B00CCYP714 EBOK (20 page)

“That’s my girl,” Rainey said. “Okay, call me if she needs bail money.”

#

Sheila waited for Rainey at the checkpoint.

“I came to tell you the search warrant request went through and Rex King is in the garage, two things I was sure would not make you happy.”

“On the contrary,” Rainey said, “Molly is handling the warrants and I’m told Rex is off my case, so there shouldn’t be any problems.”

Sheila tilted her head to one side, an expression of confusion on her face. “Are you all right? You seem very calm for someone being framed for murder.”

The colonel spoke up. “You can remain composed, when you’re trained to ignore distractions.”

“A murder charge is a hell of a distraction,” Sheila commented.

Rainey removed the Beretta from her holster, dropped the ammunition magazine, and made sure the chamber was clear, before presenting it to Sheila. “I’m calm, because there are more pressing matters. Take this, and turn it into the lab. I’m also not worried, because I’ve got nothing to hide. Let them search and test all they want. They’ll never find proof I killed Bobo, because I didn’t. Now, I’d like a look at Bladen’s vehicle and the personal items that were inside. Can you arrange that?”

“Already done,” Sheila said, nodding at the colonel. “Colonel Asher has some friends in high places. Access to whatever you need is to be given, as long as you stay away from the Jackson murder investigation.”

“I have no intention of coming anywhere near that case,” Rainey said. “Let’s go see what the forensics team found.”

“Follow me then,” Sheila said, moving to lead the way. “So, when are you letting me in on this plan?”

Rainey stepped up beside her and smiled. “I need a few more pieces of information and then I’ll tell you. Until then, as far as anyone knows, you’re just keeping an eye on me for the brass. Does that work for you?”

Sheila returned the smile. “Well, since that’s what I’m really doing, I have no problem with that at all.” Her phone began to ring. She took it out of her jacket pocket with her free hand, the other one still holding Rainey’s weapon. “It’s Dr. Wood. I told her to call me when the autopsy was complete.”

“You didn’t go yourself?” Rainey asked.

“No, I’m babysitting you,” Sheila pointed out, before she answered the call. “Thank you for calling, Dr. Wood.”

Shelia listened for a few minutes, while the colonel and Rainey waited patiently. Before she turned her back to them, the expression on Sheila’s face told Rainey the horror they saw on the surface of the body was nothing compared to what a full autopsy had revealed.

Her suspicions were confirmed when Sheila turned back. “Would you mind repeating that to Rainey? She’s here with me and I think her insights will be critical in finding out who did this.”

Rainey took the phone. “Hello, Dr. Wood.”

“Sorry to hear about your troubles, Rainey. Gossip travels fast I’m afraid. My two cents, if you did kill somebody, you would never use a weapon that could be traced back to you.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” Rainey said, slightly amused that people really thought her capable of cold-blooded murder. At least, Dr. Wood thought her intelligent enough to pull it off. That had to count for something.

“Now, about Jacqueline Upshaw—this young woman suffered immeasurably. Quite frankly, I’m very surprised she lived through what she did. Incredible, just incredible.”

“I take it the injuries were severe and many,” Rainey said, as a way to move the doctor along.

“Oh yes, too many to list on the phone. I sent the report to Detective Robertson. The cause of death was internal bleeding produced by, if I’m not mistaken and you don’t want to know how I know this, but I believe he used a Pear of Anguish, along with another instrument to rip her open internally. He used the phallus to plug her up, keeping the blood inside. Nice and tidy for him, excruciating death for her. There are indications suggesting this young woman was subjected to more than one medieval torture device.”

“Really? You recognize the injuries as caused by medieval methods? How can you be so sure?”

“I spent a summer with a team of forensic pathologists uncovering a thirteenth century mass grave from the massacre of Cathars at Beziers, France. It was an education into the handiwork of the Inquisition’s torturous methods, and a reminder that often what is done in God’s name is indeed an example of the pure evil in man. A lesson not easily forgotten.”

“How long did he keep her?”

Dr. Wood cleared her throat, as if to clear away the memory of what she had seen. “Without the test results, I can only give you an educated guess. Based on scarring and healing of injuries, I think this poor woman was tortured for three months, and was killed as recently as four weeks ago.”

“Thank you, Dr. Wood. As bad as it sounds, that’s good news for the woman he has now.”

“Oh, good Lord. He has another one? My prayers are with her.”

“She’s going to need them,” Rainey replied, silently contributing her own prayer for Bladen Asher, as well.

#

“You’re probably asking yourself by now, why me?”

Bladen jerked awake from the momentary drift into not knowing. She did not think of it as sleep, but more a respite her mind took from reality. The drift would send her far away from her torment, sometimes to a blank nothingness, other times to a warm memory. Bladen could only achieve these short intervals of relief when the music was not vibrating through her bones. The maddening drip would begin with the abrupt end to the demonic snarling of unrecognizable lyrics, and with it, her anxiety would build. It took all her mental strength to calm herself into the drift. These moments of peace were the only thing keeping Bladen from losing her mind.

Lying in her own stinging excrement, raw from the ropes digging into her skin, her muscles cramping from immobility, Bladen had drifted to the beach. Her mother was beside her on the blanket, head tossed back, a full throaty laugh filling the air, as the waves crashed to the shore nearby. The sound of his voice startled her out of the memory. Bladen had not heard him come in—but had he?

“You’re here because I saw you. I wanted you and I took you. It’s as simple as that.”

Bladen searched the darkness for movement.

“I spent my life living by other people’s rules. What I have discovered is that following the rules gets you fucked, while those who don’t follow them just take whatever they want and then some.”

Bladen listened carefully, realizing his voice came from the speaker.

“Three years ago, they took everything from me. Now, I take what I want.” He chuckled. “And I have to tell you, I wish I had started breaking the rules much sooner.”

Bladen thought she heard a whimper, but his voice drowned it out.

“So, here you are. You will be here as long as I find you useful. Give up the fight, and you become a tedious problem that I will dispense with in some macabre fashion. Trust me, your death will be as painful as you imagine, because once you give in, the only pleasure I can get from you is watching you die slowly. I will then place you in my collection and move on to the next. Rest assured there is another in line, one I’ve watched just like I watched you.”

This time Bladen was sure she heard a soft crying as he paused. She could hear him moving around on the recording, and then very clearly a woman begging, a weak, ragged whispered plea.

“Please, I want to see my baby again.”

Bladen heard the whip strike flesh, followed by the woman’s anguished screams. She flinched at the sound, producing her own moan of pain as the ropes dug in between her legs.

“That’s right, Jacquie, scream, let me hear it,” he said, as he lashed the woman repeatedly. Bladen could hear the excitement building in his voice with each skin-ripping slap of the whip. “Louder, Jacquie, louder.” His bizarre laughter combined with the woman’s shrieks of pain, filling the little room with the sound of her suffering.

Bladen closed her eyes and prayed for Jacquie’s soul, because she had now taken her place. Jacquie had finally given up at some point. At that moment, as she listened to the torturous screams echoing around the room, Bladen vowed to fight. It was not death for which she prayed now, as she had in her lowest moments. No matter the method, she would have welcomed the peace of moving into the light, as she was sure Jacquie had, but now Bladen prayed for the strength to remain alive. She had something to fight for other than herself. The longer she held out, the more likely he would be caught, keeping more women from suffering this chamber of horrors.

She thought of the man that was surely looking for her, saw him clearly in her mind, reminding her, as he had so many times before, “Never give up, Bladen.”

Over the sound of the other woman’s horrendous screams, Bladen answered him, “Hooah, Colonel!” She narrowed her eyes at the darkness, “Come get some, freak.”

#

Rainey did not tell the colonel what Dr. Wood said beyond the fact that the UNSUB kept Jacquie up to three months. He did not ask for any details. She thought he probably did not want to learn those facts in front of other people. They followed Sheila into the forensics garage bays, in time to see an evidence technician flip the visor down on a safety helmet and lean into the trunk of Rainey’s car with a lit acetylene torch.

“Whoa!” Rainey shouted. “What are you doing?”

The technician stood up to answer, flipping the visor back up. “There’s a lock box welded into the trunk.”

“I know. I put it there,” Rainey said, striding toward the technician.

Sheila was at her elbow. “This would be considered interference with the Jackson investigation.”

“No, I’m helping,” Rainey answered. She asked the man with the torch, “If you think there are weapons in that box, did it cross your mind that heating it up with a torch might not be a good idea? May I open it for you? You have plenty of witnesses to verify I only unlocked it.”

The technician stepped back from the trunk, turned off the torch, and motioned for Rainey to open the box. She leaned in, punched in the code, and moved away from the trunk. She looked at the technician.

“If you should require any further help, please call my lawyer before you damage this vehicle. I’m rather fond of it. There is no need for you to destroy my car looking for evidence that is not there, but should you do that, be prepared for the lawsuit.”

“Now that is definitely interfering,” Sheila said, handing Rainey’s weapon and clip to the stunned technician. “Log this in. It’s hers.”

Sheila took Rainey’s elbow and moved her to a Jeep parked in the next bay. The colonel was already there, standing silently, staring at his daughter’s vehicle.

Another investigative forensic technician approached Sheila, holding a file folder in his hand. “Sergeant Detective Robertson, I was told I would find you here. We rushed those test, as requested.”

“Thank you for meeting us down here, Conrad,” Sheila said, shaking his free hand.

 “No problem. So, here’s what we have so far.” Conrad opened his folder and went right to the matters at hand. “The needle cap contained midazolam and fentanyl in commonly used proportions for sedation. It induces deep sleep rapidly, and more than likely left the recipient with amnesia for the immediate events just prior to and for sometime after it was administered. Neither are common street drugs, but you can find anything if you know where to look.”

“That would explain no struggle at the scene,” Sheila commented, before Conrad moved on to the next results.

 “The paint sample is Vermillion Red, used mainly by Ford, and a very popular color. This particular formula has been used since 1990 on a number of models.”

“She said it was a truck,” Colonel Asher interjected.

Conrad nodded. “That would be consistent with the picture we found on the phone inside the vehicle.” He opened the folder, revealing a photo of the tailgate and license plate of a red pickup truck. “This was the last picture taken with the phone at 6:15 p.m., yesterday.”

The colonel grew excited. “That’s right after we hung up with her. She must have taken it before she approached her Jeep.”

 “The tailgate is from a Ford F series, eleventh generation, produced from 2004 to 2008,” Conrad explained. “Can’t be more specific than that from what we have here in this shot. These tailgates can fit on several makes and models, so I can’t guarantee anything other than the paint color. If we had the taillights in the image, that would help.” He pulled another piece of paper from the folder. “The license plate was reported stolen over a month ago from a Vermillion Red, 2005 Ford F150 crew cab. I don’t think that was a coincidence. Your criminal is smart.”

Rainey asked, “Where was the vehicle when the plate was stolen?”

The technician handed Rainey the piece of paper. “It says in the report the vehicle was parked at one of the shuttle lots at State college. Security cameras caught a dark figure, but that’s about it. No way to sharpen that image. Even so, he kept his face shielded with a hat.”

“You can get height and weight from the security feed,” the colonel suggested.

“They did,” Rainey said, reading from the report. “He’s five-ten to six-feet tall, heavy build, but hard to tell with the clothing he was wearing, an oversized hoody and baggie sweats.” Rainey looked up from the report. “He’s smaller, I guarantee it. He dressed that way to throw off the cameras. He’s too smart not to have known they were there.”

Conrad beamed when he said, “There’s something else too. I did some more digging.” He pulled another page from the folder. “This is a list of stolen plates from Vermillion Red F150 pickups, model years ranging from 2004 to 2008. They were all taken while the vehicles were parked in remote lots around the Triangle, during the last three years.”

Rainey took the paper, reading down the list of six stolen license plates. “These are all special farm issue plates. He took two per year,” she noted.

“I noticed that too,” the technician answered.

Sheila suggested, “He was keeping the tags current.”

“The good news is this scratch on the tailgate.” The technician held up the image of the truck, pointing at a long gouge in the paint. “You can visually eliminate prospective trucks fairly quickly. This scratch has been there for a while and is deep, exposing raw metal. If he were going to paint over it, he probably would have done so by now. He hasn’t had time to have it professionally repainted since yesterday, and you’ll be able to tell if he did it himself, unless he does body work for a living.”