Until Dark (13 page)

Chapter
Twelve

When Joanne Jacobson left her house at five-thirty on Wednesday evening, she never suspected it would be the last time she would ever pass through her front door. She’d paused momentarily to flick a tent caterpillar off the mailbox, then grimaced in disgust as she found another one crawling across the brick walk that she, with the help of her two brothers, had just laid the weekend before.

The thirty-four-year-old mother of two honked the horn of her station wagon impatiently, then gave it another blast just for good measure. Within seconds, the door flew open and her son flew out. If he didn’t hurry, she’d told him, he’d be late for the pregame warm-up for the first game of the new baseball season. Besides, she reminded him, she’d volunteered to man the refreshment stand that night, and she still had to pick up all those cases of soda, all those boxes of chips.

Ten minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot at the ballpark, and after winking at him for luck—at twelve, he was too old to publicly kiss—she drove to the local beverage distributor. After having the cases of soda stacked into the back of her car, she returned to the ball field and drove around to the far side, where the stand was located, to park behind the small building that was constructed out of concrete block.

There was another car already parked there, another station wagon—late model, light silvery blue in color, its back gate standing open—in the single parking space. Not having time to search for the owner to ask that the car be moved, she parked next to it, mumbling curses under her breath that she’d have to carry all these heavy cases by herself, from the back of her car, around that car, and into the back of the refreshment stand. She unlocked the back door, then returned for the soda.

“Let me give you a hand with that,” said a gentle voice from behind.

She turned to offer her grateful thanks, but the word never had a chance to pass her lips.

She collapsed like a balloon with an air leak, right into his arms.

He merely turned around and dropped her neatly into the back of the wagon, where he quickly bound her wrists and ankles with the rope that had already been measured and cut for that purpose, and taped her mouth. He threw a blanket over her unconscious form, tossed the stun gun into the cargo area next to sweet Joanne, and whistled on his way to the driver’s side door. He ducked into the car to avoid being seen by the boy who, completely unaware of what had just transpired, walked leisurely in the direction of the snack hut.

“Mom?” He heard the boy’s confused call as he drove away. “Mom?”

Joanne Jacobson was found seventeen hours later, sprawled in a field not far from the tracks of the Strasburg Railroad, a popular tourist attraction outside of Lancaster. A group of Amish children, taking a shortcut through a cornfield on their way to school, had found the body and gone running off in different directions in terror at the sight of the young nearly naked “English” woman, at the same time obliterating any other footprints that might have been present. The father of the group, once summoned, alerted the authorities. Within an hour, the fields were overrun with police officers, state troopers, and FBI agents. It was unclear to Amos Stolzfus, the man in whose field the body lay, just who, exactly, was in charge.

Adam Stark stood near the body and stared, taking in the scene and mentally comparing it to the scenes where the other women had been found. What was the same? What was different?

This place was more secluded than the others had been. In the past, the killer had dumped his victims in prominent places, places where they’d be found sooner rather than later. But he’d taken no time to arrange them, pose them, as some killers might do. He’d merely dropped them off, and they landed as they fell, as had this one, as if they were no longer important, no longer held his interest. Adam knelt down next to the body and stared into lifeless eyes that sat in a face too swollen for him to know if she’d been pretty or not. He guessed that she had been. All of the other victims were.

The sunlight glittered off the gold cross that hung around her neck and the flies buzzed around her, as if claiming their rights. He hoped that the crime scene technicians were quick in gathering their evidence. He hated when bodies had to remain in the sun for too long. It seemed disrespectful not to move them to shelter, to not take them away from the heat and the beetles and the flies.

“He’s getting really bold,” Adam said to no one in particular. “He took that woman literally from under the noses of about seventy-five people, including her own son.”

“He’s getting quicker, too,” a uniformed officer responded in passing. “We’ve already found the car.”

“Wiped down, of course.” Adam nodded.

“Of course. From stem to stern. Wiped down, washed off. Not a print to be found anywhere except for those from the guys in the car wash. I’m guessing he had a sheet or something under her to eliminate trace evidence.”

“Description from the car wash?” Adam asked.

“White male, six feet one, baseball cap over longish brown hair.”

“Another disguise.”

“Sure. Why not? Look how successful he’s been, changing his appearance. Changes his cars.” The officer shook his head. “The owner of this last car didn’t even know the car had been stolen, that’s how quickly this guy works. Steals the car, steals the woman, does his thing, dumps the woman, dumps the car, and
poof!
He disappears into thin air and leaves nothing behind.”

“Nothing but another dead woman.” His hands on his hips, Adam watched the crime scene investigators move in, then jammed his hands into his pockets and walked away.

And less than thirty-six hours later, yet another body was found.

Adam stood at the head of the conference room table in the state police barracks outside of Lancaster where all involved law enforcement agencies convened to meet with the profiler handpicked by John Mancini to join his team.

In her mid-to-late thirties, wearing a stylish suit of pale green with a matching top under the open jacket, her short blond hair curled softly around her face, Anne Marie McCall was all business. Her impatience to get on with it was well known within the Bureau, and Adam was not the only one who had to suppress a smile as she barely hesitated before introducing herself rather than wait for one of the other agents to do the honors for her.

“I’ve studied your evidence.” She launched right into it, walking around the table and making eye contact with everyone there in his or her turn. “I’ve studied your photos, your reports, your witness statements, your victims, the autopsy reports. I’ve spoken with the homicide detectives and I’ve visited the sites where the bodies were found. Let’s talk about what conclusions I’ve come to.”

McCall stepped back from her chair, her hands on her hips. She was getting into the groove, and would wander around the room, putting together her profile of their killer as she mentally reviewed the notes she’d made while going over all the case data.

“Based on the range of ages of the victims—and I’m not counting the nineteen-year-old here, she was an aberration—we’re looking for a man between the ages of twenty-three and thirty, though I believe he’s probably at the lower end of that range. He’s white, he’s physically strong, capable of lifting and carrying up to at least one hundred thirty-five pounds, the weight of his heaviest victim.”

She stared at the back wall for a long minute.

“Socioeconomic status? Tough to call.” McCall nodded thoughtfully. “He has a great deal of mobility, which could suggest that he’s self-employed, but more likely unemployed. The abductions occurred on different days of the week as well as on a weekend. The victims were all found within twenty-four hours or less following their disappearance. So far, they’ve all been from neighboring communities, some driving time involved, so we know he’s mobile. He’s stealing cars to get around. Stealing and then returning cars. So we know that he has mobility and flexibility in his employment, if in fact he is employed, and in his lifestyle. He is either single, or living with someone who doesn’t keep tabs on him. He’s very, very organized; he knows everything he needs to know about his victims before he strikes. He apparently doesn’t like surprises.”

“Julie Lohmann surprised him,” one of the officers noted.

“And we’ll get back to her in a few.” McCall nodded. “Okay, we know he studies his victims carefully before he goes after them. He follows them, maybe occasionally even speaks to them. It would excite him, knowing that she has no idea of what he’s planning on doing to her. So it follows that he’s a low-key kind of guy, the kind who doesn’t set off any alarms, doesn’t call attention to himself in any manner that would cause suspicion. He fits in wherever he is.”

McCall paused at the window, looked out across the rolling fields and up at the sky, barely noticing that the gathering clouds threatened a sudden storm.

“Where and how does he find his victims?” she asked, then answered, “At ball games. Soccer, softball . . . where he can get close enough to study without anyone being aware that he’s watching. When the game is over, he can even follow his prey closely from the field to the parking lot without drawing any notice at all, maybe hear her voice, catch her scent. He fits in, age-wise—probably looks like any other dad, there to watch his kid.”

She turned to the group and asked, “Who would suspect? Who would know?”

No one sitting around the table moved.

“Now, we’ve concluded that he’s highly organized,” she continued, “methodical, coolly efficient. Determined. He is highly controlled. The rapes, the strangulations, appear to be committed in an almost passionless manner. Perfunctory. Emotionless. The clothing disturbed only enough for him to complete his task. With the exception of the rope marks, there’s little bruising, no bites, no excessive vaginal tearing. The intimacy is all superficial. That’s his comfort zone. No investment of himself here. Some rapists, as you are all aware, really enjoy the act, enjoy inflicting pain and fear. This guy, on the other hand, appears to be wanting to get it over with.”

“Then why do it?” someone asked.

“Oh, I think it’s a power thing. He’s proving that he’s in control. He can—and will—do whatever he pleases to them and they are powerless to stop him. He’s
the man
. And he needs to prove that. Maybe to an authority figure. Someone he feels treated him badly. Maybe his mother.” She hesitated, then added, “Probably his mother. He exercises his power over her, but still treats the victim with a certain amount of reserve.”

“Showing his respect?” a trooper asked sarcastically.

“Possibly. And remember, there’s evidence that all of his victims, except for Julie Lohmann, were stunned twice. I think he stung them the first time to initially subdue them. To gain control over them.”

“And the second time before he raped them, so they couldn’t fight back,” one of the Deal detectives said.

“True. But it also rendered them powerless. Making the humiliation of the rape that much more complete. And then he strangled them. Again, apparently with little emotion. The marks on the necks of the victims show precise placement to make the killing as swift as possible. There was no dragging out of this act either.”

“So you’re saying we have an UNSUB who rapes and murders but doesn’t enjoy it?” A skeptical young state trooper sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.

“Yes, that’s what the evidence tells us.”

“Why would anyone do that if he doesn’t enjoy any of it?”

“I didn’t say he didn’t enjoy any of the process.” McCall leaned on the back of her chair. “Let’s look at his behavior for a moment. Certain aspects of these crimes were high risk. Abducting women from parking lots. Amy Tilden from her children’s school, where several hundred parents and teachers met in classrooms that overlooked the lot. Two of our victims from public parking lots in their towns. One from the snack stand at a crowded Little League field in broad daylight. What does this suggest?”

Before she could answer her own rhetorical question, Chief Ford said, “He’s arrogant, confident, thinks he’s so much smarter than we are that he can flaunt himself and we’ll still never be able to find him.”

“That’s right. He exposes himself to a high risk of being identified, even caught. But he does it anyway, because it excites him. It’s the risk that excites him. Judging from the emotionless way the actual rapes and murders were committed, one would wonder if the planning and the risk-taking weren’t perhaps more enjoyable for him than the actual acts.”

“Then why do it?” someone asked. “Why risk so much to commit crimes that don’t really turn you on?”

“Maybe the risk is the turn-on,” McCall said with a shrug. “Or maybe the crimes are merely a means to an end. A way of calling attention to himself.”

“Yet he takes pains not to get caught.”

“But he lets himself be seen,” the lead detective from Walnut Creek reminded them. “Closely enough that we were able to get a good sketch. Does he want to be caught?”

“I don’t think he wants to be
caught
,” Miranda Cahill spoke up for the first time. “I think he wants to be
noticed
.”

“I believe that may be the key,” McCall agreed.

“Noticed by whom?” an officer turned to ask.

“Perhaps by someone connected to the investigation.”

The gathering of law enforcement personnel gazed around the table at each other.

“Who?” someone asked. “Someone here?”

“Quite possibly,” McCall agreed. “Of course, if we knew whose attention he’s after, we’d probably be well on our way to figuring out who he is, wouldn’t we?”

“So, in other words, he’s showing off for someone?”

“In other words, yes, possibly. But I don’t think this is the first time.”

“Not the first time?” Adam asked. “You’re saying he’s killed before?”

“Yes, several times I’d venture to guess. He’s way too smooth for a beginner.” McCall shook her head. “And the precise manner in which he’s conducted the crimes, choreographed, scripted. Novices rarely kill in so highly disciplined a fashion.”