Authors: Eileen Dreyer
Head Games (14 page)
Kenny pulled over the tools he'd already laid out with the precision of a scientist to finish the ritual. To keep her there where he'd captured her, his butterfly on the board. His newest, prettiest friend.
Belinda. He liked the name even better than Flower. He would call her Belinda.
He'd wanted so much for Belinda to be the next gift he'd give Miss Burke. The perfect gift, which he knew she'd recognize. Which, soon, she'd understand. He knew she was getting his messages. He knew she was reacting. He knew she thought she couldn't betray that.
But she would.
He'd really wanted it to be with this gift, with this perfect message. And his new friend had ruined it by not cooperating.
Just like Miss Burke, he realized with a funny smile.
Next time.
This time he'd just have to give her somebody else, somebody who had been close, who had, in fact, screamed, although with his hand over her warm, moist mouth, so that no one heard. No one saw.
Miss Burke would see.
Miss Burke would understand, because she was the only one who ever had.
But that was another part of his dream, a part he would plan later.
So even while he picked up his sharpest knife to begin slicing his new friend apart, he began to plan for his next friend. He began to picture it, there in his own mind where he'd kept his pictures for years, rehearsing until the reality could match the visions.
Next time, he swore, stepping aside to avoid the blood. Next time it would be better.
Next time it would be perfect
.
.
Molly was really beginning to hate the conference room. She never seemed to get out of it. She didn't get any resolution from it. She just kept coming back, with each visit worse than the one before, and Winnie a little more angry, as if Molly had orchestrated this whole black farce just to piss her off.
And now Donna Kirkland had gone and detonated the situation right in everybody's face.
She'd said it.
Said the very words that called up the devil.
Molly hadn't said it, and Winnie hadn't said it, and Rhett hadn't even thought it. But Donna Kirkland had said the words and unleashed a firestorm.
The meeting today had been set up between Winnie and the chief of homicide. It was supposed to include Winnie, Molly, Rhett Butler, Major McConnell, the chief of homicide, and the anthropologist, Dr. DeVries. A simple testing of the waters, so the chief could be apprised of the situation and prepare his department for its impact. So they could quickly garner their forces and coordinate their efforts without interference or notoriety.
Within an hour of Donna Kirkland's phone call, the entire city administration had been mobilized.
So instead of a quiet, controlled businesslike meeting to review facts and project investigative paths, they were going to be subjected to a classic city dick-pull.
Winnie was all but glowing with rage.
“Well, Ms. Burke,” she addressed her from the head of the crowded table. “Because of you, we now have the press on our asses. I know for a fact that
I
didn't call them. Did you call them, Dr. DeVries?”
I
didn't call them. Did you call them, Dr. DeVries?”
The forensic anthropologist shook her head so hard her bushy blond hair took on a life of its own. “Of course not.”
Actually, the words sounded more like “of corrrz not.” Dr. DeVries was from some Danish town where humor had evidently been banished. Horse-faced and oat-colored, she perched on her chair like a guest lecturer at the Inquisition.
But Molly couldn't blame Dr. DeVries, who had really done them a service. She couldn't blame Winnie, who saw a cluster fuck of epic proportions developing before her eyes. She couldn't, in all honesty, blame the lovely and rapacious Channel 7 news anchor Donna Kirkland for calling any city department that might be able to comment on a hot story.
Somebody had told the news anchor that Molly was getting distasteful gifts. And Donna, eyes on that
Hard Copy
anchor seat, had seen the story as her big step up.
Hard Copy
anchor seat, had seen the story as her big step up.
Which led directly to altered attendance at today's meeting.
There were nine people crowded into the little conference room. The original list of Molly, Winnie, Rhett Butler, Dr. DeVries, and Major McConnell had been supplemented with Kevin McNally, senior death investigator; Colonel Beck, chief of detectives; Billy Armistead, the ME office's administrator; and Pete Brinkner, the city attorney.
The circuit attorney had also been invited, but declined due to continuing antipathy toward the mayor's office and a previous squash date.
“So where does that leave us?” the city attorney asked, clicking his gold ballpoint and letting it hover over a blank legal pad that looked much like the one still on Molly's kitchen table.
“How about, where do we begin?” Winnie asked in glacial tones.
“That might be the question to ask,” offered Billy Armistead.
Seated directly across from Winnie in open-necked polo shirt and pressed jeans, Billy Armistead was a member of one of the city's most powerful and notorious political families. Billy was a nondescript man, middle height and build, with round, fairly blond features. It was his job as administrator of the Office of Medical Examiner to take care that political realities didn't inconvenience Winnie.
“We still don't even know if it's a real problem,” the lawyer insisted. “I mean, we only have the one test on the sample, don't we? Shouldn't we double-check it to make sure we aren't getting all worked up over a decorated deer shin?”
Dr. DeVries stiffened so fast Molly could hear wind whistling up her nose. “You would question my results?” she demanded.
Again Billy jumped in, a hand on the anthropologist's arm. “It's a tough verdict to swallow, Puffin, no matter how unimpeachable the source.”
Puffin. What a first name. If Molly hadn't gotten that quick warning look from Kevin, she would have burst out laughing.
Dr. DeVries relented a millimeter. “I suppose so.”
“Could it be a hoax?” the lawyer asked.
“Of course it could be a hoax,” Winnie snapped, her hands slapping flat against the table. “It could also be another Ted Bundy sending love missives to my death investigator.”
Molly wasn't sure whether it was the Ted Bundy part or the fact that he was contacting
her
death investigator that had Winnie more riled.
her
death investigator that had Winnie more riled.
“Bundy never sent trophies,” Molly said equably rather than betray just what those once-delicious pancakes were now doing to her stomach.
Everybody glared at her.
Molly glared right back. “And I suppose you all think I'm getting my rocks off knowing that somebody thinks I'm the ideal partner for anatotoss? Invite our friend to lob a few human body parts at
your
dog and see how you feel.”
your
dog and see how you feel.”
“We know, Mollyâ” Billy interceded.
“Shut up, Billy,” both Molly and Winnie retorted.
Billy just smiled.
“How do we proceed?” the lawyer asked.
Colonel Beck sighed and scratched his chest. Kevin kept very still. Winnie glowered all over again. Molly sweated in silence and fought the urge to run.
She'd opened her textbooks after all. The ones that applied to this situation, anyway.
Sexual Homicide
, by Ressler, Douglas, and Burgess.
Crime Classification Manual
. Same crowd. Any number of others she'd collected through the years.
Sexual Homicide
, by Ressler, Douglas, and Burgess.
Crime Classification Manual
. Same crowd. Any number of others she'd collected through the years.
She'd curled up on her couch by the big back window, out which she
could see Magnum chasing squirrels, and she'd read up on the kinds of people who might consider fresh body parts to be party favors. She'd studied what the experts thought an investigation into that kind of person should entail.
could see Magnum chasing squirrels, and she'd read up on the kinds of people who might consider fresh body parts to be party favors. She'd studied what the experts thought an investigation into that kind of person should entail.
So she knew, even before they told her.
“First, how do we deal with the news?” the lawyer asked.
Winnie blinked like a dyslexic in a spelling bee. She turned to Billy Armistead, who was consulting the top of the table.
“Can you deal with that, Bill?” Colonel Beck asked, scratching again, making Molly wonder how much starch his wife put in that white uniform shirt. The colonel was a formal kind of guy, always conscious of his image. An enthusiastically martial man with rigid posture, piercing blue eyes, and iron gray hair that receded at a pace with his chin, he'd managed to reach his position as chief of detectives without once working the streets. Which meant he was way out of his starched and postured league. Thank God Major McConnell, as head of homicide, was there to offset him.
“Deal with it how, Perry?” Billy asked with a half smile.
The colonel rolled his hands, as if that meant something. “Tell that woman to hold the story until we get more information.”
“How much more information?” Molly asked.
“What information?” Rhett answered very quietly.
“We can't just let this blow out of proportion,” the colonel protested.
Molly couldn't help but laugh. “Considering what I've pulled out of my dog's mouth, I'm not sure âout of proportion' is possible.”
The colonel scowled. “You know what I mean. We need to proceed carefully. After all, what if it is a hoax? The damage to the city could be incalculable.”
“And if it isn't a hoax?” Winnie countered with deceptive calm. “Imagine the damage if we don't inform the public that young girls are at risk.”
“Not probable,” the colonel snapped. “I checked. No unidentified DBs in the freezer missing parts. No big missing persons cases still open. The last one was that woman they found in Forest Park. Shannon something.”
“Sharon,” Winnie corrected. “Sharon Peters.”
“That's right. I mean, we would have heard something if this guy'd been working the area here.”
Molly's smile was grim at best. Obviously the colonel hadn't been reading the same books she had.
“We need to liaise with the county,” Major McConnell said. “Not to mention the surrounding counties and state highway patrol for missing person reports. There's plenty of places besides the city where this guy could be gathering his collection.”
“What if it isn't even from around here at all?” Rhett asked.
Everybody turned on him as if he'd farted “Taps.”
“What?” Winnie demanded.
Rhett shot Molly an apologetic glance. “Molly has moved a lot. Who says she met this individual here in St. Louis? Who says he even really knows Molly?”
“They were addressed to her,” Kevin said.
Rhett shrugged. “She's a public figure.”
“I don't suppose I could suggest Donna Kirkland's name to this guy,” Winnie suggested.
Molly sighed. “Trophies usually don't go to strangers.”
When everybody stared at her all over again, she flushed, wishing that somebody else in the room had invested their forty bucks for
Sexual Homicide
like she had.
Sexual Homicide
like she had.
As if she'd heard those very thoughts, Winnie huffed like an overheated horse. “Didn't anybody here see
Silence of the Lambs
, for God's sake?”
Silence of the Lambs
, for God's sake?”
It was the colonel's turn to stiffen. “This isn't Seattle, Dr. Harrison. We just don't get serial killers here.”
“We've had a few,” Major McConnell said.
“And not one of us was on board when they came through,” Colonel Beck retorted, looking down his long nose at his subordinate. “We need to liaise with the men who worked those cases. Somebody who's familiar with serial killers.”
Molly actually flinched. Didn't those two words terrify anybody else in this room as much as Molly?
“There were those two women stuffed in packing boxes,” Kevin mused, rubbing at his chin with a pencil. “We haven't caught that bastard yet.”
“No missing parts,” Molly informed him, trying hard to sound offhand. “It's not our boy.”
“Can we get on with it?” the lawyer demanded with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “First of all, we haven't even established that what we have here is a serial killer.”
“We don't have the luxury anymore of assuming he's not,” Winnie said. “Thatâ
those
âeyes he sent were from a woman. Probably a young woman, since there were no disease processes present. No retinopathy of any kind, no cataracts, that kind of thing.”
those
âeyes he sent were from a woman. Probably a young woman, since there were no disease processes present. No retinopathy of any kind, no cataracts, that kind of thing.”
“You're sure it was a woman?” the lawyer asked.
Winnie shot him a look of pure disdain. “In thirty percent of females, Barr bodies can be seen just at the edge of the nucleus in the epithelial cells. It's the clumping of the XX chromosome, which is more visible than the XY. Barr bodies are never found in the male eye. This eye had Barr bodies present.”
“So it was a woman. Okay.”
“The eye was also coated in Vaseline and frozen.”
Molly almost puked right on the table.
“A very careful preparation,” Winnie said, her eyes losing focus. “Not professional, as in a med school. And he didn't get all the optic muscles dissected away, not like a physician would have. But his dissection was precise and ⦔
“And?” Major McConnell asked.
Winnie actually shook her head, bemused. “Courteous.”
That brought the table to a full stop. For a long, second-counting moment, full, stricken silence reigned.
Then Major McConnell, ever the professional, took over. “All right. We have a guy who decorates body parts and tosses them over a fence. Somebody who seems to know Molly, because he seems to also be sending her little love notes. We have to assume, since he's tossing them here, that he's doing this from St. Louis. Which means we probably now have another serial killer here.”
“We live in a miraculous age,” Winnie reminded him. “All he'd have to do to visit is take his choice of planes, trains, and automobiles.”
“Motorcycles,” Molly couldn't help adding.
“Buses,” Rhett threw in.
“Boats,” Billy said with a grin.
The collective reproach of the rest of the audience silenced them. Molly fought the giggles, the kind that had always gotten her into trouble at funerals. Better than screaming, after all.
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