Before he Kills (A Mackenzie White Mystery—Book 1) (3 page)

“Good recall on that 1987 case,” Nelson
told Mackenzie. It looked like it physically hurt him to pay her the
compliment. “It
is
a shot in the dark. But it does make you wonder…”

“Wonder what?” Porter asked.

Mackenzie, never one for beating around
the bush, answered for Nelson.

“Why he’s decided to go active now,” she
said.

Then she added:

“And when he’ll kill again.”

He sat in his car, enjoying the silence.
Streetlights cast a ghostly glow on the street. There weren’t many cars out at
such a late hour, making it eerily tranquil. He knew that anyone out in this
part of town at such an hour was likely preoccupied or doing their dealings in
secret. It made it easier for him to focus on the work at hand—the Good Work.

The sidewalks were dark except for the
occasional neon glow of seedy establishments. The crude figure of a
well-endowed woman glowed in the window of the building he was studying. It
flickered like a beacon on a stormy sea. But there was no refuge in those
places—no respectable refuge, anyway.

As he sat in his car, as far away from
the streetlights as he could get, he thought about his collection at home. He’d
studied it closely before heading out tonight. There were remnants of his work
on his small desk: a purse, an earring, a gold necklace, a chunk of blonde hair
placed in a small Tupperware container. They were reminders, reminders that he
had been assigned this work. And that he had more work to do.

A man emerged from the building on the
opposite side of the street, breaking him from his thoughts. Watching, he sat
there and waited patiently. He’d learned a great deal about patience over the
years. Because of that, knowing that he must now work quickly made him anxious.
What if he was not precise?

He had little choice. Already, Hailey
Lizbrook’s murder was on the news. People were searching for him—as if he were
the one who had done something bad. They just didn’t understand. What he had
given that woman had been a gift.

An act of grace.

In the past, he’d let much time pass
between his sacred acts. But now, an urgency was upon him. There was so much to
do. There were always women out there—on street corners, in personal ads, on
television.

In the end, they’d understand. They’d
understand and they’d thank him. They would ask him how to be pure, and he
would open their eyes.

Moments later, the neon image of the
woman in the window went black. The glow behind the windows died out. The place
had gone dark, the lights cut off as they closed for the night.

He knew this meant that the women would
be coming out of the back at any moment, headed to their cars and then home.

He shifted into drive and drove slowly
around the block. The streetlights seemed to chase him, but he knew that there
were no prying eyes to see him. In this part of the city, no one cared.

At the back of the building, most of the
cars were nice. There was good money in keeping your body on display. He parked
at the far edge of the lot and waited some more.

After a long while, the employee door
finally opened. Two women came out, accompanied by a man that looked like he
worked security for the place. He eyed the security man, wondering if he might
be a problem. He had a gun under the seat that he would use if he absolutely
had to, but he’d rather not. He hadn’t had to use it yet. He actually abhorred
guns. There was something impure about then, something almost slothful.

Finally, they all split up, getting in
their cars and heading off.

He watched others emerge, and then he
sat upright. He could feel his heart pounding. That was her. That was the one.

She was short, with fake blonde hair
that bobbed just over her shoulders. He watched her get into her car and he did
not drive forward until her taillights were around the corner.

He drove around the other side of the
building, so as not to draw attention to himself. He trailed behind her, his
heart starting to race. Instinctively, he reached under his seat and felt the
strand of rope. It eased his nerves.

It calmed him to know that, after the pursuit,
there would come the sacrifice.

And come, it would.

Mackenzie sat in the passenger seat,
several files scattered in her lap, Porter behind the wheel, tapping his
fingers to the beat of a Rolling Stones song. He kept the car tuned to the same
classic rock station he always listened to while driving, and Mackenzie glanced
up, annoyed, her concentration finally broken. She watched the car’s headlights
slice down the highway at eighty miles per hour, and turned to him.

“Can you please turn that down?” she
snapped.

Usually, she didn’t mind, but she was
trying to slip into the right frame of mind, to understand the killer’s MO.

With a sigh and shake of his head,
Porter turned down the radio. He glanced over to her dismissively.

“What are you hoping to find, anyway?”
he asked.

“I’m not trying to
find
anything,” Mackenzie said. “I’m trying to put the pieces together to better
understand the killer’s personality type. If we can think like him, we have a
much better chance of finding him.”

“Or,” Porter said, “you can just wait
until we get to Omaha and speak to the victim’s kids and sister like Nelson
told us.”

Without even looking at him, Mackenzie
could tell that he was struggling to keep some wise-ass comment in. She had to
give him a little credit, she supposed. When it was just the two of them on the
road or at a crime scene, Porter kept the wisecracks and degrading behavior to
a minimum.

She ignored Porter for the moment and
looked to the notes in her lap. She was comparing the notes from the 1987 case
and the Hailey Lizbrook murder. The more she read over them, the more she was
convinced that they had been pulled off by the same guy. But the thing that
kept frustrating her was that there was no clear motive.

She looked back and forth through the
documents, flipping through pages and cycling through the information. She
started to murmur to herself, asking questions and stating facts out loud. It
was something she had done ever since high school, a quirk that she had never
quite grown out of.

“No evidence of sexual abuse in either
case,” she said softly. “No obvious ties between the victims other than
profession. No real chance of religious motivations. Why not go for the full-on
crucifix rather than just basic poles if you’re going for a religious theme?
The numbers were present in both cases but the numbers don’t show any clear
significance to the killings.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Porter
said, “but I’d really rather be listening to the Stones.”

Mackenzie stopped talking to herself and
then noticed that her notification light was blinking on her phone. After she
and Porter had left, she’d e-mailed Nancy and asked her to do a few quick
searches with the terms
pole, stripper, prostitute, waitress, corn,
lashes,
and the sequence of numbers
N511/J202
from murder cases over the
last thirty years. When Mackenzie checked her phone, she saw that Nancy, as
usual, had acted quickly.

The mail Nancy had sent back read:
Not
much, I’m afraid. I’ve attached the briefs on the few cases I did find, though.
Good luck!

There were only five attachments and Mackenzie
was able to look through them pretty quickly. Three of them clearly had nothing
to do with the Lizbrook murder or the case from ’87. But the other two were
interesting enough to at least consider.

One of them was a case from 1994 where a
woman had been found dead behind an abandoned barn in a rural area about eighty
miles outside of Omaha. She had been tied to a wooden pole and it was believed
that her body had been there for at least six days before being discovered. Her
body had gone stiff and a few woodland animals—believed to be bobcats—had
started eating at her legs. The woman had a lengthy criminal record, including
two arrests for soliciting sex. Again, there had been no clear signs of sexual
abuse and while there had been lashes on her back, they had not been nearly as
extensive as what they had found on Hailey Lizbrook. The briefing on the murder
said nothing about numbers being found on the pole, though.

The second maybe-related file concerned
a nineteen-year-old girl that had been reported as kidnapped when she did not
return home for Christmas break from her freshman year at the University of
Nebraska in 2009. When her body was discovered in an empty field three months
later, partially buried, there had been lashes on her back. Images were later
leaked to the press, showing the young girl nude and engaged in some sort of
lurid sex party at a fraternity house. The pictures had been taken one week
before she had been reported missing.

The last case was a bit of a stretch,
but Mackenzie thought they could both potentially be linked to the ’87 murder
and Hailey Lizbrook.

“What you got there?” Porter asked.

“Nancy sent me briefs from some other
cases that might be linked.”

“Anything good?”

She hesitated but then filled him in on
the two potential links. When she was done, Porter nodded his head as he stared
out into the night. They passed a sign telling them that Omaha was twenty-two
miles ahead.

“I think you try too hard sometimes,”
Porter said. “You bust your ass and a lot of people have taken notice. But
let’s be honest: no matter how hard you try, not every case has some huge link
that is going to create some monster case for you.”

“So humor me,” Mackenzie said. “At this
very moment, what does your gut tell you about this case? What are we dealing
with?”

“It’s just some basic perp with mommy
issues,” Porter said dismissively. “We talk to enough people, we find him. All
this analysis is a waste of time. You don’t find people by getting into their
head. You find them by asking questions. Street work. Door to door. Witness to
witness.”

As they fell into silence, Mackenzie
started to worry about just how simplistic his view of the world was, how black
and white. It left no room for nuance, for anything outside of his
predetermined beliefs. She thought the psycho they were dealing with was far
too sophisticated for that.

“What’s
your
take on our killer?”
he finally asked.

She could detect resentment in his
voice, as if he really hadn’t wanted to ask her but the silence had got the
best of him.

 “I think he hates women for what they
represent,” she said softly, working it out in her mind as she spoke. “Maybe
he’s a fifty-year-old virgin who thinks sex is gross—and yet there’s also that
need
in him for sex. Killing women makes him feel like he’s conquering his own
instincts, instincts he sees as gross and inhuman. If he can eliminate the
source of where those sexual urges come from, he feels in control. The lashes
on the back indicate that he’s almost punishing them, probably for their
provocative nature. Then there’s the fact that there are no signs of sexual
abuse. It makes me wonder if this is some sort of attempt at purity in the
killer’s eyes.”

Porter shook his head, almost like some
disappointed parent.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he
said. “A waste of time. You’ve got yourself so far into this you don’t even
know what you think anymore—and none of that is gonna help us. You can’t see
the forest for the trees.”

The awkward silence blanketed them
again. Apparently done speaking, Porter turned the radio up.

It lasted only a few minutes, though. As
they neared Omaha, Porter turned the radio back down without being prompted
this time. Porter spoke up and when he did, he sounded nervous, but Mackenzie
could also hear the effort he was putting forth to sound like he was the one in
charge.

 “You ever interviewed kids after they
lost a parent?” Porter asked.

“Once,” she said. “After a drive-by. An
eleven-year-old boy.”

“I’ve had a few, too. It’s not fun.”

“No, it’s not,” Mackenzie agreed.

“Well look, we’re about to ask two boys
questions about their dead mom. The topic of where she works is bound to come
up. We have to handle this thing with kid gloves—no pun intended.”

She fumed. He was doing that thing where
he spoke down to her as if she were a child.

“Let me lead. You can be the comforting
shoulder if they start crying. Nelson says the sister will also be there, but I
can’t imagine she’d be any reliable source of comfort. She’s probably just as
wrecked as the kids.”

Mackenzie actually didn’t think it was
the best idea. But she also knew that when Porter and Nelson were involved, she
needed to choose her battles wisely. So if Porter wanted to take charge of
asking two grieving kids about their dead mom, she’d let him have that weird
ego trip.

“As you want,” she said through clenched
teeth.

The car fell into silence again. This
time, Porter kept the radio turned down, the only sounds coming from the
shifting of pages in Mackenzie’s lap. There was a larger story in those pages
and the documents Nancy had sent; Mackenzie was sure of it.

Of course, for the story to be told, all
of the characters needed to be revealed. And for now, the central character was
still hiding in the shadows.

The car slowed and Mackenzie raised her
head as they turned down a quiet block. She felt a familiar pit in her stomach,
and she wished she were anywhere but here.

They were about to talk to a dead
woman’s kids.