The Serial Killer's Wife (28 page)

“Okay,” David Bradford said, but before he could say anything else, his BlackBerry beeped again. Something twitched in his face. His jaw tightened. It was clear he intended to keep it in his pocket, but Elizabeth turned and extended her hand.
 

“May I see him?”
 

Julia Hogan said, “Of course he won’t let you—” but David Bradford shook his head and waved her off.
 

“No, it’s fine. Here.”
 

He brought the BlackBerry out of his pocket and handed it to her. She stared down at the screen. She saw that this was just one of over fifty pictures sent to this phone over the course of two and a half days. Just like with her, a new picture every hour.
 

Elizabeth stared at this new picture for several long seconds. A boy just a few years older than Matthew, naked except for his underwear, his arms and legs tied to each side of the bed. A gag in his mouth. An explosive collar around his neck. The camera was positioned just off to the side, facing the bed. A TV was beside it. She could see the light reflecting off the boy’s eyes, which had lost some of its life and taken on a defeated, vacuous quality.
 

She felt completely hollow as she handed back the phone. “I’m so sorry.”
 

David Bradford slipped the phone back into his pocket without looking at it. “Yeah,” he said. “You should be.”

CHAPTER 52

T
HEY
’
D
BEEN
DRIVING
for nearly an hour in silence, the two FBI agents in the front, Elizabeth in the back, when she cleared her throat and asked, “Agent Bradford, do you think I’m an idiot?”
 

This entire time he had not once glanced at her. Now his eyes shifted just slightly to meet hers in the rearview mirror before focusing back on the highway.
 

“Is this a trick question?”
 

“I consider myself bright, or at least I like to consider myself bright, and here I was with a man for nearly seven years who was apparently raping and murdering women. And I had no idea. Not one iota of a clue. Almost every day I saw that man, almost every night we slept in the same bed, and not once did I wonder if he was possibly a serial killer. So again I ask you, do you think I’m an idiot?”
 

For a long time David Bradford didn’t answer her. He just sat behind the wheel, his focus on the highway. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Julia Hogan tilted her head slightly and watched him from the corner of her eye. Another couple of seconds and Elizabeth figured the silent treatment would continue, but then he spoke.
 

“There are always warning signs.”
 

“Really? Well, when I got married I apparently was never given that memo.”
 

“Nearly every serial killer in the United States shares the same fundamental characteristics. The majority are single white males. They often—”
 

“My husband wasn’t a single white male. Obviously.”
 

“That’s why I specified the sentence first with the
majority
. So again, the
majority
are—”
 

“Yes, yes, yes. I’ve read all the books, too. I know all about the general characteristics about the bed-wetting and fire starting and abusive family members. And personally, I don’t believe it.”
 

“So what—you think it’s nature over nurture? That these people are born this way?”
 

“Not entirely, no. But I also think every person who has wet the bed and started fires and tortured animals and come from families who have criminal or alcoholic histories don’t turn out to be serial killers either. Some of them are able to control those urges.”
 

“Yes, but they still have the urges.”
 

Elizabeth bit her tongue. She hated that he had managed to pounce on that last point so quickly.
 

David Bradford said, “Let’s take a look at your husband’s past, shall we? He grew up without a family. He went from one foster care home to another. And believe it or not, Elizabeth, those foster care homes are not a bundle of hugs and sunshine. After he was arrested we went into his foster care file. Did you know when he was eight he set a cat on fire?”
 

Elizabeth sighed. “Believe it or not, Agent Bradford, I did know that. Eddie told me the story once while we were dating. He felt terrible about it. But it wasn’t just him. One of the boys at the home—the woman’s own son—was the one who did it. Eddie was there and tried to save the cat. In the end, the son told his mother it was Eddie and so he was sent away.”
 

“And you believed him?”
 

“At the time, I had no reason not to.”
 

Plus, she remembered the sincerity and regret in her husband’s voice when he was telling her what happened. There had been no hint of pleasure in the story. The episode had haunted him all those years, and he had felt by telling her he might be somehow absolved from that horrific event.
 

Or at least that’s what he had told her, now that she thought about it. He had
told
her he might be somehow absolved from that horrific event, but maybe it had just been a story. One of many.
 

“He refused to speak to us, you know,” Bradford said. “Which, honestly, was rare. Most of the times these guys want to talk about their victims once they’re caught. They know they’re fucked anyway—forensic evidence never lies—and so they want to brag about how they had managed to last so long. But your husband, he wouldn’t tell us anything. He’d just sit there and stare down at the table. No matter what we did or said he refused to say a word. Which always bugged me, too, because I’d always wanted an explanation on why he had started cutting off the ring fingers.”
 

He paused, catching a warning glance from Julia Hogan, but seemed to dismiss her.
 

“Your husband’s MO was pretty basic. He picked up young married women. These women were obviously not happy with their marriages, because it appears they went willingly enough. And from what I understand about Edward Piccioni, he was a likable guy. Had charisma and class. So talking these women into bed wouldn’t have been a problem for him. But once he had them in bed, that’s when he went to work. He’d strangle them while he fucked them—sorry if that’s too crude for you,” he said, his eyes shifting up momentarily to meet hers in the rearview mirror, “but that’s what happened—and then after they were dead he’d fuck them again. A couple of times.”
 

“No,” Julia Hogan said, the sudden sound of her voice in the car making Elizabeth jump. Obviously she knew the woman had been there the entire time, but while David Bradford spoke all she had been concentrating on were his words and thinking about the man she had known, all the moments alone she had spent with him, every single time they had told each other I love you.
 

David Bradford said, “What no?”
 

“That’s wrong. He didn’t start playing with the bodies until at least the third victim. Before that there was no extra tearing around the vaginal area. After the third victim, all the bodies showed the same post-mortem penetration.”
 

Elizabeth closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She kept her eyes closed for a long time, then opened them and stared out her window. It didn’t help relieve the nausea.
 

“Plus,” David Bradford said, “when we put the stats into the ViCAP system, we came up with two likely hits. Women who had been strangled during sex. Their bodies were hidden away just like the rest. Speaking of which, Elizabeth”—eyeing her again in the rearview mirror—“your husband sure did know how to cover his tracks. Just like yourself. You had mentioned you ended up in Kansas. Where exactly?”
 

“Oakville.”
 

“Is that right?” David Bradford gave Julia Hogan a curious glance.
 

Elizabeth said, “What is it?”
 

Bradford glanced at Julia again. Julia shrugged.
 

“What is it?” Elizabeth repeated.
 

“We actually got a hit three years ago about you being in Oakville. We sent some agents there but it was just for a day. You know, more important things in the world than to chase what was no doubt a wild goose.”
 

“What do you mean you got a hit?”
 

“It probably doesn’t surprise you to learn we have people monitoring the Internet twenty-four seven. One of the places we monitor is Clarence Applegate’s message board, as he’s generated quite a following of wackos. One day an anonymous user posted that you were located in Oakville, Kansas. Clarence asked how this user knew that information. There was never any reply.”
 

The initial nausea had changed into a different kind. She wondered just who would have done that. Nobody had known that she ended up in Oakville.
 

“What you said before,” Elizabeth murmured, “about my husband covering his tracks. What does that mean?”
 

“It means he knew how to clean up his murder scene. He knew how to hide the bodies, too. Wrapped them up not in garbage bags but clear wrap, so tight that nothing could get in. Then he’d bury them, almost always in the same kind of place.”
 

Elizabeth knew pretty much all of this already from what she had read online and in
Never Coming Home: The Edward Piccioni Murders
. There had been a full chapter that detailed how her husband cleaned up his crime scenes and how he hid the bodies. All of them buried in the strips of land between major highways, all of them overrun with trees. Motorists drove past the burial spots for weeks, sometimes months, before the bodies were eventually found.

“But those first two victims,” David Bradford said, “their ring fingers were still intact. So were the rings. At that point he hadn’t started collecting his trophies.”
 

“Or evolving,” Elizabeth murmured.
 

“What was that?”
 

“Evolving,” she said. “Isn’t that how you FBI people put it?”
 

The glance that met hers in the rearview mirror this time was more of a glare than anything else.
 

Elizabeth said, “If my husband refused to speak to you before, what makes you think he’ll speak to us now?”
 

“Because of you. Because of your son.”
 

“You don’t know that,” she said, and immediately wondered why she said it herself, as she hoped it wasn’t the case.
 

David Bradford snorted air through his nose and shook his head. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
 

“What?”
 

“Despite whether or not your husband was natured or nurtured, the psychological proof is evident. We may never have had a chance to actually talk to him—from what I hear he still never speaks—but the evidence alone proves what he was working up to.”
 

Elizabeth still wasn’t seeing it. “What are you talking about?”
 

“His trophies,” David Bradford said. “The ring fingers he cut off. Why do you suppose he was doing that? My God, Elizabeth, you asked me whether or not you’re an idiot, and the plain and simple truth is yes, you are. Don’t you get it? Every time he murdered, it wasn’t one of those women he thought he was killing. In his dark and demented mind, he was killing you.”

CHAPTER 53

A
COUPLE
MILES
just outside the Graterford Prison was predictably a strip mall, and just as predictably that strip mall had a Starbucks. This was where David Bradford parked the car, a few spaces from the entrance.
 

In the front passenger seat, Julia Hogan had been playing with her sidearm for the past several minutes. Only
playing
wasn’t the right word for it. She was handling the piece like a pro, ejecting the magazine and taking out each individual bullet. These she gathered first into her lap, then into her palm which she used to transport them to the safety of the glove box. By the time Bradford parked, she was finished and turned to pass the gun, along with the belt holster, back to Elizabeth.
 

Bradford was faster than Elizabeth had at first taken him. He managed to turn and grip Julia’s wrist in the space of only a second.
 

“What do you think you’re doing?”
 

“Relax,” Julia said. “It’s not loaded.”
 

“I don’t care. She doesn’t need a gun.”
 

“Yes, she does. She’ll need to check it in once you two arrive. Without one it might raise suspicions.”
 

Bradford maintained his grip around Julia’s wrist for another couple of seconds, and then let go. It was clear he wasn’t happy about the situation but knew it wasn’t worth fighting.
 

Elizabeth took the proffered (and unloaded) weapon and, without thinking, said, “Thank you.”
 

Julia looked like she might just say
You’re welcome
but caught herself and turned back around. She opened her door and stepped out.
 

Elizabeth got out, too. She took a moment to stretch her legs and clip the holstered gun onto her belt. “What are you going to do?”
 

“Get something to drink. Maybe a latte. You know, try to relax.”