Body Count (18 page)

“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.

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. Espe
cially 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 Sally
Anne 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.”