Tess Gerritsen - Vanish

“A subsidiary of the Ballentree Company.”

“And that’s the political complication. We’re talking about a Goliath in Washington. White House buddy. The country’s biggest defense contractor. I had no idea what I was walking into that day. Finding five women shot to death was bad enough. Add in the politics, the FBI meddling, and I’m ready for goddamn early retirement.” Wardlaw inserted the tape in the VCR, grabbed the remote, and pressed PLAY.

On the TV monitor, a view of snow-dusted trees appeared. It was a bright day, and sunshine sparkled on ice.

“Nine one one got the call around ten A.M.,” said Wardlaw. “Male voice, refused to identify himself. Just wanted to report that something had happened in a house on Deerfield Road, and that the police should check it out. There aren’t many homes on Deerfield Road, so it didn’t take long for the cruiser to find out which residence was involved.”

“Where did that call come from?”

“A pay phone about thirty-five miles out of Ashburn. We were unable to get any usable fingerprints off the phone. We never did identify the caller.”

On the TV screen, half a dozen parked vehicles could now be seen. Against the background noise of men’s voices, the camera’s operator began to narrate: “The date is January fourth, eleven thirty-five A.M. Residence address is number nine, Deerfield Road, town of Ashburn, Virginia. Present are Detective Ed Wardlaw and myself, Detective Byron McMahon…”

“My partner worked the camera,” said Wardlaw. “That’s a view of the driveway in front of the residence. As you can see, it’s surrounded by woods. No neighbors nearby.”

The camera slowly panned past two waiting ambulances. The crews stood in a huddle, their breath steaming in the icy air. The lens continued its slow rotation, coming at last to a stop on the house. It was a two-story brick home of stately proportions, but what had once been a grand residence was showing the signs of neglect. White paint was peeling off shutters and windowsills. A porch railing tilted sideways. Wrought-iron bars covered the windows, an architectural feature more appropriate to an inner-city apartment building, not a house on a quiet rural road. The camera now focused on Detective Wardlaw, who was standing on the front steps, like a grim host waiting to greet his guests. The image swayed toward the ground as Detective McMahon bent to pull on shoe covers. Then the lens was once again aimed at the front door. It followed Wardlaw into the house.

The first image it captured was the blood-smeared stairway. Jane already knew what to expect; she had seen the crime scene photos, and knew how each woman had died. Yet as the camera focused on the steps, Jane could feel her pulse quicken, her sense of dread building.

The camera paused on the first victim, lying facedown on the stairway. “This one was shot twice,” said Wardlaw. “Medical examiner said the first bullet hit her in the back, probably as the vic was trying to flee toward the stairs. Nicked her vena cava and exited out the abdomen. Judging by the amount of blood she lost, she was probably alive for five, ten minutes before the second bullet was fired, into her head. The way I read it, the perp brought her down with the first shot, then turned his attention to the other women. When he came back down the stairs again, he noticed that this one was still alive. So he finished her off with a kill shot.” Wardlaw looked at Jane. “Thorough guy.”

“All that blood,” murmured Jane. “There must have been a wealth of footwear evidence.”

“Both upstairs and down. Downstairs is where it got confusing. We saw two large sets of shoe prints, which we assume to be the two killers. But in addition there were other prints. Smaller ones, that tracked across the kitchen.”

“Law enforcement?”

“No. By the time that first cruiser arrived, it was at least six hours after the fact. The blood on that kitchen floor was pretty much dry. The smaller prints we saw were made while the blood was still wet.”

“Whose prints?”

Wardlaw looked at her. “We still don’t know.”

Now the camera moved up the stairs, and they could hear the sound of paper shoe covers rustling over the steps. In the upstairs hallway, the camera turned left, aiming through a doorway. Six cots were crammed into the bedroom, and on the floor were piles of clothing, dirty dishes, and a large bag of potato chips. The camera panned across the room, to focus on the cot where victim number two had died.

“Looks like this one never even got a chance to run,” said Wardlaw. “Stayed in bed and took the bullet right there, where she was lying.”

Again, the camera was on the move, circling away from the cots, turning toward a closet. Through the open doorway, the lens zoomed in on two pitiful occupants slumped together. They had crammed themselves into the very back of the closet, as though desperately trying to shrink from sight. But they had been all too visible to the killer who had opened the door, who had aimed his weapon at those bowed heads.

“One bullet each,” said Wardlaw. “These guys were quick, accurate, and methodical. Every door was opened, every closet was searched. There was no place in that house to hide. These victims never had a chance.”

He reached for the remote and fast-forwarded. Images danced on the monitor, a manic tour of the other bedrooms, a race up a ladder, through a trap door and into an attic. Then a jittery retreat back down the hallway, down the stairs. Wardlaw hit PLAY. The journey slowed again, the camera moving at a walking pace through a dining room and into the kitchen.

“Here,” he said quietly, pressing PAUSE. “The last victim. She had a very bad night.”

The woman sat bound by cord to a chair. The bullet had entered just above her right eyebrow, and the impact had shoved her head backward. She had died with her eyes turned heavenward; death had drained her face pale. Both her arms were extended in front of her, on the table.

The bloodied hammer still lay beside her ruined hands.

“Clearly they wanted something from her,” said Wardlaw. “And this gal couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give it to them.” He looked at Jane, his eyes haunted by the ordeal that they were all imagining at that moment. The hammer blows falling again and again, crushing bone and joint. The screams echoing through that house of dead women.

He pressed PLAY, and the video mercifully moved on, leaving behind the bloodied table, the mangled flesh. Still shaken, they watched in silence as the video took them into a downstairs bedroom, then into the living room, decorated with a sagging couch and a green shag rug. Finally they were back in the foyer, at the foot of the staircase, right where they had started.

“That’s what we found,” said Wardlaw. “Five female victims, all unidentified. Two different firearms were used. We’re assuming at least two killers, working together.”

And no place in that house for their prey to hide, thought Jane. She thought of the two victims cowering in the closet, breaths turning to whimpers, arms wrapped around each other as footsteps creaked closer.

“They walk in and execute five women,” said Gabriel. “They spend maybe half an hour in the kitchen with that last one, crushing her hands with a hammer. And you have nothing on these killers? No trace evidence, no fingerprints?”

“Oh, we found a zillion fingerprints all over that house. Unidentifieds in every room. But if our perps left any, they didn’t match anyone in AFIS.” Wardlaw reached for the remote and pressed STOP.

“Wait,” said Gabriel, his gaze fixed on the monitor.

“What?”

“Rewind it.”

“How far?”

“About ten seconds.”

Wardlaw frowned at him, clearly puzzled by what could have caught his eye. He handed Gabriel the remote. “Be my guest.”