On the plane I sit in the front end of the economy cabin. As soon as the takeoff procedure is complete, I put down my tray table and start looking at photos. The seat next to me is vacant, so I spread photos of the Arizona crime scenes out all around me, using the spare seat and tray table. After about ten minutes the flight attendant comes by.
“Drink?” she says and then her face freezes as she sees what’s surrounding me. She turns her head away.
“Sorry. I’m FBI.”
She turns back but doesn’t look at me or the photos. She looks behind me.
“Drink?” she repeats.
“I’ll have a sparkling water, please.”
She hands me the small bottle and plastic cup, managing to keep her eyes averted. Sometimes I forget other people don’t look at dead bodies all day. Ignorance is bliss? I’m not sure which I’d prefer. At least this way I know what really happens in this world of ours.
The first leg of the flight, to Chicago, takes two hours, but because of the one-hour time difference our official landing is 2:00 p.m. Half an hour later I’m boarding the Tucson flight. Again the flight isn’t full and my badge and Aussie charm help ensure I’m one of the lucky ones with two seats to myself. I spend another two hours going over every single detail of the Arizona case files, including the victimologies, coroner’s reports and police files. By the time I’m finished I’ve got a much clearer picture of the murders and the murderer, although the second victim still strikes me as odd. If it wasn’t for the signature of the body positioning, I’d think the perp was a different killer.
I spend the most time concentrating on Sally-Anne Raymond. She’s our key. Most killers know their first victim. In fact, I’d put pretty good odds on our killer being on the police’s original interview list. Another thing that caught my attention was the fact that Sally-Anne Raymond was missing a necklace when she was found. It was never recovered.
The plane touches down in Tucson at 5:00 p.m. local time, 7:00 p.m. Washington time. The airport terminal is warm in temperature but cold in atmosphere, like most airports. I walk quickly, and my overnight bag trails behind me. I pull my phone out of my handbag, switch it on and dial the D.C. office. I’m patched through on speakerphone for the end of the task force’s evening meeting.
“So, Anderson, did you look at all the case files?” O’Donnell says.
We ended up getting in files from all the states before I left.
“No, just Arizona.” The other files weigh down my briefcase and overnight bag.
“So you haven’t seen the Michigan photos?”
“No.”
“We’ve got definite visual links on some of the victims.” His excitement is obvious.
“Really? What?”
“That pendant shape was tattooed on the first two victims in Michigan,” O’Donnell says.
“Really?” I feign surprise, but I knew the symbol from the pendant and my dreams meant something. I couldn’t tell anyone how, but I knew it.
The news also confirms my suspicions—the symbol is part of his signature. But that’s not quite right, either. A signature is something a killer is compelled to do. He literally shouldn’t be able to leave the crime scene without marking his territory and handiwork in this way.
“But none of the other victims?” I ask.
“No.” Josh’s voice.
I’m still a little perplexed. “But it is signature stuff. Ritual. How could he resist doing it on all the victims?”
“I know, it’s strange, isn’t it,” Josh says.
I sense a hint of fascination in Josh’s voice. We could have something new for the textbooks.
Regardless, the Celtic symbol is how we’re going to nail him. I know it’s important. Really important.
“Any news your end?” O’Donnell says.
“I’ve only just landed. Detective Carter from Tucson Homicide is picking me up.” I stop walking, look up at the signs and turn left. I edge past an old couple and maneuver my way through a family that’s trying to deal with a two-year-old’s tantrum.
“I want ice cream,” she screams, parking her small bottom on the polished floor.
I keep moving. “I’m going to see the first victim’s parents tonight. Sally-Anne was missing a necklace. I’m wondering if it’s the necklace we found at Sam’s.”
I can see natural light. Excellent.
“Interesting…we’ve also narrowed down our college list of twenty-two, based on their programs. For some of them we’ve already got a list of enrolled students during the time frame.”
“And the lock-picking angle?”
“You were right about the time frames. Most of the Web sites started off around 2000, so if he picked up the lock-picking gun during the Arizona or Michigan murders he’d have had to buy it from a registered wholesaler.” He clears his throat. He sounds tired. “Arizona law states that owning lock-picking equipment with the intention to use it as a burglary tool is illegal.”
“Not very strict.”
“No, but the manufacturers are obliged to record buyers and ask for a photo ID. They only have to keep the records for one year, but we might get lucky.”
“Right…” It sounds like a long shot.
“Jones is trying to track down a list for Arizona.”
“And Michigan?” He may have added it to his MO later.
“Same deal—possession with intention—but the manufacturers aren’t required to keep records. It’ll be hit-and-miss there. Some would have kept customer records, others wouldn’t.”
“He might’ve had this thing for years,” I say. “If so, it’s unlikely we’ll find records on it. What about the locksmiths for the apartments?”
“All three victims’ apartment blocks were done by different locksmiths, but Jones is going to chase down past employees, just in case our perp worked at them all and did get access to master keys that way.”
“It’s hard to know when he started getting into their apartments.”
“We’re looking at all the case files for that now. If there’s evidence he was in their apartments, we might also be able to work out when he started picking the locks. I suggest you look into that in Arizona,” O’Donnell says. “Have I missed anything?” He’s talking to the other team members.
“Wright’s cell call.” It’s Krip’s voice. “It was routed through the Alexandria cell tower, so it must have been made either from her apartment or within about a five-mile radius. Beyond that distance it would have been routed through another tower.”
Silence. I think everyone’s disheartened. If the call had been made from the perp’s special place, we would have a radius on where Sam was being held. But we don’t.
“The media.” Flynn breaks the disappointment. “I’ve spoken to Murray C at the Post and he’s running a story tomorrow.”
I take another left, toward the natural light. “Josh, did you get a look at that?”
“He’s sending it through in the next hour. I briefed him pretty thoroughly though. It’s important we don’t go over the top. We don’t want to tip him off that it’s a set-up story.”
“Good call,” I say. Our guy knows his stuff and he could be expecting something like this from us. “Anything else?”
“Nothing this end. Call me when you’ve met the parents,” O’Donnell says. It will be fairly late, especially with the time difference, but we’re not nine-to-fivers.
“Oh, and Anderson, be careful out there,” O’Donnell adds.
“Will do. Speak to you later.” I hang up and stop walking. I need to find Carter. I want to get out to the scene of the first murder before we lose the light.
I search around the arrivals gate, looking for him. After a few minutes I spot someone else looking around. He’s about five-eleven, skinny with a very gentle, good-looking baby face. Despite the baby face, I’d say he’s in his early thirties. He wears black jeans, a blue shirt and a woolen overcoat.
We hesitantly approach each other.
“Carter?”
“Anderson?”
“Yes,” we both say.
We shake hands and I feel an instant electricity. From Carter’s face I think he feels it too. I give him an awkward smile and push the feeling away. This is business. Besides, I’m with Josh now. I release Carter’s hand.
“Thanks for all your help, Carter. It’s great you’re still interested in the case.”
“Interested? It was my first case in Homicide and it bugs the hell out of me that we never caught the guy.”
Perfect. Nothing better than a cop who’s bothered by the one that got away. He’ll give me loads of time, no matter what his caseload is like.
“Anyways, I’ve got you hooked up for tonight with Sally-Anne’s folks. Thought we might visit the murder site first. Okay?”
“Sounds great.” I look at my watch.
“We’ve got time,” he says.
“Oh, it’s not that. Remember I said the Slasher had another victim?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s had her for sixty-nine hours now. We’ve got to catch him soon.” It’s been nearly three days, the time he had Susan for.
“So you’re close to catching the guy?” Carter starts moving and we walk as we talk.
“Yeah. Kind of.” But I don’t know if it’s true. I’ve been trying to convince myself it is, but in reality, we don’t have much. We’re on our way, definitely, but these things take time. First we’ll have a list of thousands of students from 1997 to 2000, then we’ll have to start the cross-referencing process and that is bound to take time, even with computers. Sure, hopefully by the end of it we’ll have less than forty names. But how long will it take to get those forty names? I gulp, riding a wave of nausea. I focus on Carter’s black shoes. They’re real shiny. He wouldn’t be happy if I threw up all over them.
“You all right?”
“Sure.” I want to explain that I know the guy’s current victim. Partly in the hope it’ll make Carter put in that extra effort, and partly because I feel the need to explain my obvious attachment to the case. But I can’t tell him the killer’s got an FBI agent. The brass was pretty straight up about that.
Double glass doors slide open and we walk into the fresh air. It’s a lot colder outside than in, but also noticeably warmer than D.C. A line of cabs hugs the curb and we step between two of them and make our way toward a secondary side road.
“This one got to me too,” Carter says.
He points his keys at an unmarked car. It’s a navy blue Mercury Sable. “This is me.” He pops the trunk and throws my bag in. We clamber into the car.
“Your partner coming with us?”
“She just started with Homicide about six months ago. She didn’t work this case.”
“Who did?”
“Bob Watson. My old partner,” Carter says. “He retired last year.”
“Can we catch up with him later?”
“Sure. I called and let him know FBI was looking at the Raymond case. He wants to solve it. In fact, he knows Sally-Anne’s folks real well. Friend of the family.” Carter pauses and stares somewhat vacantly in front of him. He starts the car.
“We worked our asses off on this case. Day and night. And right up to the time Bob retired he still looked at the files on a regular basis. See if he couldn’t turn up something new.”
“Perhaps I can talk to him tonight, after we’ve seen Sally-Anne’s family.”
“I’ll call him now.” Carter plucks his phone from his shirt pocket and punches in a number. “Bob, it’s Darren… Yeah, she’s sitting right beside me… She’d like to talk to you… Yeah… Uh-huh…eight… About an hour… Okay, see you then.” Carter hangs up and turns to me. “He’s going to meet us in a diner around the corner from the Raymond house. We can eat and talk over the case.”
“Thanks. I really need to work this one hard and fast.”
Carter nods. “You got any questions about the files?”
He starts driving.
“I wouldn’t mind finding out more about your suspects. What they’re doing now, that sort of stuff. Do you want to wait until tonight with Watson?”
“Yeah. Like I said, he tracked the case after it was officially closed. He might know a lot of that off the top of his head.”
About ten minutes later we arrive at a small park, surrounded by a housing estate. Sally-Anne’s murder site.
We both get out of the car and survey the area.
“It was just a field at the time of the murder. Part of a farm. But the farmer died and his family sold the land to a housing-development crowd.” Carter’s eyes drift my way, then he motions toward some houses on either side of the park. “These went up in 2000.”
“What about behind?” The park seems to finish on the top of a crest, and then the next crest only has a few houses on it.
“There’s a river down there,” Carter says, pointing to the space between the two crests. We walk farther into the park. “Apparently at the time, the farmer often used to complain about kids coming down and having sex by the river. Except for the odd occasion when he caught them, they were usually undisturbed. It made it an attractive spot. Marli, Sally-Anne’s best friend, said they both used to come down here with guys, on and off.”
I nod, remembering that the autopsy showed Sally-Anne had had recent intercourse but there was no semen. A condom had been used.
“He had sex with her, then killed her,” Carter says. “Hard to know medically if he raped her, or if the sex was consensual. Given she was killed, we assume she was raped, even though there was no evidence of tearing or bruising.” We reach an inviting area of lush grass, daisies and tall trees, with a view of the river. He points to a large oak tree. “She was found right there.”
“I can see why the kids came here,” I say. “Before the housing, you’d need to be literally within twenty feet to see them in this dip.”
“Yep. No one saw them arrive or leave. No one even knew who Sally-Anne was meeting that day. There were several partial tire tracks left on the side of the road, near where Sally-Anne’s car was found. But they weren’t much good to us.”
“What was the problem?”
Carter leans on the oak. “Problems, plural. Firstly it was wet. We only had partial tracks and even then most of them were hard to get a cast off. Plus, the killer could have gotten a lift with Sally-Anne and then walked out after the deed. It’s only two miles to the nearest bus stop.” He points in a roughly northerly direction.
“I take it no one saw a male walking along the road?”
“No, nothing. But he could have cut across land, rather than sticking to the road.” This time he points directly to the housing estate. “We questioned the bus drivers at the time, but they didn’t remember anything unusual. It was quite a busy stop and lots of people got on and off there.” He picks a leaf off the ground and examines it, then tosses it.
“Any other problems with the tire tracks?”
“Yeah, there were lots of them and it was hard to isolate the different sets. We did get at least four partial sets. In the end, our experts identified four makes of tires, but they were too common to help us. We could eliminate a few people, but half the city could have parked here.”
“I see.”
I crouch down and study the grass—I don’t know why. Carter follows suit.
“On top of that, when we started our investigations we found that half the city did park here. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. What I’m trying to say is the spot wasn’t only popular with the kids.” He looks down a little awkwardly, then he looks up and keeps his eyes on me.
He’s attractive and there’s an instant connection between us, but I stay focused.
“Yet still no one saw Sally-Anne or a male down here that day?”
“No. It was midspring. It was sunny that day, but it wasn’t into the real popular season yet, plus it had rained heavily the night before. The ground would have been wet.”
“But Sally-Anne and her mystery date didn’t seem to mind.” I say, running my palm over the grass.
“No.”
“Mmm.” I drop onto my knees, under the tree where things went horribly wrong for Sally-Anne. “Do you mind if I have a minute, Detective?”
“What?”
I seem to have caught him off guard.
“When I’m profiling, a bit of privacy helps. I need to get into the head of the killer and the victim and it’s best not to have any distractions.” It’s true, but I do have an ulterior motive. I’m hoping to get a psychic vision of some sort.
“Sure,” he says. He takes another leaf and stands up. He turns his back quickly, as though he’s just caught me undressing, and walks slowly away.
I position myself exactly where Sally-Anne was found. I can see her clearly in my mind as I visualize the photographs of the crime scene. I lie back. Carter looks back, glances my way uneasily, then keeps walking. I close my eyes, hoping to see something. I am rewarded with an onslaught of images. Sally-Anne smiling. Sally-Anne laughing. Sally-Anne screaming. Sally-Anne struggling for her life.
I suddenly realize I’m having difficulty breathing. It’s as if my psychic reenactment is so strong that I’m suffering the physical effects too. I gasp for breath and open my eyes, hoping this will stop the reenactment.
Blue sky. I’m Sally-Anne. I can’t breathe. Now I’m the killer. I feel frenzied excitement as I tighten my grip around Sally-Anne’s throat. The first taste—never to be forgotten. Suddenly I’m Sally-Anne again. I see a dark face. I’m blinded by light that comes from behind the face. It’s too bright, the sun’s in my eyes, and I can’t make out the features. I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! Then suddenly it’s no longer bright and a face is only a few inches from mine.
It’s Carter. I take a desperate gasping breath and finally air fills my lungs.
“You okay? What’s going on?”
“I’m fine,” I say, still a little disorientated. “Sorry, I just…I just dozed off is all.” The excuse sounds lame. I know it, and Carter knows it, but he doesn’t say anything.
I look around. I think it was the area triggering the psychic episode rather than me actually controlling my insight.
“Come on, we’ve got to go and see the Raymonds,” Carter says.
I glance at my watch. It’s 6:30 p.m. Arizona time. He offers me his hand and I take it, feeling a little weak. Carter pulls me up and I’m surprised by the strength of his wiry frame.
I let go of Carter’s hand, eager to end the contact.
“This isn’t a normal FBI investigation, is it?” he says.
“Sure it is,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
He walks back to the car, not looking at me, not talking. I follow him.
We sit in silence and drive. I replay the images of Sally-Anne’s murder and try to slow them down, to see things I couldn’t make out the first time. Sally-Anne, looking up at the person on top of her. The killer, staring at her throat. Her throat… There’s something…something about that image, and I’m left again with thoughts of the necklace.
I’m about to ask Carter if he knows what the missing necklace looks like, when he starts to talk.
“So, it was too bright for you to see his face?”
“What?” How could Carter know what I saw?
“I was hoping you wouldn’t lie down, but you did. And then exactly the same thing happened to you. You laughed, a little laugh. You smiled. And then came the scream. It was silenced quickly, and you were gasping for air. Your hands were grasping toward your throat, but he was too strong.”
I look at Carter, ready to defend myself. Am I sitting next to the murderer?
He looks at me calmly. “No. I’m not your guy, if that’s what you’re thinking. The thing is, exactly the same thing happened when we brought someone else to the site eleven years ago. Everything was exactly as it was for you.”
“Who did you bring to the site?” I ask slowly.
He pauses, looks at me, ready to read my reaction. “We got a psychic in.”
I keep my face impassive. I’ve got to shut this down. Now.
“I’m asthmatic,” I say. God, I’m a crap liar.
“Really? So’m I. And my aunt had the gift. You’ve got it too.”
I look at Detective Darren Carter closely for the first time. His black hair is on the long side and his kind midnight-blue eyes stare openly at me. His face is pale and skinny, like the rest of his body. He has that look of a boy who has grown too quickly and hasn’t yet had a chance to fill out. And I’ve caught a glimpse of dimples at some stage when he smiles. He seems gentle. Especially for a cop. My instincts are telling me to trust this man. In fact, his poise, his gentlemanly manner and those kind, intense eyes…if it wasn’t for Josh, I’d be interested in Carter.
“Can’t decide whether to deny it or trust me, hey,” he says.
I pause. “Sure you don’t have some of that gift, Carter?”
He smiles. “Good decision, if I do say so myself.”
“So was the psychic your aunt?”
“Yes, she was.” His voice is husky.
“Oh no. He didn’t…” I had pictured an old aunt.
“His second victim in Arizona. Rose May. Used to be Rose Carter before she married.”
“Son of a bitch. She was your aunt?” Now it makes sense.
“Yeah, she was actually a couple of years younger than me.”
I’m silent.
“He must have watched. It’s the only explanation we came up with. It never got into the press. Was never public knowledge.”
“We’re profiling this guy as maybe law enforcement. Could he have heard about her through the force?”
“We didn’t tell many of our guys. Watson, particularly, insisted we kept it hush-hush. Didn’t believe in ‘all that shit’ as he’d say.”
“God, Carter, I’m so sorry.” I reach my hand out to him, but withdraw it.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “We’ve all got our reasons to catch this guy.”
“While we’re doing the confessions, the killer’s got a friend of mine.” I decide it’s okay to divulge this information. I just won’t mention her occupation.
“No wonder you want to get him.”
“Yeah.” I stare out the window. The area is mostly suburban. Lots of houses and white picket fences.
In my peripheral vision I see Carter reach his hand out to me. But like me, he withdraws it before any contact is made.
“So how long has the FBI been recruiting Australian psychics?” he says and grins.
I laugh. “The psychic thing is new. Really new. The FBI doesn’t even know about it.”
“This is getting complicated.”
“Tell me about it.” I smile. “I’m a profiler, like I told you on the phone. That’s what the FBI pays me to do. The other is…well, extra.”
“How long have you been with the Bureau?”
“Six months.”
“Well, I’m sure the psychic ability is a handy talent for a profiler. You must be one of their best.”
“They seem to think so, but I’m not so sure. And I’ll need more than a few scattered visions to catch this guy in the next forty-eight hours.”
“So that’s your time frame?”
“I’d say so, based on his pattern in D.C.”
“Well, I’ll do everything I can to help you. This guy has haunted me and my partner for the past eleven years.”
“Thanks, Carter.”
“Call me Darren.”
“Darren. And I’m Sophie.”
He pulls the car into the curb. “Nice to meet you, Sophie.” His eyes linger on me before he grins. “Right. This is the Raymonds’.” He uses his thumb to point over his shoulder.
It’s a small but well-kept weatherboard, painted white. A veranda reaches along the whole front of the house, and a swing seat hangs in one corner. Next to that is a small table, large enough to hold a couple of drinks and perhaps a book. It looks serene. We get out of the car and walk up the concrete driveway rather than using the gate in the middle of the yellow fence. A red pickup is parked and we move around it to the front door. The garden consists of perfectly trimmed grass, with flower beds around the edges. Each bed has rows of evenly spaced flowering plants. Already I can imagine the kind of people the Raymonds are.
“You got a big team working this?” he asks.
“Seven of us at the moment.”
“All FBI?”
We walk up three steps onto the veranda.
“Two from D.C. Homicide, one from D.C. Missing Persons, two FBI field agents and one other profiler.”
“Two profilers?”
Darren rings the doorbell.
“Josh, the other profiler, and I have both done lots of fieldwork in our past lives and worked together in the field on a case that closed a week ago.”
Darren pauses, about to say something, but then a woman in her mid forties opens the door.
“Hello, Darren. Come in.”
Obviously Darren and his partner made regular calls to the Raymonds during the case. Perhaps they continue to do so.
Mrs. Raymond is around five foot one with auburn hair pulled back into a tight, neat bun. She is dressed in black jeans and a loose, light blue denim shirt. Her mouth smiles at me but her eyes don’t. Her eyes have the look I’ve seen way too many times—the look of a mother who has had her child taken away from her by murder. Her eyes will never show happiness again. Just like my mom’s won’t. She never got over John’s murder. Never.
And even if Mrs. Raymond trains other parts of her body, her eyes will always reveal the truth to anyone with a bit of sensitivity. I bet Darren knows this.
“Hi, Janice,” Darren says. “This is Agent Anderson of the FBI.”
“Hello, Mrs. Raymond,” I say.
She looks me up and down with astute eyes. “Hello, dear.”
With one ten-second inspection of me I feel as though she knows my inner secrets. Sally-Anne wouldn’t have been fooling anyone in this household. Well, at least not her mother.
“Come on in,” she says. She looks me up and down again and then glances at Darren. A small smirk plays on her lips and I get the feeling she has us paired off already. Is the physical attraction between Darren and I that obvious?
She leads the way into the house. “Tea? Coffee?”
The front door opens straight onto a homey living room full of trinkets—or “dust collectors” as my dad would say. There are vases, glass figurines and lots and lots of photos. Most photos are of Sally-Anne and a boy, obviously her brother. The photos trace the children’s lives, starting with baby pictures. But the photos of SallyAnne stop when she’s in her teens, and the family pictures go from four people to three. There are no photos of Sally-Anne graduating. No photos of Sally-Anne getting married. This is his doing. His fault. And I’m going to get the bastard before he ruins anybody else’s life. My jaw stiffens and my teeth grind against one another.
Mrs. Raymond looks at me quizzically. I remember her question—tea or coffee?
“Whatever you’re making will be fine,” I say, pulling my eyes away from the photos. They are too familiar, reminding me of my own family. Of John.
“Same for me,” Darren says.
I get the feeling from Mrs. Raymond’s smile that I’ll be having whatever Darren normally has. Before she disappears into the kitchen she introduces me to her husband. “John, this is Agent Anderson. The FBI woman,” she says on her way through.
Mr. Raymond sits in a large armchair, but it can barely hold his frame. Even though he’s sitting down I can tell he’s about six-five. His height is matched by a broad, stocky physique that reminds me of a rugby player’s. No doubt here he played American football. He definitely would have been one of the guys that clears the way for the ball. Now his middle-age spread also adds to his sizable body. He has a full head of wavy, almost frizzy hair that needs a cut, and his facial features are as large as his body. A freshly folded newspaper lies beside him. He stands up, confirming my guess at his height.
I shake his hand. “Hello, Mr. Raymond.”
“So, the FBI’s interested in my Sally-Anne again.”
I notice the extra emphasis on the word again. The Bureau had drafted a profile of the killer all those years ago, but it didn’t lead anywhere. We let him down. I pause for a moment, ignoring his dig. He needs someone to blame. I can understand that.
From the way he says his daughter’s name I can tell that Sally-Anne did have one person whose eyes she could pull the wool over.
“We believe Sally-Anne could have been the first of many, many victims, sir. We have a killer in Washington, D.C., at the moment, and we believe he’s the same person who killed your daughter,” I say, straight up. It’s been eleven years, and at this stage they probably appreciate straightforwardness rather than diplomacy. I also speak quite loudly, so Mrs. Raymond can hear me from the kitchen. “We’re getting closer.”
Mrs. Raymond bustles out of the kitchen and stands on the living room side of the swinging door. “You know who it is?”
“Not yet, no. But we’re following several leads, and we’ve been able to link several murders from different states, including Sally-Anne’s and another two murders in Arizona.”
“Oh,” she says, and disappears back into the kitchen. There have probably been many occasions when she thought the police were close to catching her daughter’s killer.
Mr. Raymond clears his throat. “So, what makes you think these murders are related?”
“There are lots of elements that are similar, and in particular the body positioning. It’s the killer’s signature.”
“Lying on her back, the arms slightly raised and her head turned. She looked peaceful, ’cept her eyes were open,” Mr. Raymond says.
“Yes, Mr. Raymond. That’s the positioning for them all,” I say.
“And our Sally-Anne was the first, you think?”
“Yes, Mr. Raymond. I do.”
“What makes you think that?”
“There are elements of her death, her murder, that are different from the others. The killer murdered her in the heat of the moment. But the others, after that, were planned.”
“How do you know?”
“Sally-Anne was murdered in the place she was found. The evidence tells us that. She wasn’t abducted first, and she wasn’t tied up. With his other victims, the killer stalked them, choosing the best time to abduct them. The fact that your daughter’s murder was unplanned indicates it was his first. The body positioning tells us it’s the same killer, though.”
Mrs. Raymond enters, carrying a tray with a plate of sweet biscuits, a pot of tea, four cups and saucers, a jug of milk and a matching sugar bowl. The tea set is white porcelain, with small roses tracing the rim. The cups are dainty and I wonder how Mr. Raymond will be able to hold the handle with his massive hands.
Mrs. Raymond places the tray on the table. “Here we go then,” she says with forced breeziness. “Cream? Sugar?” she asks me.
“Cream, no sugar, thanks.”
She pours the tea and hands it to me, before pouring out three others.
“We’re hoping to identify the killer within the next forty-eight hours. He’s just abducted another woman, in D.C., and now that we’ve linked all these crimes it will be much easier for us to cross-reference locations and other elements to find the killer.”
“So, why has it taken eleven years to link these murders?” Mr. Raymond asks.
I take a sip of my tea. “Some of them have been officially linked before, Mr. Raymond. In total there have been three murders here in Arizona, six murders in Michigan, one in Florida, two in Chicago and three in Washington. The ones in D.C. and Chicago had already been linked, so the D.C. force knew whoever they were looking for probably lived in Chicago for a few years. The current task force identified the Arizona, Michigan and the Florida murders as part of the killer’s handiwork. This recent link to Arizona is the most important. You see, the killer probably knew Sally-Anne…” I pause, noticing Mrs. Raymond’s discomfort. The thought of knowing the killer may be too much for her “—which means we’ve got the best chance of finding him right here. She’s also his youngest victim, at sixteen, which is more evidence that she was his first.”
“They’ve tried to find him for years. What’s different now?” Mrs. Raymond asks.
Fair question.
“It’s the movement we’ll be able to track, Mrs. Raymond. We believe the killer was between eighteen and twenty-five when he killed Sally-Anne. We’re pretty sure he went to college in Michigan, likely as a graduate student, and then worked in Chicago and now Washington. How many people who live in Washington would have lived here, studied in Michigan and then worked in Chicago? Then, of those people, who did Sally-Anne know?” I say. We are getting close. “There are other things we know about him too.”
Mr. Raymond takes a slurp of his tea. The cup does look ridiculously delicate in his large hands. “It seems you know everything but his name.”
Carter takes a biscuit. “That’s how profiling works, John. The FBI gives us a profile and we see who matches it. If one of our suspects fits the profile, we know we’re on the right track. Then we just have to get the evidence together.”
“But didn’t you have a profile in 1995?” Mrs. Raymond says.
Carter answers. “We got a profile drafted in 1996, after the third murder. That’s when we knew it was a serial.”
Police forces can request a profile at any time, but they often follow through other leads first. If they think they can find the guy in a couple of weeks through a witness or fingerprints, why wait for a profile? I’m also guessing that the second murder didn’t necessarily indicate a serial killer, given Rose’s presence at the first crime scene. It would be safe to assume that Sally-Anne was the primary victim and Rose was simply a clean-up murder.
“I’ve reviewed that profile, Mrs. Raymond. It was good, but we’ve got an awful lot more to go on now. We’re in a totally different position,” I say.
“Anyway, I expect you want to ask us about Sally-Anne,” Mrs. Raymond says, obviously not convinced that her daughter’s murderer is any closer to being apprehended. No doubt she likes talking about Sally-Anne, even in such morbid circumstances.
“Yes. I do have some questions. But first, I’ve got a photo of a necklace that was found at the latest victim’s residence, Mrs. Raymond.”
I’ve been dying to show them the photo since I walked in the door, but courtesy has been my restraint. I take out the photo.
“Is this your daughter’s necklace?”
She reacts immediately. “Yes. Yes. We gave it to her for her fifteenth birthday. It’s a Celtic symbol, the Holy Trinity. We thought it would protect her.” The eleven-year-old emotions come back for her and Mr. Raymond reaches out and holds her hand.
I hide my excitement. It’s inappropriate. “Thank you, Mrs. Raymond. This directly links your daughter’s murder to the recent abduction in D.C.” I really believe this symbol is going to lead me right to the killer. I think of the Raymonds’ need for closure. “If we get him on the D.C. killings, we’ll get him for your daughter’s murder.”
Neither of them seems too hopeful.
“Go on, dear. Your other questions.” She has regained her composure and simply looks tired now.
I address both her and her husband. “I’m probably going to ask the same questions Detectives Carter and Watson asked you eleven years ago, but we have to look at Sally-Anne’s murder in a new light now, so please bear with me.”
They nod.
“When was the last time you saw your daughter?”
Mrs. Raymond responds. “We both saw her on the Saturday she was killed. She got up at about ten in the morning and I made her some breakfast. I wanted to go shopping with her for a dress, but she said she had plans with Marli. That we could go on Sunday instead. She left the house at about eleven-thirty. John was working outside, in the garage.”
Mr. Raymond takes over. “She came in to me on her way out. I remember thinking how beautiful and grownup she looked. She said goodbye and I gave her twenty dollars so she could get a coffee and go to the movies with Marli. She gave me a kiss and said, ‘See you tonight, Dad.’” He pauses. “That’s the last time I saw her.”
“But she didn’t meet Marli?”
“No,” Mrs. Raymond says, looking down at her lap.
“Did Sally-Anne have a boyfriend at the time?”
My question is answered by a look between the pair.
“She never brought a boy back to the house. Never introduced us to anyone. But I suspected she had someone in her life. And that it probably wasn’t her first,” Mrs. Raymond says.
Mr. Raymond winces.
“But no idea who it was?”
“I didn’t, but Marli told us later that Sally-Anne had just broken up with young Jamie Wheelan. So I guess it was him.”
“Do you mind me asking how you knew Sally-Anne was involved with someone, Mrs. Raymond?”
She looks at her husband, apologetic. “I found condoms in her drawer upstairs.”
Again, Mr. Raymond’s face reacts.
“When did you find these?” I ask.
“About six months before. I had a talk with her. Told her I thought she was too young. Asked her who she was with. She wouldn’t tell me.” She takes a sip of her tea and looks at one of the photos of Sally-Anne on the dresser. She daydreams for a few seconds, and I leave her be.
She comes back to the land of the living. “In the end, though, I knew nothing I said would stop her. So I told her to make sure she used the condoms. To protect herself and make sure the boy was, you know, worthy. She huffed and puffed at me, embarrassed and angry I had been in her room. But we never spoke of it again. And I never told John. Not till after. Not till the police became so interested in her actions.” She gives her husband another apologetic glance. “I knew then it was going to come out and better he hear it from me than someone down the street.” She squeezes his hand. “Sally-Anne was his little angel.”
“No father likes to think about it,” I say to Mr. Raymond.
He smiles but is still uncomfortable with the topic of conversation.
“So presumably whoever Sally-Anne had organized to meet was her killer,” I say.
I’ve got more questions, but they’re questions for Carter and his partner or even Marli. The Raymonds probably don’t have anything more to tell me. Obviously their daughter kept her sex life private, like most young girls.
“So neither of you ever saw her with a man?” I say.
They both shake their heads.
“Maybe Agent Anderson would like to see Sally-Anne’s room,” Carter says, looking to the Raymonds for permission.
“Sure. Sure.” Mrs. Raymond springs to her feet. She leads the way upstairs and we all follow, except for Mr. Raymond, who stays seated. At the top of the stairs Mrs. Raymond turns left and I see her take a key off a necklace that hangs around her neck. She unlocks a door directly in front of her.
Sally-Anne’s room hasn’t been touched. Like so many parents who lose a child, the room becomes a shrine, capturing the child’s personality and youth. The room is clean and dust free, so I assume the only time anyone enters it is when Mrs. Raymond cleans it. It looks like a typical sixteen-year-old’s room. There’s a TV and stereo on a desk, along with a rather large CD collection, notable for its obvious age. Sally-Anne’s dressing table has a jewelry box, makeup, nail polish and a few other knickknacks. On the walls are photos of her with her friends and some with her family. The room also has a few posters. Alanis Morissette, the Batman Forever movie poster, and one of George Michael, post-WHAM. It’s like a time warp.
I look closely at the photos. “You spoke to everyone in these?” I ask Carter.
“Yeah. That’s Marli.” He points to the girl who appears in most of the photos with Sally-Anne. “This is Jamie Wheelan. He was our number-one suspect for some time. But he didn’t match the profile at all. The original profile said we were looking for a loner, someone who wasn’t very socially adept. But Jamie was one of the most popular kids at school.” Darren leans in and whispers, “Cocky bastard, too.”
Darren crosses back to Mrs. Raymond, who’s still standing at the doorway of Sally-Anne’s room. “Janice, why don’t we go back downstairs and finish our tea. Agent Anderson won’t touch anything.” He turns to me. “Will you?”
“No, I just want to get a feel for Sally-Anne.”
Mrs. Raymond nods and lets Darren lead her downstairs. “I’ll come back up and lock the door when you’re finished,” she says, half to me and half to reassure herself that soon the shrine would be closed up once more. She walks and I mouth the word thanks to Darren.
As an afterthought he steps back up the stairs and says quietly, out of the Mrs. Raymond’s earshot, “My auntie used her breathing. Said it helped her. She said it was like meditating. Do you know how to meditate?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
And so I’m left alone with victim number one. I look at the photos again, looking into Sally-Anne’s eyes, just as the killer had. Now I know why his eyes were drawn to her throat. As he strangled her, the pendant captivated him. He was so enamoured of it that he took it and probably used it to relive the murder and sexual release hundreds of times…until a few days ago, when he decided he would leave it at Sam’s, presumably to mark his territory and increase the thrill. After all, I wouldn’t have noticed it except it was the symbol I’d seen on Jean’s thigh in my dream. It was a safe taunt as far as he was concerned. By itself the necklace would have gone unnoticed. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he went back to Sam’s to retrieve it. I’m sure he never expected to have to part with it forever. He must be mad as hell. I wonder if the guys are still keeping an eye on her apartment. I must ring and check… I take a deep breath and try to refocus. I’m in this room to see if I get another vision, not to think about what’s happening in D.C.
I sit down on the end of Sally-Anne’s bed and take deep, slow breaths, trying to induce something. With each breath, I clear my mind of all lingering thoughts, trying to think of nothing. Not the case, not Sam, not the killer. Just nothingness. But I’m not greeted with an image of Sally-Anne or her murderer. This time I’m with Sam, in that dark place he has her.
She’s tied to a gurney, with several gashes across her body. Some ooze red, while others have formed a scab. She’s perfectly still and, for a moment I fear the worst. Then I see her naked breasts move up as her lungs fill with oxygen. On her left arm is a pressure bandage, but it’s covered in blood. That’s one of the deep wounds he makes. I look around the room, trying to see something that will give away the location. But everything’s blurry. I try to move closer to Sam and I’m surprised that it’s as if my body’s there too. I can walk. I go over to her and try to stroke her hair. I see my hand but it goes through her, as if I’m a ghost. Sam flinches.
“Sam. It’s me, Sophie,” I try to say, but my voice sounds strange and garbled.
Sam opens her eyes and I see so much fear in them that I have to look away.
I look back at her. “I’m going to find you, Sam. I’m going to find you,” I say, but again the words are garbled. Then her eyes show relief and for an instant comfort. So much so that I wonder if she’s seen me, or somehow knows I’m there with her. She wears a gag in her mouth, but she strains against it and tries to make sounds. The sounds are indecipherable, but I can’t help wondering if she is saying my name. Can she sense my presence? I reach my hand out once again, but this time my hand turns into a man’s hand and the fear comes back into Sam’s eyes. It’s him. I’m him.