The Soul Catcher

  “Here’s maybe the marks you talkin’ about?” Detective Kubat shone the flashlight on an area six feet from the body.

  Tully bent down and examined the circular indentations. One was clearly stamped in the mud. A possible second one looked rubbed out. They did look like the marks at the FDR Memorial. What the hell did they mean?

  “Did someone get a photo of these?”

  “Hey, Marshall,” Kubat yelled. “Get your ass over here and shoot a couple of Polaroids of this here.”

  “What about her clothes?”

  “Folded all nice like and piled up over there.” He swung the flashlight to highlight the spot, though the clothes had already been bagged and taken by the mobile crime unit. “Weird thing, though, they’d been all ripped up and ripped pretty good.”

  Tully stood and looked around. They appeared to be in a fairly secluded area of the park. On one side were trees, on another a brick wall, and yet the girl’s body was sitting against a tree and staring out at a clearing with a wooden bench and lamppost. In fact, it looked like she was staring right at the bench, posing for some admirer sitting there.

  “What about ropes or cords? Anything?”

  “Nope, nothin’. But get a load of this.”

  He led Tully closer to the body. A police spotlight lit up the area around her, its stark light transforming her into a white-faced puppet. She was bruised much worse than the Brier girl, a black eye and bruising from what looked like a left hook to the jaw. Her head tilted to one side, revealing three or four tracks of ligature marks. Without saying anything more, Kubat bent down and snapped off the spotlight. At first, Tully couldn’t figure out what he was doing and then he saw. The girl’s neck lit up, the track marks glowing in the dark.

  “What the hell?”

  “Pretty fuckin’ weird, huh?” Kubat said, and snapped the spotlight back on. “Anything like that with your victim?’

  “There was some sort of glittery stuff found on her neck. I guess I didn’t realize it glowed in the dark.”

  “Oh, hey. Here’s Doc Samuel,” Detective Kubat said, waving to the tall, distinguished-looking woman in a trench coat and black rubber ankle boots. She looked like the only one who’d come prepared. “Doc, this here’s that FBI guy, J.R. Scully.”

  “Actually, it’s R.J. Tully.”

  “Really? You sure?” Kubat looked at him as if it were possible Tully could have gotten his own name wrong. “I was thinking it was like that X-Files lady. Ain’t her name Scully?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it’s gotta be Scully.”

  “Agent Tully,” Dr. Samuel said, ignoring Detective Kubat and holding out her hand. “I’ve been told you might know a thing or two about this killer.”

  “Maybe. It looks like the same guy.”

  “So the victim’s ID might be in her throat?”

  “Yeah, sorry, Doc,” Kubat said. “If that’s the case, it sure would speed up things on our end.”

  “As long as we can do this without compromising any evidence,” the medical examiner told him with a stern tone that sounded more like a schoolteacher’s. “You mind putting out your cigarette, Detective?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure thing, Doc.” He stabbed it against a tree, pinched the end off with his fingers and tucked the unused portion behind his ear.

  Dr. Samuel found a dry rock big enough to set her case on. She began pulling out latex gloves, forceps and plastic bags. She handed Tully a pair of gloves.

  “You mind? I may need another pair of hands.”

  He took the gloves and tried to ignore the knot forming at the pit of his stomach. He hated this part and missed the days when he could stay in his office and do his own style of analysis from photos and digital scans.

  Suddenly, he found himself wondering why the hell he hadn’t shut off his cellular phone. He had honestly considered it after that spaghetti-twirling lesson, but then was embarrassed that he had even considered it. He probably would have turned off the damn phone if he hadn’t been worried about Emma and her trip to Cleveland. But she had called to say she’d arrived safe and sound at her mother’s early that afternoon, so why was he still worried about her?

  Dr. Samuel was ready. He followed her instructions, being careful where to kneel and keeping out of the spotlight. He tried to not think about the girl’s eyes staring at him or the smell of decomposing flesh. Flies were already buzzing, despite the night being chilly. Tully couldn’t help thinking they were the insect world’s version of vultures. The damn things could sense blood and set up shop in a matter of hours, sometimes minutes.

  Kubat stood to the side. He handed Tully his flashlight. “Might need that to see inside her mouth.”

  The medical examiner used the forceps to tug gently at the duct tape, peeling it off easily and bagging it. She had to use her gloved fingers to pry open the mouth, then she nodded for Tully to shine the flashlight while she picked up the forceps again. Tully pointed the light.

  Something moved inside.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Did something just move?”

  The medical examiner leaned in for a closer look, tilting her head while he positioned the light. Then suddenly she jerked back.

  “Oh, dear, God!” she said, scrambling to her feet. “Get a couple of bags, Detective.”

  Tully stayed where he was, stunned and motionless, still holding the flashlight in position and listening to Kubat and Dr. Samuel. They scurried around, trying to find something, anything to capture the huge cockroaches that started pouring out of the dead woman’s mouth.

  CHAPTER 57

  Maggie knew she should get up and go to sleep in her bed for a change, but to do so would disturb Harvey’s huge snoring head, which was nestled in her lap. So she stayed put. The old La-Z-Boy recliner had become a sort of sanctuary. It sat in her sunroom, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over her backyard, though there wasn’t much to see in the dark. The moonlight created dancing shadows and skeletal arms waving at her, but thankfully no wisps of fog ghosts tonight.

  She wished she could erase from her mind the visit to her mother’s, like rinsing out a bad taste from her mouth, but the Scotch wasn’t cooperating. It wouldn’t stop the memories. It couldn’t fill that goddamn hollow feeling. And for some reason, she kept hearing that voice, over and over again in her head.

  Your father was no saint.

  Why in the world had her mother made up such a lie? Why did she want to hurt her?

  Memories kept replaying in her head, some in slow motion, some in short, quick flashes, others in painful stings. Her mother had been with so many men, so many losers, bastards. Why then would she insist on putting Maggie’s father in that same category? What kind of cruel joke was she trying to play? Was this something Everett had planted? Something he had convinced her mother to do? Whatever the reason, it managed to bring the walls—those carefully constructed barriers—crashing down, and now the flood of memories wouldn’t stop.

  Maggie sipped her Scotch, holding it in her mouth and then letting it slide down her throat as she closed her eyes and relished the slow burn. She waited for its heat to warm her and to erase that tension in the back of her neck. She waited for it to fill that hollow gap deep inside her, though she knew it would need to travel to her heart to accomplish that feat. Tonight for some reason the pleasant buzz had simply made her feel a bit light-headed, restless and…and admit it, damn it. Restless and alone. Alone with all those goddamn memories invading her mind and shattering her soul piece by piece.

  How could her mother try to take away, to tarnish, the one thing from her childhood that Maggie still held so dear—her father’s love? How could she? Why would she even try? Yes, perhaps she was slow to love and trust, quick to suspect, but that had nothing to do with her father, and everything to do with a mother who had abandoned her for Jack Daniel’s. Maggie had done the only thing a child knew how to do. She had survived, making herself strong. If that meant keeping other
s at arm’s length, then so be it. It was necessary. It was one of the few things in her life she had control over. If people who cared about her didn’t get that, then maybe it was their problem and not hers.

  She reached for the bottle of Scotch, then paused when its neck clinked against the lip of the glass, waiting to make sure her movement and the noise hadn’t disturbed Harvey. An ear twitched, but his head stayed solidly in her lap.

  Maggie remembered her mother telling her after her father’s death that he would always be with her. That he would watch over her.

  Bullshit! Why even say that?

  And yet, she knew she should have found some comfort in the thought that her father was still with them somehow, perhaps watching. But even as a child she remembered wondering that, if her mother truly believed that, why then had she acted the way she had? Why had she brought strange men home with her night after night? That is, until she moved her recreation to hotel rooms. Maggie wasn’t sure what had been worse, listening through the paper-thin walls of their apartment to some stranger fucking her drunk mother or being twelve and spending the nights home all alone.

  That which does not destroy us, makes us stronger.

  So now she was this tough FBI agent who battled evil on a regular basis. Then why the hell was it still so difficult to deal with her childhood? Why were those memories of her mother’s drunken bouts and suicide attempts still able to demolish her and leave her feeling vulnerable? Leave her feeling like the only way she could examine those memories was through the bottom of a Scotch glass? Why did visions of that twelve-year-old little girl tossing handfuls of dirt onto her father’s shiny casket remind her of how hollow she felt inside?

  She thought she had risen above her past long ago. Why did it keep seeping into her present? Why could her mother’s words, her lies, crumble away that solid barrier she had created?

  Goddamn it!

  Somewhere deep inside, Maggie knew something was broken. She hadn’t ever admitted it to anyone, but she knew. She could feel it. There was a hole, a wound that still bled, an emptiness that could still chill her, stop her in her tracks and send her reaching, searching for more bricks to build up the wall around it. If she could not heal the wound, perhaps she could at least seal it and keep it off-limits from anyone else, maybe even herself.

  She knew about the syndromes, the psychology, the inevitable scars from growing up with an alcoholic parent. How a child could be left feeling there was no one to trust. Happiness was as elusive as the fleeting moment of the parent making promises one minute and then breaking them within hours. The child learns not to trust today, because tomorrow his or her world could be turned upside down again. And then there were the lies. Jesus! All the lies. This was just another one. Of course it was.

  She sipped her Scotch and watched the moonlight bring shadows to life in her backyard, while the memories, the voices kept coming.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  No. She was not like her mother. She wasn’t like her at all.

  Her cellular phone suddenly began chirping inside her jacket pocket. Only now did she remember she had unplugged her regular phone, in case her mother felt some need to call. Maggie stretched to grab the jacket off a nearby stand without disturbing Harvey, whose eyes were open but whose head was still claiming her lap.

  “Maggie O’Dell.”

  “Maggie, it’s Julia Racine. Sorry to call so late.”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Racine was the last person Maggie wanted to talk to right now.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said, her voice uncommonly humbled. “Do you have a few minutes? I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No, it’s okay.” She petted Harvey, who closed his eyes again. “I haven’t made it to bed yet, partly because my dog’s oversize head has taken up residence in my lap.”

  “Lucky guy.”

  “Jesus! Racine.”

  “Sorry.”

  “If that’s what this conversation—”

  “No, it’s not. Really, I’m sorry.” Racine hesitated, as if there was something more on the subject she wanted to add before going on. Then she said, “I’m in deep shit with the chief. Senator Brier wants my ass kicked off the force because of those photos Garrison managed to get in the Enquirer.”

  “I’m sure things will cool down as soon as we figure out who is responsible for his daughter’s death.”

  “I wish it was that easy,” Racine said, only this time there was something different about her voice. Not anger, not frustration. Maybe a bit of fear. “Chief Henderson is seriously pissed. I may lose my badge.”

  Maggie didn’t know what to say. As much as she disliked Racine and questioned her competency, she knew this was harsh.

  “To make matters worse, that asshole Garrison called me.” The anger returned. “He said he has some photos to show me that might help the case.”

  “Why would he suddenly want to help?”

  Silence. Maggie knew it. There had to be something in it for Garrison. But what?

  “He wants something from me,” Racine admitted, going from fear to anger to embarrassment.

  “He wants something like what? Sorry, Racine, but you’re not getting off that easy. What does he want?”

  “He wants photos.”

  “What photos could he possibly want from you?”

  “No, he wants to take photos of me.” Racine let the anger slip out.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Maggie couldn’t believe it. No wonder Racine sounded like an emotional wreck. “And why would he think that’s possible?”

  “Cut the crap, O’Dell. You know why he thinks it’s possible.”

  So the rumors were true. The stories about Racine exchanging favors weren’t just crude locker-room talk.

  “Does he realize we could already have him arrested for obstructing a police investigation?”

  “I told him.”

  “And?”

  “He laughed.”

  “Let’s do it, then.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. I’ll talk to Cunningham. You talk to Henderson. Let’s bring him in.”

  “I’m in enough trouble, O’Dell. If Garrison is bluffing—”

  “If Garrison’s as arrogant as I think he is, and he does have something, then we’ll just convince him it’s in his best interests to share that information.”

  “And just how do we convince him?”

  “I’m gonna give Cunningham a call. You talk to Henderson and call me back. Let’s bring this asshole in.”

  Maggie hung up the phone, put the Scotch aside and felt a renewed energy. Gently she nudged Harvey awake. Suddenly, she found herself grateful for bastards like Garrison.

  CHAPTER 58

  WEDNESDAY

  November 27

  Washington, D.C.

  Ben Garrison pretended to keep his cool while he sat and waited in the middle of the twelfth precinct, handcuffed to a fucking chair. Officers shoved their way around him, ignoring him. A stoned, toothless hooker kept smiling at him from across the room. She even winked at him once, uncrossed her legs and gave him a Sharon Stone view of her merchandise. He wasn’t impressed.

  His wrists itched under the too-tight handcuffs. The chair’s wobbly legs drove him nuts, and he shoved it back against the wall, drawing scowls from the two bastards who brought him in. He still couldn’t believe Racine would do this. Who would have thought she had it in her? Oddly, it only made him want to fuck her all the more.

  He returned from Boston to find two of the District’s finest waiting for him at his apartment. At first, he thought Mrs. Fowler was having him evicted, especially if she smelled the fumigator crap he had left for the cockroaches to enjoy. And if the little bastards had escaped into the rest of the building, the poor old woman probably would have a coronary. But, no, it wasn’t Mrs. Fowler. It was Racine. What a surprise. The little cunt had a game plan all of her own. And part of it, obviously, was to make him wait.

  Well, h
e refused to let her ruin his lucky streak, especially after he had just spent the morning blowing away Britt Harwood with yet another Garrison exclusive. Ben smiled. Not much Racine could do about the photos that would be in this evening’s Boston Globe.

  Hell, he had done what he wanted with the prints, so, no, he didn’t mind sharing them with Racine. He had planned to, anyway. She couldn’t blame a guy for wanting a little treat in return.

  “They’re ready for you, Garrison,” one of the thick-necked Neanderthals in blue said as he undid one handcuff to release Ben from the chair, then quickly snapped it onto his wrist again. When Ben stood, the guy grabbed his elbow and led him down the hall.

  The room was small, with no windows and several pockmarks in the bare walls, some small enough to be bullet holes, a couple of large ones that looked like someone had tried to put a fist or head through the plaster. The room smelled like burnt toast and sweaty gym socks. The officer sat him down in one of the chairs that surrounded the table. Then he did his little weaving trick again with the handcuffs and the steel folding chair.

  Ben wanted to point out that if he really wanted, he could fold up the chair and simply take it with him, maybe even knocking some heads with it on his way out. But now probably wasn’t a good time to be a smart-ass, so he sat quietly, expecting to be in for another wait.

  Surprisingly, Racine came in within minutes, stopping to consult the Neanderthal at the door before she even acknowledged Ben’s presence. She was followed in by an attractive dark-haired woman in an official-looking navy suit. He thought he recognized her. Surely, he’d remember. What a treat! Two police babes.

  Racine looked pretty good, too. If she wanted to look butch, she would need to try harder. Although he had to admit her spiky blond hair looked like she had just gotten out of the shower, and she had no fashion sense. Today she had on blue jeans and a sweater that he wished was tighter. But with no jacket—thank goodness—it was still a rush seeing her in the leather shoulder holster with the butt of her Glock tucked nicely under her left breast. Yes, indeed, he could already feel the effect. Poor Racine. She probably thought hauling him in here would be some sort of punishment.