Kay Hooper - Touching Evil

Stolidly, Maggie said, "I'm just overly sensitive, that's all. With a vivid imagination."

"I guess you've heard that a lot during your life."

"Enough."

"Okay. But at least I'm trying to have an open mind. Give me that much credit."

After a moment, she said quietly, "I'm sure you use calculators and computers and other machines in your business affairs; do you really have to understand the nuts and bolts of how they work in order to be satisfied with the information and answers they provide?"

"No. But I have to trust that the information they provide is accurate and reliable, and sometimes that requires at least some level of understanding. And you're not a machine. I really do want to understand you, Maggie."

Deliberately, Maggie half turned in the seat to look at him steadily. "If your friend Quentin hasn't convinced you in years of trying to, then what hope do I have? At least the things he tells you can be verified, predictions backed up by fact when those predictions turn out to be true. But what I do? What I do isn't backed up by anything, really. It's all subjective. Besides, I don't have the spare energy to jump through hoops for you, John. Just tell yourself I have a peculiar skill honed by half a lifetime of working with the police, and let it go at that. I can't prove anything to you."

"Can't you?"

"No."

He pulled the car over to the curb and stopped, then looked at her, his jaw tight. "I know a way you can."

She didn't have to look to know where they were. "No. I can't."

"Because the interview with Hollis took too much out of you?"

She had to be honest. "No."

"Because you have to save your energy for the Mitchell house?"

"Partly."

He nodded as if an inner belief had been confirmed. "But not completely. So what's the rest of the answer, Maggie? Andy told me you never walked through Christina's apartment after she died. Why not?"

Maggie drew a short breath. "I have my reasons." Reasons he wouldn't understand, let alone believe.

"What reasons?"

"Private reasons."

"Maggie-"

"John, I'm not going to walk through Christina's apartment. Not today."

"And you won't tell me why."

She shook her head slightly in a brief but final negation.

"I'm trying to understand this," he said, his voice slow, as though he chose his words carefully. "Because it's such a simple question, Maggie-why did my sister kill herself? I think you could answer that question, so I have to wonder why you won't even make an attempt. Am I asking so much? Just walk through her apartment and tell me what you see. Or know. Or feel-

Andy hung up his phone and scowled at Jennifer as she approached his desk. "Please tell me you have something," he begged.

She sat down and said, "We didn't expect forensics to find anything, especially not this quickly. So something else must have put you in a bad mood. Or somebody. Drummond?"

If anything, Andy's frown deepened. "I don't know whether to look forward to the day he's sitting in the governor's mansion or dread it. He'd be mostly out of my hair-but God help the state."

"Let me guess. Samantha Mitchell or her husband has a Very Important Friend in government?"

"Hell, they know everybody. At least according to Luke. And everybody is yelling at him to find the lady, pronto."

"I guess you told him we're trying to do that."

"I mentioned it, yeah."

Jennifer smiled. "Well, here's something else to brighten your day."

He braced himself visibly. "What?"

"While Scott's trying to track down those missing files, I've been taking a closer look at that book I got from the library. There aren't a lot of specific details on the series of murders in 1934, but there was one very interesting thing. It turns out the cops were undecided whether to call it six victims-or eight. Six was the official verdict, but there was a lot of doubt, apparently, among the investigating officers."

"What kind of doubt?"

"They were positive the first six victims were killed by the same man because of the similarities. The women were always raped and killed somewhere else and their bodies dumped later in remote or deserted spots, he always beat them up badly, the women always bore defense injuries, and he never tore their clothing."

Andy blinked. "Never?"

"No. The bodies were always discovered dressed, all the buttons fastened and nothing ripped. Which is interesting in several ways. For one thing, the women were always found without underwear. No bras or panties, no girdles or stockings or slips. Just their outer dresses. And there was usually very little blood or dirt on those dresses."

"So he stripped them-and then dressed them afterward, but without their underwear. Kept the underwear as trophies, maybe?"

"Maybe. But think how difficult just the mechanics of it had to be. By the time he finished with them, the women were either dead or dying. And instead of dumping them somewhere, naked, which would certainly have been the easiest and simplest thing to do, he takes the time and trouble to dress them in their outer clothing. Almost as if… he was trying to protect their modesty."

"You been talking to the shrink?" Andy wanted to know.

"No, but I've listened to her talk about this sort of thing before, so I feel safe in making a semieducated guess about it. I think the detail is important, Andy. It could be something as simple as the fact that the 1934 killer lived during a more… modest time. Or a quirk of his psyche-he'd defile them in every way possible, but it was for his own enjoyment. When other men saw the women, they had to be decently covered."

"Sounds like the sort of quirk entirely likely in one of these twisted bastards. Okay, it makes sense to me. It definitely sounds like those six women were killed by the same man. But there was doubt about two more victims?"

"Uh-huh."

"Why? The M.O. was drastically different?"

"Two young women found in remote places, having obviously been raped and killed somewhere else, badly beaten, with defense injuries, and wearing their virtually undamaged outer clothing all neatly fastened."

"Sounds like the same guy."

"Yeah, except for one addition."

"Which is?"

"Their eyes were missing. Cut out-with absolutely no finesse."

Andy stared at her a moment, then drew a short breath. "Shit."

"Yeah. Knowing what we know now about the escalation and evolution of this sort of sick predator, I say those last two victims belong with the first six. He had just grown more violent, and more creative. Which means eight, Andy. Killed within the space of about eighteen months."

"Which may or may not mean we could have a year and four-or three-more victims to go."

"If our guy is copycatting earlier crimes, yeah. The killings that started in 1934 sure sound familiar. All of our victims survived the attacks, and only one actually died of her injuries, but that could be as much luck as anything else; they were found before they could bleed to death, unlike the women in 1934. We have naked victims, but that may just be because our particular monster has fewer hang-ups than his predecessor did. Or a better knowledge of forensics."

"He certainly has that," Andy said heavily. "And it does sound more and more like he studied at least some of these earlier crimes. For inspiration, goddamn his soul."

"He doesn't have one," Jenn declared.

Andy grunted an agreement. "What about the earlier date, 1894?"

"Nothing so far, at least in that book. And we haven't found any files from that year-not here and not at any other station. It was a long time ago, Andy."

"Tell me about it." He sighed. "All we can do is keep looking. What else have we got?"

Jennifer sighed and got to her feet. "Yeah, you're right. By the way-I know we're keeping this to ourselves for the time being, but are you going to tell Maggie?"