The Mak Collection (45 page)

That stung. It was obviously true, but it stung.

Andy got up from his seat. “I’m gonna grab another coffee. Do you want anything?”

Bob shook his head.

Andy ordered a coffee he didn’t really need, and when he came back and sat down he said, “So, what were you saying before about something being nasty? Are you talking about the case the RCMP wanted you to look at?”

Bob was far too busy to take on any new cases, but he had studied the files all morning instead of sleeping in, just as Andy suspected he would. Bob could not deny his charitable nature.

“It’s a mess,” Bob said. He looked off into the distance, his eyes unfocused. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” He said the words softly, so he wouldn’t be overheard. “We’ve got three victims so far, but what about that increase in campus disappearances? What if we’ve stumbled upon a series of campus murders?”

Andy leaned forward.

“I think the RCMP suspect it as well,” Bob went on. “Both identified victims turn out to have been students here, and the third…if we can identify her I’d say she will have been a student as well. Let’s look at what we’ve got. We have three bodies dumped in the same area, all in varying states of decomposition, and the two identified victims were killed only weeks apart. The unidentified skeleton is also of a young adult female and she could go back quite a bit longer, which is ominous when we consider how long this particular killer may have been doing this.

“The two recent victims, and possibly the other as well, all appear to have been shot in the back with a high-powered rifle. Not strangled or stabbed, like a rape that spiralled out of control, but shot. And in the back. Cowardly, isn’t it? Sergeant Grant Wilson—likable guy if I may say, and pretty smart too—mentioned that it was like an execution of sorts. And he’s partially right. If it was a single shot to the back of the head I would have said yes, execution-style definitely, but it brings hunting to mind, if you ask me. I think we’re looking
for a local. A hunting buff, or someone into weapons. Perhaps a student or former student, or a professor at UBC. I mean why were the two identified victims UBC students? They didn’t appear to have known each other. There is no other correlation apart from their age and the fact that they were students at this university. Is this a coincidence? Is someone making this campus a hunting ground?”

At this thought, Andy felt a chill. Was the killer at UBC that very day?

Dr Harris took another mouthful of brownie and went on. “I’m going to suggest that they note the plates on every vehicle found in the Nahatlatch area, and check ID’s on the people living, visiting and spending time out there. They need to cross-reference those names with UBC students past and present, and yes, UBC staff as well, including the professors. Hunting licences too. They should cross-reference those names with people associated with the campus for any reason. Especially anyone who has had a licence revoked for some reason.”

Detective Flynn had a hard time concentrating on Bob’s lecture after lunch. He couldn’t stop looking in Makedde’s direction. Thankfully she hadn’t noticed. But after a while even that fact added to his misery. Why wasn’t she looking his way? He started to feel creepy about staring at her so often, and more than
that, he started to feel creepy about travelling across the world to this conference with an ulterior motive.

Dr Harris was giving a great presentation. He was a skilled communicator, both in interviews and in the public speaking arena and he also had a very professional-looking Powerpoint presentation to back up his speech. Andy noticed that most of the people in the room were taking notes. Andy wasn’t, but that was only because he had taken many notes on the topic before.

“The crime scenes of psychopathic offenders are more likely to show that the crime was well-organised and contained some high risk or thrill element,” Bob was saying. “For this kind of individual, it is not enough to simply creep into the old woman’s house and steal the money from her purse while she is sleeping, he has to go to the trouble to beat her senseless as well…”

Andy thought about the Nahatlatch case the RCMP had asked for help on. Now that Bob had shared some of his concerns with Andy over lunch, he felt somehow involved in the investigation. Bob realised this and had urged Andy to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible. If word got to the press there would be chaos.

But Andy was uncomfortable. He wanted to tell Makedde about it. She deserved to know. For the first time in his career, he hoped the papers would pick up the story, so the burden of his confidentiality would be
lifted. Makedde didn’t need to know exact details, but she should know that something was up, and that she had reason to exercise more caution than usual. It was a safety issue. He had to find a way to tip her off and still keep his promise to Dr Harris.

“Psychopathic offenders show a complete disregard for their victims,” Bob was telling the crowd. “There is always an element of control in the crimes they commit…”

Andy saw that nearly everyone in the room was on the edge of their seat. Bob was an FBI agent, and that title in itself was fashionable these days, thanks to popular entertainment like
Silence of the Lambs
and
Hannibal
, or the
X-Files
.

“They may employ staging if there is a close personal relationship between them and the victim…”

Andy knew all too well that the lives of FBI Profilers were not glamorous. In fact, neither were the lives of anyone who sought to deal with the aftermath of the world’s most violent and disturbed people.

Andy grew up in the peaceful town of Parkes, in New South Wales, where the local cops were heroes. There was Sergeant Morris, for instance, who hung out at the milk bar and got all the attention of the pretty waitress there. He always had a couple of kind words for young Andy, and Andy hero-worshipped him.

But the reality of policing never quite lived up to his childhood expectations and he quickly discovered
that not everyone loved cops. Many hated them, in fact. The public seemed to think of nothing but parking tickets and breathalyser tests. And now they thought of scandal, too. Corrupt cops were the only ones who made the press these days.

Even the woman he married had ended up hating him for being a cop. Andy was a cop, but he was hardly a hero.

He wondered if he could ever forgive himself for his shortcomings.

“Come on, ya big wuss-bag. Five more.”

Sergeant Grant Wilson looked up from his strained position below a two hundred and twenty-five pound loaded barbell and squinted in the direction of the voice.

Asshole.

They were deep into their regular weight session at their local gym, and Corporal Michael Rose was counting off Grant’s progress “…eight…nine…good work…”

“I could bench two fifty and practically double your reps,” boasted Mike’s brother.

“Jesus, Evan, would you just shut up?” Mike snapped. They didn’t usually have company, and it wasn’t working out so well.

When Grant finished his set, Mike helped him place the bar in its cradle. His brow was dripping, and his grey shirt was stained with dark patches of perspiration. He stood up and glared at Mike’s brother.

Evan was a tall guy and he was pretty buff. He
pumped a lot of weights and Grant suspected he did steroids too. He had a few too many tattoos and a lot too much ego for Grant’s liking. He certainly hadn’t invited him to this weight session. As a matter of fact, he doubted anyone had invited Evan along.

Damn, I wish I was taller. A glare is always better with height advantage.

“Go for it. The bench is all yours,” Grant said with a sweep of his hand, and stepped aside.

“I already did my sets this morning.”

Grant laughed. There was a time when he would have just flattened someone like that, but he had learned restraint. Besides, this was his best friend’s brother, after all.

“I was just buggin’ ya, Grant. Don’t take it personal,” Evan went on. “You lift pretty well.”

For an old guy,
Grant could almost hear him say.

“What are you doing coming to the gym in the morning? Aren’t you doing the stocktake at K-Mart any more? They cut your hours?”

Evan frowned. He seemed to deflate a notch. “That used to finish before the store opened. But no, I’m working at the Fox now.”

“Oh, the Blue Fox.”

Mike didn’t join in the conversation. You could tell that he wished the subject would change.

“What do you do there? You waiting tables, or taking to the stage?” Grant asked. The Blue Fox was a girlie strip bar.

“Bartending. You should drop by sometime, you’d like the atmosphere,” Evan said.

Mike had moved on to the leg press and Grant joined him. He helped him place a few fifty-pound plates on the bar. Sure enough, before long Evan came over to join them. He wouldn’t take the hint. “So, is it true that you handed your big case over to the FBI?”

What?

This time Mike cut in. “Like I told you, Evan, we are asking for some consultation with an FBI Profiler. It doesn’t mean the FBI has jurisdiction or anything.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No.”

Mike started his set, and Grant watched him, ignoring the uninvited third party.

“I saw him today,” Evan said.

Both of them turned. “Saw who?”

“Your FBI agent.”

Grant took pause, and Mike looked equally astounded.

“He did a lecture at UBC. There have been ads up around campus for ages. It’s part of a big conference on psychopaths.” He rolled his eyes and made bogeyman gestures at the word.

“Yeah,” Grant said. “I wish we could have gone to that, but some of us had to work. A few of our colleagues went. Did you learn anything?”

“Yup.”

“Anything you care to share?”

“Nope.”

Grant was about to explode. “I gotta go home. Amanda is waiting for me.”

“Oh, yeah. How is she, anyway? What a bummer…”

“Thanks. We’ll be fine.” He threw his towel on the weight machine and walked away. It was all he could do to keep his temper.

The last thing he wanted was to hear an ignorant prick like Evan Rose shovel some bullshit sympathy his way about Amanda. What would he know about taking care of someone you love? What would he know about Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis?

Grant had just finished dialling the combination for the padlock on his locker when Mike came in, apologising.

“I’m really sorry about that, Grant. I don’t know what’s got into him.”

“Forget about it. I need to get home.”

“He’s not usually that bad.”

“What did you do inviting him, anyway? And telling him about the case?”

“I…”

“Just keep him out of my face.”

“I’m sorry…”

Grant pulled his things out of his locker and shoved them in his gym bag. He didn’t bother to shower or change. “Don’t be sorry, Mike,” he said. “I’m not the one who has to be nice to him just because he’s family.”

Mike looked hurt at the comment.

“Forget about it. I’m under too much stress.” Grant waved over his shoulder when he left, not bothering to say goodbye to Evan as he walked out.

He stayed on the library computer for hours.

To his delight, he found more than expected. It was exciting. The Internet was a treasure-trove of information on his chosen subject. He clicked to the main page of the Australian news archive, and signed up using a false name. He gave his anonymous AOL account as a contact.

The search page came up. He typed in his subject.

Makedde Vanderwall.

He briefly considered adding more specific details, like “Makedde Vanderwall + murder + Australia”, or something similar, but felt that her name was probably unique enough to provide him with what he wanted. He specified that all available publications were to be searched, over an unlimited time period.

He pressed “send”, and his request was silently processed.

He could not have been happier with the results.

Result of your search: 184 documents matched your query “Makedde Vanderwall”.

Results 1 to 20 are displayed on this page.

There were ten pages of articles. He could find out anything that had been printed about this girl, all those juicy details that any Australian press could dig up, but which she was so careful not to allow anyone back home to know about.

Herald Sun, Daily Telegraph, Courier Mail, Sun Herald, The Australian
…the list went on and on. He began at the top, double clicking on the article titled, “Model Survivor Flies Home”.

He stayed there reading until the library closed. His photocopy card, which he had restocked with extra dollars, was empty by the time he left, his backpack weighed down with the burden of Makedde’s newsworthy secrets.

Now this is an interesting one…

Roy Blake wasn’t happy about getting a call just before his shift ended. There was a disturbance in the Monashee building at the Thunderbird Residence, one of UBC’s on-campus student quarters. Roy was still on duty and he had to go and check it out. It was bad timing—he had a date with Makedde Vanderwall shortly after work. Despite that, he was quick in responding, ever the professional, and within minutes he was pulling up at Thunderbird Crescent. He parked the security vehicle at the entrance and went to have a look.

Okay, what have we got
…?

Roy didn’t even have to step inside the foyer before he heard the racket. As reported, someone was banging unrelentingly on one of the apartment doors. He could hear shouting as well.

He frowned.

Roy rushed up to the second floor and in the hallway found a woman shouting, then sobbing, then
shouting again. She looked to be in her late forties, was dressed in sweat pants and a leather jacket, and had brown, unkempt shoulder-length hair. Her eye make-up had run down her cheeks in long, dark streaks.

She looked set to begin another tirade of yelling and crying when she turned and saw Roy approaching. His appearance in uniform always made an impact. Her fists halted millimetres from the door itself, wavering in the air. Her mouth hung open.