ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS BOOK 1 (18 page)

He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the medical examiner, a kind young doctor named Rusty Sampson.

“Aha.”

“Aha what, Doc?”

“She fought him, hard. See the bruises on her forearms? Defensive wounds, no doubt. She’s got a knot on her head, too—may find a subdural hematoma when we get to the brain. She got knocked pretty good, that might have put her out. And there’s a hyoid fracture. Could see the bruising around her neck pretty well out in that field, but here it is.”

“He strangle her before or after he cut her up?”

“There was some clotting in the knife slashes on her face, so I’d have to say it was perimortem. But her hands were definitely cut off after she was dead. Not that that helps, he really tore the poor thing up.”

“Was she raped?”

“I don’t know if I can say ‘rape’ definitively, but look what I found in her.” He held up a petrie dish with a small clear fragment of what looked like translucent skin in the center.

“Part of a rubber. It’s torn off the rolled edge. Got lost inside her. Doesn’t look to have semen on it, though of course we’ll get it sent for testing. She had some lateral bruising, too. I’m not much for speculation, but it could be he lost it and had to go searching, you know? They aren’t as strong as they look, a fingernail could rip it easily.”

“I wonder…” Baldwin stepped away, his eyes unfocusing. Could the killer have realized the condom had slipped off, and that’s why he punished Marni’s body so severely? It was a possibility. He could have been desperate to retrieve the condom quickly and unable to find it. A simple issue for a normal couple. For a killer trying to hide his identity, a whole different matter. A failure of any kind would be enough to set him off. Another rung up the escalation ladder.

“Care to give me an estimate on time of death?”

“Well, the buffet line had been open for a day at least.”

Baldwin shook his head. “Haven’t heard that one before. Buffet line? Where do you guys come up with this stuff?”

“Think I heard that one on
Law and Order.
But in all seriousness, she’d been dead at least eighteen to twentyfour hours when you found her. Maggots in the wrist area, plenty in her other orifices, some hatchlings from the blowflies. It was hot out there and they got moving quickly. Add the sun and you’ve got yourself a virtual party.”

“She’d only been missing for two days.” Baldwin didn’t add the rest of his thought. He hadn’t wasted a lot of time before he killed her. This one he’d grabbed, killed, taken for a drive and dumped. He’s got another jump on us. “Anything else?”

“Naw. I’ll get more after tox comes back.”

“Okay. Thanks, Doc. Let me know if there’s anything else good.”

Another one down, he thought as he left. Better go find Grimes, get him filled in.

Metro had drawn ranks around Betsy Garrison. The buzz was nearing epic proportions. Many officers still didn’t know the identity of the latest Rainman victim, but almost all of them knew it had been someone on the force, and Betsy’s name had come up more than once. After repeated threats, the media had agreed not to release Betsy’s identity to the public, but they were having a grand time with their reports. The national cable outlets had gotten on board, as well; all the majors were carrying the story. Speculation was rampant, true-crime aficionados were calling for interviews and the entire department was bogged down. The Rainman was getting as much attention as he could ever possibly want, and Metro was paying the price.

With implicit instructions to step up the pace of the investigation, Lincoln Ross and Marcus Wade were chasing down leads and rumors as fast as they came. The most important was interviewing the previous Rainman victim, the one who had intimated to Betsy that she knew who her attacker was.

Lincoln pulled the unmarked up in front of a small, 1940s bungalow. The paint was peeling, the window screens were torn, the yard dusty and grassless. In this neighborhood, where the houses started selling in the high 800s, this home was one of the few bungalows left. The trend in Nashville real estate was to buy up the smaller homes on the pricey land, then raze the house and build a monstrosity. Value-added real estate, and it was an overwhelmingly popular choice. Marcus looked around and voiced Lincoln’s thought. “She doesn’t really fit the profile of the others, does she?”

Lincoln shook his head silently, still staring at the house. Six of the victims lived in beautiful, wellmaintained homes in gated communities. Even Betsy Garrison’s house was in a trendy, up and coming neighborhood. It was part of the fear-mongering done by the Rainman—if he could slip in past the guards and wrought iron, he could get anywhere. He seemed to prefer his victims to be a little upscale. This woman, judging solely on the appearance of her squalid home, was not his typical catch.

They got out of the car just as an overweight beagle came tearing around from the back of the house. Sounding more vicious than he possibly was, he barreled up to Lincoln, baying like a full-grown bloodhound. His wagging tail betrayed his fierceness, and when Lincoln reached a hand down, the dog became all puppy. He quit barking and started whimpering in pleasure, thrilled to be getting some attention. 

A voice screeched out the front screen door. “Wally. Waallleeee! Stop that racket now.”

Lincoln and Marcus looked at each other. Lincoln shrugged, gave the dog one last pat and walked to the sagging gray porch. The steps squeaked in protest as he walked up them. The slight scent of marijuana wafted to his nose. He rapped hard on the screen door.

“Metro police,” he announced with authority. He heard Marcus guffaw in the background, ignored him and knocked again. There was rattling from inside the house, then a tired-looking woman with stringy brown hair appeared at the door. Her eyes were bloodshot, but she didn’t show any other obvious signs of intoxication.

“Yeah? Whaddaya want?”

Lincoln put on his polite face. “Lucy Johnson?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“We’re here to talk to you about the incident you reported. The, uh, rape.” Lincoln looked to Marcus for support, but Marcus was very busy scratching Wally’s belly. Lincoln pursed his lips and turned back. There was a reason he was in homicide, a reason why he loved computers. He dealt with the dead, the inanimate, better than the living.

Lucy Johnson screwed up her face as if she was about to burst into tears. Lincoln looked at Marcus, beseeching him to come rescue him. Marcus left the dog and came to the door.

“Ms. Johnson, we just need—”

“Miss.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Miss Johnson.” The threat of tears past, she smiled winningly at Marcus. He glanced at Lincoln out of the corner of his eye. Maybe she just didn’t like big black men in designer suits. He stepped around Lincoln and motioned at the door.

“Can we come in, Miss Johnson?”

She threw a quick, desperate look over her shoulder.

“Naw, let’s do it outside. This place is a mess.” She banged open the screen door, and Lincoln jumped out of the way before it came into contact with his suit. Marcus covered a laugh by clearing his throat. In the daylight, Lucy Johnson didn’t look quite as rough as she had in the shadows. Her hair was a day past fresh, but she had short shorts and long legs, attributes she wasn’t past using to get on the good side of the detectives. She slipped her feet into a pair of ratty plastic flip-flops and walked out into the yard, swishing her hips for maximum effect. The beagle cowered for a moment, then went to his mistress, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

Marcus raised an eyebrow at Lincoln, who shook his head slightly. She’d responded better to Marcus, let him take the interview. Lincoln folded his arms across his chest and braced his legs so he wouldn’t have to lean on the weathered porch column for support. Marcus followed the woman into the scraggly yard.

“I done told that Sex Crimes girl everything that happened. Didn’t think she believed me,” she said.

“Why’s that?”

“She just had that look about her, you know? Like she was better than everybody else. Where’s she, anyway?”

“Detective Garrison was in a car accident, ma’am. We’re picking up the slack while she recovers.”

Lucy shielded her eyes from the sun and looked away quickly. “She hurt bad?”

“She’ll be fine, ma’am. I’ll tell her you asked after her. Now, we were hoping to get a little more information from you about your case. Detective Garrison mentioned you may be able to identify your attacker.”

Lucy toed a clump of dead grass. “Well, yeah, I might’ve told her that.”

“Does that mean you can identify him, or you can’t?”

Marcus felt rather than saw Lincoln shift on the porch. This was going to be a waste of time.

Lucy paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to tell the truth or not. Marcus was reminded of a kid caught in the candy store, debating whether to admit she had the candy in her pocket or deny its existence till her dying breath. Conscience apparently won.

“It’s not that I can identify him, exactly. It’s just that something about him seemed really…familiar.” She drew the word out slowly, like it had never been tried before, like she wasn’t quite sure of its pronunciation. Marcus rubbed his chin, trying to look thoughtful.

“Okay, I can understand that. You don’t want to finger the wrong man. Perfectly acceptable. How about this. Tell me where he seems familiar from.”

“Well…everywhere. It’s like he’s always around, ya know? All the places I go to. The gas station for coffee, the gym, the grocery.”

“Do you think he’s stalking you?”

“Naw. He doesn’t realize I recognize him. It’s just that I seem to run into him everywhere I go. It’s the arms. It was the only thing I could see, you know. His face was covered, his hair was covered, but he had these arms, and they were all strong and ropy and he held me down so hard. It’s the arms that I keep seeing.” There was a catch in her throat, but her eyes were dry.

“Ma’am, do you know his name?”

She shook her head, miserable, trying not to cry. “No.”

“Anything about him? The way he smelled? A certain phrase he may have used?”

Lucy shook her head. “No, no, nothing like that.”

“But you still think you know who it is.”

“No, I didn’t say that. I don’t
know
who he is. But I recognize the car he’s in,” she added, a sly grin on her face.

Marcus gave a hopeful glance to Lincoln, who had also gone on alert. This could be a huge break. Imagine, they could solve the Rainman case in one day while the Sex Crimes Unit had been trying for years. Marcus stepped a bit closer, put a hand on her arm. She didn’t jerk away, just stared at his hand like she’d never been touched before. Marcus had an inkling that she had, just not in such a gentle way. She looked up at him, looked him straight in the eye.

“It’s an unmarked car. The man who raped me is a cop.”

Christina Dale woke leisurely, cloudy and warm. She clung to the last vestiges of the dream, images from her childhood, a park, or no, was it her backyard? It was green and warm, and she could smell a hint of onion in the freshly mown grass. The sky was as blue as a robin’s egg, clear and heavy, with puffy white clouds floating by. She felt content, it was the best kind of dream, the one where you wake up and just know it’s going to be a wonderful day. A languid smile moved across her face, and as she began to swim into focus, the images drifted, blown away on the winds of her mind. She started to roll over and realized her body wasn’t following her brain’s command. That was weird. She must still be drunk from last night. That happened sometimes, she was still drunk when she woke up. Especially when they did those dumb drugs the college kids liked so much. The roofies always made her boneless the next day.

She tried to reach down and massage some feeling back into her legs. Her eyes flew open and she knew something was dreadfully wrong. There was rope tied around her arms and legs. She came fully awake, panicking, adrenaline rushing through her body and bringing everything into focus. The rope cut bitterly across her ribs, her arms were stretched above her head, painfully pulling her shoulders from their sockets. She tried to wriggle but only succeeded in drawing the ropes tighter, nearly cutting off her breath.

“Oh my God,” she moaned. It all came back to her. The lazy grin, the shock of black hair that fell across his forehead, those intense cobalt cat eyes. Her mother warned her time and time again that she was too open, too trusting, that if she kept on sleeping with every Tom, Dick and Harry she met around that she could end up hurt or dead. But who wouldn’t respond to the gorgeous creature of a man that she had stumbled out of the bar with?

She stared around the room, trying to piece together how she’d ended up in what was obviously a mess. Had things gone too far last night? Had she asked to be tied up? She’d done it before, a small-town girl trying out new things without any repercussion. Maybe the man—Lord, what was his name—had simply passed out after they’d fooled around. She looked to either side and only saw the empty loneliness of a motel room, stark white walls, a cheesy landscape in oranges and yellows hanging above a cut-rate TV. She was alone. Suddenly she heard the toilet flush and relaxed. A shadow moved along the wall and he popped into view. It was him all right, tousled and naked, looking even sexier than she had remembered.

“Mornin’, darlin’. You wanna get me out of this and we can pick up where we left off?”

He smiled and moved no closer, just stood watching her like a feral cat in heat.

“Seriously, get me untied. This is starting to hurt.”

She realized even before she saw the knife that he had no intention of letting her go. Ever. She opened her mouth to scream but he was on her, slapping a piece of duct tape over her mouth so all she could hear was her own hysterical cries, muffled and caught in her throat. As her mystery man dragged the tip of the knife slowly across her face, his cheerful grin disappeared, and he spoke only one word, the last Christina would ever hear.

“Bye.”