“Thanks. Lot of information to cover in an hour.”
Raritan’s face on the grainy monitor didn’t let on whether he agreed or not. “Listen, Lucas,” he said, “now that the papers have picked up on the so-called Snow White Killer, this case has skyrocketed onto the Bureau’s radar screen. The director just wants to make sure everything moves along before the national press blows it all out of proportion.”
“I understand.”
“So is there anything else going on that you didn’t divulge in the debriefing today?”
I momentarily debated the wisdom of withholding the genetic angle Terry and I were working on, but then recalled the last time I’d lied to Jim Raritan, and quickly decided to come clean. “The only thing I left out today is that Terry’s going to screen the DNA from the blood samples on the victims’ foreheads. From the last two victims, at least.”
“Why?”
“Because the bloody messages being left on the victims’ foreheads aren’t from the victims’ own blood.”
The video monitor was silent as Raritan and Parkman both digested this.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, we’ve checked and rechecked. The DNA from each victim’s forehead never matches that victim’s own DNA, in either case.”
“But if those messages aren’t being left with their blood, then whose is it?”
“Well,” I said, “in addition to showing that the DNA isn’t coming from the victim in either case, Terry’s also shown that the forehead-swabbed DNA is nonetheless identical
between
the two victims.”
More silence greeted me over the video monitor, so I continued. “In other words, the blood being used to write the message on each victim’s forehead is coming from the same source.”
“How do you know?”
“Terry already ran the thirteen STRs on blood samples from the words
tan
and
cat,
and they match each other, they just don’t match the victims’ DNA.”
“I see.”
“So we’re also going ahead and testing the damnation signature on the forehead-swabbed DNA samples as well.”
Raritan stayed silent on the other end, and this time I did too. I saw him glance at Parkman and heard a whisper, but I couldn’t make it out. Finally he asked, “So you think the messages left on the victims is coming from the killer’s own blood?”
“Yes. Exactly. So we want to—” I started to say, but Jimmy silenced me.
“Why the hell do you think it’s the killer’s blood? It could be anyone’s.”
“Like I said, it’s a hunch.”
“Beware this guy’s hunches,” Parkman said in the background.
“Fuck you, Parkman.”
“Hey, hey.” Parkman held up his hands on the monitor, smiling. “Settle down there, Lucas. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”
“Both of you, knock it off. Lucas, I don’t know about a hunch. I don’t like it. But I can’t deny that it’s significant that the DNA in the bloody letters is coming from the same source. I’m willing to throw you a bone and let you keep working on this angle. But it’s low priority. Understood?”
“Absolutely.”
Raritan added, “And let me know what you guys find.” He changed the subject. “Speaking of topics you failed to cover during the briefing, didn’t you interview Mara Bliss yet?”
“Yes. Yesterday.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“Nothing?” Raritan asked.
“Yeah, nothing.” I glanced at Woodson but she stayed silent as I continued. “Mara has dissociative identity disorder. You can’t make any sense out of anything she says. She’s useless as a material witness right now, unless her doctor makes some tremendous breakthroughs with her real soon. And even then it’s highly doubtful that she’ll be able to give us any important information.”
Raritan looked at Parkman without speaking, then back at the camera. “Okay then, Lucas, let me just go straight to the point. How in the bloody blue hell did the Snow White Killer himself know where Mara Bliss’s grandmother used to live? Miss Bliss is a critical link in this case, Lucas. SWK must have known Mara personally. And I’m worried—”
I cut him off, seeing where he was headed. “Woodson had asked the same question, so I asked Mara when I interviewed her. She said the guy who kidnapped her told her he needed to take her someplace where no one could find her. He literally asked her where he should take her. It was Mara who actually suggested her grandmother’s house. At least that’s what she claims. So even though we all had similar concerns about how the hell Mara and SWK ended up at her grandmother’s house, I’m now convinced that this guy had no previous connection with Mara beforehand. He just wound up following her directions after he abducted her.”
Jimmy paused on the videoconference, then leaned back in his chair and sighed aloud. “Who the fuck tells an abductor where to take her?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what to think either, but for that matter, neither does her psychiatrist. But that’s her story. There’s no way to confirm it.” I paused, then added, “And she gave me that explanation without a split-second hesitation when I asked her out of the blue. I don’t think she’s lying in this case.”
“Shit,” Jimmy said from the video monitor. “I thought we really had a lead there. Okay. So you and Woodson need to keep working on this, I guess. But I want an executive summary of your interview with Mara Bliss and her psychiatrist on my desk tomorrow morning. Don’t leave anything out. Got it?”
“Got it. I mean, aye aye, Captain,” I added.
“Yeah, yeah. All right, we’re signing off. Let us know if anything breaks. Woodson, keep this guy on a short leash.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” Woodson said, and I had to stifle a laugh.
“I see our favorite black sheep in the Bureau is rubbing off unfavorably on our recent graduate,” Raritan said, shaking his head on the monitor.
“And she was such a nice girl, too,” Parkman added.
“Okay, okay. We’ll call if anything happens.” I waved the remote toward them.
“Stay in line down there, Woodson,” Raritan stated a final warning, “and you, too, Lucas.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” we both said in unison, and I clicked the remote before Raritan could hear or see us break out into laughter together.
* * *
Woodson and I were walking back to our offices when my cell phone rang and Donny’s number glowed on its face. “Donny,” I answered, “I didn’t expect you so soon! What’s up?”
“You know the drill, Lucas. Get over to Willow Grove. I just received a call from a deputy. He’s standing over the body of another girl. Our third in ten days, Lucas. Fourth overall.”
“Goddamn it,” I said, and Woodson’s face filled with concern. “Yes, we can get there. We’ll be there.”
Donny hung up without speaking further, perfectly accentuating the tension that was growing steadily between us, the longer the Snow White Killer stayed at large and wreaked havoc in his home county. Woodson looked at me, but I could tell she already knew, so I didn’t even bother saying anything. Every time we gained an inch of ground, we found another body and slid back a hundred feet. The SWK was striking with a frequency that I’d never before witnessed in a newly emerged killer. He certainly wasn’t waiting on a lunar cycle.
“Another body?” Woodson finally made the perfunctory inquiry.
“Yes,” I said simply. “Your car or mine?”
An hour later we followed a deputy through knee-high grass and into a stretch of woods off Highway 63. As we approached, Donny stepped away from a group of half a dozen law enforcement officers standing around a prominent tree lit by high-powered lamps.
Woodson and I ducked under a ribbon of yellow tape. “Did the coroner estimate the time of death yet?” I asked.
Donny nodded. “He just took a core temp, thinks we’re looking at around ten o’clock this morning.” He circled around the tree to the victim, who sat propped against it. “I’m getting real tired of this shit, Lucas.”
“I know,” I said, unable to look him in the eyes. “We are, too. Can we check her out?”
“Yep. The CSIs already got their photos.”
Donny stepped back and Woodson and I knelt on either side of the victim. The next installment of the killer’s cryptic message, left upon her forehead and partially visible beneath her bangs, was the word
CANT.
As usual, the girl had been leaned against a tree, her legs spread-eagled as if inviting copulation, yet fully clothed in her original garb. Just like the other victims. An apple lay on the ground beside her.
“He’s nothing if not consistent,” Woodson muttered as she snapped gloves around her wrists.
I crouched on the other side of the girl, using a pointer to draw her bangs back and better observe the word
CANT
stretched across her forehead. Something bothered me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Any ID, Donny?” I finally asked over my shoulder.
Donny walked to Woodson’s side and pulled a small notepad from his breast pocket, flipping it open. “Yep. Penny Hughes. Twenty-three years old, single, no kids. Her next of kin, her mother, has been notified. The girl was from Brandon, but had just moved down to Biloxi a few weeks ago.”
I grimaced. “Any idea where she was abducted?”
“Not yet. We’re working on it. Her car wasn’t at her place, though, so we already have an APB out for her plates on the radio—we’ll find it soon.”
I looked back down. Like the other victims, the girl named Penny Hughes had been attractive. Her asymmetrically bobbed haircut gleamed with maroon strands, the false color that dark-haired women sometimes wear. Her eyes were thick with mascara, and glitter covered her cheeks. She wore a black turtleneck sweater tucked into a red-and-green plaid skirt clasped with an oversize safety pin. Her legs were covered with black stockings. In short, she was a Goth.
I could see the cuts on her legs through the sheer netting.
“Same modus operandi, looks like,” Donny said.
I nodded. “Rural dump site, young white woman, cut up, reclothed in a sexually evocative position, yet another nonsensical word on a forehead, the razored apple, no trace of the perp. It’s the same old story, and believe me, he’s telling one.” I sighed. “This guy’s a perfectionist.”
“Not quite,” Woodson said.
“What do you mean?”
She pointed to the victim’s head. “If he’s so perfect, why didn’t he include an apostrophe?”
I looked at the word
CANT
lined along the girl’s forehead and finally realized what had initially struck me as strange. “I knew there was something odd about the way the letters looked, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. You’re right.”
Donny cleared his throat behind us. “All this discussion just because the fucker has bad grammar habits? Maybe he was just in a hurry, for shit’s sake.”
“Or maybe he just doesn’t use them,” Woodson said. “You know, when he writes.” She rose to her feet. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe,” I said, neither convinced nor unconvinced, as Woodson resumed her examination of the body. She used a clipboard and carefully copied the position of each cut onto the front and back body outlines of an autopsy report form.
We found nothing more illuminating at the crime scene. I instructed the ME to send blood samples swabbed from the word
CANT
to Terry’s attention in the FBI laboratory for immediate DNA analysis, while Woodson took some final photos. A bit later she spoke in my direction. “Hey, Lucas, come look at this.”
I walked over. “What is it?”
Woodson aimed the narrow beam of a penlight down to illuminate the victim’s hand. “Look at her index finger.”
The flashlight illuminated a tiny circular marking on the tip of the victim’s finger. “What’s that?” I asked. “Blood spatter? Nonvictim blood?”
“Neither,” Woodson said. “I think it’s a pinprick.”
I squinted. “You may be right. Like the kind you get at a doctor’s office, right?”
“That’s what I was thinking. Did any of the other victims have pinpricks?”
“Not that I recall,” I answered. “But that doesn’t mean we looked carefully enough at the bodies to notice.”
Donny walked back over. “We’re just about done here. Anything else before we let the coroner take her away?”
“No, no.” I said. “We’re done here, too. For now, at least.”
“Okay.” Donny opened his mouth but then closed it, as if trying to decide whether to speak or not. After another moment, he spoke. “Hey, Lucas, can I talk to you for a second?”
“Sure.”
Donny glanced at Woodson, then motioned with his head toward the perimeter of the crime scene. “Come on over for a second.”
I frowned but Woodson gave a disaffected shrug. I followed Donny into the darkness outside the yellow taped area. “What’s going on?”
Donny spit to the side, wiped his lip, and then looked over my shoulder before answering. “Look. I didn’t want to say anything in front of your partner. But you ought to know, in case you haven’t already realized.”
“What?”
“You’re standing on land owned by somebody you know.”
“Who?”
“Charlie Bliss.”
I glanced around, as if looking about in the dark woods might help me verify or refute the statement. “Mara’s father? Are you sure?”
“Yep. I’m sure. And I hate to say this, but that’s just fucking weird, man. And I thought you should know. First Mara and that victim are found at her grandmother’s house … the house that Charlie grew up in when you stop to think about it. And now this? Something ain’t adding up here, Lucas.”
A cold dread settled in my chest. After all the convoluted logic we’d used to convince ourselves that Mara’s abduction was just coincidence. Was it possible, after everything, that this really was still about Mara? Or her father?
I thought of what Mara’s psychiatrist had said, about how something might have transpired in her childhood that even Kinsey hadn’t been able to broach with her. Donny’s voice pulled me back to the present. “I can’t ignore this, man. I’ve got to bring him in for questions.”
“Wait.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “Let me talk to him first. Please.”
He shrugged out from under my hand. “Lucas, you’re too close to all this shit. You should have pulled out of this whole investigation as soon as you found Mara in that basement.” He spat again on the ground. “Hell, you know that.”