant. Even his Italian murders weren't this elaborate. This chap thinks he is an artist. The two crime scenes from Nashville are realizations of the paintings he's recreating, not just posed. It took time, and planning and effort. My London cases were slaughters, nothing more. The postcards almost felt like an afterthought. Either he's getting very, very good at this, or he's getting sloppy.”

Baldwin nodded in agreement, then started his portion of the program. The profile was as complete as he could make it, and made for a chilling narrative. He was pleased with the results.

There were five sections to the profile. Charlaine had typed them up into proper presentation format, with a front page full of information and disclaimers. The first few pages of the profile were the summary, a breakdown of all fourteen cases on record, details of what was found at the individual crime scenes and evidentiary material relevant to the cases. Namely, the two matching DNA samples from the recovered hairs.

The next section dealt with the victimology. They had looked carefully at the apparent patterns—all of the European victims were white females, all were fine-boned and small in stature, between eighteen and twenty-six years of age. Their hair color ranged from dark blond to medium brown, their eye colors varied. He wasn't
killing the same woman over and over, but he definitely had a type. All thirteen victims had been posed as a painting, all had a postcard of the painting they'd been used to recreate left at the scene.

Memphis's point was something that particularly fascinated Baldwin—II Macellaio had fully realized the fantasy of the painting in the Love Hill crime scene, placing the victim not only in a staged environment, but with the painting itself nearby. He was evolving, setting the most elaborate of tableaux. It was more than just the kill, more than having sex with the bodies. He was staging differently, opening the door to more mistakes.

He turned it over to Charlaine, let her explain the differences, the exceptions that stood out starkly. In Italy, the early victims had starved, while the later victims had been strangled. All of the London victims had been strangled. The time frame in Italy was practically leisurely compared to London: ten women over ten years versus three women in three months. The victim type had changed as well. The Italian women were students—shy, mousy girls who didn't have a lot of friends and wouldn't be quickly missed. In London, as in Nashville, the victims were prostitutes, an inherently high-risk profession where they, too, might not be reported missing immediately.

The dump sites for the London victims were especially notable—all were found in public, rather than the Italian victims, who'd been left in the hills surrounding Florence à la II Mostro, Florence's most infamous serial killer. The London women had been found much quicker than the Italians. The Nashville victims had been left in places they would be found that would increase the shock factor, yet another discrepancy.

Honestly, if they didn't have a DNA match, he'd think this was a copycat.

That started him down a whole different path. Yes, the Pretender had called, had let them know right from the beginning that he had nothing to do with the crime on Love Circle. But what if he was lying? He had to keep that in the back of his mind.

The Pretender could have planted the DNA in London. And if all the DNA in Tennessee matched, too…well, they knew he'd been there.

Though this didn't feel like the Pretender. All the murders he'd copied so far had one thing in common. Blood. He liked blood. None of these murders had any. No, this just didn't feel like him.

He forced himself back to the profile, back to what Charlaine was saying about the London murders. The profile stated Il Macellaio wasn't living in his own place in London—he had taken a temporary apartment or was staying in a hotel. Visiting. Which meant the profile must be disseminated to other countries so they could look at unsolved murders that may match. It wasn't so strange for a serial killer to be transient, but it was uncommon for him to be moving from country to country. If their killer was a traveler, he'd be in the system, somewhere.

They still needed to ascertain what took Il Macellaio from Italy to England and to the United States. Contract work fit that scenario.

The second set of criteria, the Abduction Environment, showed that all the London victims had been taken off the street, while the Italians were kidnapped from environments where they'd feel safe, namely their homes. The London victims' profession again stood out—being prostitutes, they'd be more likely to get in the car with a strange man.

The third part of the profile determined whether the killer was organized or disorganized, an easy one for
Baldwin's team. Il Macellaio was clearly an organized offender who brought his preferred weapon to the crime, planned every detail, hunted outside his immediate neighborhood, and was most likely a friendly, affable, pleasant man who had friends. The boy next door. Someone people would be shocked to find out was a killer. He could move among the masses easily.

The assessment was the meat of the profile. It covered more victim evaluations, whether the women were targeted or were representative victims. Baldwin felt that Il Macellaio was combining the two elements: targeting women who helped him live out a detailed fantasy, specifically, having sex with their dead bodies. He was certain Il Macellaio had been exposed to death during his youth.

The last section covered specific suggestions, who to look for, what type of behavior, the level of sophistication to expect, what the motivations were, everything that a law enforcement agency would need to capture, interrogate and try this particular killer.

In the end, they had an exceptionally clear picture of their killer. Evidence, instinct, and years of investigative experience told them what kind of man they were looking for.

They were ready to hunt the hunter.