Snuff (7 page)

TWENTY-TWO

John heard someone stomp into the conference room as he was pulling down a projector screen.  “How’s Brooke?”

“How’d you know it was me?”

He turned to find Sergeant Jennings raising an eyebrow and slapping a thick file against her palm.  “Your paces. You walk like a fire’s chasing you.”  He tapped in a command on the laptop and pulled up autopsy photographs ME Ward emailed.  The images splattered close-ups of blood and pallid flesh onto the white screen. 

“Being hurried seems like a fucking appropriate reaction to this shit.” She tossed the file on the table and crossed her arms over the LAPD logo on her chest.  “Brooke needs a break.  I figured I’d let her try to sleep for a couple hours.”

He tabbed over to a photo of a violently violet ribbon of bruising clutching Beth Grant’s throat.  Not strangled with hands.  A scarf, perhaps a shirt or pillowcase.  Something made of fabric.  Stranglers liked to feel a struggle under their hands, the close-up view of choking the life from their victims, feeling them fall slack as they slipped into unconsciousness and then death.  Beth’s killer didn’t want that.  Perhaps a first-timer—more often than not, a beginner simply wanted to get the kill over with.  They were almost as scared as their victims.

He clicked over to a different set of pictures.  “Good.  She needs the rest.”

“She told me something that supports your ring of pervs theory.”

John tilted his head, squinting at broken blood vessel
s in Emily’s unseeing eyes.  A shot of the inside of her nostrils depicted faint white fibers clinging to nose hairs.  Another hands-off kill.  Why not smother her with a hand?  A male hand would likely be large enough to cover both nose and lips.  Impossible she’d struggle too much, if an average-sized man sat on her chest and used all his weight to pin her to the ground. 

Something was off, wrong, hideously, mind-blowingly awful, and the theory his mind played with
was the same one he’d seen scribbled in the margins of Lisette’s case files.  “Others were watching the video feeds?”

“
Looks that way.  Seems like just one from what Brooke’s described.”

“So what was it he was
watching?” 

“Abby being tortured, from all I can tell.  Brooke couldn’t see anything, but she heard her screaming.  I figure it’s two-way torture porn.  Physical pain for Abby, psychological pain for Brooke.  Brooke gave him lip.  He wanted to keep her in check. Making her listen as he tortures Abby would keep her quiet and make her feel responsible at the same time.” 

“He must use some type of night-vision if he’s taping everything for an audience.  Sensory deprivation and forced nudity are forms of psych torture as well.”

Lisette slid into a chair at the oval table and yawned into her palm.  “Brooke said his voice seemed familiar, but she can’t place where she’d heard him.  The guy kept his face covered at all times. 
Why would he bother if they’re always in the dark and if the girls would be dead soon?  He wasn’t filming them the entire time.  He didn’t need to keep Brooke blindfolded when he drove her and Abby to the dump spot.  He put her in the back—she thinks it was a van—and it was around two-thirty in the morning.  She wouldn’t have been able to see much.  And I’m sure he thought she’d kill herself like the others.  So why bother hiding his face?”

John listened, though he didn’t appear to be doing so as he clic
ked over to view the red hole in Brianna Weaver’s abdomen. 

“And he must have a day job.  The way she describes it, he visited for a few hours at a time.  I’m thinking it’s at night, since that’s when he’s active during dump jobs.  Obviously he’s got privacy, a house to store them in.  He’s not going to keep them in an empty building next to a fucking donut shop.”

He nodded, and she went on.  “Wherever it is, it’s someplace with a basement or a cellar.  There aren’t many of those in Los Angeles.  She walked up one flight of stairs to get inside, then down one flight, into a room with a kind of tiled floor that was cool to the touch.  The way she describes how the door sounds when it shuts makes me think it’s steel.  Something heavy.  It’s sound-proofed, because once it closed she couldn’t hear a thing from the floor above.  That kind of setup requires a lot of materials.  We can check work orders, ask around to contractors in the area.  It sounds like a big job, and he probably had help, unless he’s in a house built in the 1920’s or some shit.  And basement dungeons aren’t going to be on realtor’s brochures.”  She paused.  “Are you listening to a fucking thing I’m saying?”

“Yes, I am.  You’ve found a lot of useful information.  It’s good Brooke’s responding well to you.”  He turned to find her looking slightly mollified, blonde brows forced up in surprise.  “Anything else about the stash house?”

She raked a loose strand of hair from her eye.  “It looks like it may be in a residential area.  Brooke said it felt like she was walking on grass when he first took her inside. She was blindfolded the whole time, but she couldn’t feel any lights around when he moved her back to the car.  She estimates it was about a five-minute walk to the vehicle, and a fifteen-minute drive before he dumped them.”

“If it took five minutes to walk from the house to the car, it must sit on a large amount of private land.”  Why wouldn’t he park closer to the stash house?  Why take an unnecessary risk when it could easily be avoided?

“Unless he made her cut through other people’s lawns.  Streetlights might not have hit her from there, and he’s not going to drag a dead girl down the middle of the road and then double back for a blindfolded one.  She says he took them separately.”

“I’ll make sure to look into work orders in the area matching the description Brooke gave.  If it was constructed recently we may get lucky.”

“And if it was built a while ago we’ll get fuck all.”  Her gaze wandered to the image onscreen.  “That was a hard one.  Her mother had to be sedated, she was so hysterical.  I didn’t want to show up in her memories telling her some sick fuck raped Brianna after she was dead, so I never told her.”

“I wouldn’t either.”  He rubbed the crease that had etched between his eyebrows in the time he’d been examining the photographs.  “What was your first thought when you saw Brianna’s body?” 

“That I’d like to rip the guy’s balls off and roast them on a skewer over an open flame.  She was naked when he dumped her.  Like she was garbage.”

He circled his hand around the entry wound.  “He doesn’t seem to be even average height.  Bullet entered at an upward trajectory. Like the shooter was either crouching or very short.”

He chewed the inside of his cheek for a few moments.  There were no rules when it came to murder—apart from it being illegal—and of course there was never a polite way to go about the deed, but these murders seemed apologetic almost, since they weren’t committed with bare hands.  Paradoxically, the torture lacked remorse; even the disposals, apart from the fact the dead girls were wrapped.

She blew out a
sigh, ruffling the hair falling about her face.  “I know what you’re getting at—and it’s nice to know you agree with my theory—but the man kidnapping them can’t be physically imposing either, otherwise he wouldn’t bother blitzing them and using Tasers.  He’d put them in a chokehold, or beat them into submission.”

There would be only one way to confirm
Lisette’s scribbled theory.  “I need to talk to Brooke tomorrow.”

Lisette’s voice could have curdled milk.  “That’s a bad idea.”

“Yes, you’ve made your position clear.  I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was necessary.  I’ll certainly take no pleasure in forcing her to relive this.”

“Why is it
necessary
? A man interrogating her would never work.  She could barely look her boyfriend in the eye.  She won’t respond to you if she’s nervous to be around the man she’s lived with for over a year.” 

While he found it refreshing she was so concerned about Brooke, it was irritating
she found him incapable of conducting a simple interview. “I’m not going to interrogate a trauma victim.  It’s only a few questions, and it’s important.”

“You don’t think I’m capable of asking questions?”

He gave her a tight smile as he yanked the projector screen’s cord and rolled it back into place. “I have no doubt you’re capable.  But I don’t think kid gloves will confirm that theory you have.”

TWENTY-THREE

Lisette returns on the hour hand’s second lap around the clock since I’ve been staring at it, armed with rustling cellophane bags. 

“Hi.” 

She jumps a mile when she hears my voice.  “I thought you’d be sleeping
.”  She drops the bags on the counter. “I got a mozzarella sub for when you woke up.”  She fixes it on a tray on the counter, unrolling it from the wrapper.  “Jack said this is your favorite.” 

When she puts the tray on my lap, we stare at my restrained wrists. 

“Are you going to feed me?”

Her face scrunches, and she rips off the Velcro. “You’re a big girl.  I trust you to eat on your own.”

I roll my wrists.  Their newfound freedom is strange, and I feel blood gushing behind the red skin.  She prods the sandwich, so I take a tentative bite.  Garlic stings my tongue.  It’s foreign—I haven’t had solid food in weeks.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

I shrug and swallow the lump of wet bread.  “I’m not sure.  He gave us protein shakes.  I guess that counts as food.”

“Not in my book.”  She crosses her legs and watches me with hawk eyes.  “Agent Maxwell says he needs to speak with you tomorrow.  Do you think you’ll be up for it?  I’d tell him to fuck off but he’s the one in charge now.”

Admitting that seems difficult for her. 

I roll a napkin between two fingers, staring at tomato juice bleeding onto the tray.  “Will you be here too?”

“I’ll be here as long as you’re here.”  She pulls a bag out of her purse slash suitcase. “I got you some shit.  Comb, toothbrush, ponytail holders.  I know the hospital gives you that stuff but the quality’s always crappy.”  She sets the bag on the table.  “Are you feeling a little better?”

I can tell she needs to hear an affirmative answer, so I nod.

“Good.”  She hands me a bottle of pink lemonade. Sergeant Lisette must be a decent listener, since I’m guessing Jack also mentioned it’s one of my favorites.  “I’m going to go home to sleep for a few hours, but I wanted to talk to you one last time.  You mentioned this man refers to an audience.  Did he say anything else about him?  Give you a name, whatever?  Or maybe how he’s watching the tapes?”

“He just called
him ‘him.’  I don’t know how he watched, but I thought probably through the internet since sometimes the man had his laptop with him.”

“Could you see his face when the laptop was on?”

“I tried, but never made out much. Just his eyes.  He wore a ski mask.  I saw them through the eye holes, but I never made out a color.  Only the shape.” 

“Did he mention the viewer
more than once?  Say anything about him when you woke up?”

***

Wrappers crinkling and the rhythm of shallow breathing greet me when I wake up with my face pressed into the floor. 

He’s sucking on a cough drop, I can tell when it clicks against his teeth and the stench of medicinal cherry fills the place. His back is turned, but he’s fiddling with a blue screen that offers more light than I’ve seen recently.  I push myself up on my hands, and he turns toward the noise.

His tongue squelches around the lozenge before he snaps his laptop shut and starts up the stairs. 

I drag myself to where I hear Abby breathing and grope for her throat.  He’s undressed her, I realize
, when my fingers find her navel. It’s crusty.  Something wet dribbles down my hand, and she curls herself into a ball as a gasp wracks her body.  

“Abby.”  I lean close to her face.  Her lips tickle my ear when she moves them, but the only sound she makes is a soft groan.  “I’m here.  I’m not going to let him hurt you again.”

“Shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.  It’s cruel,” he says through the PA.

Abby jerks like she’s seizing.  I
gather her into my arms and rest my chin on top of her head. Singed flesh and hair fills my nostrils. It makes the corners of my eyes prick like hot pokers are stabbing them. He’s burned her, he’ll do it again and again, and I can’t do a thing to stop it. 

This must be the way a mother feels when she tries to protect her offspring.  The mix of anger and helplessness is paralyzing. 

Abby gasps when I tighten my arms around her.  “Leave her alone,” I say to the ceiling, and my voice isn’t one I’ve heard before.  It’s more of a growl, gravelly and furious.  “She hasn’t made you mad.  It’s me who’s pissed you off.”

“But Abigail here is a masochist.  You can’t see her, but I can.  She thinks she deserves it. Maybe it’s even a little bit of a relief.  She’s been biding her time, waiting to be struck down by
God
.” The way he says God makes it seem like ‘allegedly’ it’s his name.

Pain is pain.  If he wants to watch it, live it, feel someone feel it, it’ll be exactly the same if I take her place.  If I piss him off enough, he might decide to take everything out on me. 

“What happened to make you such a sick fuck?  Did your mother molest you?  You really hate women—only another woman could make you hate the rest of us this much,” I yell.

“That’s a decent theory, but I think Abigail might know the reason.  She was a drug addict.”

I pull Abby against my chest, pressing her face into my collarbone.  Her teeth sink into my skin, but I don’t care.  I can’t let her smell this room.  It’s disgusting, a thick briny brew of fear and sex.  I wrap my arms around her, over the delicate line of vertebrae poking from her back.  A weak attempt at keeping her from being so horribly overexposed.  If I shield her frailest parts he won’t be able to burn them so easily. Even imagining him flicking the flame in those tender areas sends a thrill of lightning-white terror through me.

Over my dead body am I letting her go. He’s going to have to fight me tooth and nail.  I have sharp nails, filed into deadly little squares.  He’ll lose an eye if he so much as tries.

“You understand, right Abigail?  That need.” His voice is blacker than the room, but it sounds like he’s a million miles away, scribbling his thoughts aloud in a journal of dark desires. “That need’s a real bitch sometimes.  A thousand nagging voices that whisper and won’t shut up, so you fight, but it only gets bigger.  Bolder. And eventually it’s bigger than you.  It swallows you, sucking you into a cyclone of prickling and prodding, demanding to be fed until you think your head might explode. So you fight harder, but the whispering gets louder until it’s screaming, and soon it’s the only thing you hear.  All you really want to hear. It’ll eat you alive if you don’t give it what it needs, but when you finally give in, it owns you.”

The lozenge clicks against his teeth as he laughs.

“I let that monster out a long time ago, Brooke.”

A small eruption bursts through the blackness when he pulls the door open.  A long blue flame flickers as it smokes, bobbing as he descends the staircase. His footsteps are controlled, meticulous.  He’s taking his sweet time, savoring every moment and the tangy taste of sweat swirling around. 

The flame dies, plunging us into darkness, and the footsteps halt.

I have a feeling he’s reaching for her, so I scramble back into the wall and kick.  He catches my leg at the ankle and lets it fall to the floor.

His fingers knead the hollow of my throat, where my heartbeats pound. He gives a soft snort of derision as he rises, and I count twelve paces before he turns on his heel and takes twelve back.  Whatever he’s holding glows ember-red at the base. My heart must know what it is before my brain does.  It beats so quickly it feels like a thrum. 

He brushes off the hand I raise to
smack him like it’s nothing more bothersome than an insect. It doesn’t stop him from yanking Abby away.  One second she’s in my arms, the next I’m grasping at air.

The smell it makes when he burns her is hideous, stomach-churning, almost worse than her screams or the
hiss
of smoking skin.  I don’t realize I’m screaming along with Abby until I’m forced to choke to a stop as bile spews out my mouth and bubbles from my nostrils
.

“Fucking fuck,” Lisette shouts, snapping me back into the hospital room, but I still smell sulfur and sweat.  “Hey,” she yells to whoever is listening, ripping back soiled linen from my knees.  “Someone needs to change the sheets.”  The tray my sandwich sits on
swims with frothy white saliva and chunks of tomatoes. She snatches it off my lap and dumps it into the trash can.

A police officer sticks his head in the room.  “Problem?”

She balls the sheets up and tosses them on the floor. “Yes, asshole.  Can’t you smell it?  Get a goddamned doctor in here.  And a fucking mop.” 

When he leaves, she presses the back of her surprisingly gentle hand against my forehead and swabs my face with a wad of paper towels. “They need to give you some nausea medication.  Third time you’ve barfed in less than a day.”  She pours a stream of water into a plastic cup and shoves it into my hands.  “Drink some water.  I’ll go hunt down a nurse.”