Once Shadows Fall (26 page)

T
he last thing Beth wanted was to be alone with her thoughts. Too many scenarios were competing for her attention. It was clear: her duty as a police officer was to report the crime. Concealing it would only compound the problem. Considering her involvement with him, any pretense at objectivity was out the window. The situation was making her ill. Was it something that could be handled discretely? Certainly the consequences surrounding a disclosure would be dire. No question about that. She knew the department was good at protecting their own, but Jack was an outsider. They’d throw him to the dogs in a heartbeat. This was a disaster in the making.

At a little past midnight, Beth found herself back at the North Precinct. The night shift was never very crowded, something she was grateful for at that moment. If anyone thought her appearance was unusual, they didn’t mention it.

The file room was located in the basement. Beth hated the place. It smelled musty and generally gave her the creeps. Its lone saving grace was a civilian clerk the department employed to handle requests. At least she wouldn’t be alone.

Evening Watch Supervisor Belinda Washington put down the crossword puzzle she was working on as Beth approached her desk. She eyed her without enthusiasm and didn’t get up.

“Good evening,” Beth said.

“Evenin’,” Belinda replied.

“I need to see a file.”

“That’s generally why y’all come down here.”

“It’s about seven years old.”

“You kiddin’ me?”

“I’m not.”

“Most files that old are downtown at the archives.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Beth said.

“We? Ain’t no we about it, honey. I’ll be the only one gettin’ dusty huntin’ it.”

“I’d really appreciate your help,” Beth said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Please,” Beth added, remembering her father’s advice to be nice to the clerks. They run the world.

Belinda sighed and asked for the file name.

“Constance Belasco. Her homicide occurred at the Prado.”

“You need to fill out a request form,” Belinda said, pointing to a stack of five-by-seven cards on the counter. “If you want somethin’ outta property, use the green one on the right and take it to the second floor.”

“Thank you,” Beth said. “The file will be just fine.”

Belinda finally concluded that Beth wasn’t going away. She tossed her pencil onto the crossword puzzle. She heaved herself out of the chair, frowned at the form Beth had completed, and then took it without comment and wandered off down the hallway at slightly better than a glacial pace.

After waiting for ten minutes, Beth was about to climb over the counter and go looking for her when Belinda reappeared carrying a brown folder. Beth thanked her again and wished her a good night. Belinda waved and went back to her crossword puzzle.

At her desk, Beth turned to the initial investigative report, put together by a senior detective named Patrick Canfield. As she started to read, there were no surprises. The narrative tracked closely with Jack’s version. Next up was the medical examiner’s report, which recounted the obvious facts of Connie Belasco’s injuries. Her blood loss. The extensive damage to her face. Her limbs. It was a chilling account.

She’d read a number of medical reports and was surprised at the number of adjectives used to describe Belasco’s injuries. Clearly, the doctor writing it was deeply affected by what he had seen. Repulsed might have been a better word. Phrases like “amateurish hacking” and “callous use of tourniquets at improper tension levels” jumped out at her. Her eye eventually came to rest on “horrific facial injuries resulting from the gross removal of all three epidural layers.”

Though prepared for it, Beth’s stomach did a flip.

The report went on to say, “After torturing the victim, the assailant put a 9 mm bullet in her head at close range, an act largely unnecessary
since the outcome of Detective Belasco’s death was by then a foregone conclusion.”

She let her breath out slowly. What Jack did was wrong, but given the circumstances, it might have been considered a mercy. Beth turned the last page of the narrative and sat there for a moment deciding whether to go on. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to handle the crime scene photos. No choice. She took a deep breath and turned them over. After the third one, she stopped, went to the ladies’ room, and threw up.

The decision about what to do came as she was walking back to her desk. Her mind was quiet. There would be no report to the bosses. Jack would not turn himself in. Howard Pell had claimed enough victims. Ruining Jack’s life would only add to that total. The past needed to stay buried. In the morning, she’d let him know. At the moment, she was exhausted. No, it couldn’t wait.

They still had a job to do. Time to go on.

Beth picked up the phone.

J
ack’s phone rang four times and went to voice mail. Beth left a message then tried his cell phone with the same results. She was careful not to say anything damaging.

When she disconnected, it felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Other than in the obvious way, she wasn’t sure how repression worked, but if it helped Jack deal with the trauma, it couldn’t be a bad thing. If he’d discovered what set his panic attacks off, they’d deal with that, too. Beth placed the file in her desk and locked it. On the way out, she ran into Mickey Barnes, a detective she knew.

“Late night, Sturgis?”

“Just some cleanup work.”

“I heard about your big adventure today,” he said. Barnes glanced at the wall clock, saw it was nearly one o’clock in the morning, and then added, “Guess it was yesterday. Tell Kale not to sweat it. There’ll be a few jokes, but that’s how cops are.” He looked up at the ceiling. “The DC, I don’t know. I’m not sure the guy has a sense of humor. Bottom line—solid call.”

“Thanks, Mickey. I’ll tell him.”

“Heading home?”

“Yep. I’m beat.”

“New day tomorrow. We never close.”

Beth smiled and patted him on the arm. “Can’t wait.”

*

The streets were silent. Inert. Waiting for the sun. As she drove, the faces of Betsy Ann Tinsley, Sarah Goldner, and Jerome Haffner came to her.
Beth spoke their names aloud. It was a tradition with the RHD detectives. No one disappears without someone to speak for them.

After studying the employee list and the videos Dr. Raymond had left for her, she thought she could prove Pell’s involvement now. Nailing him as an accessory to felony murder would be the icing on the cake. Of course, he would fall back on his insanity defense. That was for the courts to decide. She’d do everything in her power to disprove it. The bastard deserved a one-way ticket to the needle. When that happened, the world would celebrate one less monster.

New thoughts pushed out the old ones. Thoughts of what her future could be like with Professor Jackson Kale. Jumping the gun? Maybe. Was her house large enough for two? What if there were more? Jack’s home was bigger, and children deserved a yard to play in. Did he even want more children? They’d known each other, what? Two weeks? Didn’t matter. When you know, you know. They’d tackle those subjects one at a time. Life was looking up. Beth smiled.

She was still reviewing the possibilities as she rolled up to her garage. She pressed the remote-entry fob, pulled in, and shut off the engine. Beth entered through the hallway door and looked around. Peeka wasn’t there to greet her. Normally, he’d come charging around the corner, then rub up against her legs. Easy way to score a treat. Beth called his name and listened. No meows. No sound of little claws racing across the den. For no reason she could point to, she grew concerned.

That stupid file probably spooked me
.

The house had a different feel to it. She walked into the kitchen and then the dining room. Everything seemed normal. But no cat. Something was wrong.

Beth slowly removed the gun from her handbag and went into the living room. At first her eyes refused to accept what she was seeing. She gasped.

Peeka was lying in the middle of the rug in a small pool of blood. His head had been caved in.

She sensed rather than heard the movement behind her. Swinging around, Beth brought her weapon to bear. The killer’s first blow struck her arm, knocking her gun to the ground. She screamed and instinctively threw up her other arm to protect herself. The second blow shattered her collarbone. The third grazed the side of her head. The blow was deflected but was hard enough to send her crashing backward. Beth lost her balance and fell hard. Waves of pain shot through her body.
Survival instincts took over as she scrambled away, trying to put some distance between them.

A pair of unblinking, gray eyes behind a ski mask regarded her. Desperate, Beth searched for a weapon. It was no use. Her arms weren’t working properly. If she could only get to her feet, she might be able to fight him or reach the panic button on her burglar alarm. The furniture was beginning to swim. Beth struggled to her knees and collapsed. As she fell, some part of her brain registered the light on her fountain was out.

I’ll get a new bulb tomorrow
.

The killer advanced on her, holding a crowbar in his left hand, gently slapping it against his right.

Maybe another fountain to balance the garden
.

*

A tick had started under the Soul Eater’s left eye. It took an effort to compose himself. He stood there until his breathing returned to normal. He felt buoyant. What he had planned so meticulously was finally coming together.

Clever Jack was next on the agenda.

J
ack heard Beth’s voice mail and called her back immediately. It was a noncommittal message, and he desperately wanted to speak with her. It had been two days now, and she hadn’t returned his call. The fact that she hadn’t spoke volumes. He didn’t blame her. Some things were simply too hard to accept. Gradually, the realization that she wasn’t going to call took hold. Dejected and depressed, he withdrew into himself. He sat on his patio looking out at the live oaks. The others could take it from there. A bottle of Jack Daniels and a half-filled glass were on the table next to him. The day was overcast with the promise of rain yet to be delivered. In the west, the clouds were alive with flashes of electricity. He picked up the glass, raised it to his lips, hesitated, and put it back down again. It was the third time in the last hour he had done so. Marta lay close by in the grass watching him, a yellow tennis ball next to her. Every so often she’d nudge it in his direction. Canine psychology.

Leaning back in his chair, he shut his eyes and speculated whether what he had done made him a sociopath. Probably. The definition was broad enough. Regardless of the label, one thing was certain: he was unfit to be around other human beings. The previous evening, Morris Shottner had called. They talked for an hour about the old nature/nurture question. He leaned toward nurture. The former might give you a push, but nothing was written in stone. Eventually, he opened his eyes and stared at the amber liquid in his glass. Droplets of water had formed along the outside. Once again, he pushed it away. The gesture was symbolic and ultimately meaningless.

Marta abruptly sat upright, her ears erect. A moment later, the doorbell rang. Whatever hopes he had that it was Beth were quickly dispelled when he saw Dan Pappas’s car in his driveway. Sometime later, he would recall their meeting as akin to a tremolo running through the
floor, the kind you might feel on the deck of a ship a moment before it hits an iceberg. In all likelihood, Beth had told him about their conversation and didn’t want to be there when he was arrested. The moment he opened the door and saw the expression on Pappas’s face, a cold vapor wrapped itself around his heart.

“What is it?” Jack said. He expected the detective to ask why he’d been away from the investigation for two days, but he didn’t.

Pappas took a breath and said, “About an hour ago, dispatch took a call from one of Beth’s neighbors. She was out for a walk and looked in Beth’s living room. The cat’s lying there in a pool of blood. Someone bashed its head in.”

“Jesus,” Jack said. “What about Beth?”

“I’ve tried calling her cell and landline and can’t raise her. Two uniforms responded and went through the house. According to them, there’s blood all over the place. I’m on my way. So’s Ben Furman. Thought you’d want to come, too.”

Jack felt like he’d been hit in the stomach. He leaned against the doorjamb to steady himself, his face ashen. He tried Beth’s cell phone again. It went straight to voice mail.

*

They were in Pappas’s car. Since he hadn’t arrested him or mentioned the conversation, he assumed the detective was still in the dark. Maybe she needed some time alone to process what they talked about. But even if that were true, it didn’t explain the blood and her dead cat.

“We’re supposed to be available twenty-four-seven,” Pappas said. “Except for one guy, no one’s seen her since that, uh . . . confusion over on Tenth Street. She’s not on the board this weekend and isn’t due in ’til Monday. Mickey Barnes was the last man she talked to.”

“And he is?”

“A detective who works out of the North Precinct. Apparently, she stopped by records late Friday night and pulled the file on your partner. Any idea why?”

“Not really. I guess she was curious,” Jack lied.

Pappas let several seconds pass before he spoke. “Between you and me, maybe it was a little premature, but hey, what was the alternative?”

Jack started to reply, but the detective held up his hand stopping him.

“Look, this ain’t the time or place to discuss it. Shit happens. Sometimes things go south. Right now we focus on finding Beth. I gotta tell you, there’s a knot in my stomach the size of a grapefruit.”

“You’re not alone,” Jack said. “Maybe there’s a simple explanation.”

“That what you think?”

“No,” Jack said.

Pappas slowed at an intersection, then ran the red light, drawing an angry beep from a motorist he had just cut off. They each raised their middle finger to the other. He informed Jack, “Childers and Spruell are meeting us at the house. I know Spruell smarted off to you the other day, but I think he’ll be all right. Sometimes Jimmy’s mouth gets going before his brain’s in gear. They’re both solid cops, particularly Dave Childers. Spruell comes from old Atlanta money and can be a little flaky at times, as you probably know. He’s okay. It’s just that his mouth gets going before his brain’s in gear every now and then.”

Jack nodded but said nothing.

“According to the lieutenant, they drew the case, which means they’ll treat it like Beth’s missing in action, but if the blood turns out to be hers, they’ll obviously upgrade to probable homicide.”

Jack felt the bile rise in his throat. Everything was coming at him faster than he could process. His head was spinning. Dan Pappas’s voice sounded like it was in a tunnel. He was talking, but the words weren’t registering.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “What did you say?”

“I was saying that, for obvious reasons, after today, neither of us can go near the case, at least as it relates to Beth. I’m her partner and technically you’re a task force supervisor. You get my meaning?”

“So what do we do? Try to find the killer and pretend Beth wasn’t kidnapped or murdered?”

“We have a conflict of interest, and there’s a department rule on it. Kinda hard to be objective under the circumstances or keep from blowing the bastard away if he hurt her. Much as I hate to admit it, it makes sense.”

“So what am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

“You get first crack at the scene. Childers and Spruell will be fine as long as you agree to share. We both know you see things.”

“Right,” Jack said.

“There’s bound to be overlap between the killer and Beth. We just have to tread lightly in some areas,” Pappas said.

Jack said nothing.

Pappas continued, “Ben Furman’s probably there already. He’s holding off ’til you arrive.”

“That’s fine,” Jack said. He wanted to talk more about the overlap but thought it best to let the matter rest. What he needed was time to clear his head and focus.

Pappas continued, “Look, if she’s dead, he’da left the body, right? I mean, there’s no sense in taking it.”

“No sense,” Jack said.

Pappas was probably correct, but he had a feeling from the detective’s nervous speech that he was trying hard to convince himself she was okay. The alternative was just too horrible to contemplate.

“I’m thinking we’ll probably receive more of those fucked up clues the killer likes to leave,” Pappas said. “Then you can work your magic on them.”

My magic
, Jack thought morosely. His hands were shaking with worry, and it was difficult to keep a coherent train of thought going.

Three police cruisers, two unmarked vehicles, and the crime scene van were parked in Beth’s driveway and in front of her house. Penny Fancher had arrived in her personal vehicle and was leaning against its front fender smoking a cigarette. In the time since he had left his house, the weather had undergone an audible change. The wind was up, bending the caladiums and flowers along Beth’s walkway to the side. In the little park at the center of the subdivision, it was blowing leaves off the tree branches and scattering them through the air to the ground. They soared upward like green butterflies as if blown by a vacuum.

Penny Fancher shook Jack’s hand. Childers and Spruell nodded to him.

Fancher informed him, “Furman’s waiting for you inside.” She handed him a pair of blue paper covers to put over his shoes.

Childers advised him, “The two uniforms who responded to the call are going door to door canvassing the neighborhood. So far no one’s seen anything.”

Jack told him, “There’s a security camera by the gates as you drive in.”

“I saw it. As soon as we find the property manager or whoever’s in charge, I’ll have the tape pulled. We’ll go in once you’re finished.”

“That’s fine,” Jack said. He glanced at Spruell, who didn’t seem to be paying attention to the conversation—basically ignoring him.

Childers added unnecessarily, “If Detective Sturgis is still alive, we’re gonna get her back. You can count on it.”

“I know you’ll do your best,” Jack said.

Childers looked at his partner to see if he had anything to add. It appeared he didn’t.

“All right, good luck inside. Let us know what you come up with.”

Jack found Ben Furman sitting at the dining room table in the same chair he had occupied when he and Beth dined together. Everything
looked the same, but it wasn’t. Furman’s presence and that of the others was an incongruity. They didn’t belong in her home. The thought was irrational and he knew it. They were there to help. Any cop would be. Jack motioned for Furman to follow him. Together they headed for the living room.

The description Pappas had relayed from the officers was inaccurate. There was blood, but it wasn’t everywhere. In fact it was concentrated mostly in front of the couch and in the hallway leading to Beth’s garage.

The blood around the cat’s head was obvious. It was darker in color than the spatters on the floor and walls, indicating it had been there longer. Jack looked at Peeka and shook his head sadly. Killing a harmless animal was an act of unspeakable cruelty.

In the corner of the room lay Beth’s service piece, a 9 mm Browning. He picked it up and sniffed the barrel. There was no smell of gunpowder. He then checked the clip. All the bullets were present, including one in the chamber. Jack handed it to Furman to bag.

A short distance away lay Beth’s cell phone. The battery was still good. Jack showed it to Furman and dropped it into his pocket.

“I’ll give it back in a minute. I want to look at the call register first.”

Furman nodded.

With arms folded across his chest, Jack stood in the entrance absorbing the room’s details. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ben Furman point to the outline of what looked to be a man’s shoeprint. Jack gave him a thumbs up without taking his eyes off the room and continued to study it. In all his years with the FBI, he never devoted more attention to any task.

An unspoken faith exists among criminal investigators that a crime scene will give up its clues. When Jack was satisfied he had gotten all he could, he mentally divided the room into a grid and began to walk it. No question the attack had taken place here. None at all. Most of what he assumed was Beth’s blood was at the corner of the couch. He noted that the additional spatters on both sides of the wall by the entrance were at different heights and angles and discounted them as more of the killer’s staged clues. Ben Furman’s expression indicated he’d reached the same conclusion.

Fifteen minutes passed before either man spoke again. Outside, the light in Beth’s garden was tea colored as one or two rays of sun tried to break through the clouds. The result was short-lived, because the sky closed up again. If anything the wind was stronger than before. With
painstaking effort, they went through the rooms one by one, learning nothing of value.

In Beth’s bedroom, the sense of trespass he felt earlier reasserted itself. The drawers of her dresser were open, leaving her undergarments on display. Jack wanted to shut them but restrained himself. His job was to analyze and form a theory as to what happened. The longer he worked, the clearer his mind was becoming and the more his anger grew. He forced the thoughts away and concentrated on the task at hand.

The bed had been made using only a blanket. The comforter lay folded across a bench at the foot. On her blanket the outline of a body was visible, deeper and wider than an impression Beth might make. Seeing it gave him a sick feeling, not so much because of the invasive nature, but because it implied a sexual component. Truth or more game playing? A chill went up his spine.

Jack bent low and sniffed the pillows. A familiar coconut scent was faint but recognizable as Beth’s. The scent on the opposite pillow was stronger and reminded him of the Club Man aftershave his father had used for years.

Ben Furman asked if she had a boyfriend.

“Possibly,” Jack said.

Warning bells were going off in his head. Now was the time to speak up and tell Furman they were involved. He was already on shaky ground with the department, and it could be considered withholding evidence if their involvement came out later. A belated explanation definitely wouldn’t look good. After a momentary debate with himself, he decided to say nothing.

Ben Furman used a sticky roller to go over the bed and pillows and picked up a few hairs that seemed promising. From their length and color, Beth’s were a no brainer. The shorter ones belonged to either him or the killer.

“I don’t see any sign of a struggle,” Furman said. “Looks like the main event took place downstairs.”

“Right,” Jack said.

“I’ll test the blood on the wall, but it’s probably misdirection.”

“Agreed,” Jack said. “Let’s take a look out back.”

The backyard confirmed the living room’s story with one wrinkle. There were two sets of men’s shoeprints in the grass. Both were evenly spaced and far enough apart to indicate the killer and whoever was with him were carrying something—namely, Beth Sturgis. Furman marked the locations with little white flags on wires and then called his assistant and told her to hurry with the images. From the wind and dropping temperature, it was obvious a storm was coming. Nothing jumped out at
them, so it appeared the security camera at the subdivision entrance was now their best hope to identify the vehicle that took her out.

Foremost in Jack’s mind were not the clues but the lack of them. In the previous murders, the killer had deliberately left a trail to follow. The evidence buried in Jordan, the carpetbag at the Historical Society, even the video of Pam and Aaron Dorsey—all appeared in the first twenty-four hours. Jack removed Beth’s cell phone and examined the call log. There were several incoming messages on Saturday and Sunday, but the last outgoing call, which was to him, had been placed in the early morning hours on Saturday, a little past midnight. This meant she’d been gone two days. This was another break in the pattern and one that concerned him more than any of the others.