Just as he had for Dr. Johannsen. He definitely didn’t want to kill her, at least not at the outset. She’d die, but at a time and method of his choosing. She was big enough that he didn’t need to worry about the dose. By midnight he’d have all his loose ends snipped, his queen secured, so that he could focus on what was important.
Finishing the game. Making oRo, and by extension himself, a household name. His dreams were finally within his grasp.
Wednesday, January 17, 6:45
P.M.
“Sorry, everyone,” Vito said, closing the door behind them. They were all there, Jen, Scarborough, Katherine, Tim, and Bev. Brent Yelton from IT had also joined them, which Vito hoped meant good news. “Thanks for waiting.”
Jen looked up from her laptop. “Did you get an ID for the couple?”
“Yeah, finally.” Vito went to the whiteboard and wrote their names in the first two blocks of the second row on the grave diagram. “Arthur Vartanian and his wife, Carol. Ages fifty-six and fifty-two. Come from a small town in Georgia called Dutton.”
“And he’s a freakin’ judge,” Nick added, slumping into the chair beside Jen.
“Interesting,” Scarborough said. “Arthur Vartanian was the one murder of passion. Maybe he sentenced the killer to prison.”
“But why did he kill them here and not in Dutton, Georgia?” Katherine asked. “And why leave those two empty graves?”
Vito sighed. “We’ll add those questions to the list. Let’s cover the tape first.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Scarborough said. “Nick wanted me to hear it.”
Nick handed Jen a CD and she put it in her laptop, positioning the small speakers she’d connected and turning the laptop to Nick. “I’ve listened to this four or five times already,” Nick said. “There are periods of dead tape, so we’ll fast-forward through those. Electronics cleaned it up as best they could. Part of the static is that it’s a cell phone. The other part is that the phone is covered, probably in a pocket or something.”
“We checked Jill Ellis’s LUDs.” Jen said. “She made a call to Greg’s cell phone at 3:30 yesterday afternoon. She received this call at 4:25.”
Nick hit play and the CD began with a ragged moan that made everyone flinch.
“
Scream all you want. No one can hear you. No one will save you. I’ve killed them all.
” It went on, the killer promising to make Greg suffer and Greg pleading pitifully. “
It’s time for your ride in my time machine. Now you’ll see what happens to thieves.
”
Nick fast-forwarded. “He drags him for a minute, then there’s a bang, like a door being opened too hard. And then this.” He hit play and they heard squeaking that echoed softly. “There’s about five minutes of dead space. And then . . .” He hit play.
There was a scraping sound, then the killer’s voice. “
Welcome to my dungeon, Mr. Sanders. You will not enjoy your stay.
”
Another thud, then the volume dropped. “We think he took off Greg’s coat and dropped it next to him. Greg’s cell phone’s still connected, but it gets hard to hear in some places.” Nick’s jaw tightened. “In others it’s way too loud.”
“
You are a thief and . . . subject to penalties . . . law.
” More dragging and crashing and fevered pleas from Greg Sanders that nauseated Vito. Then more squeaking.
“He’s rolling something,” Nick said, then closed his eyes tight, waiting.
The scream left sweat beading on Vito’s forehead. “What the hell was that?”
“Don’t worry,” Nick said grimly. “You’ll get to hear it again.”
And they did, as Greg Sanders screamed again. “
You bastard. You fucking bastard. Oh, God.
” A big crash, then Greg’s screams became moans.
“
See what you’ve made me do. What a mess. Sit up. Sit
up.” There was scraping and more dragging and the labored breathing of exertion. “
Now we can proceed.
”
“
You . . . you bastard.
” It was Greg’s voice, very faint. “
My hand . . . My . . .
” A broken sob of anguish.
“
And . . . foot. See, you . . . common thief . . . stole . . . church . . . special punishment.
”
More words followed. Vito leaned forward to hear them, but jerked back when Greg shrieked again. It was a hideous wail, part agony, part terror. It didn’t sound human.
Liz lifted her hands. “Nick, turn it off. That’s enough.”
Nick nodded and stopped the CD, leaving a thick silence broken only by the sound of their own heavy breathing. “It pretty much ends there,” Nick said. “Greg screams some more, then I think he passes out. After five minutes of dead space the tape ends. One of the guys in Electronics is trying to place the sounds, the squeaks and bangs.”
Scarborough exhaled quietly. “I’ve been a psychologist for twenty years. I’ve never heard anything like this. Your killer showed no remorse, and beyond the slamming and banging, I heard no real rage in his voice. There was only disdain and contempt.”
Jen took her hand from her mouth where it had been clamped throughout most of the tape. “He said ‘Stole . . . church,’” she said unsteadily. “Greg stole in a church, from a church? Maybe he killed Greg in a church?”
“Before he started cutting his foot, he was chanting. I heard ‘
ecclesia,
’” Tim said.
“I heard it, too. It’s Latin for ‘church,’” Vito said. “I was an altar boy,” he added when Nick looked surprised. “Really. I was.”
Tim dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. “Same here. I heard that word more than enough times during mass. The question is, why did
he
use it?”
“I’d like to know what he did with Gregory’s hand and foot,” Katherine said quietly. “They weren’t with the body.”
“Or anywhere near the scene,” Jen added. “I even brought in cadaver dogs.”
Vito looked at Thomas. “He said Greg was going to ride on his time machine, then welcomed him to his dungeon. Is he crazy?”
Thomas shook his head forcefully. “In a clinical sense, almost certainly not. He’s acquired instruments of torture, whether he bought them or made them himself. He’s lured his victims with planning and forethought. He’s not crazy. I think the time machine reference is part of his . . . fun.”
“Fun,” Vito said bitterly. “I can’t wait to find this guy.”
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that Greg’s phone had a GPS,” Liz said.
Nick shook his head. “Throwaway. His old cell was disconnected for nonpayment.”
Beverly cleared her throat. “He found Greg through the model site. Greg’s résumé is posted, but his Septic Service ads aren’t listed. I guess he wasn’t proud of them.”
“So Munch didn’t know he was a local icon,” Nick said. “Coupled with his
charmin’ drawl
”—Nick accentuated his own—“we can assume he’s not from ’round here.”
Vito nodded. “Munch has a southern accent, as did the Vartanians. Coincidence?”
“At the risk of making myself a suspect,” Nick said dryly, “no, not a coincidence.”
“The Vartanians were from Georgia,” Katherine said, her brows crunched in thought. “So was Claire Reynolds.”
“You’re right,” Vito agreed. “Again, not a coincidence. In fact, it’s our first solid link between victims other than the UCanModel website. Perhaps the Vartanian family can tell us if Claire and Arthur and Carol knew each other. How about the autopsy reports?”
“I autopsied Claire Reynolds and the elderly lady on the first row. I got nothing more to help you identify the old woman. She had a broken neck, just like Carol Vartanian and Claire. I did get the final report from the lab on the silicone spray. It’s a special blend. They didn’t know who made it.”
From his folder Vito pulled the magazine that he’d gotten from Dr. Pfeiffer that morning. “Claire’s doctor said companies advertise their lotions in the back. Claire definitely would have used lotion, but her doctor said she bought it from him.”
Jen took the magazine. “She could have bought it from one of these, too. I’ll work on tracking the special formula to one of these manufacturers.”
“Thanks. Here are the Claire letters. One’s from Pfeiffer, the other from the library.”
Jen took the letters, as well. “I’ll get them to the lab, along with examples of Claire’s handwriting. We’ll see if anything shakes.”
“Good. Bev and Tim, what did you find at UCanModel dotcom?”
“Nothing for a while,” Bev said. “We were searching models who’d either gotten hits on their résumé or e-mails from E. Munch. Interestingly, Munch only e-mailed four people—Warren, Brittany, Bill, and Greg. Nobody else.”
Vito frowned. “That’s hard to believe. How could he be sure they’d accept?”
“It’s like he knew something else,” Nick mused. “Blackmail?”
“More like financials,” Brent Yelton said. “All the victims had overdrawn checking accounts, owed thousands on their credit cards, and had credit scores in the toilet.”
“So we still have nothing,” Nick said darkly, but Beverly was smiling.
“No, we said he didn’t e-mail anybody else as Munch,” she said, “but we kept thinking about what Jen said this morning. That E. Munch meant something. So we Googled and came up with this.” She pulled an art book from under the printouts. It was open to a painting Vito recognized.
It was a surreal, ghoulish-looking character whose mouth yawned open hideously. Just like Greg Sanders’s had this afternoon.
“The Scream,”
Vito said.
“Edvard Munch,” Scarborough added. “How apropos, given the way he made Gregory scream. This guy is one scary, very thorough sociopath.”
Beverly flipped to another picture, an even scarier one in a medieval style, with demons wreaking havoc on lost souls in grisly, macabre ways. “This is Hieronymus Bosch’s
Garden of Earthly Delights.
A model named Kay Crawford got an e-mail from one H. Bosch yesterday afternoon. She hadn’t answered the e-mail yet.”
“And we got her computer before it fried,” Brent added with satisfaction. “Bosch wanted to hire her for a documentary.”
“She’s agreed to help us,” Tim said. “We could set a trap for this bastard.”
A smile started across Vito’s face. “I like it. A lot. I think her help will mainly be her silence, but let’s get her in here first thing tomorrow morning. In the meantime, if you’ve got her computer, can you answer the e-mail and say you want the job?”
Brent nodded. “I made a full sector image of Kay Crawford’s hard drive, so if the virus’s timer is triggered by a reply like I think it is, then we’ll have a backup.”
“Excellent. And Liz.” Vito turned to her. “You said you’d gotten a hit from Interpol.”
“It might mean nothing to us.” She slid some faxed pictures from an envelope. “Apparently the guy in Europe who died, Alberto Berretti? He owed huge back taxes to the Italian government and they were watching his assets at the time of his death. They expected his children to try to divert some of his collection for their own private sale. They’ve had agents watching Berretti’s grown children for quite some time. This is one of Berretti’s sons with an American of unknown identity.”
Vito looked at the pictures. “His face is clear enough, but until somebody recognizes him it doesn’t help us. But it’s a start.”
Bev and Tim gathered their printouts. “Vito, we’re calling it a night,” Tim said. “We got no sleep last night, and we’re seeing double from all these printouts.”
“Thanks. Can you leave that art book? I want to look at it later.”
“I’ll write up a detailed profile for you,” Thomas said. “This killer used some very specific language. I’ll see if any patients like this have been documented.”
“And I’ll do the gunshot, the shrapnel, and Greg Sanders’s autopsies tomorrow,” Katherine said. “Oh, here’s the photo you wanted of the brand on Sanders’s cheek.”
Vito took it and put it on the table. “Thanks, Katherine. I didn’t want Sophie to have to go to the morgue.”
“’Cause he likes her,” Nick said slyly, and Katherine smiled.
“Of course he does. She’s my little girl.” She slanted a look up at Vito. “Remember that, Vito. She’s my little girl.” With that warning, Katherine left with Thomas.
“I’ll get Sophie back up here so she can look at the picture, then we’re headed out,” Vito said. He went to the door and stopped short. “Oh, shit.”
Wednesday, January 17, 7:10
P.M.
Sophie and Katherine sat side by side on a bench outside the conference room.
Vito crouched in front of Sophie, who looked pale. “What happened?”
She looked down at him, her eyes stark. “I was on my way to the cafeteria and got a call on my cell, something you needed to know. When I came up to knock on the door . . .” She shrugged fitfully. “I heard the screams. I’m all right now. Just shaken up.”
Vito took her hands, found them cold. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing to hear.”
Katherine urged her to her feet. “Come on, honey. I’ll take you home with me.”
“No, I need to see Gran.” She saw the others watching and scowled, embarrassed. “Stop it. I was just shocked. Where’s the picture you wanted me to look at?”
“Sophie, you don’t need to do that tonight,” Katherine said.
“Stop it, Katherine,” Sophie snapped. “I’m not five anymore.” She caught her temper and sighed. “I’m sorry, but don’t treat me like a child. Please.” She pulled away and went into the conference room, leaving Katherine looking hurt and forlorn.