Lisa Gardner - The killing hour

“At the scene. Caller swears he’s not actually the killer, though. He got mad when I accused him of the crimes, swore he was just trying to help, and said he was sorry more girls had died. Not that he volunteered his name or the killer’s name, mind you, but he still swears he’s a stand-up guy.”

“The caller’s lying,” Quincy said flatly.

“You think?”

“Consider the timing of both your recent calls. First one comes the night before the first victim is found-incidentally, right around the same time the killer must have been plotting his ambush, if he had not already taken the four girls. Then the second call comes tonight, when you’re at the scene of the second victim. I believe that is what Special Agent Kaplan would consider a suspicious coincidence.”

“You think the Eco-Killer’s close?” Mac asked sharply.

“Killers like to watch. Why should this UNSUB be different? He’s left a trail of breadcrumbs for us. Perhaps he also likes to note our progress.” Quincy sighed, then squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Earlier, you said the GBI attempted several times to find the Eco-Killer. You tried tracing the drugs that were used. You did the standard victim profiling, you looked at veterinarians, campers, hikers, birdwatchers, all sorts of outdoorsmen.”

“Yes.”

“And you created a profile. It describes the killer as being male, white, above-average intelligence, but probably stuck in a menial job. Travels often, has limited social skills and is prone to fits of rage when frustrated.”

“That’s what the expert told us.”

“Two things strike me,” Quincy said. “One, I think the killer is even smarter than you think. By definition, his game forces your immediate attention and resources on finding the second victim-instead of pursuing him.”

“Well, in the beginning, sure-”

“A trail grows cold, Mac. Every detective knows that. The more time has passed, the more difficult it is to find a suspect.”

Mac nodded his head more grudgingly. “Yeah, okay.”

“And second, we now know something very interesting that you didn’t know before.”

“Which is?”

“The man has access to the Marine base at Quantico. That narrows our suspect pool down to a relatively small group of people within the state of Virginia. And that’s a lead we shouldn’t squander.”

“You think a Marine or an FBI agent did this?” Mac asked with a frown.

Quincy had a faraway look in his eye. “I don’t know yet. But the emphasis on Quantico, the phone calls to you… There’s something significant there. I just can’t see it yet. Can you write down the conversation you had tonight? Word for word, all of the caller’s comments? Dr. Ennunzio will want to see it.”

“You think he’ll still help us?” Kimberly spoke up.

“You assume he knows we’ve been taken off the case.” Quincy shrugged. “He’s a backroom academic; field agents never think to keep those kinds informed. They live in their world, the BSU lives in its own. Besides, we’re going to need Dr. Ennunzio. So far, those letters and phone calls are the only direct link we have to the Eco-Killer. And that’s important. If we’re going to break this pattern, we must identify the UNSUB. Otherwise, we’re only ever treating the symptoms, not the disease.”

“You’re not going to abandon the other two girls?” Mac asked sharply.

“I am,” Quincy said calmly. “But you’re not.”

“Divide and conquer?” Rainie spoke up.

“Exactly. Mac and Kimberly, you work on finding the girls. Rainie and I will continue our pursuit of the man himself.”

“That could be dangerous,” Mac said quietly.

Quincy merely smiled. “That’s why I’m taking Rainie with me. Let him just dare to tangle with her.”

“Amen,” Rainie said soberly.

“We could try the USGS again,” Kimberly said. “Bring them the samples we have. I’m not sure what to make of the rice, but a hydrologist is a good start for the fluid.”

Mac nodded thoughtfully. “They might know something about the rice. Maybe it’s like the Hawaii connection. Wouldn’t mean anything to a layman, but to the proper expert…”

“Where are those offices?” Quincy asked.

“Richmond.”

“What time do they open?”

“Eight A.M.”

Quincy glanced at his watch. “Well, good news, everyone. We can all grab a few hours’ sleep after all.”

They drove out of the park. They found a chain motel in one of the nearby towns and booked three rooms. Quincy and Rainie disappeared into their tiny quarters. Mac went into his. Kimberly went into hers.

The furniture was sparse and dingy. The bed was covered by a faded blue comforter and already had a crater in the middle from one too many guests. The air was motel air, stale, reeking of old cigarettes mixed with undertones of Windex.

It was a room. It had a bed. She could sleep.

Kimberly cranked the air-conditioning. She stripped off her sweat-soaked clothes, climbed into the shower and scrubbed her battered body. She shampooed her hair again and again, while trying to forget the rocks, the snakes, that poor girl’s torturous death. She scrubbed and scrubbed. And she knew then that it would never be enough.

She was thinking of Mandy again. And of her mother. And of the girl found at Quantico. And of Vivienne Benson. Except the victims got all tangled in her mind. And sometimes the body in the Quantico woods bore Mandy’s face, and sometimes the girl in the rocks was actually Kimberly in disguise, and sometimes her mother was fleeing through the woods, trying to escape the Eco-Killer, when she had already been butchered by a madman six years before.

An investigator should have objectivity. An investigator should be dispassionate.

Kimberly finally got out of the shower. She pulled on a T-shirt. She used the dingy towel to wipe the steam from the mirror. And then she regarded her reflection. Pale, bruised face. Sunken cheeks. Bloodless lips. Oversized blue eyes.

Jesus. She looked too scared to be herself.

She almost lost it again. Her hands gripped the edge of the washbasin tightly. She sank her teeth in her lower lip and fought bitterly for some trace of sanity.

All of her life, she’d been focused. Shooting guns, reading homicide textbooks. She had genuinely found crime fascinating, sought it out as her father’s daughter. All cases were puzzles to be solved. She wanted the challenge. Wear a badge. Save the world. Always be the one in control.

Tough, cool-as-a-cucumber Kimberly. She now felt her own mortality as a hollow spot deep in her stomach. And she knew she wasn’t so tough anymore.

Twenty-six years old, all the defenses had finally been stripped away. Now here she was. A young, overwhelmed woman, who couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and had a fear of snakes. Save the world? She couldn’t even save herself.

She should just quit, let her father, Rainie, and Mac go at it alone. She’d already bailed from the Academy. What would it matter if she simply disappeared now? She could spend the rest of her life curled up in a closet, hands clasped around her knees. Who could blame her? She’d already lost half of her family, and almost been killed twice. If anyone was entitled to a nervous breakdown, surely it was Kimberly.

But then she started thinking of the two missing girls again. Mac had told her their names. Karen Clarence. Tina Krahn. Two young college students who’d simply wanted to hang out with friends on a hot Tuesday night.

Karen Clarence. Tina Krahn. Someone had to find them. Someone had to do something. And maybe she was her father’s daughter after all, because she couldn’t just walk away. She could quit the Academy, but she could not quit this case.

A knock sounded on the door. Kimberly’s gaze came up slowly. She knew who had to be standing there. She should ignore him. She was already walking across the room.