“And you?”
“What about me?” She clung to casual disinterest and fought the rising panic.
John drew a breath and said softly, “When you walk through a place where something violent happened, do you see things? Know them? Or feel them?”
Repeating her earlier answer, Maggie said, “Why ask when you don’t believe it’s possible?”
“I never have believed it’s possible, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change my mind, Maggie. Not long before I called Andy and found out about the Mitchell woman, Quentin told me another woman had been taken. He knew.”
“I’m sure you explained that away. It could have been a lucky guess.” She knew where they were going now. Damn. Damn.
“It could have been. But if so, there’ve been a lot of lucky guesses over the years, too many times he knew things before he should have. And then there’s you.”
Stolidly, Maggie said, “I’m just overly sensitive, that’s all. With a vivid imagination.”
“I guess you’ve heard that a lot during your life.”
“Enough.”
“Okay. But at least I’m trying to have an open mind. Give me that much credit.”
After a moment, she said quietly, “I’m sure you use calculators and computers and other machines in your business affairs; do you really have to understand the nuts and bolts of how they work in order to be satisfied with the information and answers they provide?”
“No. But I have to trust that the information they provide is accurate and reliable, and sometimes that requires at least some level of understanding. And you’re not a machine. I really do want to understand you, Maggie.”
Deliberately, Maggie half turned in the seat to look at him steadily. “If your friend Quentin hasn’t convinced you in years of trying to, then what hope do I have? At least the things he tells you can be verified, predictions backed up by fact when those predictions turn out to be true. But what I do? What I do isn’t backed up by anything, really. It’s all subjective. Besides, I don’t have the spare energy to jump through hoops for you, John. Just tell yourself I have a peculiar skill honed by half a lifetime of working with the police, and let it go at that. I can’t prove anything to you.”
“Can’t you?”
“No.”
He pulled the car over to the curb and stopped, then looked at her, his jaw tight. “I know a way you can.”
She didn’t have to look to know where they were. “No. I can’t.”
“Because the interview with Hollis took too much out of you?”
She had to be honest. “No.”
“Because you have to save your energy for the Mitchell house?”
“Partly.”
He nodded as if an inner belief had been confirmed. “But not completely. So what’s the rest of the answer, Maggie? Andy told me you never walked through Christina’s apartment after she died. Why not?”
Maggie drew a short breath. “I have my reasons.” Reasons he wouldn’t understand, let alone believe.
“What reasons?”
“Private reasons.”
“Maggie—”
“John, I’m not going to walk through Christina’s apartment. Not today.”
“And you won’t tell me why.”
She shook her head slightly in a brief but final negation.
“I’m trying to understand this,” he said, his voice slow, as though he chose his words carefully. “Because it’s such a simple question, Maggie—why did my sister kill herself? I think you could answer that question, so I have to wonder why you won’t even make an attempt. Am I asking so much? Just walk through her apartment and tell me what you see. Or know. Or feel.”
Andy hung up his phone and scowled at Jennifer as she approached his desk. “Please tell me you have something,” he begged.
She sat down and said, “We didn’t expect forensics to find anything, especially not this quickly. So something else must have put you in a bad mood. Or somebody. Drummond?”
If anything, Andy’s frown deepened. “I don’t know whether to look forward to the day he’s sitting in the governor’s mansion or dread it. He’d be mostly out of my hair—but God help the state.”
“Let me guess. Samantha Mitchell or her husband has a Very Important Friend in government?”
“Hell, they know everybody. At least according to Luke. And everybody is yelling at him to find the lady, pronto.”
“I guess you told him we’re trying to do that.”
“I mentioned it, yeah.”
Jennifer smiled. “Well, here’s something else to brighten your day.”
He braced himself visibly. “What?”
“While Scott’s trying to track down those missing files, I’ve been taking a closer look at that book I got from the library. There aren’t a lot of specific details on the series of murders in 1934, but there was one very interesting thing. It turns out the cops were undecided whether to call it six victims—or eight. Six was the official verdict, but there was a lot of doubt, apparently, among the investigating officers.”
“What kind of doubt?”
“They were positive the first six victims were killed by the same man because of the similarities. The women were always raped and killed somewhere else and their bodies dumped later in remote or deserted spots, he always beat them up badly, the women always bore defense injuries, and he never tore their clothing.”
Andy blinked. “Never?”
“No. The bodies were always discovered dressed, all the buttons fastened and nothing ripped. Which is interesting in several ways. For one thing, the women were always found without underwear. No bras or panties, no girdles or stockings or slips. Just their outer dresses. And there was usually very little blood or dirt on those dresses.”
“So he stripped them—and then dressed them afterward, but without their underwear. Kept the underwear as trophies, maybe?”
“Maybe. But think how difficult just the mechanics of it had to be. By the time he finished with them, the women were either dead or dying. And instead of dumping them somewhere, naked, which would certainly have been the easiest and simplest thing to do, he takes the time and trouble to dress them in their outer clothing. Almost as if . . . he was trying to protect their modesty.”
“You been talking to the shrink?” Andy wanted to know.
“No, but I’ve listened to her talk about this sort of thing before, so I feel safe in making a semieducated guess about it. I think the detail is important, Andy. It could be something as simple as the fact that the 1934 killer lived during a more . . . modest time. Or a quirk of his psyche—he’d defile them in every way possible, but it was for his own enjoyment. When other men saw the women, they had to be decently covered.”
“Sounds like the sort of quirk entirely likely in one of these twisted bastards. Okay, it makes sense to me. It definitely sounds like those six women were killed by the same man. But there was doubt about two more victims?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why? The M.O. was drastically different?”
“Two young women found in remote places, having obviously been raped and killed somewhere else, badly beaten, with defense injuries, and wearing their virtually undamaged outer clothing all neatly fastened.”
“Sounds like the same guy.”
“Yeah, except for one addition.”
“Which is?”
“Their eyes were missing. Cut out—with absolutely no finesse.”
Andy stared at her a moment, then drew a short breath. “Shit.”
“Yeah. Knowing what we know now about the escalation and evolution of this sort of sick predator, I say those last two victims belong with the first six. He had just grown more violent, and more creative. Which means eight, Andy. Killed within the space of about eighteen months.”
“Which may or may not mean we could have a year and four—or three—more victims to go.”
“If our guy is copycatting earlier crimes, yeah. The killings that started in 19
34 sure sound familiar. All of our victims survived the attacks, and only one actually died of her injuries, but that could be as much luck as anything else; they were found before they could bleed to death, unlike the women in 1934. We have naked victims, but that may just be because our particular monster has fewer hang-ups than his predecessor did. Or a better knowledge of forensics.”
“He certainly has that,” Andy said heavily. “And it does sound more and more like he studied at least some of these earlier crimes. For inspiration, goddamn his soul.”
“He doesn’t have one,” Jenn declared.
Andy grunted an agreement. “What about the earlier date, 1894?”
“Nothing so far, at least in that book. And we haven’t found any files from that year—not here and not at any other station. It was a long time ago, Andy.”
“Tell me about it.” He sighed. “All we can do is keep looking. What else have we got?”
Jennifer sighed and got to her feet. “Yeah, you’re right. By the way—I know we’re keeping this to ourselves for the time being, but are you going to tell Maggie?”
“I haven’t decided yet. What do you think?”
“I say tell her.”
Andy leaned back and looked at her curiously. “Why?”
“Because Maggie works best when she has all the information we can give her. And because . . . she’s very good with intangibles, Andy. Victims give her subjective impressions and feelings and pain—and in all that confusion, Maggie finds a face we can search for. As far as I can tell, with her it’s all instinct and emotion. She comes at this differently than we do. Maybe she’d have an idea or observation we’d never have.”
“Yeah.” He nodded slowly. “Yeah, maybe.”
“You going to tell Garrett?”
“I don’t know that yet either.”
“It might give him a focus other than his sister’s death.”
“It might. And we might need the resources he can tap. I don’t know. We’ll see how it goes.”
“I’m glad it’s your decision and not mine,” Jennifer told him with a casual salute, then returned to her own desk.
Andy wished it was somebody else’s decision. He was a good cop, and maybe it was that inborn instinct that warned him uneasily that this particular case was somehow beyond his experience. Not just because this bastard was torturing his victims the way he was and going to such elaborate extremes to hide his own identity, but because of the chillingly methodical way he went about satisfying his twisted needs.
Andy would have loved to hand the whole mess over to somebody else. But he couldn’t do that. It was his mess, and he had to find his way through it. Which meant Jenn was right and he’d have to tell Maggie about these latest puzzle pieces.
Even more, he might just have to break the rules and ignore Drummond’s orders and bring John Garrett fully into the investigation. He needed all the resources he could get his hands on, and with Drummond’s stubborn refusal to call in the FBI, John could provide a wide and willing conduit to virtually every database and source of information available.
Maybe even some sources that could take them all the way back to 1894.
Maggie wondered if he had any idea at all what he asked of her and thought that he had at least an inkling. But not belief. Because if he believed, he could never have asked her to go to the apartment where a despondent, tormented woman had died and allow those emotions to seep into her. At least . . . she hoped he couldn’t ask that of her.
“Even if I did, it wouldn’t be proof,” she said flatly. “Because Christina isn’t here to verify whatever I’d say.”
“I’ll know if it’s the truth.”
“Will you? And how will you know that? Because you were her brother? You’ve lived in L.A. for the last ten years, and she moved back to Seattle more than five years ago; did you know so much about her life? I’d bet not. I’d bet you didn’t know much at all.”
“Maggie—”
“She volunteered at a day-care center in her neighborhood, did you know that? And at the local animal shelter. She still woke up in the night and reached for her husband, even though it had been nearly two years since he’d died. She talked to her plants, even sang to them sometimes. She was learning to use a computer for the first time; with Simon gone, she no longer felt she’d have to compete with his genius in that area. She watched old movies in bed at night, and just before the attack she’d been in the middle of a wonderful series of mystery novels.”
Maggie drew a breath. “Did you know that? Did you know any of that?”
John stared out through the windshield, a muscle moving in his tight jaw. “No,” he said finally. “I didn’t know any of that.”
Looking down at the sketch pad in her lap, Maggie consciously loosened her grip on it. She really needed to stop clinging, she thought vaguely. It was a very bad sign. “John, if I believed, really believed, that I could help you by going up to Christina’s apartment, then I would. But nothing I could find out by doing that would help you in any way.” Assuming I survived to tell you. But she didn’t add that, of course.
Quietly, she said, “We should try to get to the Mitchell house while the cops are still there.”
Without a word, John put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.
Maggie didn’t sense any hostility coming from him, so she didn’t worry about his silence. Instead, she used the time granted to her to do her best to shore up what few defenses she had. Not that she ever had many, except for a fair ability to master her expression and what Beau referred to as her prickly touch-me-not posture.
So she worked on those, at least for the ten minutes or so until they reached the Mitchell house. The police had tried to keep this disappearance as quiet as possible until they knew whether Samantha Mitchell had been abducted by the serial rapist, but the press had found out at least part of it and were milling about just beyond the long drive, where several uniformed officers were holding them at bay.
Andy had sent word of their clearance, so they were waved through and pulled into the driveway with barely a pause. But with enough of a pause, unfortunately, for one photographer to get a picture.
“Shit,” John muttered.
Maggie, who had done her best to make certain her face wouldn’t be visible, said, “You’ll make the papers tomorrow. I wonder if Andy realized that seeing you here would pretty much confirm the reporters’ suspicions about this woman being the latest victim.”
“It won’t be an official confirmation, so all they can do is speculate. That isn’t what’s bothering me.”
“Then what?”
“Drummond.” John sent her a wry look. “He wasn’t happy I was granted access to the investigation, and I more or less promised to keep my involvement low-key.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.” Without saying anything else about that, John parked the car and they got out.
It was a big Spanish-style house in an upper-middle-class neighborhood where virtually every house had its own unique style. Manicured lawn, exquisite landscaping. Maggie glanced around as they made their way through the tangle of police vehicles clogging the upper part of the driveway and murmured, “Wouldn’t you think a stranger would be noticed in this neighborhood?”
“I’d think so, yeah. Unless he was dressed as some kind of maintenance or service person. Hiding in plain sight.”
Maggie knew the cops had undoubtedly made a note of that possibility; neither Andy nor any of his people was stupid. But it nevertheless struck her as distinctly odd that a rapist who went to such lengths to hide his identity from his victims could allow himself to move openly in neighborhoods and shopping malls where he was almost certain to be noticed— even hiding in plain sight.
The cop at the door said they’d been okayed to go through the house, and since the forensics team was packing up now, they could come in whenever they wanted.
“Where’s Mr. Mitchell?” Maggie asked.
“He’s in the kitchen w
ith a couple of detectives.”
Maggie nodded and stepped past him into the foyer. Several equipment boxes standing open and closed on the polished wood floor of the area attested to the presence of the forensics team, and an occasional voice could be heard from upstairs. It appeared they had finished their work downstairs.
She was momentarily highly conscious of John standing just behind her but forced herself to concentrate on what she was here to do. It was difficult to prepare herself for the painful and disturbing invasion even after all these years, especially when she could hear the forensics team. One of the reasons she always tried to delay a walk-through of the scene until after everyone else had finished their work and gone was because the emotions of other people could affect what she was trying to do.
One of the reasons.
“There’s no blood trail here.” John’s voice was matter-of-fact. “So where do you start?”
She glanced at him, wishing she didn’t have to prove herself to him this way. But if he couldn’t accept and believe this, how would he ever be able to accept and believe the rest? And no matter which way it went, he’d have to believe the rest.
Wouldn’t he?
Making up her mind abruptly, Maggie abandoned the I’m-just-an-overly-sensitive-person mantra. “I’m a human divining rod for violence,” she said, matching his tone. “If there was any here, I’ll find where it happened.”
He was completely expressionless. “I see.”
“I doubt it.” Maggie hugged her sketch pad like the security blanket it virtually was and walked into the living room on her left. She didn’t look at the comfortable and expensive furnishings or pay any attention to the decorating scheme but just stood in the center of the room, closed her eyes for a moment, and reluctantly opened the inner door to that unnerving sixth sense.
As always, it was a peculiar feeling, at first a distant murmur accompanied by flashes of scenes, like a strobe projector flickering images in her mind’s eye. Then she caught the whiff of wine, the acrid smell of wood smoke, cologne or aftershave. Heard voices raised suddenly in an argument, felt her hand sting as if she’d slapped someone. Then hands gripping her wrists and a mouth coming down hard on hers . . .