The Colour of Death (16 page)

“Why do what?”

She looked up, startled, as if she had forgotten Fox was there.  “I need to see the third murder scene.”

“Then will you tell me what’s going on?”

“First I’ve got to check out something.  Something weird.”

By the time they arrived at the final crime scene, Jordache was bristling with impatience.  “Speak to me, Nathan.  Does she remember anything or not?”

“Later,” Fox reassured him.  “After we’ve seen all the murders, I’ll tell you everything.”  He hoped that whatever Jane Doe had discovered would be worth the wait.  As soon as she walked into the hotel room where the last victim had been decapitated, her face drained of color and her newfound confidence deserted her.  This had been the most traumatic murder and, as she placed her hand on the wall, Fox could tell it was taking all her strength to remain emotionally detached from what she was seeing and not run from the room.  “This is hideous.  This is hideous,” she kept saying, again and again.  She stared into the bloodstained but empty wardrobe.  “How could anyone do this?  Who was she?”

“She?” Fox said aloud.  “There were no women involved in any of the homicides.”

“Yes there were,” she said quietly.  “There are women involved in all three.”  She slumped on the bed, exhausted.  “My photograph may have been stapled over the victims’ faces but I’m not the only link between the three killings.  I’m not even the main one.”

“Really?  What is?”

“Each murder happened before.”

“Happened before?  What do you mean?”

She looked down and shielded her eyes with her hands, like a child watching a frightening movie.  “I can’t stay in this room any longer.  I can’t concentrate.”  She began rocking from side to side.  “Don’t take me back to Tranquil Waters.  Take me somewhere without any memories.  Take me somewhere safe.”

Fox took her hand and helped her from the bed.  “Come with me.”

Chapter 23

Jane Doe kept close to Nathan Fox as he led her away from the last crime scene.  When he helped her into his car, Detective Karl Jordache scowled.  “Why can’t you debrief her here?  At least tell me whether she remembers anything or not.”

Fox gunned the engine and lowered his voice.  “It’s complicated, Karl.  As soon as I’ve got anything concrete I’ll call you.  I promise.”

“But what about keeping her safe from whoever did all this?”

“I’ll take care of her.”

“Yeah, right.”  Jordache swore quietly and ordered two of his policemen to follow their car.  Driving away from the crime scene, the cops in the lone police car didn’t realize that they too were being followed.  Fox said nothing as he drove and Jane Doe was grateful for the time to order her thoughts and recover from her ordeal.  Reliving the gruesome crimes had made her aware of how close she had come to being one of the killer’s hapless victims, and how lucky she was that Fox had intervened when he did.  Despite the horror of the crime scenes, however, she was surprised and encouraged by how well she’d coped.  Only a few days ago she would have been unable to remain at any one of those places for even a few seconds — especially the scene of the horrific beheading.  She hadn’t passively endured them either:  she had actively probed each scene for clues.  Not only had she stared into the dark heart of her deepest fears and not blinked, she had seen something that could help solve the case.

The car slowed and she felt herself stiffen as they approached a circular tower block.  “What is this place?” she asked.

He turned into the underground parking lot.  “It’s my home.  You don’t like it?”

“The apartment block’s shape reminds me of my nightmares.”

“Thanks.”  He smiled and patted her arm.  “My aunt hates it too but north-west Portland is a good location, and the apartment suits me fine.  It should suit you too.  It’s a new-build with few ‘memories’ to distract you.  You’ve no reason to be scared.”  He got out, led her to the elevator and pushed the top button.

When he brought her into his apartment the interior surprised her.  It was as striking as the block’s exterior was bland.  Comfortable Italian furniture and rich Persian and Afghan rugs softened the minimalist white walls, downlighters and stripped wooden floors.  Much of the walls was glass, affording sweeping views over Portland and along the river.  Quirky, colorful artworks covered the remainder of the walls, alongside shelves crammed with books.  A framed collage of photographs dominated one corner.  Fox was right about the archaeosonics.  She sensed no bad echoes here.  The place calmed her, made her feel safe.  “The view of the block’s pretty dull,” he said.  “But the views from it are great.”

“I like the décor.”

He smiled.  “You sound surprised.  What were you expecting?”

“No.  No.  It’s just that you’re a psychiatrist and reveal so little of yourself…”  Embarrassed, she turned to the open-plan, well-equipped kitchen and pointed to the glass-fronted drinks fridge.  It contained some wine but was dominated by rows and rows of bottled beers.  “You like your beer.”

“Want to try one?”

“OK.”  The idea of alcohol appealed.  It would be her first taste since losing her memory, assuming she had drunk before then.  He took out a bottle, poured it into a glass and handed it to her.  It was a golden cloudy color and when she put it to her lips it tasted sweet.  “I like it.”

He smiled.  “Most people don’t know that Oregon’s one of the beer capitals of the world.  Take a seat and let’s talk about what you experienced back there.  You seemed to cope with it better than before, as if you’re getting to grips with your death-echo synaesthesia.  You said the homicides had happened before?”  He took out his notebook and pen.  “Tell me what you meant.”

She sat on the couch.  “They were copycat killings.  Each murder copied an earlier one committed in precisely the same place years before.  Remember my first room in Tranquil Waters and the man cutting his wrists?”

“The hanging man who died earlier was fainter than the other guy.”

She nodded.  “It was the same at the three crime scenes.  I experienced the death echoes of the three men who were killed but also three fainter signatures of women who had been murdered before, in exactly the same place and almost exactly the same way.”  She swallowed hard.  “The only difference I sensed was that all the women had been raped before they were killed.  Apart from that, it was like one murder had been written over the other.”  As she described each murder he noted every detail down.

“You’re saying the killer choreographed his murders to fit with the earlier deaths?”

“Exactly.  Each male victim was even dressed like the earlier female victim:  the first died in underwear, the second in a blue dress, and the third was naked.”

He laid a crime scene photograph of one of the corpses on the coffee table.  “What about the
‘Serve the demon, save the angel’
messages written in colored marker pens?”

“They must have happened after the victims’ deaths because I didn’t experience them in the death echoes.  I did see a picture of my face in the first murder, though.  I think my photograph in the newspaper was one of the last things the victim saw.”

“What about the killer?  Or killers?”

“That’s the odd thing.  The male victims all resembled the killers of the earlier, female victims.  It was like someone knew what they’d done and was punishing them by killing them in exactly the same way as they’d killed the women.”

“Are you’re saying that the male victims of the current homicides were the perpetrators of the original ones?”

“Yes.  They looked a lot younger in the earlier death echoes but I’m sure they were the same men.”

“What about the man who killed them?  Did you see him?”

She looked down suddenly, frightened.  “Yes, it was the same man who attacked me in my room.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Fox’s phone rang.  It was Jordache.  He put it on speaker.  “You got anything yet?” said the detective.

“I might have,” said Fox, glancing at Jane Doe, “but I need your people to check something first.  It’s going to sound a little strange so hold the questions.  You ready?  You might want to write this down.”

“Shoot.”

He scanned his notes.  “Check if there’ve been any prior female homicides at the three crime scenes.  Go back at least thirty years and compare the MOs against these three homicides.  Concentrate on unsolved cold cases.  Then pull out the mugshots of anyone suspected of the earlier female homicides and compare them with our male victims.”

“Why?”

“Check it out, you’ll see why.”

“What about Jane Doe?  What’s this got to do with her?”

“Come on, Karl.  I said hold the questions.”

Fox heard a frustrated groan.  “I’m a detective, Nathan, it’s what I do.”

As Fox hung up Jane Doe rose from the couch, too tense and wired to sit still.  Seeking distraction, she glanced around Fox’s apartment until she spied a cardboard box overflowing with childhood memorabilia, including a cricket bat, a baseball catcher’s mitt, notebooks and stacks of faded photographs.  Fox saw where she was looking and smiled self-consciously.  “Ignore those.  I’ve been meaning to throw that box away for years.”

She picked up a creased, faded photo of Fox as a young boy with his family.  “How did you lose your parents and sister?”

“They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, shot dead by two men holding up a gas station.”

“That’s awful.  Where were you?”

“I was with them.  But somehow I wasn’t hurt.  Not a scratch.”  He frowned.  “I don’t know why.  I can’t remember.”

She nodded slowly.  “Is that why you became a psychiatrist?”

“I think I went into medicine because my father had been a doctor in England and I wanted to follow in his footsteps.  I don’t really know why I chose psychiatry.”  He shrugged.  “Perhaps I did hope it would help me make sense of what happened.”

“Has it?”

He sighed.  “I’m working on it.”  She felt a sudden urge to comfort him, like he had comforted her, but didn’t know how.  Then she remembered the drive back from his aunt’s.  “I noticed you slowed down by the gas station on the way back from seeing Samantha.  Was that the— ”

“Yes, it was,” he said quickly.  The tight expression on his face told her to drop the subject but she couldn’t.  Not yet.  She could help him, she realized, repay some of the debt she owed him.  “I could go back there for you and see if—”

“No,” he interrupted sharply, panic flashing in his eyes.  “This isn’t about me.  I’m not the one with the problem.”

“I’m sorry, I only wanted to help.  I didn’t mean to…”  She tailed off, afraid to jeopardize her relationship with the one friend she had in the entire world.  Fox had not only dragged her from the depths of despair, but also saved her life.

“It’s OK.  I’m sorry,” he said quickly, regaining control.  “I overreacted.”  There was an awkward silence, then he checked his watch.  “We’d better go.”

She felt a stab of panic.  “Do I have to go back to Tranquil Waters?”

After her ordeal last night and visiting the intruder’s grisly crime scenes today she was in no hurry to return to her room.

“You’ll have police protection.”

“I don’t care, I don’t think I can sleep there tonight.”

“I understand, but you can’t stay here.  I’m your doctor.”  He made two calls.  When he told her what he had arranged she breathed a sigh of relief.  “You should feel safer there.”

“I will.  Thank you.  You sure it’s OK?  I don’t want to impose.”

“I’m sure,” he said softly.  His smile reassured her but as they left the apartment she saw his smile fade and sensed Fox wrap an invisible cloak around himself, forming a barrier she would never breach.  She remembered the photograph of the fierce little boy in the karate uniform, standing apart from the others. 
Never let them get too close.  Never lose control.

Chapter 24

As Fox drove Jane Doe away from his apartment, neither they nor their police detail noticed the anonymous white van parked across the street.  The driver inside seethed with rage as he watched them pass, his ire aimed at both Fox and himself.

Why hadn’t he just tranquilized her, like he had the others?  Why had he hesitated?  Why had he needed to talk to her?  His delay had allowed that meddling fool to come to her aid and complicate matters.  He could have been caught and then everything would have been lost.  His hesitation had not only alerted her to his presence but the police would undoubtedly increase security.  Getting to her now would be significantly more difficult.

As he pulled away and followed the Porsche his phone rang.  The ringtone caused waves of purple and red to shimmer before his eyes.  He considered not answering but knew it was futile.  He slowed the vehicle and picked up.  “Hello?”

“Where are you?” demanded the familiar voice.  “Have you found her yet?  Is she with you?”

“No.  No.  But I’m close.”

“How close?”

As he watched the Porsche stop at the lights he became aware of his shirt sticking to his skin, drenched with sweat.  “Very close.  I’ve seen her.  I know where she is.”

“So why haven’t you done what I asked?” the voice snarled.  “Are you going to fail me again?”

“No.  No.”  His temples ached from the pressure in his head.  “I’ll have hear within a day,” he said.

“Good.  I’m in Portland.  We can meet.”

“He froze.  “You’re in the city?  How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to see the news reports and know you’ve been lying to me.  You of all people should know not to hide things from me.  They say the authorities have had her for days.” He spoke slowly as if to a slow child, his voice thick with anger.  “Why didn’t you tell me she’d been found?”

“She has no memory.  She’s told them nothing.”

“That’s not the point.  What have you been doing out here among the children of men?  Have you been drawing attention to yourself?  To us?”

“No, no.  I’ve been finding out exactly where she is,” he said quickly.  “I went to get her last night.”