Lethal Confessions (3 page)

She didn’t answer Poole’s accusation, because that part was true, too.

“I bet you could use a drink of water,” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, water, please,” she managed. “My throat is shot.” She decided to take a risk. “And do you think maybe you could take off this collar? I can’t go anywhere, and it really hurts.”

In truth, everything hurt, her jaw more than anything right now.

Poole unscrewed the cap from the Dasani bottle. “Poor little Carrie. Carrie’s not used to hurting. Carrie’s used to having everything her own way, isn’t she?” He spoke as if she were a little child.

She stared at him. What the hell was he talking about? Her life was shit. It had always been shit. “I…I don’t know what you mean.”

“If you want water, then open your mouth,” he said. He put his left hand into his pocket.

Carrie licked her parched lips and parted them a fraction of an inch, waiting for him to place the bottle against them.

“Open your mouth wide, goddamn it!”

His shout made her jerk her head and instinctively clamp her jaw shut.

Poole grabbed her jaw with his fingers and brutally pried her mouth open. His fingers were thick and hard and she tried to bite down but he’d jammed something in between her teeth. It felt huge and hard and round, and tasted like rubber—dirty rubber. She gagged and tried to spit the disgusting lump out, but his strong fingers held it in place easily. She tried to scream, but the shrieks died in her throat.

Her heart pounded so hard it made her sick. All she could do was jerk uselessly and stare in horror as he grabbed the Dasani and tipped it upside down over her mouth. A cascade of water poured around the lump—which had to be some kind of ball—washing over her palate and sluicing uncontrolled into her throat and airway.

Her body convulsed as she choked. She gagged over and over, her lungs on fire. Water poured down her cheeks, her chin, everywhere. Her mind screamed in agony.

He’s drowning me!

Suddenly, the water stopped, and Poole yanked the ball out. Carrie turned her head to the side and spat and gasped for air, thrashing her arms and legs in spite of the cruel bite of the rough leather.

Poole quickly unbuckled the collar and lifted up her head. Just a few inches off the bed, but it was enough. She spat and coughed and sucked in gasps of air for what seemed like an eternity before finally letting her head collapse back onto the mattress. Exhausted, her entire body burned with pain.

After a few seconds, Carrie blinked, cleared her eyes, and stared into his bland features. Her teeth started to chatter as it sank in. Poole didn’t just mean to kill her. God help her, but he was going to torture her first.

But why? Was he punishing her for cheating on Matt? Why the hell would he even care?

Her throat ached, but she had to speak. “Listen,” she croaked, “if you really knew Matt, you’d know he wouldn’t want you to do this to me.”

He nodded as he buckled her collar back up. “You’re probably right, whore. But, then again, he doesn’t know what’s good for him, does he? Otherwise, he sure as hell wouldn’t have married a life-sucking bitch like you.”

She sobbed. He had it so wrong. “Please don’t kill me. You say you care about Matt, but killing me will destroy him.”

Poole shook his head dismissively. “No, it won’t. He’ll get over it a lot quicker than you think, and then he’ll be damn glad. Look at him now, for Christ’s sake! He’s a total mess, thanks to you. But that’s going to change. By the end of the season, he’ll be a new man. So, you’re right, I’m going to kill you tonight. The only remaining question is how.” He stuck the tip of his index finger against her forehead, his lips stretching into a horrible, flat smile. “And that’s up to you, Carrie. We have some options, and you get to make the call.”

Carrie’s brain collapsed in on itself, spinning into a bottomless well of fear. But her body sucked in a gasp and her arms pulled hard on the straps, her torso rigid with a desperate surge of strength. Then she screamed again. Screamed to the uncaring world outside her chamber of death.

Hear me! God, somebody—please hear me!
“What do you want me to do?” she shrieked. “What do you want me to say?”

“We need to talk about your husband,” he said, turning his back to her.

“I know you think I’m a bitch,” she sputtered. “But I do love Matt. Things haven’t been perfect, but...” She let the words trail off.

Poole grasped the metal case from the top of the dresser, then faced her again. When he dropped the case onto her stomach, she gasped, and her belly stiffened at the touch of the frigid metal. He must have kept it in the fridge.

“A bit cold, isn’t it?” He slid the case up through the gap between her breasts, and rested it just below her chin. Then he opened the lid and tilted it enough for her to see inside.

“Oh, Jesus!” she wailed.

The case had two compartments. One side contained a syringe. Not the skinny little ones diabetics use. No, this was big, with a long needle. On the other side, Poole had wedged three small vials amid wads of cotton pads.

“I can be reasonable, Carrie,” he said in a solemn voice as he extracted one of the vials. “I don’t mind giving you an easy death. If you earn it, that is.”

It’s all about time. Stall him. Do anything to stop him from sticking me with that needle.
“What can I do?” she finally choked out. “Please tell me. Can we talk about it?”

Slowly and deliberately, Poole uncapped one the syringes, inverted one of the vials, and stuck the needle in. The clear liquid quickly filled the syringe, and he returned the vial to its case.

“It’s time to confess, Carrie. That’s what we’re here for.” He gave her an eerie smile that scared her almost as much as the needle.

“Confess what?” she gasped. “That I cheated on Matt?”

“Yes, but not just that. I want everything—everything you’ve done to Matt since the day you married him. I can’t absolve you of your sins, but I need to hear about all of them.” He brought the syringe so close to her eye that she thought for a moment he was going to inject her there. She closed her eyes and screamed again.

When she opened them, he was standing straight again, intently flicking air bubbles from the needle. “Forgiveness. They say it’s divine, don’t they? Well, Carrie, you’ll have to hope God forgives you. Though I don’t see how he’s going to look too kindly on one of Satan’s whores.”

He pointed at the metal case. “Like I said, I can’t forgive you, but I can make your passage to eternity easier. Those vials contain the same stuff that they use to knock off the poor bastards on death row. They call it a drug cocktail, but it’s no fucking Long Island Iced Tea, I can tell you that.”

Carrie moaned as Poole laughed at his own sick joke. Then he pushed the plunger down and a few droplets of cold liquid dripped onto her stomach, making her stiffen.

“Here’s the thing, Carrie. You can see that the more I do that, the less juice there is in the syringe. And that means it’s going to get bad for you a little later. Real bad. Believe me, this stuff is what you want in your veins right about now. And as much as you can get.”

It must be a sedative
. Carrie almost wished he’d just shut up and inject her with so much that she’d go to sleep and die. Almost. But she wasn’t ready to give up yet. She had to keep him talking.

“What…what is it? A sedative? Is that how you’re going to kill me?” She didn’t want to know, but would talk about anything to drag out the time.

He pursed his lips as he inspected the syringe. “This one’s a sedative. Those other two, though—they’re bad shit. Really bad shit. If I keep squirting this nice stuff out, so you only end up getting a tiny little bit, I’m afraid you’re going to still be wide awake for the other two shots. That means you’re going to see and feel everything, Carrie. Everything. You’ll be paralyzed by the second needle, your lungs slowly shutting down as you asphyxiate.”

Carrie gasped and clenched her fists so tightly that her nails scored her palms. She wanted to scream, but the horror choked her.

Poole gave her a solemn nod. “You get the picture. That would suck, wouldn’t it? But hold on, it gets worse. A few seconds after I give you the second shot—and by that time your mind will already be begging for death—I’ll inject the last drug. That one’s the real deal. The coup de grace—I think that’s what they call it. Can you imagine what it would be like to have something like lye or drain cleaner coursing through every vein in your body? They say that’s what it feels like if you get a shot of vial number three while you’re still conscious. You feel like every vein in your body is on fire. The stuff rips through you like that until it hits your heart and switches off the lights for good.”

He nodded, as if he’d handed down some divine truth. “Your choice, Carrie. And you’ve got ten more seconds to make it. I’m on a schedule.”

He squirted a tiny bit more onto her skin.

Her body gave a violent shudder, and any last vestige of fight drained away. Time had run out. She didn’t want to die in agony. She would say anything—whatever he wanted.

“Stop!” she cried. “I’ll confess. I’ll tell you everything. Whatever you want to know.”

He smiled at her, looking almost kind, and the dam broke. She emptied it all out, choking on two and a half years of a miserable, frustrating marriage. Yes, she’d been a bitch, lonely and angry to be stuck in small towns, thousands of miles from home, while Matt frittered away their future. She confessed her infidelity but, terrified of more pain, she swallowed all mention of Matt’s numerous affairs. The injustice of it scorched her like a river of fire, but it was too late now. Too late for anything but death.

Like some demented therapist, Poole stood quietly by, nodding solemnly as she poured out her sorry, sordid life. By the time she finished, she was exhausted beyond all comprehension, barely able to utter a resigned moan.

“Good girl, Carrie,” Poole said in a soothing voice. “You’ve said enough. You can go to your sweet sleep now.”

He carefully refilled the syringe he’d half-emptied, and it almost made her smile.

Thursday, July 29

8:20 a.m.

“Robitaille, Poushinsky. My office. Now!”

Captain Cramer’s voice boomed across the Homicide Floor, breaking over Amy like a rogue wave. She jumped up and fought to gather her scattered thoughts. Staring at the computer screen for the past five minutes, she hadn’t a clue what she was reading. Her mind had drifted yet again to yesterday’s encounter with Luke Beckett. She prided herself on never becoming flustered, but Beckett had made her feel more like a schoolgirl with a crush than a rational adult.

That annoyed the hell out of her, and was likely the reason she couldn’t forget the encounter.

Depositing her second super-sized latté of the day on her desk, she crossed the Floor and veered down the hall toward the commander’s office. Captain Cramer held the door open as she slid by his six-three frame. Quite a specimen, their new captain—something the women in her unit had all noted since he’d taken the top dog’s chair two months ago. Not that anyone would act on it. Cramer was their boss.

Sergeant Will Knight, her squad supervisor, sat in front of the desk, gloomy as always that early in the morning.

Amy settled into a vacant chair. What had she done wrong now? She was rarely summoned to the office of the commander of the Violent Crimes Division, and Cramer looked ready to eat scrap iron for breakfast.

“Where the hell’s Pushy?” her boss snapped, still holding the door as if he expected Alex Poushinsky to be right on her heels.

“Not in yet, sir. He told me yesterday he might be a little late getting in this morning. A family responsibility. Something to do with his niece, I think.”

“Well, goddamn it, it’s already eight-twenty. We’re not waiting for him to show up. You better find his ass as soon as you’re out of here and brief him. Take a seat.”

Amy plastered on her most serious face as she plucked a stray thread from the sleeve of her blazer. Cramer was a stickler for appearances, as anyone could tell by one look at his tailored, dark blue suit, pale blue shirt, and natty foulard tie. Was that shade really periwinkle?

Periwinkle,
calice
.

She hastily swallowed an impulse to laugh, then nodded a greeting to Knight. He returned the nod without a smile.

Not good
.

Cramer launched into it before he even sat down. “A jogger found a young woman’s body on the south side of Okeeheelee Park about an hour ago. At the edge of the water, not too far from the horse stables. Blond hair, blue eyes, tall, tanned and fit, around twenty-five years old. Wedding and engagement rings on her finger.” He gave his tie a small yank and sat down. “Deputies and CSU are securing the scene.”

Why would he call me in here to tell me that?
“Was there evidence of rape, sir?” Amy ventured as Cramer paused to take a hit of his coffee.

“She was naked, but there were no obvious signs of sexual trauma. She’d been bound, exhibiting ligature marks on her neck, wrists, and ankles. She’d been posed, too—on her back, legs straight and tight together, her arms folded across her chest. The word
OUT
was carved into her stomach.” He flicked a glance at Knight, then focused on her. “Ring any bells, Robitaille?”

She went blank for a second before her pulse kicked into overdrive. “
Tabarnak,
” she muttered. It was her favorite and most high-powered curse.

Cramer scowled at her. “What?”

Amy pulled it together. “Yes, sir. The abduction and murder in Polk County last month. The one where the murderer used lethal injection drugs.”

Cramer nodded.

“And in that case there was evidence of torture,” she continued. “I mean beyond the post-mortem carving. Her face was slashed. But, still, it’s probably the same killer.”

“I’m betting the autopsy will show the same drug combination, too,” Cramer said. “Looks like we’ve got a fucking serial killer on our hands, people.”

Amy’s heart pounded so hard she had to fight for breath, all the while trying to appear calm so Cramer and Knight wouldn’t think she’d lost her mind.
Please God, let them give me this case
. They had to be considering it. Why else would they have summoned her?