The River Runs Dry (10 page)

Jack turned to see the girl still being treated in the ambulance, the man sitting, sobbing at her side. Then the door closed and the van shot off into the night, spilling up a cloud of dust as it went.

“What happened? Why didn't he kill her?”

“He must have been disturbed. The father came back – he'd been out of town working – and walked in to see the girls tied up. Gruesome thing to come home to.”

“So the killer was here, when he got back?”

“He must have been, unless he wanted to leave the girl alive. The father said he thought he heard movement in the back, the sound of the door shutting, but...”

“He didn't follow?” Jack asked quickly. “He didn't see the guy?”

“No, he was checking his daughter's pulse, Jack, trying to stop her bleeding and calling an ambulance.” She spoke bluntly, frowning at him. “What would you do if you saw your daughter like that.”

“And he called you? When?”

“Carla looked at her watch. I was on call, got straight down here and then called you. So, maybe 20 minutes ago.”

Jack's eyes suddenly shot up towards the back of the house and he ran out through the back door. His eyes scanned the ground as he reached for a pocket flashlight and lit up his view.

Carla came in behind him. “What are you doing? He's long gone.”

Jack didn't listen, his eyes catching sight of footprints in the dirt outside the back door. They were clearer than before, large heavy duty boot soles that pointed up the alley. He followed, stepping over them and tracing their direction out onto the street, where the dirt began to fade.

It was clear enough, however, to see that they continued up the road, fairly narrow spaces between them. He'd walked then, not ran, so either he'd left the girl earlier and casually walked away, or hadn't even deemed it necessary to run when caught in the act.

Jack followed further, before seeing the tracks veer back down another side alley further down the street between a couple of other houses. He stopped and drew his handgun before slowly creeping forward and flashing his light into the darkness.

There was nothing there, nothing but a short gap off the street leading to a wall about 20 feet away. He drew the light over the ground again, the dirt growing thicker once more, and saw the prints come together and stop.

He knew why. There were tire marks there too, a clear print of tires pressed into the thin layer of soil.

The noise of footsteps came behind him and he turned, his gun still in his hand, and lifted it to the end of the alley.

“Whoa, whoa,” said Carla as she came round the corner, “it's me, it's me.”

Jack lowered his weapon and turned back to the ground, pulling a small camera from his pocket. “Tire marks?” questioned Carla, as the flash of pictures lit up the night.

Jack nodded. “Do you know what this means?”

Carla shook her head. “That we might have an idea of what car he's driving?”

“More,” said Jack, putting the camera back into his pocket. “It means that the killer must have known who he was killing. He must have parked here for a reason, as a getaway spot. It's also why he picks homes where there's no one there, no one except his victims. He knows he won't be disturbed because he knows that there's nobody there.”

“Well not tonight, tonight the father came home.”

Jack nodded. “You said he got back from working out of town? How long had he been away?”

“Oh, I didn't get that far Jack, he was distraught.”

Jack nodded his head. “I'll visit him at the hospital tomorrow. Hopefully this girl will pull through. What's her name?”

“Leanne Graves. And the deceased is Sarah O'Reilly.”

“And their ages, relationship?” Jack asked as they began walking back to the house.

“Both 22. Friends.”

“Hair color? Eye color?”

“Erm, both...brunette I think. I don't know about the eyes.”

“I'd imagine they both had blue eyes,” said Jack quickly, “and mid length hair.

Carla's eyes dropped into a frown.

“All the victims so far have fit that description – slim build, medium height, medium length dark brown hair, blue eyes. He's targeting the same sorts of girls, Carla, all young and attractive, girls who have been drinking, girls in pairs.”

“But he didn't kill Claire Marshall when he had the chance. She was in a pair, drunk, attractive...”

“But blonde, not brunette. She didn't fit the description.”

“Jesus, so you think anyone outside of that fit is off-limits for him?”

Jack nodded. “I'd expect so, unless they get in his way.”

“And Taylor Lane? She wasn't in a pair, was she?”

“We don't know. I'd say that it was likely, that she was taken after drinking, quite possibly with another girl.”

“So you think there might be another body out there, from 3 months ago, that we haven't found yet.”

Jack nodded again. “It wouldn't surprise me.”

They carried on walking, entering back through the house as the CSI team arrived. Jack looked at them, rushing into the scene with all their equipment.

“They won't find anything,” he said, staring. “This killer's not going to slip up that easily.”

He continued through the house and out the front door, Carla still thinking out loud behind him. “I wonder how he got in this time. Surely the girls can't have been stupid enough to leave the house unlocked?”

“Well if he knew he was coming here, he might have already been inside. I guess we won't know until we ask the girl...Leanne.”

“If she pulls through.”

Jack looked out over the warm night. “Let's hope she does. For her sake, and everyone else's.”

…

It was approaching 5 in the morning when Jack pulled up outside Sheriff Tavish's house in the nearby town of Kanton. It was much larger than Burgess, and was where the main Sheriff's office for the county was found.

The Sheriff walked out as soon as the car came to a stop, already fully dressed in his uniform. He looked bright and awake, considering the time and the early wake up call Jack had given him while driving from Burgess.

“Right Jack, what's the big emergency?” he said, standing on the doorstep. “Come on in, have a cup of coffee. You look like you need it.”

Jack paced forwards quickly, the light of dawn still hiding from sight over the horizon. “Sorry for the early call Sheriff, but I need to talk to you,” Jack said, following him into the house.

“It's this killer sir, he's struck again, tonight, only a couple of hours ago.”

The Sheriff stopped in his tracks and turned. “Jesus Jack, that's how many now? Three in the last few weeks?”

Jack nodded as they continued into the kitchen: “yes sir, although there's another in critical condition. We may be looking at four by this afternoon.”

The Sheriff grumbled slightly as he put the kettle on, before sitting down at a kitchen table and gesturing for Jack to do the same. Jack remembered coming here when he was a kid, with his dad, nearly 20 years ago. The place looked just the same, with old country memorabilia lining the walls down the corridor and into the kitchen.

“So what do you need from me son?” the Sheriff asked, looking through steely eyes.

“Men, sir. We need more men on the streets of Burgess, out at night in particular. If I can get some undercovers in cars that would be helpful. He's attacking brunettes, medium height and slim build, blue eyes, and young. And from what I can tell, he attacks girls in pairs, and only when they've been drinking.”

“Drinking? To make them more susceptible to attack?”

“I'd imagine so. If we could send out a public message to the people, some sort of address, with the help of the press, people will know what they're up against. I know you have plenty of sway in Burgess, all over sir.”

“So you want to work with the press now, rather than keeping them out. It's funny the power they have isn't it Jack.”

Jack nodded. The irony certainly wasn't wasted on him.

“Of course I'll help you Jack. It's my job to ensure the safety of the people of this county, and we haven't seen a threat like this in a long time, and certainly not in my tenure. We wanna catch this son of a bitch, not have him butchering my people. Any help you need, my boy, is yours.”

“Thanks Sheriff, that's all I could have asked for. How many men can you spare? I'm talking plain clothed deputies in unmarked cars.”

The Sheriff ran his fingers over his white moustache, heavily bristled and thick. “I can maybe spare ten men, Jack, they can use their own cars. I'll send them over to you first thing in the morning. Anything else?”

“Well, there's this,” said Jack, pulling out his camera and bringing up the images he'd taken less than 2 hours before. “I know you're a real motorhead, you always were anyway. Can you help me out with these tires marks? Any idea what they might be?”

The Sheriff slid a pair of reading glasses from his front shirt pocket and put them over his nose as he gazed down at the image. He inspected it for a moment before speaking once more.

“Looks like a Goodyear to me, but can't be sure. The sort of tire used on an SUV, you know, a 4x4.”

He carried on flicking through the images to see one of the light footprints made in the dirt outside. They were shallow, not deep enough for a cast, but were still clear enough to help determine the type of boot.

“Looks like a walking boot this, the ridges are quite deep and wide, it's helpful for gripping.”

“Fairly generic, though?”

The Sheriff nodded. “Send them to the forensics specialist and he'll be able to match them up exactly for you. You might get lucky.”

Jack nodded and took the camera back. “I guess boots and an SUV isn't exactly unusual for this town.”

“Every little helps son. Keep building that evidence, and you'll track this SOB.”

He stood and moved over to the kettle, which had long since come off the boil, and returned with a couple of mugs.

“So how's your dad. It's been a long time since I saw him. How's his treatment going?”

Jack's expression changed. He felt guilty for not having seen his dad for a little while, especially with everything that had been going on recently. In fact, ever since he'd been posted in Burgess, he'd seen him less and less.

“He's doing OK. I could really use his help right now, if I'm honest.”

“Well, he was a great detective, a skilful investigator. But you don't need him Jack. You're your father's son, and that's high praise.”

“Thanks sir, but I've a long way to go to match him.”

“You'll get there, I'm sure of it.” He leaned in closer and looked at Jack dead in the eye. “Start by catching this bastard. Do what your father didn't manage.”

Jack felt a sting run through his body. If there was one area of his dad's career where he failed, it was in 1994, when a similar situation roared through LA. Michael Slade, his father, was the chief detective, charged with hunting down and catching the killer. He failed, and the killer moved to another state where he kept killing, leaving it to another detective to end his bloodlust. It was the one blight on his father's record, but one he could never get over. His career ended soon after, and with it came the Parkinson's condition that was slowly eating away at his body and mind.

But for Jack, his father was a legend, and he could never get why one failure in a career of success could cause him such torment and anguish.

Now, however, he was starting to understand.

Chapter 13

 “'The Butcher of Burgess', that's what the press are calling him. Have you seen this Darc. There's a public service message warning people to stay in groups at night and not get drunk or go out too late. Says that girls need to be extra careful, particularly brunettes with blue eyes.”

“No, you're just scaring me,” said Darcia, grabbing the paper off of her. “That's not very tasteful Jess, you know, with...”

She read down the page, her eyes scanning fast, and her face grew in fear.

“Jesus, I'm definitely coming to LA then. Screw this place.”

Jessie looked at her, her own face grave. “With this latest murder I doubt my place is going to sell any time soon. If it doesn't I'm gonna miss the start of college and then there's another fucking year of my life wasted.”

Her expression changed slightly as she saw Darcia's face. “Sorry honey, you know what I mean.”

“No, you're right. You're worth more than this place honey, you need to use your brain to do some good. Will you study crime again....what was it you did before?”

“Criminal psychology.”

“Shit. So you, like, know what's going through this killer's mind and stuff?”

“Not quite, but I understand how they think. Well, as much as you can, anyway.”

“So how does he think? Why did he kill Taylor? Why the other girls?” Her voice, as it did when Taylor came back into her mind, threatened to break with emotion.

“It's hard to say exactly babe, but it usually comes down to some sort of trauma they suffered, often as a child. They're generally insecure and scared of rejection, that's why so many of them have sex with their victims to give them power, sometimes when they've already killed them.”

Darcia's face screwed up and she shook her head. “OK, I don't wanna hear any more about that. That's sick. So daddy hits you as a kid and you go and start raping and murdering people, is that it?”

“It's more complicated than that, but abuse is often a primarily cause, often sexual abuse when they're younger.”

“And is all that meant to make people feel sorry for them or something? Like it's not their fault. That's just a way of putting the blame elsewhere. This guy is mentally sick and deserves the fucking needle. I'd give it to him myself if I could.”

“Oh, me too,” said Jess quickly. “I hate this 'butcher' as much as anyone. I wasn't trying to make excuses for him, babe, I was just explaining the psychology behind their actions.”

Darcia looked appalled as she grabbed her cup of coffee from her kitchen table and took a long swig. “I just don't understand how anyone like that can live. What does he do, just hang around looking for drunk girls at night? How does he, I don't know, make money?”