Once Shadows Fall (11 page)

A
uniformed patrolman’s appearance in the doorway interrupted the balance of Jack and Beth’s conversation. He had just been telling her he wasn’t convinced the killer was a complete Pell imitator. The officer was holding an old-fashioned satchel similar to what carpetbaggers used to carry after the Civil War. Jack noticed the blue latex glove on his hand immediately.

The officer said, “Lieutenant, this was found at the Atlanta Historical Society. I thought I’d better bring it to you.”

It took Jack a moment to process that the man was speaking to him. The newly acquired and largely honorary rank he’d been given hadn’t sunk in yet.

“Why me?”

“It has your name on it, sir.”

Jack and Beth exchanged puzzled glances. He pushed away from his desk, donned a pair of latex gloves himself, and took the bag from the cop.

“Anything ticking inside?” Jack asked.

The cop smiled. “No, sir. The bomb squad was called out first. Sergeant Mahan gave it the once-over and said it’s clean.”

“That’s a relief. You say it was just sitting out in the open?”

“More or less. It was in a flower bed near the entrance. I checked with the staff to see if anyone saw who put it there.”

“I take it no one did.”

“No, sir. Probably placed there last night after the museum closed according to the gift shop lady. She was one of the last to leave and was sure she’d have noticed it.”

Jack read the nametag on the cop’s chest: “C. Harrison.”

“Good work, Harrison. What’s the
C
stand for?”

“Corey.”

“Have a seat, Corey. Maybe we can figure out why someone’s leaving me presents.”

Inside the satchel was a woman’s shoe, a blouse, a bolt cutter, and a bag of dirt.

Jack asked, “Is this everything?”

“Far as I know,” Harrison said. “The soil was my idea—at least partially.”

“Oh?”

“I noticed a footprint in the flower bed right near where the satchel was sitting. The dirt was a different color, so I figured maybe it belonged to whoever put it there. I scooped some out and bagged it, then taped off the area in case you wanted to see it for yourself.”

“Excellent,” Jack said. “What did you mean, it was partially your idea?”

“I attended one of your lectures a few years ago. I guess some of it stuck.”

Grabbing a metal tray off a workbench that had been brought in for him, Jack emptied the contents out, then put on a pair of magnifying goggles and used a slender probe to separate some of the particles mixed in with the sample.

“You’re right,” he said. “The color and content are clearly different. If I had to guess, I’d say this red stuff is brick dust of some sort. Maybe Ben Furman can pin it down.”

“What do bolt cutters have to do with brick dust?” Harrison asked.

“Hard to say at this point,” Jack said. He considered the question further, then turned to Beth. “Would you hand me that lock you brought back from the lake? I have an idea.”

She did and then removed the woman’s blouse from the satchel and began examining it while Jack continued what he was doing. After thirty seconds or so, he announced, “It matches.”

“What does?” Harrison asked.

“See here,” Jack said, taking off his goggles and handing them to the patrolman. He then pointed to a small nick in the blade.

“Okay,” Harrison said.

“Now look here,” Jack said, pushing the lock toward him.

“Got it,” Harrison said. “This bolt cutter snapped the lock. But why leave it for you?”

“Because he’s sending a message that he has another woman,” Jack said.

“Sick bastard,” Harrison said. “What are you—?”

“There are two messages,” Beth said, without looking up from the blouse.

Both men turned to her. She continued, “The first is obvious. He definitely wants us to know he’s snatched someone else. The second is more subtle—he’s not talking to us, Jack. He’s talking to you.”

Jack frowned but chose not to reply.

“The bag has your name on it. If you don’t find this new woman in time, he’s saying it’ll be your fault if she dies. Sick, I know, but I’d bet anything I’m right.”

Jack took a deep breath and asked Harrison, “Would you mind taking this over to Ben Furman at the crime lab? Tell him I need it analyzed ASAP.”

“Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

“Hold on,” Beth said. “Jack, take a look at this and tell me what you think?”

Jack and Harrison crossed the room to where Beth was working. She turned the collar of the blouse up and was peering at a small bit of fiber.

“I think I found one of your outliers,” Beth said.

“Maybe so,” Jack said. Taking a pair of tweezers, he removed the material and placed it in a plastic bag. He handed it to Harrison and added, “Have Ben scope this and let us know the composition.”

The officer shook hands with both of them and left the room, passing Dan Pappas on the way in with a half salute.

“What’s up?” the detective asked.

“Nothing good,” Beth said. “The killer left a package for Jack last night. He’s taken another woman.”

“Whaddya mean he left a package for Jack?”

“That uniform you just passed found a satchel with a woman’s shoe and blouse and a bolt cutter sitting in a flower bed this morning at the Historical Society. It had Jack’s name on it.”

Pappas blinked And looked at Jack, who lifted his shoulders.

“Sonofabitch,” Pappas said.

“There was also a soil sample the cop picked up,” Beth said. “We sent it over to the lab.”

When she was through filling him in on the other details, Pappas said, “I’ll make your morning complete. On the ride in, I was listening to the radio. The murders are all over the news.”

“And the hits just keep on coming,” Jack muttered.

“The talk show guy was saying the Scarecrow’s returned. Guess no one told him Pell is still locked up in Mayfield.”

“So much for keeping this under wraps,” Beth said. “Have we issued a statement?”

“Chief Ritson went on the air and said the murders are most likely the work of a deranged copycat.”

“That’s it?” Beth asked.

“No, he also said the department is being proactive and brought in Professor Jackson Kale to work with us because he’s familiar with the original case and the psychology of the criminal mind.”

Beth glanced at Jack, who didn’t appear particularly surprised. There was a wry smile on his face. She felt herself growing angry at the tactics being used. First rule of thumb—cover your ass. From the expression on Pappas’s face, she didn’t need to voice her opinion.

Pappas further informed them, “I just got back from speaking with Jerome Haffner’s neighbors.”

“Anything useful?” Beth asked.

“Not really. The guy was well liked, divorced about five years ago, and has two kids who visit every other weekend. They were all shocked, of course. I’ll be getting a search warrant for his condo later.”

“Good,” Beth said. “What about his employer? We need to speak with them.”

“Haffner worked at Lane-Custis in Atlantic Center as a financial planner. If I can convince his company to cooperate and turn over his client records, I’d like to go through them and see if anyone lost a pile of money. If that happened, could be someone was pissed at him.”

They both agreed that was a good idea.

Pappas shrugged. “We gotta start someplace. We’ve got squat so far.”

“Any criminal history on Haffner?” Beth asked.

“Clean, apart from a couple of speeding tickets.”

“Not very helpful,” Jack said.

“This might be,” Pappas said. “One lady I interviewed remembers a white van being parked across from Haffner’s place a few days before the murder. She thought it might have been a repair man.”

“Any writing on the van?”

“Not that Mrs. Abramowitz could recall. I checked with the building manager and Haffner didn’t have any maintenance work scheduled. According to their policy, he’ll let repair people in provided the owner clears it with him first.”

“That’s the second time we have a white van,” Jack said.

“Third. Stafford and Mundas spoke with Sandra Goldner’s brother, who shared a house with her. He definitely remembers seeing one two days before Sandra went missing. That makes three people in Jordan.”

“All right,” Jack said, “let’s review what we know about the killer.”

“He wears a size twelve shoe, so he’s probably tall,” Beth said.

“Possibly,” Jack said. “Shoe size doesn’t always correlate to height.”

“The fucker’s smart,” Pappas said. “He plans things out.”

“Agreed,” Jack said. “So are we.”

“If that hair we found on Betsy Anne’s clothes belongs to him, he’s Caucasian,” Beth said.

Jack looked at Pappas, who nodded his agreement. He walked over to the board and added the note.

“Anyone think he knows computers?” Pappas asked.

“Why?” Beth asked.

“He had to open those flood gates to stash Sandra inside,” Pappas said.

Jack informed him, “According to the Army, yesterday was the second of two water releases this week. They post the schedule on the Internet.”

“Brilliant,” Pappas said.

“Could he have entered the chamber after the inner gate holding the river back had shut?” Jack asked. “The outer door would still be open to allow for drainage.”

“Maybe,” Pappas said. “There’s a gap of about two minutes.”

“That might be enough time,” Beth said.

“Let’s say that’s a possibility,” Jack said, adding another note to the whiteboard. When he was done, he picked up the phone and called Ben Furman at the crime lab.

“Ben? Jack Kale here. Looks like we have a fourth kidnapping. I just sent you a satchel and some other evidence to look at.”

“Got it. I was just about to get started.”

“I’ll be over in a few minutes,” Jack said and disconnected.

He asked Beth, “Want to see what Ben comes up with? Or are you still on your way to interview Pell?”

Beth checked her watch. “I’m running late now. Call me if you find anything interesting.”

T
wo exits past Jordan, Beth pulled off the highway and followed the signs to the Mayfield State Mental Health Institute, a distance of two miles from the town. It was just starting to rain. Within minutes, the pleasant spring shower turned into a full-blown downpour with large, heavy drops the windshield wipers were having a hard time staying ahead of. The sky continued to grow ominous, split by flashes of lightning. Thanks to the local weather forecaster, who promised the day would be a “nine” on his Channel Eleven Weather Meter, she hadn’t bothered with a raincoat that morning.

Mayfield’s innocuous name belied its appearance. The cream-colored building, consisting of three floors, was a tribute to government design: utterly without character or charm. Around the perimeter of the property was a fence topped by interlooping coils of razor wire, which did nothing to soften the atmosphere. The place seemed to press down on you almost as soon as you entered the grounds. All the windows had bars.

At the front gate, a guard in a yellow rain slicker informed Beth the director wanted to speak with her before she saw Howard Pell.

“No problem,” she said, deciding it was better not to rock the boat.

“I’ll let him know you’re here. Is this about those people who were murdered over the weekend?”

“We don’t know yet,” Beth said. “I’m still in the fact-gathering stage.”

“Good luck,” the guard told her.

A moment later, the security gate rumbled to life, crawling sideways on rollers across the cement drive. Beth parked directly in front of the main entrance and went in.

*

The Soul Eater added the last brick to the course he was working, tapping it into place with the handle of a trowel. In a few hours, the alcove would be completely sealed. To his left were a similar series of arches that had been bricked up.

No one had been in this part of the city for years. Beneath the streets and out of sight, Atlanta had simply grown over the crumbling old neighborhood. Even the railroad spur that once served the building he was in had been abandoned, broken apart by union soldiers as the city burned more than a hundred and sixty years ago.

The Soul Eater closed his eyes and let his mind drift to the account of the fire he’d read and reread. He could practically hear the shouts and cries as flames consumed everything in their path. He imagined the searing heat. What a spectacle it must have been. He picked up another brick.

*

Inside the alcove, Donna Camp had been awake for nearly fifteen minutes watching her captor with mounting horror as she realized what was happening. Her blouse and one shoe were missing, but that, thank God, was all. She could tell she hadn’t been raped. Near him lay a roll of white linen cloth about eight inches wide.

Sealing me in. He’s sealing me in
.

The brick wall he was building was nearly three feet high. Very carefully, she moved her legs and confirmed the rope had been cut. She could vaguely remember being led into the dungeon, but it was like trying to recall a dream. She tested her arms and discovered her wrists were still bound. Two wide metal dishes held aloft by a tripod were positioned at either side of the opening, giving the room a templelike appearance.

As the effects of the drug she’d been given began to wear off, her mind turned to thoughts of escape. In the corner was her purse with the pepper spray. If she could just get her hands free.

Unfortunately, she had no idea where she was. Someplace dark and musty. Nor did she know why this madman had taken her. Donna’s thoughts shifted to her children, strengthening her resolve to free herself. Little by little, she rotated her wrists, testing the bonds, first one way, and then the other. Yes, there was a little play in the rope. Nearly an hour went by before she worked a hand free.

The Soul Eater started on the next row of bricks.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she said, drawing herself into a sitting position.

The bearded man stopped and looked curiously at her. He didn’t reply. It was as if he was looking at a bug.

“My husband was a contractor,” Donna said. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

“Sufficient for my purpose.”

“That’s what all the losers say before the wall collapses.”

The Soul Eater frowned and considered the bricks. It was more work than he thought. Still, any job worth doing was worth doing well. Who said that? Franklin? Probably.

“Why are you doing this?” Donna said.

The man gave no indication he heard her. He simply went back to building the wall.

“I don’t have any money,” she said. “Nobody in my family does, if you’re hoping for a ransom.”

“Pity.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“A little quiet would be appreciated,” he said, tapping another brick into place.

“I get it,” Donna said, drawing out the words. “You’re one of those guys who’re mad at women. Didn’t your mommy breastfeed you? No? Wife left you? C’mon, you can tell me.”

The Soul Eater took some mortar off the pallet he was holding and added it to the wall.

“Cat got your tongue?” Donna asked.

Unfazed, he continued his work until her laughter stopped him again.

“It’s really not wise to make me mad,” he said. “Not wise at all.”

“You don’t frighten me,” Donna said.

“I should,” he answered quietly.

The truth was he did scare Donna. Quite a lot. But she could see from the little tick that had started under his right eye that her comments were getting to him. What she was attempting was dangerous. For all she knew, he might change his mind and kill her on the spot.

“Now I understand,” she said. “That wall’s the only thing you can get up. There are medicines for that, you know.”

The Soul Eater glanced at her. He took the next brick, jammed it into place, and kept working.

Donna continued with the only weapon she had. “It’s pretty obvious. You couldn’t do it with me, so you erect something as a substitute. We learned that in psychology.”

The last comment did it. Donna watched him toss the trowel down and grab a roll of duct tape lying on the floor. He started for her.

As soon as he bent down to put the tape over her mouth, Donna threw the dirt she’d been holding into his face and lashed out with her foot, catching him squarely in the jaw. With her captor temporarily disabled, she dashed across the room for her purse and the pepper spray.

*

Pain exploded across the killer’s face as he fought to clear his vision. He was in agony and could barely see. He stumbled across the room to a water bottle he’d brought with him and splashed it in his eyes. It felt like there was gravel in them. When his vision began to clear, he saw that Donna was gone. He kept still and listened. Outside, he could hear her scrambling over the rubble in the dim building. A smile slowly appeared on his face. She was going the wrong way.

With a sigh, the Soul Eater bent down and picked up his trowel and went to find her.