The Soul Catcher (37 page)

“Y
ou don’t know it’s the same Joseph Everett,” Tully said from the doorway, watching O’Dell’s fingers fly over her computer keyboard.

“Unlikely that there are two Reverend Joseph Everetts in the Virginia area,” she said without a glance, but he recognized that anxious tone in her voice, and he couldn’t help thinking, “Here we go again.”

He became a little nervous whenever O’Dell got that tone in her voice and a certain look in her eyes, like she was on a personal mission. The last time it happened, the two of them ended up in a burning house with O’Dell saving his life—
after
he took a bullet to his thigh.

He was relieved, however, that they might actually have some answers. And also relieved that Emma had gotten through the morning. O’Dell was right. Emma was an incredibly brave and smart girl. And before Agent LaPlatz volunteered to drive her back to Reston High, he embarrassed his brave, smart daughter with a hug and told her how proud he was of her.

Tully watched as O’Dell brought up some sort of document and began scrolling through it. He looked over at Dr. Patterson, who sat in the overstuffed lounge chair O’Dell had managed to squeeze into her small office. There had been several late nights when he had found his partner curled up and asleep in it. All of their offices in BSU were small, but O’Dell had a knack for organizing, using every inch of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and little cubbyholes to keep piles off chairs and off the floor, so that even with the lounge chair, her office looked cozy but not overcrowded. Not like his own, which reminded him some days of a storage closet with walking paths to his desk.

Dr. Patterson had removed her heels, and Tully watched absently as she made herself comfortable, tucking her legs underneath her. In doing so, she hiked up her skirt. She had great legs. Trim ankles. Firm, smooth thighs. Jeez! What the hell was wrong with him? He looked away as if caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Usually Gwen Patterson bugged the hell out of him. There seemed to be nothing they agreed on. The last time he and O’Dell were working late, they stopped at her huge Tudor in Newburgh Heights, where Dr. Patterson had been dog-sitting. The three of them decided to order takeout. If he remembered correctly, he and Patterson had gotten into an argument over Chinese or pizza, debating each food’s nonnutritional value. Of course, she was supposed to be the expert, being a so-called gourmet cook. Yeah, she irritated the hell out of him. Didn’t mean she couldn’t have great legs, though. Maybe thinking about Caroline over the weekend had simply reminded him—

“Here’s something.” O’Dell interrupted his rambling thoughts. “It’s a court document. It’s old—1975. That’s over twenty-five years ago. Everett would have been…what do you think…in his twenties?”

“We don’t even know yet if Everett is involved.”

“Cunningham must think so or he wouldn’t be sending you and Gwen to Boston to interview the lone survivor. And he didn’t hesitate when I asked to arrange a meeting with someone from Everett’s organization. Maybe even an ex-member. In fact, he told me he’d call Senator Brier and see if he had any connections.”

O’Dell kept her back to them while she read. Dr. Patterson was ignoring the two of them, rolling her shoulders and slowly massaging her temples—perhaps some relaxation routine she was used to doing to unwind. Tully found it distracting as hell. He finally gave in and came to O’Dell’s side to look at what she had found.

“Not like a trip to Boston will do much good,” Tully said. “The kid wasn’t willing to talk at the cabin when we had him scared out of his wits. I can’t imagine he’ll spill anything now after he’s had a nice warm place to sleep and three square meals.”

“What makes you think that fear can be the only motivating force to get a suspect to talk?” Dr. Patterson asked without disturbing her temple rubbing.

Now that Tully was out of her line of vision he could safely steal a glance at her shiny, strawberry-blond hair. The woman was definitely attractive. Suddenly, she turned to look up at him.

“No really, what makes you think fear is the only way to go?”

“Fear’s usually what works best on that age group,” he told her.

This time O’Dell looked over her shoulder. “Isn’t that exactly what you told me the other day, Gwen?”

“Not exactly. I said fear most likely made them think they didn’t have an alternative when their natural instinct should have been to fight. But from what I understand, this boy spit his cyanide capsule out. Which would tell me that fear might not be a motivating factor for him.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Tully said, and realized he was already feeling defensive. Why did she do that to him? He wasn’t a defensive kind of guy. But now both Patterson and O’Dell were waiting for an explanation. “I know you think spitting the cyanide out could be a sign of him wanting to stick around to fight. But maybe he was simply scared to die. Isn’t that possible?”

“Whoever convinced these boys to take cyanide certainly would have convinced them that they would be tortured and killed if taken alive.” Dr. Patterson was no longer relaxing. Even her legs had come out from under her. “That this boy was willing to take that chance tells me that he’s looking for and hoping for a safe haven.”

“Really? You can tell all that even before you’ve met the kid.”

“Okay, you two.” O’Dell put up her hands in mock surrender. “Maybe I should be going to Boston with you, Gwen.”

“You need to talk to your mother,” Gwen answered, keeping her eyes on Tully as if planning her next offensive.

“You promise you two won’t kill each other?” O’Dell smiled.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Gwen said, smiling at O’Dell. However, O’Dell seemed to be waiting for confirmation from Tully.

“We’ll be fine,” he said, now anxious to change the subject, because even though Patterson made him defensive, she hadn’t realized her skirt was still hiked up to her thighs. He turned back to the computer screen. “What did you find?”

“I have no idea if it’s the same Joseph Everett, but at twenty-two years of age and from Arlington, Virginia, it could very well be. He was charged with rape. The nineteen-year-old girl was a second-year journalism student at the University of Virginia.”

The phone suddenly rang, and O’Dell grabbed it. “O’Dell.”

Tully pretended to read the computer screen, trying to keep his attention away from Patterson.

“What makes you think that?” O’Dell asked, then waited. Whoever it was hadn’t given much of an explanation. O’Dell frowned as she said, “Okay, I’ll be there.”

She hung up the phone. “That was Racine,” she said, swiveling her chair back to the computer. “I’ll print out copies,” she told Tully as she hit the print icon, listened for the printer to groan into action, then started closing down the Internet site. “She thinks she has something I need to take a look at.”

There was an emphasis on “she thinks” and enough sarcasm to prompt Tully to try again. “What is it with you and Racine?”

“I told you. I don’t trust her.”

“No. You told me you didn’t like her.”

“Same thing,” she said as she whipped two copies from the printer tray, handing one to Tully and folding the other for herself. “Any chance you could check if this is our Joseph Everett before you leave?”

“Sure. If he has a criminal conviction for rape, it’ll be easy to track.”

“Unfortunately, this is all we’ve got.” She held up her copy. “There won’t be any other documents. The girl dropped the charges.” She put on her jacket, then stopped and looked from Tully to Gwen. “Everett must have been good at instilling fear, even back then.”

H
e knew he shouldn’t be taking the concoction in between kills. Too much recreational usage would water down the effects, but he needed something to calm him. He needed something to battle the anger and fear…no, not fear. They couldn’t scare him. He simply wouldn’t allow it. They were out to stop him, to keep him from his mission, but he couldn’t let them get to him. He was stronger than that. He simply needed a reminder that he was stronger. That was all this was. A simple reminder.

He sat back and waited. He knew he could count on the exotic concoction’s special effects, its healing magic, its hidden strength. Already he was using almost twice the original dosage. But right now, none of that mattered. Right now, all he wanted to do was sit quietly and enjoy the psychedelic light show that always occurred afterward. Yes. After he accessed the strength and the rush of adrenaline, then came the light show. It flashed behind his eyes and caused the zinging inside his head. The flashes looked like tiny little angels shaped like stars, flitting from one side of the room to the other. It was absolutely beautiful.

He grasped the book and caressed the smooth leather. The book. How could he have done any of this without it? It had inspired the heat, the passion, the anger, the need, the justification. And it would provide the validation, as well.

He took deep breaths and closed his eyes, enjoying the warm, calm sweep through him. Yes, now he was prepared for the next step.

H
e knew he shouldn’t be taking the concoction in between kills. Too much recreational usage would water down the effects, but he needed something to calm him. He needed something to battle the anger and fear…no, not fear. They couldn’t scare him. He simply wouldn’t allow it. They were out to stop him, to keep him from his mission, but he couldn’t let them get to him. He was stronger than that. He simply needed a reminder that he was stronger. That was all this was. A simple reminder.

He sat back and waited. He knew he could count on the exotic concoction’s special effects, its healing magic, its hidden strength. Already he was using almost twice the original dosage. But right now, none of that mattered. Right now, all he wanted to do was sit quietly and enjoy the psychedelic light show that always occurred afterward. Yes. After he accessed the strength and the rush of adrenaline, then came the light show. It flashed behind his eyes and caused the zinging inside his head. The flashes looked like tiny little angels shaped like stars, flitting from one side of the room to the other. It was absolutely beautiful.

He grasped the book and caressed the smooth leather. The book. How could he have done any of this without it? It had inspired the heat, the passion, the anger, the need, the justification. And it would provide the validation, as well.

He took deep breaths and closed his eyes, enjoying the warm, calm sweep through him. Yes, now he was prepared for the next step.

T
he moon peeked over the District skyline just as Maggie pulled her Toyota into the empty parking lot. She could see the yellow crime scene tape, flapping in the wind, blocking off the entrance to the viaduct. Several officers paced and waited, but she couldn’t see Racine. A mobile crime scene lab passed by as Maggie finished the last bite of her drive-thru dinner, a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder and fries. She got out of the car and brushed the excess salt from her knit shirt, then exchanged her suit jacket for her navy FBI windbreaker.

She dug under the front seat and pulled out a pair of rubber boots, low-tops that she slipped over her leather shoes. Out of habit, she started to reach for her forensic kit, too, then stopped. The medical examiner’s station wagon was already parked alongside the concrete wall, next to the opening of the viaduct. No sense in ticking off Stan any more than she already had.

However, as Maggie walked toward the scene, she wasn’t surprised to see Wayne Prashard emerging from the viaduct entrance instead of Stan. Not only had Stan probably had his share of after-hours call-ins for one week, but he certainly wouldn’t make the trip himself for some homeless woman. Maggie wasn’t quite sure why Racine was so certain she should be here, either. She hoped it wasn’t some ploy. Who knew what Racine could be up to.

Prashard nodded at Maggie as he opened the back of the wagon. “She won’t let me touch a goddamn thing until you take a look.”

“Good to see you, too, Wayne.”

“Sorry.” He surrendered a smile and his normal bulldog face creased into friendly lines. “It’s just that sometimes she can be such a pain in the ass, you know what I mean?”

Yes, she knew exactly what he meant, but she only smiled. Prashard wasn’t finished, though. “She never used to be that way.”

“Really?” Maggie couldn’t imagine Racine any other way.

“All she cares about now is making sure everyone knows she’s in charge. But before she made detective she was actually nice,” he said while he brought out a body bag from the back of the wagon. “Maybe a little too nice, if you know what I mean.” He glanced at Maggie and winked.

She ignored his invitation to join in trashing the detective. She might not like Racine, but she had never resorted to idle gossip about other law enforcement officers. She wasn’t about to start now. And it did look as if Prashard had a story or two he wanted to share. Instead, she turned to leave. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t know Racine before she made detective.” And she left it at that.

As she continued toward the entrance, she checked the area, aware of the noisy traffic overhead, flashes of headlights between six-foot guardrails. The smell of diesel emanated from the bus terminal on the other side of the small empty parking lot where engines were left running and several mechanics climbed in and around the Greyhound buses. About a half-dozen broken-down buses lined the chain-link fence, blocking a direct view of the viaduct’s entrance.

Except for where the mechanics worked, the place was badly lit. It was dark and noisy, but deserted, and Maggie wondered why anyone would come here voluntarily. Except that the arch of concrete—more a tunnel than an arch—would provide shelter from the wind, if not some warmth. She could understand why it might be an enticing spot for someone looking to set up her cardboard home. Also an enticing spot for someone looking for a victim.

“Oh, good! You’re here.” Racine appeared and held up a section of crime scene tape for Maggie to crawl under.

Maggie could smell the body as soon as she walked into the tunnel. Racine led the way, carefully stepping around two crime lab technicians, one crawling the grid pattern with a flashlight, brush and plastic bags while the other set up several spotlights.

At the other opening, leaning against the cold concrete wall, sat a naked woman, stark and gray in the sharp glare of a spotlight. Her eyes were wide open, the corners already filled with white clusters of maggot larvae. Her head lolled to one side, revealing several ligature marks across her neck. Her dirty-and-smudged face was bloated, her mouth duct-taped shut. Her hands were folded into her lap, the wrists facing forward as if to show off the welts from where handcuffs had restrained her. Maggie noticed the insides of her elbows were clean, no track marks from needles. She hadn’t been lured here by the promise of drugs. There was no cardboard box, no shopping cart, no other personal belongings, other than the carefully folded rags stacked about a yard away.

“What do you think?”

She realized Racine was watching her and waiting while Maggie examined the scene, careful where she stepped and letting her eyes collect the evidence.

“The posing of the body looks very similar.”

“Looks fucking identical,” Racine said. “Although I get the idea we won’t find any ID stuffed down her throat.”

“She certainly doesn’t fit the victimology of our guy,” Maggie said, squatting in front of the body to get a better look. She was staring directly into the corpse’s empty eyes. The woman had been dead for more than thirty-six hours, the rigor mortis already leaving the body pliable again. Maggie could tell this by gently lifting one hand and carefully letting it fall back into place.

“I wish the hell you wouldn’t touch the stiff,” Prashard said from the entrance, making his way inside, staying close to the concrete wall.

“But she’s not stiff anymore. She’s been dead for a while. You have any estimates?” Maggie asked without getting up.

“I’m guessing forty-eight hours, but it’s a major guess since I haven’t been able to touch a fucking thing yet.” He shot a look at Racine, but she wasn’t paying attention. Instead, she was still watching Maggie.

“Check this out,” Racine said, bringing out a penlight and shining it at the dirt floor of the tunnel.

Maggie got up and went to Racine’s side. About five feet in front of the body was what looked like a circular indent in the dirt, although it and the area around it looked scuffed on purpose as if in an attempt to erase it and possibly other marks like it.

“Tully’s signature,” Racine said. “I don’t know what the hell it is, but tell me that’s not the exact weird imprint we found at the monument yesterday morning.”

Maggie looked around the tunnel again. The scene looked too similar to be a coincidence. “Forty-eight hours ago would put time of death at Saturday night. Why in the world would he target and kill a senator’s daughter and then some random homeless woman?”

“Maybe the guy’s just really fucked up?” Racine suggested.

“No. Both scenes are much too organized.” Maggie looked to Prashard. “Wayne, would you mind checking the victim’s mouth?”

“Out here?”

“Yes. It would be helpful and speed things up if we can check to see if anything is left inside her mouth.”

“I don’t know.” Prashard shrugged and scratched his head as though Maggie was asking him to do the autopsy out in the field. “It’s highly unusual.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Prashard,” Racine yelled at him. “Just do it.”

To Maggie’s stunned surprise, Prashard started getting out latex gloves and a pair of forceps from his bag. Then he took position over the body, bending stiffly at the waist instead of getting down on his knees.

Maggie glanced at Racine, who seemed neither pleased nor angry with the assistant medical examiner. Instead, the detective came in closer, crossed her arms over her chest and waited, pointing the penlight, ready to peek inside. Suddenly moonlight streamed into the exit, just above the arch, and illuminating the woman’s whole face, making her eyes glitter.

“Jesus!” Racine said. “That’s pretty freaky.” She glanced back at Maggie, and Maggie tried to remember when there had been a full moon, or if it was still to come. And did it mean anything?

“What exactly are we looking for?” Prashard asked, ignoring Racine and the sudden moonlight as he continued to peel back the gray duct tape, inch by inch, taking care to not lift away any skin. Maggie grabbed a plastic evidence bag from Prashard’s case and held it open for him to put the tape in.

“Should be a capsule,” Racine answered. “Check the inside of her cheeks.”

“You mean like poison?”

“Just check, Prashard. Jesus!” The detective seemed a bit unnerved and impatient.

Prashard finally opened the woman’s mouth, but before he could insert a gloved finger, quarters came spilling out.

“What the hell?” Racine shone the penlight, so that even standing over Racine’s shoulder, Maggie could see quite clearly. The woman’s mouth looked like a black, decaying slot machine filled with shiny coins, spilling out like she’d just hit the jackpot.