The Watcher (9 page)

Slater passed a hand over his eyes and rubbed down his cheeks. He hated to admit it, but Myers might be right. There could be a serial killer running loose in Bigler County.

#

Bauer dropped Slater off at the front steps of the courthouse while he parked the car. Slater took the cement steps two at a time and swung through the double doors that opened into the courthouse foyer. He needed to divide interviews among his team members, review the autopsy report, and more important, have another conversation with Dr. Kate Myers.

The Bigler County Sheriff’s Office, located in the county seat of Placer Hills, was a calming presence to the residents of the surrounding neighborhoods and served the area ranging southwest to Sacramento County and northward to the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range and the Nevada state border. The gently sloping hills of Ralston Park lay directly across the street from the courthouse.

As with his apartment on the other side of the park, Slater was engaged in a strange love affair with the old courthouse and the community. He’d started to feel at home during the ten-plus years he’d lived here since he’d left San Francisco.

He thought of his loss in that beautiful city, and a familiar wave of anger and helplessness washed over him. He pushed it away. Bury the past, he warned himself.

As he swung through the front doors, he passed Sergeant John Sanderson perched high on a stool behind the imposing desk that greeted all entrants to the precinct. Completely bald, the sergeant’s head shone like thick molasses, and his glistening face was slick and moist as a baby’s behind. A tiny gold earring decorated his left lobe, a matching glint sparking off his front tooth when he smiled. Sanderson smiled a lot.

The sergeant greeted Slater as he passed through the security metal detector. “Slater, my man. Later than usual, ain’t you?”

“We’re working the big case. You heard?”

“Yeah, what a damn shame. Pretty teenager like that. Makes you lose faith in humankind.”

“Have you seen Dr. Myers?”

Sanderson lifted what would have been an eyebrow, had he not lost every strand of hair on his face from a bout of malaria during Vietnam. The dark, impressive wrinkle of skin above his eyes that served as a brow edged higher as he leaned over the huge banister and beckoned Slater closer.

His voice was a gravelly whisper. “Why you interested in that skinny white gal? What you needs is a sister, more meat on her bones.”

“Sandy, has the fact that I’m also white escaped you?”

“No, man, believe me.” Sanderson tapped one thick fist against his chest. “You got more soul than any brother I know.”

Slater grinned, amused as always that the jot of black blood coursing through his veins from his great-grandmother both damned him and exonerated him, depending on the company. He didn’t advertise his racial background because he didn’t consider it important. He never thought of himself in any terms but as a man and a police officer.

But not telling Julie had been a mistake that she’d never forgiven. In her mind, her lily-white, southern upbringing had been corrupted by marriage to a man who had that single drop of blood, the standard southern slave-owners had used years ago to judge a slave’s value.

He’d learned too late that Julie had the same standard.

“Doctor Myers just headed for the S.I.D. squad room,” Sanderson continued, “all dressed up in a pretty white suit.”

“Don’t be too hard on her. You know what they say about a beautiful woman competing in a man’s world.”

“It didn’t usta be like that,” Sanderson complained. “In the day women knew what they place was.”

Slater laughed and continued toward the squad room as Ray Borem came down the stairs. Borem’s thick lips twisted in what was meant to be a congenial smile, but ended as a smirk. Short and paunchy, he sported a head shaved smooth as a cue ball, but unlike Sanderson, he looked like a wanna-be skinhead.

“Slater, you lucky bastard. That Doc Myers is one hot babe, know what I mean?” Borem licked a stubby finger and pressed it outward. “Pssst. Hot!”

Slater tapped down the irritation he felt. From what he’d seen, Myers knew how to handle herself around an asshole like Borem. Fortunately, the man wasn’t on Slater’s team. He was part of Special Operations, which, because of the decline in drug-related activities in the county, had too much time on their hands. Way too much time in Slater’s mind. Borem headed down the stairs before entering the open door of the S.I.D.

Marconi, Sanderson, Borem, and Wendt in archives – if Slater believed Kate Myers’ allegations, any one of them or a dozen others could’ve been involved in the cover up of a murder twenty years ago.

Chapter Nine

Slater found Myers at Matt Bauer’s desk, her chair pulled close to him as they read through the murder book on the Johnston case. It was a thin file, but Slater knew by the time they closed the case, it’d be as fat as a blood-engorged tick.

Myers’ winter-white skirt hiked up as she crossed her legs at the knee, showing smooth, tanned skin halfway up her thigh. Slater felt irrationally irritated as he watched Bauer lap up her attention like a puppy dog. When Myers caught Slater’s eye, a light flush started at her neck and spread across her high cheekbones. Bauer averted his eyes and played with the report in front of him.

Remembering Borem’s words, Slater snapped, “Christ, Myers, if you want to seduce the kid, do it in private.”

She went rigid in the dingy office chair, whipped her head around, and glared at him. “You’re way out of line, Detective.”

“You’re out of line using one of my team members like that,” he retorted.

“We were just, uh, you know – ” Matt offered.

“Get us some coffee, will you, Matt?” Slater asked as he sat down in his chair across from them.

Damn, what was wrong with him? He was acting like a jealous adolescent.

“Are we going to have a problem working together, Detective?”

“Not as long as you take my lead on the case.” He held her gaze steadily across the two desks. “Not as long as you know who’s boss.”

“Oh?”

“Oh,” he repeated crossly. He thought she’d argue, but she seemed to consider a moment before she shrugged those elegant shoulders in the condescending way some women had.

She’d held back info about the Stuckey case, he reminded himself, and there was something else that raised a warning flag whenever he was around her. He’d learned long ago to trust his gut when it came down to two things: women and his cases.

This situation involved both.

Slater’s prickliness bothered Kate, but she wasn’t surprised by it. Whatever he imagined, she thought, aware of his hard scrutiny as she watched Matt Bauer exit the squad room, she hadn’t been using Matt. In fact, the kid was like a breath of fresh air. But she didn’t intend to expend energy convincing Slater. She kept her face impassive as she turned back to the murder book.

“What do you think?” Slater said after a few silent minutes.

“Nothing more than what I expected.” She answered coolly. “We’re fortunate those kids were hanging out on the beach. We might not have found Jennifer so soon.”

Slater removed his jacket and draped it on the seat back. “Since your copy of the Stuckey file looked thin, I made a request for the full original file,” he said in what sounded like a peace offering. “We can review the field and interview reports, the follow-ups.”

When she glanced up sharply, he added, “Don’t worry. I went around Marconi and used only the case number, no names. Your secret’s safe for the moment.”

An awkward silence hung between them while she searched for a response until Bauer returned minutes later, carrying three cardboard containers of black coffee, packets of sugar, and cream. She didn’t blame Slater for being annoyed. It’d be hard to imagine anyone you worked with involved in a cover up. Or worse, murder.

When Bauer handed her a coffee, she cleared her throat and spoke as if nothing had just happened. “Thanks, Matt.” After taking a quick swallow, she hurried on, “I’ve been trying to get a fix on the killer’s profile. Jennifer Johnston was missing from Wednesday afternoon until Sunday night when her body was found at the lake. That means – ”

“The killer had plenty of time to have his fun with her,” Slater finished as he took the coffee Bauer proffered.

Kate winced and picked up the photos taken Monday at the crime scene. She carried the pictures to the window where she stared at them in the cloudy noon light.

Although she’d already looked at the photos and had viewed Jennifer Johnston’s body at the morgue, the crime scene photos now appeared almost pornographic. The harsh contrast of the damaged body against the lake’s serenity was stark and unforgiving. As Kate flipped through the untouched photos, nausea washed over her. Cold sweat beaded on her brow and gathered between her breasts.

A yellow dress fluttered in the breeze from an open window. Caught by the wind, it fell to the floor in slow motion and landed on a white brassiere. She had time to glimpse the brown stains on the delicate garment before the buttery yellow of the dress slowly, very slowly, covered everything.

Kate shuddered and forced herself back to the here and now. She ought to feel elated, being so close to the killer after all these years. But the pictures made her breath catch as if she were poised at the edge of a dark abyss. Seeing Jennifer’s mangled body, she felt no triumph.

She shivered and closed her eyes against the horrible scene, against the nightmarish memories.

“You okay, Dr. Myers?” Bauer stood at her side, his lanky form bent as he peered at her, blocking Slater’s view.

Kate forced herself to look once more at the pictures—twelve in all—the last one showing Jennifer’s high school senior photo. A broad smile split the girl’s face, and her eyes crinkled in a challenge to the camera. Kate’s hands shook and she bit down hard on her lower lip.

She hadn’t realized Slater was studying her until his matter-of-fact voice sounded at her left shoulder.

“Here’s what we know so far,” he iterated. “Like you said, Jennifer disappeared a week ago, Wednesday afternoon, walking home from school. The last time anyone saw her was around two forty-five when she said goodbye to a bunch of friends after school. That’s Placer Hills High on Sheridan Avenue.”

Slater walked back to his desk and waited until Kate returned to Bauer’s chair. “Her kid brother told us she often took a shortcut,” he continued. “The guy must’ve snatched her in the alley that cuts three blocks from the school to Vernon Street on the north side.”

Kate used the time while Slater recited these details to calm herself. She pushed the photos discreetly out of her line of sight.

“After he kidnapped her, he took her some place and did this to her,” Bauer added. “Then used the Pontiac to transport the body to the lake.”

Slater pointed to the photos. “Since the evidence shows she wasn’t killed at the lake or in the car, the primary scene, when we find it, should have lots of trace.”

“She was gone almost a week,” Bauer said. “Wilson estimated she died between ten and four Sunday night.”

“That means he had her longer than three days before she died,” Kate interrupted.

“He killed her, Myers,” Slater said. “Not ‘before she died.’ Before he killed her.”

She felt tension flare between them again. “Don’t split hairs. Sure, he
killed
her, but she
died
from what he did to her. Do you think because I’m a psychiatrist, I’m looking for a reason to absolve him?”

“No,” Slater conceded. He paused and glanced through the blown-up crime scene photos. “What profile factors jump to your mind from looking at the photos?”

Kate looked briefly at her lap, at her clenched fingers. She needed to control herself if she were going to move this case along. Slater was too astute not to wonder why she took his comments personally.

She moistened her lips before answering. “The ferocity of the attack shows the killer was angry and frustrated. The post-mortem wounds are indications of residual rage that he didn’t wreak on her while she was alive. He continued stabbing after her death because he wanted more time with her when she was alive.”

“More time.”

“A torture-murderer doesn’t usually kill his victim so soon. Three, four days isn’t very long.”

Slater’s jaw clenched. “I bet it was an eternity to Jennifer.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Kate protested.

Slater shrugged. “You’re saying he wanted to torture her longer, but she died too soon?”

“That’s my guess. Wounds inflicted after death often indicate something personal and show a high level of rage.”

“She could’ve known her assailant,” Bauer said. “Could be this Dwayne Severson kid.”

This was the first she’d heard the name. “Who?” she asked.

“A boyfriend of sorts,” Slater replied.

Kate shook her head skeptically. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. This man wanted her to suffer enough to keep her alive, but the victim herself isn’t personal to him. She’s a prototype. And the longer she lives, the longer she suffers, the more enjoyment he gets out of the experience.”