Anatomy (6 page)

The profiler didn’t seem shaken at all. If anything, the
more Ruben pushed, the calmer Harbinger became. “Perhaps a routine internet
search might show that the photographer’s biological mother, not the mother
that raised him, was an anatomy professor at the local med school.” Ruben was
about to comment on how that still wasn’t enough when the profiler continued.
“The mother that left poor little Roy when he was a small child in order for
her to go and have a sex change. That mother.”

As much as Ruben did not want to admit that Harbinger was on
to something, he could not ignore a set of coincidences like that. He flipped
open his phone. “Dispatch, I am going to need the address of —”

“Really?” the profiler asked. “You are going to the
house
of the mastermind? Like he’s going to have his killing grounds in that little
apartment. The guy can’t even fit a full Foreman Grill. He had to buy the
mini.”

“He’s right,” Nicole added, finally coming back to the
conversation. “He would need somewhere much more isolated to set up a full
anatomy lab.”

Ruben ignored the dispatcher, who was asking him to finish
as he snapped his phone closed. Gritting his teeth, he asked what had to be
asked. “And I assume, Harbinger, that you know where that is?”

“Well,” the profiler chuckled. “An educated guess might be
his second cousin on his father’s side. Nice farm parcel of land on the
outskirts of town which has had low electricity consumption except on the
nights of the abductions and murders.”

If Ruben had had time to glower, he would have. Clearly that
wasn’t an educated guess on the profiler’s part. He’d done his research and
leapt miles ahead in the case. In a matter of freaking hours. Plus he’d nailed
the fact that Murz was a necro, and had somehow caught Jaime as a crime scene
thief. Oh, and he was, all the while, in a tuxedo.

Nicole got her phone out. “I’ll get us back up.”

Although Ruben wasn’t quite sure why. They had double-“O”
profiler with them.

* * *

Nicole held onto the car door handle as Ruben took a corner
way too fast. The tires squealed as they made the turn down a gravel road. Dust
kicked up before she could roll up her window.

The sound of the siren wailed overhead as red and blue
lights flashed. Ruben’s urgency had gotten them here before their backup.
Nicole’s eyes found the rearview mirror. Kent’s reflection seemed oddly at
peace. Eyes closed, his lips moved in what looked like a chant or meditation. The
profiler was certainly unpredictable.

Of course, he’d captured dozens of serial killers over the
course of his career. He probably didn’t have the same butterflies in his
stomach as she did.

The tires crunched their way down the lane. Ruben cut the
siren and lights as they took another right-hand turn. This road didn’t even
have gravel. Kent had certainly been correct regarding the isolation of the
farm. Trees lined the lane, blocking any view ahead until the road emptied out
into rolling pastures.

A dark house sat in the middle of a field, with a large barn
off to the left. It seemed empty. The only illumination came from their
headlights slicing through the darkness. Ruben pulled them to a stop.

“I’m thinking the barn,” her partner stated, then looked over
his shoulder to the profiler.

“What?” Kent responded. “I’m just along for the ride.”

Ruben shook his head, checking his weapon. “How long until
our backup arrives”?

Nicole pulled her phone out. No bars. No reception. “They
can’t be too far behind us.”

Ruben looked in the rearview mirror, to the profiler.
“Aren’t you going to prep your weapon?”

“Me?” Harbinger asked. “I don’t carry a gun.”

“What?” Ruben exclaimed, then shook it off. “Then just stay
in the car.”

The profiler shrugged, then closed his eyes again. Ruben
glanced to Nicole. “We can wait.”

There wasn’t much worse she could imagine than sitting here waiting
and waiting as her stomach churned while adrenaline sang in her ears. Her toe
tapped against the floor of the car. “At least, let’s check out the barn.”

Getting out of the car, Nicole glanced one last time to the
profiler, who seemed perfectly content to meditate in the backseat. Strangely,
that bugged her. How many doors had she rushed though without a second thought?
And with Ruben by her side? He’d take a bullet for her. No, make that an entire
clip. Then why did her legs feel a little rubbery as she walked away from the
car?

Perhaps it was the fact that they were going after a
predator this time. Not some street punk or even a hard-core gang-banger. This
was a man who had killed, then worked right alongside of them. He had lured
half a dozen people to their death without raising a single red flag. Nicole
wasn’t all that much in a hurry to see what he had in his barn.

Maybe waiting in the car hadn’t been such a bad idea after
all.

Then Ruben gripped the handle on the barn door and pulled.
It didn’t budge. Carefully, they made their way to the small side door. Her
partner turned the handle. It gave. Backing up, Ruben indicated for her to open
the door. Nicole pointed her gun down and out to side as her other hand found
the knob. She gave it a sharp twist, then shoved the door forward, her left
foot sliding forward to stop the rebound.

Ruben charged through the doorway, his gun up and ready.
Nicole entered swiftly after him, their flashlight beams crisscrossing the
room. Which turned out to be rather small. Silver glistened back at them, but
it wasn’t surgical equipment. Instead, it was halters and bridles. Tack.
Horseback riding equipment.

Nicole hissed out a breath. Nothing out of the ordinary
here.

Her partner crossed over to another small door.

They repeated the process, but this time, they entered a
cavernous space. Instead of a barn with stalls and hay bales, they found a
cement-lined floor and a fully functional surgical suite. Huge operating lights
flooded the room, making the stainless steel equipment shine brilliantly.

The rows of scalpels. Trocars. Rib spreaders. Everything you
would need to dissect a human.

Pinching her nose closed, Nicole tried to ignore the strong
smell of iron and formaldehyde. Blood and preservative. She could taste it with
each breath.

“Dear God,” Ruben breathed out.

Nicole joined him at a tray of labels. Each carefully hand
written with the names of each organ. There were at least ten new sets. Ten new
victims the killer had planned on dissecting.

In the still air, Nicole heard the faintest sound of
dripping. She looked down at the ground. It had recently been hosed down.
Nicole tried not to imagine what the killer had washed away. But if the drain
was still dripping…

“He’s here,” Nicole whispered.

Ruben’s gun went up as his gaze swept the large chamber.
There didn’t seem to be any other exit, and there didn’t seem to be any place
to hide. Yet water still ran in small rivulets down the concrete. And if the
tack room was the only way out, there was no way Roy could have slipped past
them.

But where could he be?

She took the right side of the room as Ruben took the left.
They checked behind and under each and every cabinet, table, instrument stand.
Anything that provided the least bit of cover, but still they found nothing.

Ruben then pointed to a tall glass-lined cabinet. Nicole
crossed the room, setting up on the other side of the object. She noticed small
grooves in the floor where the hidden door must have been swung open and shut
many times.

With a heave, Ruben shoved the cabinet away from the wall,
revealing another doorway. This one led into a labyrinth of medical supplies.
Boxes were stacked to the ceiling, blocking their view forward.

From somewhere deeper inside the storage area, the sound of
scuffing filtered through to them.

Who knew what might be ahead, but they couldn’t wait. Not
when the killer might be within reach. As they stepped into the maze of
supplies Nicole wished, not for the first time, that the profiler had come
along.

Kent opened the front door to the house, glad that Roy had
left it unlocked. Or at the least left a lock easy enough to pick. He wasn’t
into splitting hairs. With one last glance over his shoulder to the barn, Kent
entered the house. Nicole and Ruben had chosen to explore the killer’s
dissecting grounds. He was far more interested in his seduction grounds.

Flicking on the light, Kent found a rather average-looking
living room. Actually, it was a perfectly crafted average-looking living room.
How long had it taken Roy to build this perfect balance of familiarity and
individuality?

The furniture was arranged to make the fireplace the focal
point of the room. The stonework gave the room an earthy, grounded feeling. The
pictures that lined the mantle imparted a homey air. Everything you would
expect of a country house. The house felt lived in. Quite the accomplishment
for a psychopath to achieve.

Kent ran his finger along the back of the suede coach. How
many men and women had Roy brought here before he actually got the nerve to do
something about the urges he was feeling inside? Kent could imagine the number
of potential victims that had bailed once they drove down that long, dark, dirt
road. Others must have high-tailed it out of here once they realized how
isolated the house was.

With each failure, though, Roy learned something new. All of
those dry runs had taught him how to create an environment that soothed and
comforted. He had also honed his skill at choosing victims that were either
such extreme risk-takers, or so desperate for attention that they would
actually enter the house.

Didn’t they notice the warning signs? No matter how cozy Roy
tried to make the place, there were telltale signs of mental illness. The
newspapers by the fireplace were stacked with precision. Not a page out of
place. Kent would guess they were in perfect chronological order, as well. The
wood in the fireplace was so neatly positioned that it could be in an ad for
the Boy Scouts. Also, there wasn’t a phone to be seen. Not that house phones
weren’t on the decline as cell phones grew in prominence. But way out here?
There should have been some kind of antique rotary phone somewhere in reach.

And the lack of animals? Did no one notice that, on a farm,
there wasn’t a single animal sound? Not a moo or a bray or even a bark? Kent
was fairly sure that old Roy had practiced his craft on those poor denizens
long before he ever made the leap to humans. That was how most serial killers
started out. Really, animal control officers should just be allowed to make
arrests on children guilty of animal cruelty. It certainly would stem the tide
of adult serial killers.

Shots rang out from the barn, jarring Kent from his musings.
He probably should go out there and see what the kids were doing, but why? Kent
had already led them here by the nose. Did he really need to capture the killer
for them, as well?

Instead, he closed his eyes and imagined that an
unsuspecting victim sat on the couch. What would Roy do next? He didn’t have
the social skills to fool anyone for long in person. He would want to
immobilize his victim as quickly as possible.

The obvious next step in this process would be for Roy to
offer his “guest” something to drink. He would want them to be at ease. Which
must be why Roy had redesigned the house so that you could see into the kitchen
from the living room. He would want to keep an eye on his victim the whole
time.

The layout also served to decrease suspicion on the part of
the victim. It was one thing to walk into a stranger’s house and sit down in
their living room. It was quite another to have that stranger disappear into the
bowels of the house. Left to their own devices, most would pick up the subtle
clues that something wasn’t quite right.

By having an open floor plan, Roy could now keep talking to
his victim as he went into the kitchen, keeping them engaged and unaware. That
did lead to a slight problem, however. Since Roy was in full view of his victim,
how did he get the syringe he needed to inject the paralytics?

Kent crossed into the kitchen, bypassing the oak kitchen
table and going to the refrigerator. It was stocked with the usual suspects.
Milk, lettuce, ketchup, cheese, grapes, etc. Plus a single bottle of chilled
white wine. Kent pulled it out, setting it on the counter as Roy must have
done. What next?

Opening the freezer, Kent took a step back. Well, at least he’d
found the cousin. Or at least that’s what it looked like was stored there in a
variety of plastic containers. Clever. It was a risk, of course, to have a dead
body in one’s freezer, but Kent imagined how it made Roy feel each and every
time he opened the door. To see his accomplishment right there. It was probably
what got Roy through those first few killings.

Kent closed the freezer and opened the drawer closest to the
refrigerator.

Ah, there they were.

Lined up in a nice neat row like a set of prized heirloom
cutlery were syringes, each precisely filled to the three milliliter mark.
Right next to them was a corkscrew.

How easy to grab a syringe as you pulled out the corkscrew.
Again.
Clever
.

The slightest scuff alerted Kent that he was no longer
alone. Grabbing a syringe, he twisted around just as Roy took a swing at
him…with a trocar. Kent ducked, using his arm to block the blow. The stainless
steel shaft clanged against the limb, hitting Kent’s radial nerve, numbing his
hand. An expert blow by someone way too familiar with anatomy. The syringe fell,
useless, to the floor.

Why did psychopaths always want to put up a fight? Kent
didn’t know, but damn, they always did.

Using his only functional hand, Kent grabbed the heavy,
solid oak kitchen chair, knocking it back, tripping Roy in the process. For
such a tubby old man, Roy recovered quickly. That trocar, with its sharp tip,
came arcing overhead, aiming for Kent’s jugular. His only option was to dive
under the table. A loud whack sounded as the stainless steel hit the table,
digging deep into the wood. That would have been Kent’s flesh. So far he had
not been injured by a trocar, and he planned to keep it that way.