Glimpse of Death: A Riveting Serial Killer Thriller Page 18

  A moment of silence filled the conference line, and the amplifier kicked in, generating an annoying, buzzing sound.

  “Look, I think I can get somewhere with this,” she insisted. “I believe if we can somehow mix emotions and life experiences in the facial features of these men, we can get even closer. Emotions leave their marks on people’s faces, Doc.”

  Another moment of silence, most likely while Doc processed her idea. “Why don’t you throw in some correlations too?” he offered. “Statistical findings.”

  “Such as?”

  “For example, there’s a documented, strong correlation between the width of someone’s face and their predisposition to violence. Your killer unsub is more likely to have a wide face.”

  “Can you dig up more of this stuff, Doc?” she asked, sounding excited for the first time since the phone had rung.

  “Sure I can,” he confirmed.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Donovan said. “I just found a commonality point buried deep in the victims’ background. Lisa Trask and Sarah Thomas had the same yoga instructor. Both women paid him in cash.”

  35

  New Arrival

  Katherine stood near the bed where the new girl lay and watched her shift in her sleep. She was curled in the fetal position, and her long, wavy hair covered most of her face. She was about to wake up, judging by the small movements she made, and that meant Katherine would have to put up with her shock, her tears, and her denial.

  Katherine clenched her jaws and crossed her arms at her chest, continuing to wait. She was a doctor, one who had the calling and drive to care about other people, about their well-being. Yet she didn’t feel up to it, not there in the deepest recess of hell. The new arrival forced her to relive her own despair after realizing she’d been taken away from everything she loved on earth. To make things worse, her bedside manner had vanished about the time she felt relieved that the man had brought someone else instead of coming for her.

  She had mixed feelings about the new girl’s abduction. She’d been relieved at first, because whenever she heard the man unlock the door that could only mean two things, and this one was the least painful option for her. Yet it was contradictory, the temporary solace she felt, knowing that she’d be killed soon, now that the new girl was there.

  It had happened the same way with Sarah; shortly after Katherine was kidnapped and brought to that abhorrent detention room, Sarah was killed while she watched helplessly, and the memory of Sarah’s cries of pain still haunted her weary mind. What little she knew about serial killers and rapists told her she didn’t have much longer to live, and she welcomed the thought. There was no way she could escape her agony, and she’d lost hope to be rescued a long time ago. She just wished death would be quick, because she knew for sure it wasn’t going to be painless.

  The thought of losing her loved ones, of never seeing Craig again, of never holding her son in her arms again, that was unbearable. It broke her heart and weakened her spirit, and she’d tried anything she could think of to change the mind of the man who took her. She’d begged him, implored at his feet, offered him money, even drugs—a lifelong supply. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t trade for her freedom, but the man was unimpressed and went about his routine the same way he’d done with Sarah. Resigned, at some point Katherine had to accept that the monster didn’t even see her as human; only as an object, a device he used to get what he needed, every time he needed it, and nothing more. He didn’t care if she was hurting, not more than he’d care if his car door made a loud sound when he slammed it shut. And with that, she couldn’t deal; she just wanted everything to be over already. There was no hope.

  The girl shifted again, and this time rubbed her eyes with her fisted hands, then opened them a little, blinded by the strong, fluorescent lights. Then, as she realized what was going on, her pupils dilated, and her mouth gaped to let out a blood-curdling scream. She jumped out of bed and scampered around, looking for a way out.

  Katherine stood calmly, waiting for her to process her situation. The young woman sobbed uncontrollably, pounding with both her fists against the massive door. Yeah… she’d done that too, and to no avail.

  She finally settled in an exhausted heap on the floor, near the door, and Katherine approached her slowly. “What’s your name?” she asked, as gently as she could, although she felt nothing but an all-consuming rage against their captors, against life itself.

  “Stacy… Stacy Rodriguez.”

  “I’m Katherine Nelson, or Dr. Nelson if you prefer.”

  Stacy nodded, tears flowing in rivulets down her stained cheeks. She hugged herself, right there on the floor where she’d collapsed after realizing that door wasn’t going to open.

  “You’ve been kidnapped,” Katherine said sternly, “by two men. At some point in the near future, you will be raped. Don’t—”

  “Oh, God…” Stacy said and her sobs resumed.

  “Don’t fight the assault,” Katherine continued. “As much as you can, don’t fight it. All you’re going to get is more vaginal tearing, and life here is horrible enough without that to endure. They’re still going to do what they want to do, so there’s no point resisting.”

  Stacy had buried her face in her hands and flailed her legs as if trying to run from Katherine, but her back was against the wall and there wasn’t anywhere she could go. Katherine knew she wasn’t really running from her; she was merely trying to escape the reality she’d been dealt.

  “Think of a place that makes you happy, and send your mind there; escape this hell at least in thought,” Katherine continued. “It’s called dissociation, or detachment; practice it here with me, and be ready to do it in there, with them,” she pointed at the dark window.

  “But… how?” Stacy whimpered.

  “I’ll teach you,” Katherine sighed. “They can do things to your body, but they won’t reach your mind unless you let them.”

  Stacy pulled her legs under her body and clenched her hands in her lap. She tightened her lips in an effort to control her tears, but her chin still trembled. It would take her a while.

  “How bad is it?” she asked in a quiet whisper. “The rape?”

  How was she supposed to answer Stacy’s question? Words couldn’t begin to describe, unless she used the clinical terminology employed in medicolegal examinations of sexual assault victims. What good would that do, other than terrify her more? She swallowed, trying to block the memories that invaded her brain. How powerless she’d felt, the despair, the pain… and then the excruciating anguish of the endless hours waiting for the next attack, fearing every sound, every passing minute, knowing it would happen again, and again.

  “They’re not too bad,” she managed to say, but turned away instinctively, to hide her lie. “Just do as I told you, and it will be better.”

  “What’s with all these clothes?” Stacy asked, pointing at the pile of abandoned garments on the floor.

  There was never going to be a good time to tell Stacy what she needed to hear, and there was no easy way. Might as well do it quickly and be done with it.

  “I guess you should know these bastards want us to stay naked the entire time,” Katherine said, “but I decided I wasn’t going to do that. They’re going to hurt me no matter what, so I’d rather hold on to whatever self-esteem I can. However, if you prefer to do what they—”

  “No, I don’t,” Stacy replied firmly. “But what’s with all that?”

  Katherine didn’t say anything for a while, and turned her face away from Stacy. A wave of sadness overwhelmed her, sadness for all the innocent girls who’d found their demise in that hellish torture chamber, leaving nothing behind except for a heap of discarded clothing.

  “I’m… not the first one they took,” she eventually replied, her whispered words bringing instant pallor to Stacy’s tear-streaked face.

  “How many?”

  “Too many,” Katherine replied, then invited Stacy to come with her with a quick hand gesture. She
took her near to the bedpost where she could see the names scribbled on the wall.

  Stacy looked at the wall with eyes rounded in shock, but didn’t say a word. She just sat on the edge of the bed and took Katherine’s hand, squeezing it tight.

  “We’re already dead, aren’t we?” she whispered.

  All Katherine could do was nod. There was nothing left to say.

  36

  Sketches

  Tess hung up the conference line and immediately speed-dialed a number on her cell. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet, but he wouldn’t mind.

  “Gary?” she said, keeping her voice low, as soon as the call connected.

  “Yeah, who else?” he replied, sounding morose, inconvenienced.

  “You’re picking up that yoga instructor, I hope.”

  “No, we were waiting for you to tell us what we need to do. Jeez, Winnett, you must think we’re complete bozos or something. What the hell?”

  She bit her lip, frustrated with him, with herself, with everything that kept her in that hospital bed instead of being out there, dragging that yoga instructor by the collar into an interrogation room herself.

  “It’s just that we’re running out of time, that’s all,” she said by way of an apology.

  “And you think we don’t know that?” Michowsky replied.

  “I know you do,” she eventually said, after letting a second or two go by. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah,” Michowsky acknowledged and promptly hung up.

  She was so frustrated she could scream. Sitting idle while Katherine and now Stacy were being tortured brought a wave of rage, making her heart beat faster, flush with adrenaline. Tess still remembered what had happened to her ten years ago. Those memories would never go away, no matter how hard she tried, or how much time she spent in therapy.

  “What’s on your mind, kiddo?” Cat asked.

  “These girls, Cat. It’s just that I know what they’re going through. I’ve been there, and sometimes it seems like yesterday. I close my eyes and I see them, I hear their screams, I feel their pain.”

  He gently squeezed her hand, and looked at her for a long moment. She saw understanding in his eyes, just as she was sure he could see the held-back tears in hers.

  “That’s your edge, Tess. That’s what makes you so damn good at what you do. Hell, that’s why these badge-wielding bastards won’t let you sleep, not even here, in the hospital.” He chuckled lightly. “Remind me to have a talk with them after this is all over, somewhere other than here, somewhere where I can express myself.”

  Tess smiled, feeling her heart swell with love for the man who’d rescued her ten years ago. He’d taken her in on the worst day of her life and put his entire life on hold, just to take care of her, a complete stranger. Now, a decade later, he still rushed to her side when she needed him the most.

  A hesitant knock interrupted her thoughts, and she waved the stranger in, after acknowledging that the police officer guarding her door had cleared him to come in.

  “See? What did I tell you?” Cat whispered, gesturing toward the door.

  The man who entered the room couldn’t have been more than twenty-two years old. He wore a simple, gray T-shirt and ratty jeans, and his beat-up, running shoes were unlaced with their tongues sticking out. His youth came across even more in his facial hair, the majority of which was still fuzzy, like a teenager’s.

  “What can I do for you?” Tess asked, using her typical replacement phrase for, “Who are you and what do you want?”

  The young man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, while his eyes took in the details of the room. He seemed particularly impressed with the remote office setup, the monitors, and the conference terminal.

  “Wow… how cool,” he said, then cleared his throat and continued. “I’m Tyler. You need me, right?”

  Tess’s eyebrows shot up. Who was this guy?

  “Ah,” she finally said, taking in the size of his shoulder bag and the black residue on his fingers. “You’re the sketch artist?”

  “Yeah,” he acknowledged, nodding vigorously and smiling with his entire face.

  Tess repressed a frustrated sigh. She needed someone great, experienced, who could compensate for the number of facial features that DNA analysis didn’t reveal.

  “It’s just that I was expecting someone else, that’s all,” she explained, seeing how he reacted to her sigh. “I have a rather unusual situation here, and I need someone—”

  “You need the best, right?” Tyler asked. “The best there is? At least that’s what they told me.”

  “They?”

  “The local bureau. SAC Pearson called and had me flown in here this morning.”

  “Where from?” she asked, more and more intrigued.

  “Quantico,” he replied coolly. “I’m the best they got,” he added with a hint of smugness in his grin. “For real.”

  She’d just learned about the DNA results two hours earlier, not more. Good old Pearson must have been keeping tabs on everything she did. As usual, he was one step ahead of her.

  “The timeline doesn’t make sense, Tyler. When did Pearson call?”

  “Last night. I was told I have to report here and not return home until you’re done with me,” he added calmly. His eyes searched the room and didn’t find what he was looking for. “Where can I set up?”

  She felt like an idiot for being so suspicious of everyone, but it was in her nature and couldn’t be helped.

  “Will this bedside table on wheels do? Take the conferencing terminal and park it somewhere else. I’m not expecting any calls for at least another hour.”

  With her peripheral vision, she caught Cat, as he lowered his head slowly, unable to contain a smile. Then he started to leave, but stopped in the doorway.

  “Same order?”

  “Yup. Fries too, please,” she replied and licked her lips, glad Melissa wasn’t there to roll her eyes some more.

  “What’s going on here?” Tyler asked, as soon as Cat pulled the door shut behind him.

  “We’ll try something that hasn’t been tried before, at least not how we’re going to do it. We will build two portraits starting from some specific features and some inferences we’ll make based on other nondescriptive data, such as statistical or emotional data. We will combine the results of behavioral analysis with genomics and generate a likeness; that’s all there is to it.”

  He stared at her as if she’d been on too many drugs for too long. She could read him quite easily; he wasn’t sure whether she was crazy, or onto something truly innovative. She almost chuckled.

  “Emotional data? You lost me there,” Tyler asked, going with the second option.

  “You’re going to draw emotion on top of physical detail, that’s all. You can draw emotion, can’t you?”

  “Can I?” he spat the words, sounding somewhat insulted. Then he extracted a portfolio from his bag and handed her a stack of drawings. “You tell me, can I?”

  She viewed the portraits one by one, and halfway through the stack she whistled appreciatively. The kid was good; the people he drew were memorable, brimming with expression, with intent. They came alive on the page. That was exactly what she was looking for.

  “I guess you can, Tyler,” she replied, tilting her head in appreciation. “Now I know why Pearson sent you. Let’s proceed. Please treat me as you would a witness, if that makes you more comfortable.”

  “Uh-uh,” he reacted. “If we’re going to do this right, you’re going to have to level with me. Don’t give me that witness crap; just tell me everything you know, then we’ll build the likeness together.”

  “Fair enough,” she replied. She’d hoped for a talented artist. She got a smart, gritty, and perceptive artist who, judging by what she’d seen in his portfolio, came second to none she’d ever worked with. “We’ll work the killer first.”

  The young man started jotting notes on a notepad, and switched from the sketch to the notepad frequently, moving very quic
kly. As he drew, she watched his thin fingers move as if they were dancing above the sheet of paper.

  “He strangles people,” Tess said, decided to portrait the unsubs by telling their stories, making them as visual as possible. “He’s intense, I’m guessing, because he likes to look victims in the eye as he coils the rope around their necks and kills them. He’s suffered; he was hurt badly in the past, and he’s been at the whim of migraines all his life.”

  “Migraines, huh?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Have you noticed, migraines tend to dig two vertical ridges on the sides of the nose bridge, because we frown and rub our foreheads a certain way when the migraine hits,” Tyler demonstrated. “That will create these ridges over time, here and here,” he added, touching the base of his nose.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m looking for,” Tess replied excitedly. “His hair is brown and wavy, and his eyes are blue.”

  “Long or short?”

  “No clue.”

  Tyler’s hand hesitated above the paper for a second, then continued to draw with long, decisive lines.

  “I’ll go with average. Whenever you don’t know, I’ll go with what I typically see out there. I see a lot of these slimebuckets, and I draw a lot of them too.”

  “Perfect. His nose is average, but his nostrils are just a tad larger than normal. Just imagine him flaring those nostrils in rage, when he’s about to kill again.”

  “Uh-huh,” he replied, and for a minute or so, the only sound in that room was the faint scratch of the pencil touching paper.

  “His face is a little wider than the average, and his eyes could appear a little hollow. These are statistical correlations found between homicidal behavior and facial measurements. He’s organized, and a little OCD. You see rigor in his eyes.”

  “Uh-huh, go on.”

  One by one, they incorporated every single bit of information she had, from all sources. She hoped the puzzle she was trying to build was not going to end up looking like Mr. Nobody.