Illusions of Death (14 page)

Chapter 28

Logan emerged from his conference call with the FBI profiler with a pad of scribbled notes and no idea where to pick up in the investigation. He tossed the legal pad on his desk and went to the break room to refill his coffee cup. The pot was empty. He leaned his hands against the counter, head down, and wondered what the hell he should do now.

Brad entered with his empty mug. “Rutherford have anything enlightening to say?”

“Rutherford refined the profile. After making me wait forever.”

His partner grinned. “What did you expect? Bill Rutherford is like every federal agent. He hates locals. Locals hate the bureau. The Feebies milk us dry. Steal all the info from the legwork we’ve put into an investigation. Then a break in the case occurs. They catch the bad guy. They get all the credit. End of story.”

Logan cracked his knuckles. “I don’t care who gets the credit. To get Roy off the streets and behind bars is what’s important. He’s in our town, Brad.
Our
town. He killed someone I’ve known since she was in diapers. And I haven’t been able to do a damn thing about it.”

Brad added fresh coffee and programmed the coffeemaker. The drip began. The aroma filled the small break room.

“So what’s the updated profile?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Still thirties, though he thinks more likely late thirties. With the possibility that Roy could be in his forties. Maybe.”

“Hmm. Real certain there. I’ll bet he was at the head of his class at the academy. Rutherford. Not Roy.”

“Still a white male who appears stable to outsiders. Educated, though not necessarily formally.”

“As in college?”

Logan nodded. “Rutherford’s on a new kick now. Thinks Roy might have military training. Said there’s a precision to his work that could indicate a military background.”

“Great. I can see the headlines now.” He lifted his hands in the air to frame his imaginary copy. “Former Navy SEAL claims he’s Rainbow Killer. Grew up hating his mother.”

Brad dropped his hands. “Or his sister. Or kindergarten teacher. Whatever. If he’s killing women, the Feebs always go Freudian and think he hated some woman at some time in his past. I don’t always buy that.” He stopped and poured a cup of coffee. “Besides, Roy has proven to be an equal opportunity killer. He kills indiscriminately. So it’s just not his mama he hated as a child. It was every man, woman, short, tall, fat, thin, left-handed, right-handed person he ran into.”

Logan asked, “So who do you think Roy is? Or what causes him to do what he does?”

Brad grew thoughtful. “I think he gets off on it. Period. He’s killed from every age and ethnicity. Every socioeconomic group. I think the freak enjoys torture. Or maybe he likes feeling superior to the police. When he’s finally caught—and I’m hoping it’s when and not if—he won’t have a thing to say. I believe Roy’s totally, one hundred percent apeshit nuts.”

He paused. “That’s what scares the bejesus out of me. I’m afraid he’ll get off because he’s loco, plain and simple. And they’ll lock him away like they did Reagan’s attempted killer. You remember that guy from Dallas? John Hinckley. He gets out now on supervised visits for weeks at a time. They’re close to releasing the looney tune. A guy who tried to kill the fuckin’ President of the United States—free on the streets!”

Brad looked Logan in the eye. “Promise me something.”

Logan sensed the atmosphere in the room change. “What?”

“That if we find Roy—you and me—that we’ll shoot him. No going to trial. No finding him insane. No putting him in some psychiatric facility. We remember all of the families of Roy’s victims. We take him out. No questions asked. You in?”

He thought about the pain he still faced daily at losing the twins. At the empty hole Carson Miller left in his life. At how it tore his marriage apart. And thought of all those families shattered beyond repair, thanks to Roy.

“I’m in.”

Logan stood there a moment, not quite believing he’d agreed to execute a man instead of arrest him and bring him to trial. He was supposed to be one of the good guys. For law and order. For Pete’s sake, he was even running for chief of police.

Yet if he confronted the Rainbow Killer face to face, Logan knew he would remember his promise to Brad.

And keep it.

If caught on his watch, this serial murderer would not get away.

He returned to his desk and thumbed through his messages. Brad followed with coffee for them both.

“Karlyn came by while you were tied up with Bill Rutherford.”

Logan glanced up, his thoughts turning to Mario Taylor. “She okay?”

“Yeah. She had a few questions about restraining orders against her ex. I walked her through things. It would be easier to get him on stalking laws.”

He thought a moment. “I think you’re right. Did you convince her to file?”

“She wanted to talk with you first. But she seemed pretty upset with the creep.”

Logan’s desk phone rang. He picked it up. “Detective Warner.” He paused a moment. “Nelda, slow down. Okay. Just now? Got it.”

He hung up. “Karlyn had it out with Mario Taylor in Anne Stockdale’s store a few minutes ago. Nelda witnessed the tail end of it.”

“And?”

“She wished him dead and stormed out.”

Brad stood and lifted his jacket from the back of his chair. “Let’s go assess the situation.”

They signed out. Logan instructed Brad to stop at the antique store first.

“I want to hear Anne’s version of things before we confront anyone,” he explained. “Nelda said Anne heard the entire encounter.”

They drove to the square and saw Mayor Vick outside the store, jabbering on his cell phone. He caught sight of them and quickly pocketed it.

“Heard the whole thing, boys,” Vick assured them. “That man is slimier ‘n—” Vick paused. “Don’t want to insult a snake. I think it’d have more integrity than this old boy. Miss Campbell just stuck up for herself.”

“You were there?” Logan asked. Nelda hadn’t mentioned Vick’s presence.

“Miss Campbell was helping me pick out a present for my upcoming anniversary. If I want another forty with the missus, I know to come through on the big occasions.”

Vick’s cell rang, and he grabbed for it. “Yes, I was there, Casey. She wants that man dead. D-E-A-D, dead.”

Logan signaled for Vick to hang up. No way for damage control now. The mayor had probably been on the phone with his wife when they pulled up. She was bound to call every woman in her bridge club. Casey Attaway would spread things from his end like a brushfire out of control.

“Gotta go. I’ll stop at the pumps and tell you everything about it later.”

“Have you talked to anyone else about this, Mayor?” Brad asked.

Vick didn’t bother to look sheepish. “Well, Anne and Nelda. They’re still inside. And I called my wife. And Bobby Joe. I figured the chief might want to hear about it. Even if he is out sick today.”

Logan knew all about Risedale’s “sick” days. They had become more frequent as his time in office drew to a close. Most of them involved getting therapeutic time on the golf course now that the weather had turned nice.

He glanced at Brad. Risedale had probably gone straight into the Nineteenth Hole for a beer and to pass along the news. By sundown, most of the Springs would have heard that Karlyn had tried to kill her ex in the antique store with a butcher knife. Gossip had a life of its own in the Springs.

Brad nodded. “Mayor Vick, if you’ll come over to the car with me. That’ll afford us a little privacy. I’ll take your statement so you can be on your way.”

Logan entered Anne’s store. She and Nelda spoke animatedly. As he approached, their conversation died.

“Nothing to get excited about, Logan,” Nelda assured him. “I just thought you needed to know what happened. No laws were broken. She just told that sumbitch a thing or two.”

He looked from her to Anne. “Start at the top. Don’t leave anything out.”

Anne composed herself. “Karlyn came in and set a time for your dining room set to be delivered this week. Then she and Mayor Vick looked at some jewelry for his wife. Joe found a lovely bracelet, and I rang that up. Karlyn spotted a locket and purchased that.

“As I finished the sale, that horrible man came in. He asked Karlyn if she were buying something for her . . .
lover
.”

Anne turned a rosy shade. “Karlyn told him in no uncertain terms that they were divorced, and it was none of his business. That she had given him a lot of money, and he needed to go find a sugar mama to take care of him.”

“Go on.”

“Well, he told her that he’d seen you and that you were no big deal, Logan. That Karlyn would come to her senses and come back to him.”

Anne looked at Nelda. “As if Karlyn would ever think of going back to such a man. And dump our Logan?”

“Never,” Nelda agreed, her head imitating a Bobble head doll. “And then I came in when Karlyn told him that he was a user and she wished he
was
dead.”

“She stormed out,” Anne concluded. “Poor thing. She was shaking like a leaf on a blustery March day, but that girl didn’t cry. She held her head high and marched out proudly.”

“Then her ex began ranting. It was some foreign language,” Nelda said. “Maybe Spanish? Or Italian?”

“I think it was a little of both,” Anne chimed in. “He grew all red in the face and stomped out without a by your leave to us.”

“So you’re absolutely certain Karlyn didn’t threaten to kill him?” Logan asked.

“Not at all. She said she wished he was dead so he couldn’t bother her anymore. And my stars, he was so darn rude. I’m sorry Karlyn was married to the likes of him,” Anne said. “Smart woman to get out of that situation.”

“We want you to talk to him, Logan,” Nelda added. “Let him know there’s no reason to stay in the Springs any longer. And then you’ll need to comfort that dear girl.” Nelda paused and assessed him. “A chief of police would be well thought of settling down with someone of Karlyn’s caliber.”

Logan finished his notes and slid his notebook into his pocket, ignoring Nelda’s last words.

“Thank you, ladies.” He turned to go. “And if this incident comes up, be clear that Karlyn didn’t threaten Mario in any way. I don’t want people to get the wrong impression.”

Both women nodded guiltily. Logan wondered whom they’d already spoken to. He could hear the town taking sides now, even if most of them didn’t know either Karlyn or Mario.

He exited the store and saw Mayor Vick already a block away, waddling as fast as his legs could carry him. Logan returned to the car and slid into the passenger’s seat.

“Anything?”

Brad consulted his notes. “No threats on either one’s part. Mario dissed you and seemed to want money from Karlyn. She gave him shit and told him she wished he was dead and slammed out of there like a cyclone.”

“That’s pretty much what I got. Except the ladies felt we need to visit Mario and gently nudge him out of town before I race over and comfort Karlyn.”

“No harm, no foul. No threats. I don’t see a reason we can talk to him. Officially, that is.” Brad shrugged. “But if we happened to run into him off the clock?”

Logan glanced at his watch. “Let’s call it a day. Drop me at the station. I want to head over to Karlyn’s.”

Brad grinned. “Yeah, you probably need to work on some of that . . . comforting. Unfortunately, I’m between ladies. Guess it’s a beer and the DVR for me tonight.”

He didn’t respond. Brad always chased skirts. His partner liked the no-strings approach. It left him free to scratch his itch when he felt like it and then move on.

Logan drove straight to Martha Campbell’s house. He went around to the back and knocked at the kitchen door, knowing how Karlyn liked to hang out there.

She opened the door, a spoon in hand, and motioned him in. An open container of ice cream sat on the kitchen table. She grabbed a second spoon from the drawer and handed it to him.

“I’ve never found a problem that Ben and/or Jerry couldn’t solve.”

Logan dug in. “Mmm. Cherry Garcia.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about my altercation with Mario.”

He spooned another bite into his mouth. “Nelda called and filled me in.”

“I was minding my own business—actually, yours—when Mario walked in and began ragging on me. He said I could do better than you.” Karlyn waved her spoon in the air as she spoke. “Can you imagine that? You’re smart. Funny. Drop-dead gorgeous. How could I do better than you? And—”

Logan cut her off with a kiss.

Karlyn tasted like the ice cream. And much more.

She tasted like home.

Chapter 29

He watched Camille Attaway putter in the kitchen, clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. It was her bridge night, thus the early dinner provided to her lone guest. She would ready herself. Put on that vivid orange lipstick she always wore in public. And head out for what the town knew was more sampling of wines than hands of bridge. She’d come home fuzzy-headed and go straight to bed.

Never knowing what had taken place in her absence.

He waited fifteen minutes. Moved from behind the chinaberry tree, grateful for the tall hedges that surrounded the backyard. Two windows in the breakfast nook were open. He slit the screen and pushed it aside. Reached around and used his thinly-gloved hand to unlock the back door.

Still daylight. Which added to the thrill of the hunt. He usually worked under cover of darkness. The light ramped up the challenge. Fed his anticipation.

He entered. Stood rock-still. Listened to her clunky heels echoing on the hardwood floors above him. Heard her descend the stairs. The front door opened. Closed. The deadbolt turned and then snapped into place.

She would be gone several hours.

The house remained quiet. He knew Camille Attaway was an excellent cook. He’d eaten her fried chicken and mincemeat pie at church potlucks. She would have whipped up her specialties to impress her New York paying guest. He’d probably gone to lie down, the meal heavy in his belly.

No squeaks on the carpeted stairs. No stirring from the second floor. He crept down the hall. Spied a closed door. Turned the handle noiselessly. Opened the door.

The specimen lay stretched out on top of a floral comforter. Snoring softly. He’d thoughtfully drawn the curtains. One less thing to do.

He’d already unzipped his special bag. It held everything he would need. He set it noiselessly on the floor. Removed the first item. Quietly pulled on the edge of the duct tape. Trimmed the perfect-sized piece. Hovered a moment above the sleeping specimen, his adrenaline exploding with excitement.

Then he nudged the mattress with his knee. Twice. Enough for the specimen to open his eyes.

Confusion. Then fear.

He slapped the duct tape across the specimen’s mouth. Then snapped a handcuff around his wrist.
He yanked the arm to the wrought iron headboard and locked the other cuff around a bar. The out-of-towner’s free hand attacked the handcuff, pawing at it uselessly.

With a speed that defied logic—but showed his hard-earned skills—he captured the other hand and fastened it in the same position.

And stood back to survey his handiwork.

He could see the fear pillowing in the pit of the specimen’s stomach. With a burst of adrenaline, the artist began kicking his legs, trying to knock his attacker aside. He inched away. Teased him with lips that curled into a smile.

The infuriated specimen kicked all the more. Strained against the cuffs as his body bucked on the bed.

Then he slowed as he began having trouble breathing. The duct tape across his mouth was wide. It rose high above his upper lip. The kicking frenzy ceased. He didn’t want to suffocate.

As if suffocation were the least of his worries.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said softly. “This isn’t big, bad New York. Walton Springs is a sleepy little town. Things like this don’t happen here.

“But they do. Sometimes to good people. Sometimes to bad.

“Which are you?”

He held the specimen’s gaze. Delighted in the gamut of emotions that flickered across his face. Then reached across and flicked on the light situated on the nightstand.

“I like light. I like to see what I’m doing.”

He reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out the long carving knife he’d borrowed from Mrs. Attaway’s butcher block. Turned it slowly, admiring it as it gleamed. Chuckled when the specimen’s bowels released and he pushed with his heels into the mattress, scrambling as far away as possible.

“You made a mess, Mr. Taylor. Or may I call you Mario? We will be on fairly intimate terms. For tonight, at least.”

A flood of hot tears dripped down the specimen’s cheeks. He turned his head away.

Using his handy roll, he quickly wrapped layers of duct tape around the ankles and then the knees. The specimen lay helplessly on the soiled bed.

“I am a killer, Mario. I have killed again and again. A fat plumber. Two schoolteachers. A gay architect. None of them deserved it. But you?” He grinned. “I think
you
do.”

Mario whimpered behind the tape. His eyes darted about the room. The clock on the wall read seven-twenty.

“Mrs. Attaway won’t be home for a few hours. And she’ll be sloshed when she gets here. No other guests at the old B&B tonight. Convenient for me. Not . . . so convenient for you.”

Mario thrashed about wildly. He let the fit run its course. It eventually died out. It always did.

Once the specimen stilled on the bed, he raised his knife again. “I am thorough, Mario Taylor. I take my time. I do hope you have a high threshold of pain. It angers me when people pass out. It spoils my fun.”

Mario groaned as the knife entered for the first of many times.

He appraised his work. He wasn’t happy he had to complete his task so rapidly. A few hours of play didn’t give him much satisfaction. But with the nosy landlady destined to return around ten, he needed to finish up sooner than usual. He couldn’t have her arrive and spoil things. If she did, he would have to silence her.

And that would spoil his beautiful pattern.

This series had been a joy. He’d learned so much with each candidate. A few he’d come to know personally for the sheer fun and challenge it brought, but many remained complete strangers to him. Chosen for one reason alone.

This time, though? It had been a little personal.

He hoped Karlyn would approve of his efforts in her behalf.

He chose to leave the ceiling fan on. He cut all the lights and opened the window. The smell of spray paint hung in the air. Normally, he liked to paint his specimens as an artist did a canvas, brushing the strokes across their chest, up and down their legs, tickling under their chin. But tonight focused more on speed than artistry. At least this specimen kept a neat room. He wouldn’t have to waste time straightening things.

He located Camille Attaway’s bedroom. At the opposite end of the hallway. If he closed this door, he hoped the harsh smell wouldn’t float her way. And if the bitch came home soused as usual, she’d probably fall into bed and not notice anything till morning.

Besides, she wouldn’t find a body. Just her comforter and sheets soiled with royal blue spray paint. And quite a bit of excrement.

And blood. Lots of beautiful, beautiful blood.