Stranded

  “Is Gwen okay?” she asked.

  “I haven’t talked to her tonight, but I’m sure she’s fine. Were you already in bed?” His eyes fell to her bare legs as if he hadn’t considered that possibility.

  “Not yet, but close. Hold on a minute.”

  She closed the door and went to her overnight case where she had left it on the second double bed. She dug out a pair of jeans and pulled them on. Skipped socks and shoes. She started for the door again and stopped, contemplating a bra. The nightshirt was mid-thigh length and baggy, a Packers jersey. Nothing revealing or suggestive. Besides, it was Tully. She opened the door.

  This time he came in without hesitating. He had his cell phone in one hand and a notepad in the other. A quick glance and she could see that it was a Super 8 notepad. He’d already been on the phone. The results weren’t just noteworthy, they had Tully wired.

  “You found something out?”

  “Janet, the CSU tech, is starting to process the contents of the garbage bag.”

  He paced to the other side of the room, pulled the curtain enough to peek out. Maggie had already checked out the back parking lot below. Tully wasn’t interested in anything out the window. His nervous energy had him on edge and the room was too small. Maggie sat on the corner of the bed farthest away.

  “He left the woman’s driver’s license inside the bag,” Tully said. “The body’s mutilated, not to mention decapitated, but the son of a bitch left the victim’s driver’s license for us.”

  “That is weird. He already left us the orange socks and the receipt.”

  “Oh, that’s not the weird part. Wendi Conroy disappeared last month. Her car was found at a rest area off I-95. In Virginia.” He paused. “A rest area just south of Dale City.”

  He turned from the window and met her eyes, waiting for her reaction. They both knew that rest area. It was less than five miles away from her house—or rather what was left of her house—in Newburgh Heights, Virginia.

  “This is Albert Stucky all over again,” Tully said.

  “It’s not like Stucky.” Maggie hated that the mention of his name could still make her skin crawl. She had crossed her arms and was rubbing them before she even realized it. “I don’t know a Wendi Conroy. And I didn’t know Gloria Dobson or Zach Lester.”

  Albert Stucky had targeted women Maggie had come in contact with: a girl who had delivered a pizza, a waitress, her real estate agent. Of those he killed, he left a piece of them in takeout containers usually someplace obvious to be easily found and to shock the finder.

  “This is not like Stucky,” Maggie repeated, almost as if she needed to convince herself. Then wanting Tully to lighten up, she added, “He hasn’t left us any takeout containers.”

  “No, just garbage bags and a couple of mutilated bodies.”

  He started pacing the narrow lane between the beds and the TV stand, from the window to the door.

  “When he left you the map I thought it was just because he saw you on that CNN profile and he knew that you were working the arsons along with the Dobson case. It made as much sense as his bizarre scavenger hunt makes. But that’s not it.” He stopped mid-stride and looked at her. “He’s obsessed with you. Just like Stucky.”

  “Stucky wanted to hurt me.”

  “How do we know this guy doesn’t want to hurt you?”

  “Because he’s had plenty of opportunities.” She thought about that for a second or two. The whole time they’d been searching for this killer she’d never once felt threatened. “It seems like he’s more interested in showing us his handiwork than he is in hurting either of us. Maybe he wants to be caught.”

  “He left you the map about the same time that he took Wendi Conroy from that rest area. A rest area that’s five miles away from your house. In Virginia. But instead of leaving her body somewhere close by, he brought her twelve hundred miles to Iowa to bury her so she’d be here for you to find. Oh, and on the way he stopped and bought a pair of orange socks to put on her and left the receipt for you to find, too. In a separate bag with the woman’s head. Does that sound like a guy who wants to be caught?”

  Tully was right. Both of them had studied and experienced killers who had played “catch me if you can.”

  “Now that you put it that way,” she said, “no, it doesn’t. It sounds like a killer who’s showing off.”

  CHAPTER 20

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Gwen stumbled in the dark to find her ringing cell phone. Usually she left it on her nightstand. She didn’t stop to put on a light in her living room as she hurried from her bed and her deep sleep.

  “This is Gwen Patterson.”

  “I woke you. I’m sorry.”

  It was Maggie.

  “Is everything okay? Is R.J. okay?”

  “He’s fine. Everything’s fine. I forgot we’re an hour behind you. I can call back in the morning.”

  “No, this is okay. I’m awake.”

  She ran a hand through her tangled hair and snapped on a lamp. She looked to the clock on the mantel. It was after midnight. She’d been asleep for only a half hour but it felt like half the night. She rubbed at her eyes and sank into a leather recliner.

  “Where are you two tonight?”

  “Just outside of Sioux City, Iowa. We found it.”

  Gwen sat up. Maggie didn’t need to explain what “it” was.

  “A farm behind an interstate rest area,” Maggie continued. “There’s a lot of ground to cover. Some of it’s wooded and along a river. I’m not even sure if we can discount the fields and pastures. There’re literally hundreds of acres that he’s had access to. The perfect hideaway. Several abandoned buildings and a vacant farmhouse to crash in as long as he avoided the meth-using lot lizard.”

  “The meth-using what?”

  “Prostitute. Lot lizard is what the truckers call them. We found her crashing inside the farmhouse. Long story.”

  Gwen could hear the exhaustion in her friend’s voice.

  “Her name’s Lily. Tully and I were hoping she might have seen something. But no such luck. At least, not that she can remember right now.”

  “Lily the lot lizard.”

  “The body we found was in a black plastic garbage bag,” Maggie continued. “Well, most of it. The head was in a separate bag, a smaller one close by. And he left us another puzzle piece to our scavenger hunt.”

  Gwen felt nauseated at the mention of the head. The last time she had worked on a homicide case, it also involved a decapitated victim. The victim was someone Gwen knew—a receptionist who had worked in her office.

  Gwen was beginning to second-guess joining this task force. She had a successful practice listening to the District’s elite—generals and politicos and their wives or husbands rehashing their emotional instabilities, their addictions, and their dysfunctional childhoods. Sometimes it wore her down but rarely did it scare or nauseate her. Did she really want to delve back into criminal behavior? Sort through its psychotic motives and view their bloody aftermath? Maybe she just wasn’t cut out for this anymore.

  “Gwen?”

  She suddenly realized she hadn’t heard the last of what Maggie had said.

  “Gwen, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Then because she knew Maggie would worry, she added, “I guess maybe I’m not quite as awake as I thought. What were you saying? He left you something?”

  “He used the same retailer’s bag where he bought the orange socks. Even left the receipt for us.”

  She realized she had missed more than she thought.

  “Orange socks?” Gwen asked.

  “The victim’s wearing orange socks. I knew they looked too new. We think the killer bought them and put them on the corpse before he stuffed her in the garbage bag and buried her. I’m sure the socks are simply for our benefit. Like I said, another puzzle piece for the scavenger hunt.”

  Gwen stood and walked around her Georgetown condo now, turning on more lights. As she passed the front door she c
hecked the locks. Working these cases brought on a whole slew of obsessive-compulsive habits. Oh sure, she double-checked security, but suddenly she wanted the room filled with light. She wanted the shadows and dark corners gone.

  She opened the refrigerator. Grabbed a bottle of water. Twisted off the cap with too much urgency and swigged almost half the bottle while Maggie told her about the significance of the orange socks.

  “Tully’s been talking to Agent Antonio Alonzo. Have you met him yet?”

  “We had a long meeting today. He’s impressive.”

  “He’s a data whiz. He can put together information in a remarkably short amount of time.” Maggie paused before continuing. “I remembered a recent case that involved orange socks. Last month. In Virginia. They discovered a woman’s remains that had been stuffed in a culvert. She had gone missing more than a year ago and no one had found her. The culvert was on a remote gravel road just off the interstate.”

  “A year? How did they find her?”

  “A prisoner tipped off a television news reporter.”

  “Possibly the killer?”

  “No, this guy’s in for arson,” Maggie said. “As far as Agent Alonzo can tell, Otis P. Dodd hasn’t killed anyone. In fact, it sounds like he’s gone out of his way to not kill. He’s in prison for setting more than thirty fires across Virginia. The last one was a retirement home and yet he managed to do it without any of the residents getting hurt.”

  “Okay. If he’s been in prison how did he know about the woman in the culvert?”

  “According to Alonzo, Otis claims he had an interesting evening throwing back a few too many drinks with a guy who confessed to murdering a woman. He told the television crew that the conversation happened before Otis got arrested and went to prison.”

  “And he was convincing enough for them to search?”

  “Sounds like they didn’t need to search too hard. Otis was able to tell them exactly where to look.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Otis also said the guy left her in orange socks. Not exactly something he could take a wild guess at.”

  Gwen wandered back to her bedroom, snatched a robe and pulled it on, suddenly chilled.

  Great.

  She was still nauseated and now her skin felt clammy and cold. The refrigerated water certainly didn’t help. She needed hot tea instead. Maybe with a splash of bourbon in it.

  “So Otis may have met the highway killer. Well, this is definitely something the task force needs to look at,” she told Maggie.

  “I’m glad you agree. There’s no way we’ll be able to keep the orange socks out of the news. Too many helpers on the site saw them. So we need to move quickly on this. I already talked to Kunze and he’s arranging the interview for tomorrow. I’d do it myself but I can’t get back yet. Tully and I are meeting a canine cadaver team tomorrow at the farm.”

  “Wait a minute. An interview? What exactly is it that Kunze is arranging?”

  “For you to interview Otis P. Dodd.”

  “Me?”

  “I can’t think of anyone who’d do a better job.”

  Gwen caught a glimpse of herself in her bedroom mirror. Her pink fleece robe was cinched tight. Her strawberry blond hair had a tangled knot on one side and flat bedhead on the other. She had dribbled water down her chin and missed a spot when she had wiped at it.

  Oh, yes, she definitely looked like the person to take on a serial arsonist who palled around with a slice-and-dice killer.

  CHAPTER 21

  Lily had more spunk than he realized.

  Looking back, he should have noticed right from the beginning. She was mouthing off even as she climbed into the passenger seat, pointing at his head and telling him, “That’s not your cap.”

  But it hadn’t stopped her from slamming the door behind her.

  “You know she’s with the FBI,” Lily said. “Stealing from her’s probably like a big-time felony or something.”

  “Maybe she gave it to me.”

  She pushed back in the seat to give him an exaggerated look-over.

  “Yeah, right. You look exactly like her type. That’s why you’re picking me up, because she was so into you.”

  Then she had hacked up a laugh. “Hacked up” being the perfect phrase since the raspy sound came with a fair amount of phlegm sprayed onto his windshield.

  Which reminded him—he’d need to clean that, too. He didn’t want the whore’s DNA splattered anywhere on him or his vehicle. Now, as he stood in the back of his truck, he shook his head at his miscalculation. He liked challenges, but he liked to choose them. Not have them foisted on him. And Lily, the whore, had foisted this challenge on him.

  But it was over. It was done. He considered it simply a detour.

  And it had been a small bonus to see the surprise and confusion flash behind those drug-blurred eyes when he told her that Helen would be really disappointed in her.

  Lily putting up a fight made him think about Maggie O’Dell and he smiled. He had been learning about her for about a month. Back in Washington, he had followed her around but was never able to get close enough. The closest was walking around the burned-out remains of her formerly beautiful home. Even then, he hadn’t poked and pried into her belongings, though he certainly could have. He simply left the map on the granite countertop in what used to be her kitchen.

  After spending a day observing Maggie up close he felt a restlessness. He couldn’t wait to put her to his test. See what she was capable of doing. Unlike Lily, Maggie would be a worthy adversary. She would fight him wit for wit. She wouldn’t give up as easily as Noah or any of the others.

  He looked forward to finally catching her. There would be fear in her eyes but there would also be respect and admiration. He wondered if she would plead with him to kill her quickly or would she bargain with him for a few extra hours of life. Yes, Maggie O’Dell would be the ultimate challenge. He had to be patient just a little longer.

  Now he dipped the iron tire thumper into the vat and watched the acid eat off Lily’s blood and hair. In seconds it’d be clean without a hint of the damage it had done to her skull.

  He peeled off his gloves and blood-splattered clothes, stuffing them in a black plastic garbage bag. He’d toss them in a trash receptacle at the next rest area, somewhere miles from this one, so if someone found them they’d never find a body anywhere in that area. He’d figured that out long ago. No reason to change the process.

  Likewise, he had built and customized the back half of his truck into a workshop with everything he needed, not only for his job but also for his hobby. So if anyone checked it out there was no reason to question the array of tools, cleaning solutions, saws, and knives. And because he was on the road so much, he also had all the personal comforts he needed. That included a week’s worth of clothing, shoes, and other accessories.

  Some of those accessories served as disguises and included a hearing aid, a cane, an arm sling, Coke-bottle-thick glasses, a neck brace, and a dog leash. It was amazing the simple things that brought people’s guards down. The thought that a stranded motorist might be even more vulnerable because his arm was in a sling or perhaps because he’d lost his dog. He kept a list in his log book of those that worked the best. He observed and studied the things people didn’t seem to notice when they were exhausted from traveling. He kept a list of these as well.

  He had already replaced the magnetic sign on the outside of his truck. He had several, all of them creative names of businesses that exuded integrity and trust. The one he just put on read: community rescue unit. Actually he’d gotten the idea from listening to a group of cops at a truck stop café outside Toledo, Ohio. They had just caught a killer using a public works department uniform. Homeowners let him in without question. Almost as good as a uniform was his idea of converting the outside of his truck into a vehicle that people automatically trusted.

  Finally finished cleaning up, he pulled out his log book and recorded the date, time, and place in the corner. T
hen he added the details he wanted to remember:

  Even drug whores fight for life.

  Two bashes in the head and still crawling.

  Rolled into the river.

  Skin and bones. Not much of a floater.

  Wrapped the strap of her bag around her neck.

  Bag should weight her down.

  He paused to roll up his shirtsleeves and only then noticed that the bitch had managed to scratch his arm. Immediately he grabbed a bottle of alcohol from one of the cabinets. He remembered her fingernails had been chipped and broken, and for the short time she sat in his passenger seat she couldn’t stop clawing at her scabs.

  Seeing the damage she’d done made him angry and sick to his stomach. What if the bitch had given him some disease? He poured half the bottle over the open wound despite the sting. He didn’t mind the pain. Pain made you feel alive. Then he searched through his stash of pharmaceuticals until he found the antibiotic he wanted. He popped one into his mouth and washed it down with a can of Coke from the large ice chest he kept well stocked.

  The whole incident was beginning to remind him that small mistakes had tripped up many killers and landed them in prison. Ted Bundy, Edmund Kemper, Henry Lee Lucas, Jeffery Dahmer—all of them had done something stupid that ended up getting them caught. Wouldn’t happen to him.

  Along with talking and listening to cops, he prided himself on being an expert on serial killers, their patterns, fetishes, weaknesses, and even those mistakes that got them caught. But he was more careful and smarter. Besides, he could control when and where he chose to kill. He wasn’t driven by voices or impulses. Tonight was a rare exception. Tonight he killed out of necessity rather than challenge and hobby. There hadn’t been much pleasure in it. He just wanted Lily dead.