Kitabı oku: «A Perfect Evil», sayfa 4

CHAPTER 10

Platte City reminded Maggie of the fictional Mayberry R.F.D. She’d never understood the appeal of small towns. Quaint and friendly usually meant boring and nosy. Assignments in small towns made her cranky and edgy. She hated the presumed intimacy that found its way into “how are you?” and “good morning.” Immediately, she missed the irritating but familiar sounds of honking taxis and six-lane traffic. Worse yet was settling for Chinese takeout from places called Big Fred’s and watered-down cappuccino from convenience-store vending machines.

She had to admit, though, the drive from Omaha had been a scenic one. The foliage along the Platte River put on a show of spectacular colors: bright oranges and flaming reds mixed with green and gold. The overpowering scent of evergreens and impending rain filled the air with an annoyingly pleasant aroma. She kept the car window cracked, despite the chill.

A jet thundered overhead, and Maggie skidded to a stop at the intersection. The sudden burst of sound shook the car and left an echo rumbling through the quiet streets. She remembered that Strategic Air Command was only ten, maybe fifteen miles away. Okay, so perhaps Platte City possessed some familiar sounds, after all.

She purposely took a wrong turn away from downtown. The detour would only take a few minutes and would hopefully give her some insight into the community. A Pizza Hut took up one corner. Across the street was the obligatory convenience store and a shiny new McDonald’s. Its golden arches stood taller than anything else for miles, competing only with a grain elevator and a church steeple.

The church’s spiky iron cross stabbed at the thick clouds that had begun rolling in only moments ago. Its parking lot was beginning to empty with a line of snail-crawling churchgoers, putting Maggie in the middle of the traffic jam. She sat patiently watching as each car allowed the one in front to back out and get in line. No, it was much too organized. They even ruined a good traffic jam.

Maggie waited for room in front, then flipped the rented Ford around in one quick squeal of tires. Heads turned, the line of snails stopped and watched as she spun out in the opposite direction. She checked the rearview mirror. No flashing lights followed, though she wouldn’t have been surprised if they had.

The information she had accessed from the Nebraska Tourism Web site described Platte City (population 3,500) as a growing bedroom community for many who worked in Omaha (twenty miles to the northeast) and Lincoln (thirty miles to the southwest). That explained the beautiful, well-manicured homes and neighborhoods—many recently built—despite the nonexistence of any nearby industry.

Small shops lined the downtown square: a post office, Wanda’s Diner, a movie theater, something called Paintin’ Place, a small grocery store and, yes, even a drugstore/soda fountain. Bright red awnings hung over some of the shops. Others had window boxes with geraniums still in bloom. In the center of the square, the red brick courthouse towered over the other buildings. Built during an era when pride overrode expense, its facade included a detailed relief of Nebraska’s past—covered wagons and plow horses separated by the scales of justice.

The entire block was ornately fenced in with freshly painted, black wrought iron. The courthouse took up only half the space. Cobblestone walkways, bronze statues, a marble fountain, benches and old-fashioned lampposts made the rest of the area a quiet garden-like retreat. What impressed Maggie most as she made her way over the twists of cobblestone was the absence of trash. Not one single hamburger wrapper or foam cup dared to litter the hallowed ground. Instead, huge maple and sycamore leaves decorated the path with gold and red.

Inside the lobby of the courthouse, Maggie’s heels clicked on the marble floor, sending an echo all the way to the vaulted cathedral ceiling. There was no security guard, not even a desk clerk. She scanned the wall directory. The county sheriff’s department, along with several courtrooms and the county jail, resided on the third floor.

She bypassed the elevator and took the stairs, an open spiral that allowed a bird’s-eye view of the atrium. Lavish white and gray marble lined the stairwells and the floor. Solid oak and shiny brass trimmed the banisters and doorways. She found herself tiptoeing.

The sheriff’s department appeared empty, though the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the hum of a copy machine seeped in from one of the back rooms. The wall clock showed eleven-thirty. Maggie checked her watch. She was still on eastern time. She reset it as she walked to the windows facing south. The thick, gray clouds now blocked any hint of sun or blue sky. Below, the streets remained quiet. A few customers, dressed in their Sunday best, left Wanda’s Diner. Behind the theater a small, gray-haired man heaved trash into a huge Dumpster.

It wasn’t noon, and she was already exhausted. She was drained from her battle with Greg and another sleepless night avoiding visions of Albert Stucky. Then, this morning, the turbulent flight had jerked and jolted her thousands of feet above control. She hated flying, and it never got any easier.

It was the control, her mother reminded her whenever possible.

“You need to let it go, Mag-pie. You can’t expect to be in control twenty-four hours a day.”

This from a woman who, after twenty years of therapy, still struggled with the meaning of self-control. A woman who buried her grief for her dead husband by drinking herself into a stupor every Friday night and bringing home whatever stranger had supplied her with the drinks. It wasn’t until one of her men friends suggested a threesome—daughter, mother and himself—that she stopped bringing the men home and insisted on motel rooms. Her mother hadn’t seemed disgusted by the idea of sharing her twelve-year-old daughter, as much as intimidated by it.

Maggie rubbed the back of her neck, the muscles tight with tension—tension easily brought on by thoughts of her mother. She wished she had checked into a hotel first and eaten some lunch instead of coming directly here. But she was ready to dig in, having spent the hours in the air preoccupying herself with details of Ronald Jeffreys. The recent murder resembled Jeffreys’ style, right down to the jagged X carved into the boy’s chest. Copycats were often meticulous, duplicating every last detail to amplify the thrill. Sometimes that made them even more dangerous than the original killer. It removed the passion and thus the tendency to make mistakes.

“Can I help you?”

The voice startled Maggie, and she spun around. The young woman who appeared out of nowhere was far from what Maggie had expected of someone working in a sheriff’s office. Her long hair was too tall and stiff, her knit skirt too short and tight. She looked more like a teenager ready for a date.

“I’m here to see Sheriff Nicholas Morrelli.”

The woman eyed Maggie suspiciously, keeping her post in the doorway as though guarding the back offices. Maggie knew her navy blazer and trousers made her look official, hiding the slender figure that sometimes betrayed her authority. Early in her career she had developed an abrupt and sometimes abrasive manner that demanded attention and compensated for her slight stature. At five foot five and a hundred and fifteen pounds, she had barely met the physical requirements of the agency.

“Nick’s not here right now,” the woman said in a voice that told Maggie she wasn’t about to reveal any additional information. “Was he expecting you?” The woman crossed her arms and stood up straight in an attempt to emphasize her authority.

Maggie looked around the office again, ignoring the question and showing the woman she wasn’t impressed. “Can he be reached?” She pretended to be interested in the bulletin board that contained a wanted poster from the early eighties, a flyer announcing a Halloween dance and a notice advertising a 1990 Ford pickup for sale.

“Look, lady. I don’t mean to be rude,” the young woman said, suddenly a bit unsure of herself. “What exactly is it that you need to talk to Nick … to Sheriff Morrelli about?”

Maggie glanced back at the woman, who looked older now, the lines evident around her mouth and eyes. She teetered on the two-inch spiked heels and was biting her lower lip.

Maggie reached into her jacket pocket, ready to flip out her badge when two men came noisily in the front door. The older man wore a brown deputy’s uniform, the pants impeccably pressed, the tie cinched tight at his neck. His black hair was slicked back, tucked behind his ears and curled over his collar, not a strand out of place. In contrast, the younger man was wearing a gray T-shirt drenched in sweat, shorts and running shoes. His dark brown hair, though short, was tousled, strands wet against his forehead. Despite his disheveled look, he was handsome and definitely in good shape, with long muscular legs, slender waist and broad shoulders. Immediately, Maggie was annoyed with herself for noticing these details.

Both men stopped talking as soon as they saw Maggie. There was silence as they looked from Maggie to the frazzled young woman still at her post in the doorway.

“Hi, Lucy. Is everything okay?” the younger man said as his eyes scanned the length of Maggie’s body. When his eyes finally met hers, he smiled as if she had met his approval.

“I was just trying to find out what this lady—”

“I’m here to see Sheriff Morrelli,” Maggie interrupted. She was getting impatient with being treated like a tax auditor.

“What did you need to see him about?” It was the deputy’s turn to interrogate her, his forehead creased with concern, his stance straightening as though on alert.

Maggie ran her fingers through her hair, waiting for the impatience to settle before it turned to anger. She brought out her badge and flipped it open to them. “I’m with the FBI.”

“You’re Special Agent O’Dell?” the younger man said, now looking more embarrassed than surprised.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Sorry about the third degree.” He wiped his hand on his T-shirt and extended it to her. “I’m Nick Morrelli.”

She was sure the surprise registered on her face, because he smiled at her reaction. Maggie had worked with enough small-town sheriffs to know that they didn’t look like Nick Morrelli. He looked more like a professional athlete, the kind whose good looks and charm forgave his arrogance. The eyes were sky blue and hard to ignore against the tanned skin and dark hair. His grip was firm, no gentle graze reserved for women; however, his eyes held hers, giving her all their attention as if she were the only one in the room. A look he reserved for women, no doubt.

“This is Deputy Eddie Gillick, and I guess you already met Lucy Burton. I am really sorry. We’re all just a little on edge around here. We’ve had a couple of really long nights, and there’s been a lot of reporters snooping around.”

“Well, you’ve certainly come up with an interesting disguise.” This time Maggie let her eyes slowly scan the length of Morrelli’s body, just as he had done to her. When her eyes finally met his, a flicker of embarrassment had replaced his arrogance.

“Actually, I just got back from Omaha. I ran in the Corporate Cup Run.” He seemed eager to explain, almost uncomfortable, as though he had been caught at something he shouldn’t be doing. He shifted from one foot to another. “It’s a fund-raiser for the American Lung Association … or maybe it’s the American Heart Association. I can’t remember. Anyway, it’s for a good cause.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Sheriff Morrelli,” she said, although she was pleased that her presence seemed to demand one.

There was an awkward silence. Finally Deputy Gillick cleared his throat. “I’ve got to get back on the road.” This time he smiled at Maggie. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss O’Dell.”

“Agent O’Dell,” Morrelli corrected him.

“Right, sorry.” Flustered by the correction, the deputy was now anxious to make his exit.

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again,” Maggie added to his misery.

“Lucy, do I smell fresh coffee?” Morrelli asked with a boyish smile.

“I just made a fresh pot. I’ll get you some.” Lucy’s voice was now syrupy and a feminine octave higher.

Maggie smiled to herself as she watched the young woman’s rigid, authoritarian stature give way to a soft sway as she started to fetch coffee for the handsome sheriff.

“Would you mind getting a cup for Agent O’Dell, too?” He smiled at Maggie while Lucy turned and shot her an irritated glare.

“Cream or sugar?”

“None for me, thank you.”

“How about a Pepsi, instead?” he asked, eager to please her.

“Yes, that sounds good.” Perhaps the sugar would help fill her empty stomach.

“Forget the coffee, Lucy. Two cans of Pepsi, please.”

Lucy stared at Maggie, all the excitement drained from her face and replaced by contempt. She spun around and left, the clicking of her heels echoing all the way down the hallway.

It was just the two of them. Morrelli rubbed his arms as if to ward off a chill. He looked uncomfortable, and Maggie knew she was the cause of his discomfort. Perhaps she should have called. She wasn’t good at that etiquette stuff, and it was probably expected in Platte City, Nebraska.

“After almost forty-eight straight hours, we decided to take a break today.” Again, he seemed eager to explain away his appearance and the silent department. “I really didn’t think you’d be here until tomorrow. You know, it being Sunday.”

Maggie found herself wondering if he had been appointed or elected. In either case, his boyish charm had probably outweighed his competence.

“My superiors gave me the impression that time may be important in this case. You are still holding the body for my examination, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course. He’s …” Morrelli rubbed a hand across his bristled face. Maggie noticed a small scar, a puckered white line that blemished his otherwise perfect jaw. “We’re using the hospital morgue.” He dug his fingers into his eyes. Maggie wondered if it was simple exhaustion or an attempt to block out the image that probably haunted his sleep. The report indicated that Morrelli was the one who had found the boy.

“If you’d like, I can take you there,” he added.

“Thanks. Yes, I will need to do that. But first, there’s someplace else I’d like you to take me.”

“Sure. You probably want to unpack. Are you staying here in town?”

“Actually, that’s not what I meant. I’d like to see the scene of the crime.” She watched Morrelli’s face grow pale. “I’d like you to show me where you found the body.”

CHAPTER 11

The pasture road dissolved into torn grass and jagged ruts. Tire tracks crisscrossed each other, stamped into the mud. Nick shifted the Jeep into second gear and the vehicle strained forward, the tires cutting still more deeply into the mud.

“I don’t suppose anyone realized all this traffic in and out of here may have destroyed evidence?”

Nick shot Agent O’Dell a frustrated look. He was getting tired of being reminded of his mistakes.

“By the time we discovered the body, at least two vehicles had been through here. Yeah, we realized we may have messed up the killer’s tracks.”

He glanced at her again as he tried to keep the Jeep from sliding into the worst parts of the mud. Though she acted older, he guessed she was only in her late twenties, maybe earlier thirties—much too young to be an expert. Her age wasn’t the only thing that disarmed him. Despite her cool, abrupt manner she was very attractive. And even the conservative-style suit couldn’t hide what he suspected was a knockout body. Under ordinary circumstances he’d be preparing a full-throttled charm assault. But, Jesus, there was something about her that sent him into a tailspin. She carried herself with such poise, such confidence and self-assurance. She acted as though she knew what she was doing, which only made him more aware of his own lack of expertise. It was annoying as hell.

The Jeep jerked to a stop in front of the shelterbelt of trees, and immediately the nausea of that night struck Nick. The light-headedness surprised him. It was getting to be embarrassing. He heard O’Dell struggle with the door handle, the familiar click of metal against metal.

“Wait, that door sticks. Here, let me.” Without thinking he reached across the seat, leaning against her. His hand was on the door handle before he realized his body hovered over her, his face dangerously close to hers. She pressed herself into her seat to avoid touching him, and he immediately jerked his hand away, returning to his own side.

“I’ll get it from the outside.”

“Good idea.”

Outside the Jeep, Nick berated himself. What a stupid thing to do. Not very professional. He was certainly living up to his reputation as the incompetent playboy sheriff.

He sloshed around to the other side of the Jeep. Back at the office he had taken a quick shower, put on jeans and traded the running shoes for the same boots he had worn that night. Dry mud still clung to the expensive leather. They were instantly devoured again by the sticky ooze. The gray clouds rolled in, threatening to burst at any moment and guaranteeing the ooze would stay for days ahead.

The Jeep’s door opened easily from the outside. Would O’Dell think his stupid move in the car was a cheap excuse just to get close to her? It didn’t matter. Something told Nick this woman was immune to his charm, what little he seemed to have left.

“Hold on.” He stopped her again. “I think I have some boots back here.” He climbed inside the doorway, stopping in midair as he realized the inappropriateness of his actions, again. He avoided her eyes and waited until she slid to the other side and was a safe distance away. Then he stretched over the seat. Thankfully, the rubber work boots were within arm’s reach.

“Are you sure those are necessary?” She looked at the black boots as though they were shackles.

“You’ll never get anywhere in this mud. It’s worse by the riverbank.”

He had already begun undoing the laces. He handed her a boot and began on the other, distracted when she slipped off her expensive leather flats. Clothed only in sheer socks, her feet were small, slender and delicate. He watched her slide her foot into the oversize boot. It swallowed her foot, and even her attempt at tucking in her pant leg wouldn’t guarantee that the huge rubber boot would stay attached.

As they began their hike through the mud, he was impressed that she kept up with him despite her clumsy footwear and her shorter stride. The area was still cordoned off by yellow tape strung from trees. Sections were torn, flapping in the breeze, a breeze that grew stronger as the fast-moving clouds rolled overhead. Nick pulled up the collar of his jacket. His hair was still damp. A shiver slipped down his back. He glanced at O’Dell, who wore only a wool suit jacket and matching trousers. She buttoned the jacket but showed no other sign of feeling the cutting cold.

He watched her step carefully around the impression of the small body that still remained pressed into the grass. She crouched down, examined the blades of grass, scooped up a fingerful of mud and sniffed it. Nick winced, remembering the rancid smell. His skin still felt raw from scrubbing the stench from his body.

O’Dell stood and looked out at the river. The bank was only three or four feet away. The unusually high waters churned, slapping at the banks.

“Where did you find the medallion?” she asked, without looking at him.

He walked to the spot and found the white stake one of his deputies had placed there. “Here,” he said, pointing to the plastic marker sunk into the mud, barely visible.

She looked at the spot, then back at the boy’s resting place. It was only a couple feet away.

“It was the boy’s. His mother identified it,” Nick explained, still regretting that he couldn’t give it back to Laura Alverez when she had pleaded. “The chain was broken. It must have gotten pulled off in the struggle.”

“Except there was no struggle.”

“Excuse me?” He looked back at her for an explanation, but she was on her knees again with a small tape measure stretched between the marker and the pressed grass.

“There wasn’t a struggle,” she repeated calmly, getting to her feet and wiping at the leaves and mud she had gotten on her trousers.

“What makes you say that?” He was annoyed by her matter-of-fact attitude. She had been here only minutes and seemed to have it all figured out.

“You fell here when you tripped, right?” she said, pointing to the torn grass and the indent in the mud.

Nick winced again. Even his report made him look like a putz. “That’s right,” he admitted.

“The trampling around the perimeter is obviously from your deputies.”

“And the FBI,” Nick added defensively, though he knew she wasn’t concerned with those details. “They were in charge until we ruled out a kidnapping.”

“Other than this spot and where the body lay, there is no torn grass or any beaten down. The victim’s hands and feet were bound when you found him?”

“Yeah, back behind him.”

“My guess is that he was like that when they arrived here. Does the coroner have an approximate time and place of death yet?” She brought out a small notebook and jotted down details.

“He was killed out here, probably less than twenty-four hours before I found him.” The nausea was back. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the image of the dead boy out of his mind. Those wide, innocent eyes staring up at the sky.

“When did the victim disappear?”

“Early last Sunday morning. We found his bike and bag of newspapers against a fence. He hadn’t even started his route yet.”

“So the killer had him for at least three whole days.”

“Jesus,” Nick mumbled and shook his head. He hadn’t thought about the time between the abduction and the murder. They had all been so sure the boy had been kidnapped by his father or someone who would demand a ransom. Nick had believed the boy was being well cared for.

“So how did the chain get broken?” Nick wanted to think of something other than the torture the boy may have endured.

“I don’t know for sure. Maybe the killer pulled it off. It was a silver cross, right?” She looked to him for assurance. He only nodded, impressed that she had equipped herself with so many details from his report. She continued as if thinking out loud. “Maybe the killer didn’t like staring at it. Maybe he wasn’t able to do what he wanted to do as long as the victim was wearing it. Its religious significance is some sort of protection. Perhaps the killer is religious enough to have known that and have been uncomfortable.”

“A religious killer? Great.”

“What other trace do you have?”

“Trace?”

“Other evidence—other objects, torn pieces of fabric or rope? Was the FBI able to pull any tire tracks at all?”

The tire tracks again. How many times would he need to be reminded of his screwup.

“We did find a footprint.”

She stared at him, and he saw a flicker of impatience.

“A footprint? Excuse me, Sheriff, I don’t mean to sound skeptical, but how were you able to isolate a footprint? From what I can tell, there must have been over a dozen pairs of feet out here.” She waved her hand at the shoe impressions trampled in the mud. “How do you know that the prints you found weren’t one of your men or the FBI?”

“Because none of us were barefoot.” He didn’t wait for her reaction but moved closer to the river. He grabbed on to a tree branch just as his boots slid partway down the bank. When he looked up, O’Dell was standing over him.

“Right here.” He pointed to the set of toes imprinted in the mud and highlighted with remnants of casting powder.

“There’s no guarantee those are the killer’s.”

“Who else would be nuts enough to be out here without shoes?”

She grabbed the same branch and slid down next to him.

“You mind giving me a hand?” She extended a hand to him and he took it, allowing her to hang on while she bent down and stretched over the impression without sliding into the water.

Her hand was soft and small in his, but her grip was strong. Her jacket swung open, and he made himself look away. Jesus, she certainly didn’t look like an FBI agent.

After a few seconds she pulled herself up and immediately released his hand. Back on solid ground, she started writing in the notebook. Nick stared up at the thick, gray clouds. Suddenly, he wished he was anywhere else. The last forty-eight hours had drained him. His calf muscles ached from the 10K race he had pushed himself to run that morning. And now, here he was feeling incompetent and nauseated again, remembering Danny Alverez’s white body, those wide eyes staring up at the stars. A flock of snow geese honked as they passed overhead.

Nick caught himself wondering what had been the last thing Danny had looked up at. He hoped it had been some geese, something tranquil and familiar.

“The puncture marks and the carving in the boy’s chest were exactly like the Jeffreys murders,” he said, forcing his attention back to O’Dell. “How could anyone have that information?”

“His execution was recent. July, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Oftentimes, local news media run stories about the murders when an execution occurs. A person could get plenty of information from those accounts.”

“The good ole media,” Nick said, remembering the sting from Christine’s articles.

“Or someone could get detailed information from the court transcripts. They’re usually public record after the trial is over.”

“So you think this is a copycat killer?”

“Yes. It would be too much of a coincidence to duplicate this many details.”

“Why would anyone copycat a murder like this? For kicks?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” O’Dell told him, finally looking up from the notebook and meeting his eyes. “What I can tell you is this guy is going to do it again. And probably soon.”