Chapter 12

Another One

 

 

Boom, boom, boom. The shots reverberated off the concrete floors and steel piers like M-80 firecrackers detonated inside a steel drum. The gun fell from his blood-slick hand with a clang. “Carrie!” Parker screamed as he dragged himself to her crumpled body and pulled her into his lap. She stared up at him. He could see the confusion and pain in her eyes.

“What happened?” she’d asked. Parker would never know if she heard his answer. Those were her last words. Not I’m hurt, not help me, or I love you, but what happened?

It had been months since their last date night. They had driven into Alexandria and enjoyed dinner at a seafood place overlooking the river, then they’d gone to the evening show at the small community theater she’d adored. He’d surprised her with tickets, something special to make up for the long gap in their outings. Not entirely his fault—they both had demanding careers—but his had been the greater burden on their marriage. He saw things that took time for him to process, and that made him distant. Not that night, though. She had all his attention that night. They had laughed at dinner and enjoyed each other’s company like they hadn’t in years. Arm in arm, they had walked from the parking garage elevator toward the car. She had been going on about how wonderful the show was, and he was so captivated by her enthusiasm and the renewed sparkle in her eyes that he’d not seen the man with the gun until it was too late.

Parker had been working with the New Jersey State Police and the Ocean County Sheriff’s Department to develop a profile for a killer they’d dubbed the Jersey Shore Devil. The Devil had committed a series of rapes and murders in the seaside communities along the Garden State Parkway from Tom’s River all the way down to Cape May. Eight women had been raped and strangled over the course of three years. A reporter with the Atlantic City Fox affiliate had learned about Parker’s involvement and ran a series of pieces on the evening news titled: The FBI’s Next Generation Mind Hunter’s Search for the Jersey Shore Devil. The reporter had interviewed Parker twice. The Devil had watched.

Boom. The Devil’s first shot had gone low and struck Parker in his left leg. The massive.44 caliber slug had disintegrated his femur, a good portion of his thigh muscle, and shredded his femoral artery. Boom. The second shot had been higher, better aimed. It struck Parker in the chest as he was falling, just missing his heart. It passed through his left lung, destroying a substantial portion of the superior lobe, and after exiting out his back, struck Carrie in her neck. Boom. The third shot had taken out his left kidney, ricocheted off ribs nine and ten, then, like shot two, exited out his back. This one slammed into Carrie’s lower abdomen, severed her aorta, and lodged in her spine. It was never clear which one killed her. The M.E. indicated blood loss from the destruction of her external jugular was as likely a cause as the catastrophic aorta bleed.

Instinct, training, anger, fear, all of it came together when Parker hit the pavement. He’d drawn his weapon and brought it up just as the Devil, who would later be identified as Lawrence Bader, an out-of-work engineer, stepped forward to deliver a final kill shot.

Knock, knock, knock. Disoriented, Parker woke from the nightmare of a memory. The room was dark, but bright light seeped in around the drawn blackout curtains. His phone buzzed somewhere. It took him a moment to realize someone was pounding on the hotel room door. A muffled “Doctor Reid, are you okay in there?” came from the hall. He slid off the bed, ignoring the familiar agony in his leg and limped to the door. The peephole showed a fisheye distorted view of Jaden Breaux’s face staring back at him.

Parker cracked open the door and squinted into the hallway light. “What?”

“Sorry, sir. Are you okay?”

“Of course, I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Ms. Fulbright has been trying to reach you. She thought you might be having some kind of emergency.”

Parker’s mouth was drier than drought-depleted Lake Mead. He pulled opened the door and went in search of something to drink. “Come in,” he croaked as he struggled to remove the plastic wrap from a paper cup.

Jaden stepped in and flipped on the lights.

Still asleep, the tiny muscles in Parker’s pupils reacted too slowly to the brightness, causing an explosion of pain. He took the cup into the bathroom and filled it from the faucet, noting the red plastic sign under the mirror reminding guests water usage was metered and they would be billed a surcharge for usage over the daily limit. Beneath the warning was the line: We encourage showering together.

Parker popped two painkillers and brushed his teeth. Jaden stood just outside the bathroom door, looking uncomfortable. The young agent stared at him.

“What are you looking at, Breaux? You never seen another man in boxer shorts before?” Parker knew damn well the agent’s stares had nothing to do with his scant attire. The spider webs of purple scars on his back, left thigh, lower abdomen, and chest drew the eyes of all who saw them; even experienced medical personnel gawked.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Jaden pointed at the room door. “It looks like everything is okay. I’m leaving now.”

“Wait,” Parker said. “Did Becky say why she was looking for me?”

Jaden shook his head. “No. She just said she’d tried to call you several times. I tried, too.”

Parker limped past the uncomfortable agent and retrieved his phone. It showed the missed calls along with a string of texts from Becky. He scrolled through them. The first few were from yesterday afternoon and were just requests for status. Did you arrive at Vegas okay? Did the field office send an agent to pick you up? Can I get an update? Several more had come in that morning. The first was another appeal for status. Are you alive? The next was more interesting. We got another one, call ASAP. The last two were expressions of frustration. I’m thinking you’re dead, and I’m sending an agent to collect your body.

He selected the call option from the last message. She picked it up on the first ring and wasted no time with hellos.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Sleeping. Jeezus, Becky. Tell me about this other one.”

Jaden went to leave, and Parker motioned for him to stay.

“Clearwater, Florida. Another woman,” she said.

“So soon.”

“Here’s the thing. It happened five weeks ago.”

Parker looked around for his cane and pantomimed using it to Jaden. The agent began to search for it.

“Five weeks?”

“Appears to have been a mix-up between the Clearwater police and the Pinellas County sheriff. It just hit ViCAP yesterday. Methods appear to be the same. A twenty-three-year-old White woman named Abby Loveridge was beheaded in her apartment. The killer took her ears.”

Parker steadied himself against the wall, taking the weight off his bad leg, and thought about the timeline. “Two weeks,” he whispered.

“What did you say,” she said.

“Five weeks places her killing approximately two weeks before the Nashville victim.”

Jaden handed Parker his cane and mouthed, “Can I go?”

Parker shook his head and used the cane to hobble over to the window. He pushed aside the heavy curtains and stared down on the hotel’s swimming pool. From his nineteenth-floor vantage point, the 200,000-gallon artificial lagoon looked like a puddle teaming with insects. Last night he’d paid five dollars extra for ice in his scotch. The hotel probably spent more than his salary each summer replacing the water lost to the desiccated Mojave air.

“Okay. Send me the M.E. reports and crime scene analysis.”

“Already in your inbox, Sleeping Beauty.”

Parker glanced at Jaden. “I guess that makes Breaux my prince.”

Jaden gave him a quizzical expression.

She laughed. “How’s the hotel? Nice, right? Told you I’d take care of you.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking about going to the pool and showing off my scars. What do you think? Maybe I could charge for closer looks.”

“You should go take a swim. Fuck the scars.”

He frowned. “Later.”

“Wait. Parker, what’s your plan?”

“Breakfast,” he said, and pressed the disconnect button.

He brought up her email and scanned the M.E. report. The woman had died the same as Jyothi and Charles, an edged instrument had separated her head from her body at cervical vertebrae C3. Death was instant. Time of death was listed as sometime between 12:30 a.m. and 1:30 a.m., also consistent with the other attacks. He took a quick glance at the toxicology report and turned from the window to find Jaden staring at him.

“You’re starting to creep me out, Breaux.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Can I go now?”

“Did you hear from Chavez on the autopsy?”

Jaden nodded. “Yes. They were able to bump it up.” He took out his phone and tapped on it. After a few seconds, he said, “Chavez says they are just finishing up now. Preliminary report will be available Monday.” He smiled at the screen. “He says they know the cause of death.”

“No shit.” Parker said. “Ask him about toxicology results.”

Jaden tapped and waited. “Toxicology is going to take about two weeks, and that’s with the rush.” He smiled at the phone again. “Chavez says no guy with a sword on the video.”

“No surprise there. What time is it?”

“A little after one.”

Parker pushed his fingers through his graying hair. “I need breakfast. Where can we go?”

“We, sir?” The agent looked deflated.

“Stop calling me that. Parker or Reid. Take your pick, and no more doctor either. I am not a physician, and this is not the academy.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, okay, Mr. Reid.”

“Christ. That’s even worse. Give me twenty minutes to get dressed. Think of some place where we can get eggs.”