Alex Kava - The Soul Catcher

“It’s awfully early for specifics,” O’Dell told her.

This time Tully could tell O’Dell was not just being difficult with the detective; she was being careful. Maybe too careful. They owed Racine something.

“I’d say he’s between twenty-five to thirty years old,” Tully said. “Above-average intelligence. He probably holds a regular job and appears to be socially competent to those who know him. Not necessarily a loner. Maybe even a bit arrogant, a braggart.”

Racine flipped open a small notebook and was jotting the information down, though what he was giving her could be considered classic textbook generalities, exactly what she had said she didn’t want.

“He knows a thing or two about police procedure,” O’Dell added, obviously deciding it safe to divulge some of what they knew. “Probably why he likes to use handcuffs. Also, he knew how to ID-proof a body and that delaying her identity might delay us in identifying him, too.”

Racine looked up. “Wait a minute. What are you saying? That he could be an ex-cop or something?”

“Not necessarily, but he could be someone who knows a thing or two about crime scenes,” O’Dell said. “With some of these guys, it’s a fascination. It’s part of the cat-and-mouse chase. What they know about police procedure could be from cop shows or even suspense novels.”

Tully watched. Racine seemed satisfied and continued writing. At least the two women weren’t trying to contradict or outdo each other. For the moment, anyway.

“His posing the body is significant, too. I think it’s something more than just gaining control or some sense of empowerment.” O’Dell looked at Tully to see if he wanted to venture a guess. He motioned for her to go ahead. “It’s possible,” she continued, “that he wanted only for us to admire his handiwork, but I think there’s something more to it. It may be symbolic.”

“You said at the crime scene that it may have been to alter the scene, to throw us off.”

“Oh my God, Racine! You mean you were actually listening to me?” This time the women smiled at each other, much to Tully’s relief.

“Those circular indentations in the ground mean something, too,” Tully reminded them, “but I have no idea what. Not yet, anyway.”

“Oh, and he’s left-handed,” O’Dell added as an afterthought.

Both Tully and Racine stared at her, waiting for an explanation.

O’Dell walked back to the body and pointed to the right side of the girl’s face.

“There’s a bruise here along her jawline. Her lip is split in this corner. Even bled for a short time. It’s her right side, which means, if he was facing her, he hit her from left to right, probably with his left fist.”

“Couldn’t he have used the back of his right hand?” Tully asked, trying to play out the possible scenarios.

“Maybe, but that would be more of an upward motion.” She demonstrated, swiping a backhanded motion toward him. He could see what she meant. A person’s natural tendency would be to start with the hand down and to bring it up and across. “This injury,” O’Dell continued, “looks like a direct hit. I’d say a fist.” She balled up her left hand and swiped again, this time straight in front. “Definitely, a left fist to the right jaw.”

Throughout this demonstration Tully noticed Racine watching quietly, almost with awe or perhaps admiration. Then she went back to her notes. Whatever it was Tully had noticed in Racine’s expression, it had been lost on O’Dell. She hadn’t been paying any attention. But then she was like that when anyone seemed to be amazed by her. Most of the time, she drove him a little nuts with her anal-retentive habits, her hotshot tactics or her tendency to overlook procedure whenever it was convenient to do so. However, this-her ability to be impressive and not take note or make a big deal of it-this was one of the things he really liked about her.

“One thing,” O’Dell said, addressing Racine, “and I really am not just saying this to bug the hell out of you. This is not a one-time thing. This guy’s going to do it again. And I wouldn’t be surprised to find that he may have already killed before this. We really should check VICAP.”

The morgue door swung open behind them. All three of them jumped, spinning around to find Stan Wenhoff, his ruddy complexion pale. He held up what looked like a computer printout.

“We’re in for a hell of a mess, kids.” Stan wiped at the sweat on his forehead. “She’s the daughter of Henry Franklin Brier…a goddamn U.S. senator.”

Everett’s Compound

Justin Pratt felt an elbow poke his side, and only then did he realize he had dozed off. He glanced at Alice, who was sitting beside him, cross-legged like the rest of the members, but her head and eyes were facing ahead, her back straight. Two of her fingers tapped his ankle, her polite way of telling him to stay awake and pay attention.

He wanted to tell her he didn’t give a fuck what Father had to say tonight or any night, for that matter. And after last night he wished that Alice didn’t give a fuck, either. Jesus! He was so tired. All he wanted to do was close his eyes, just for a few minutes. He could still listen even if his eyes were closed. His eyelids started to droop, and this time he felt a pinch. He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face, digging a thumb and index finger into his eyes. Another elbow. Jesus!

He glared at her, but she didn’t flinch from her appropriately adoring attention on Father. Maybe she liked what the guy did to her last night. Maybe she had really gotten off on it, and what Justin thought was a grimace had actually been her expression of orgasm. Shit! He was just tired. He needed to stop thinking about last night. He sat up straight and folded his hands into his lap.

Tonight Father was going off on the government again, a favorite topic of his. Justin had to admit that some of the stuff the man said did make sense. He remembered his grandfather telling Eric and him stories about government conspiracies. How the government had murdered JFK. How the United Nations was really a conspiracy to take over the world.

Justin’s dad had said, “The old man had a couple of loose screws,” but Justin loved and admired his grandfather. He had been a war hero, getting the Congressional Medal of Honor for saving his whole squad in Vietnam. Justin had seen the medal, as well as the photos and letters, one from President Lyndon Johnson. It was pretty cool. But it was all stuff Justin knew his dad despised. Probably another reason Justin loved the old man-they had something in common: neither of them had ever been able to please Justin’s dad. Then his grandfather up and died last year. Justin still felt pissed at him for leaving him. He knew that was a fucked-up attitude. It wasn’t his granddad’s fault, but he missed the old man. He didn’t have anyone to talk to, especially after Eric left.

He knew Eric missed Granddad, too, even if he was too much of a macho-shithead to admit it. Less than three weeks after the funeral, Eric dropped out of Brown University. That was when all hell broke loose at home.

“Excuse me, am I boring you?” Father’s voice boomed across the room.

Justin sat up, but he was already sitting about as straight as he could. He felt Alice gripping his ankle, so tight her fingernails dug into his sock and skin.

Shit! He was in trouble now. Alice had warned him that daydreaming during Father’s talks could lead to punishment. Oh, what the hell. So what if he sent him out into the woods again. Maybe this time he’d just take off. He didn’t need this shit. Maybe he could meet up with Eric somewhere else.

“Answer me,” Father demanded as the room grew quiet. No one dared turn to look at the guilty one. “Do you find what I say so boring you’d rather sleep?”