Her Dying Breath (6 page)

If a man had been murdered, the killer could be lurking nearby.

The area appeared clear, but his senses were honed. The trees rustled in the wind, mosquitoes buzzed nearby, an owl hooted from the woods, followed by the wail of a cat. He approached the door slowly, checking over his shoulder just before he stepped inside the doorway.

Except for the dim glow of a table lamp, the room was dark. Brenda stood by the table, her face ashen.

He quickly scanned the room, but the metallic scent of blood hit him before he even spotted the corpse. He immediately noted the position of the body on the bed, and the fact that he was naked and had bruises on his chest, arms, and legs. His color was gray, his eyes wide open in the death stare, his wrists and ankles raw from straining against his restraints.

The setup suggested S & M behavior, and the wire—asphyxiation sex. Had the sex been consensual?

Kinky sex that went too far and turned into an accidental death? Or was this premeditated murder?

Another step closer, and he touched the man’s neck, where a pulse should have been. But the skin felt cold to the touch, and when he lifted the man’s arm, it was rigid and heavy, indicating rigor had set in.

“What were you doing here?” he asked as he looked up at Brenda. “Do you know this man? Were you meeting him?”

She released a breath, then seemed to pull herself together. “No, I don’t know him.” Her voice took on a brittle edge. “And no, I wasn’t meeting him.”

She indicated the ropes and piano wire around the man’s neck. “And I’m not into that kind of sex either,” she said sharply.

For the briefest of seconds he wondered what kind of sex she was into, but decided not to broach that subject. He did not want to get personal with Brenda Banks.

“Then why
were
you here?” he asked.

Brenda pushed her phone into his hands. Her fingers were clammy, her sigh shaky as she gathered her composure, and he had the sudden urge to pull her into her arms and comfort her.

“I received this text about a half an hour ago.”

Dread balled in his stomach as he read it.

Tell the Commander I left a present for him.

Slaughter Creek Motel. Room 7
.

Now he understood why Brenda had been so certain this was murder.

He jabbed Jake’s number into his phone. Jake answered on the second ring. “Did you find Amelia?” Nick asked.

“Not yet.”

“Brenda was right,” Nick said. “You need to get over here asap and send a crime unit, Jake. We’ve got a homicide.”

Amelia let herself back inside her condo, her body coiled with tension as she eased into her artist smock and picked up her paintbrush. She’d desperately needed some fresh air.

To clear her head.

And quiet the voices in her mind.

She also had to find some relief for the sexual urges that seized her when Viola whispered in her ear.

But she’d lost a few moments, actually hours, and that worried her. She thought the blackouts were behind her…

What had she done during that time?

She glanced down at her tattered shirt and rumpled skirt and smelled sweat and the scent of a man on her.

Her therapist assured her that her sexual urges were normal, and that as a young woman, she had a right to enjoy sex. But she wanted to make real love, the way the doctor said it was supposed to be. To be with a man without Viola’s propensity for rough, edgy escapades. To have a man love her with tenderness and
affection. But most of all, she wanted to remember every minute of it.

She began to paint, purging the demons inside her head, letting her artistic side flow. Long black strokes, images of a woman and man engaged in violent sex, of whips and chains and ropes, of dominance and submission, images Viola placed in her head with her books and whispered words and…pictures.

It took three canvases to capture the darkness Viola liked, but with each stroke, Amelia’s determination to thrive grew stronger. She had to keep Viola at bay. Because Viola liked to steal her nights and days, just as Skid had done for years.

Just a few months ago, she had finally killed Skid. She refused to let another personality dominate her.

She glanced at the bulletin board on her wall, at the article Brenda Banks had written about the Commander. Brenda had portrayed him as a cruel, depraved man who’d preyed on innocents.

Amelia intended to show the world that he hadn’t destroyed her, that she wasn’t the nutcase everyone thought.

That she would survive, in spite of what Arthur Blackwood had done to her.

N
ick checked the dead man’s eyes and saw definite signs of petechial hemorrhaging. The acrid odor of body wastes and death permeated the room, but he’d have to wait on the ME to establish time of death.

He glanced around the motel room, searching for clues to the killer’s identity. A tacky orange flower-print bedspread on the floor. A dusty, ancient TV. A cheap painting of a grizzly bear on the wall. A bathroom with a rusting toilet and cracked tile flooring that needed cleaning badly.

No personal items. No toiletries left behind.

“Did you touch anything, Brenda?”

“No.” Brenda fidgeted. “Well, nothing except the doorknob.”

“Was the room locked when you arrived?”

The color was finally returning to her face. “No. I considered going to the manager for a key, but figured since I received the text that the door was probably unlocked.”

Nick nodded. “Go on.”

“I scanned the perimeter outside, just in case I was walking into a trap. A pickup truck and an RV sat in the parking lot, but the lights were off in all the rooms, including this one.”

“So you did touch the lamp?”

“Yes, the light by the door didn’t work,” Brenda said. “The stench hit me, and I…had to see what had happened.”

“Then what?”

“Then I found the body,” Brenda said in a shaky voice. “And I called you.”

“So the room looked exactly like this when you arrived?” Nick asked. “You didn’t see any clothing or a wallet?”

“No—I understand the importance of not tampering with a crime scene,” Brenda said in a defensive tone.

Nick yanked a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, then checked the bedcovers, the dresser, and the bath again. “No clothing anywhere. No wallet. Not even a condom.”

“Whoever killed him probably took everything to foil forensics,” Brenda said.

Nick grunted. “You sound like you know a lot about a murder scene.”

Brenda shrugged, then gripped her phone and started to punch in the newsroom number.

Nick pressed a hand over hers. “Wait, you can’t air this on TV. We have to determine the victim’s ID, notify next of kin. Process the crime scene.”

Brenda glared at him. “This is news, Nick. I found the body, it’s my story.”

“Yes, but we can’t tip the public on crucial aspects of the crime.”

“Fine,” Brenda said. “I know the boundaries and will make sure my people follow them.” Still, she snatched her phone and began snapping pictures.

“Brenda,” Nick growled.

“I promise you nothing goes into print without your permission. But you can’t shut me out, Nick. The killer invited me to this crime for a reason.”

He cursed. “Because the killer wants publicity.”

“You’re probably right—the coverage will give him notoriety.”

“She,” Nick clarified.

“How do you know the perp is female?” Brenda asked.

“Instinct. Just look at the setup.”

“Still, it’s possible the killer is male. Maybe a gay male.”

“Or confused sexually,” Nick conceded. They couldn’t rule anything out at this point.

A siren wailed in the distance. Jake was on his way, and hopefully the ME and crime unit.

“All right, it’s your story,” Nick said, giving in. “But listen to me, Brenda—you have to run everything by me first. If you become a problem, I’ll arrest you for interfering with a homicide investigation.”

She lifted her chin in challenge but nodded. “Don’t worry, Nick. I won’t interfere. In fact, I’m probably going to be an asset.”

He mumbled something ugly beneath his breath. No reporter was ever an asset. “More like a thorn in my side.”

“Deal with it. For some reason this killer sent a text to me, not you.” Brenda started toward the bathroom to take more photos.

Nick stepped in front of her, using the fact that he towered over her to intimidate her. “After we’re done processing, you get your chance. You might contaminate the evidence.”

Brenda gave him a saccharine smile. Apparently she didn’t intimidate easily. “Come on, Nick, I might grow on you if you give me a chance.”

He glared at her, then ordered her back to the doorway.

“Fine,” Brenda said. “But I am calling my cameraman. We can take shots of the outside of the motel.”

He wanted to wring her neck, but she disappeared out the door, and he used his own phone to snap some photographs.

Jake’s squad car zoomed up and barreled to a stop, the sound of doors slamming echoing from the street. Seconds
later, his brother and his deputy, Mike Waterstone, appeared in the doorway.

“The crime unit will be here any minute,” Jake said as his gaze raked across the scene. “Jesus. Have you identified the victim?”

“No, no clothes or wallet,” Nick said.

Deputy Waterstone appeared behind him. “Shit,” Waterstone said as he spotted the dead man tied to the bed. “Are you sure this was murder? Some people are into this kinky sex. Maybe it just got out of hand.”

“It’s possible, except that Brenda received a text telling her to come here. That she’d find a present for the Commander.”

“Some sick bitch,” Waterstone muttered.

Which made him wonder if the killer had been one of his father’s subjects. Of course, other people were also incensed over what his father had done. Family members of victims, friends, anyone with a pulse. “Hopefully the ME can give us more information.”

Jake cleared his throat. “I’ll talk to the motel manager, inform him we have a crime scene and find out who rented this room.”

Nick turned to the deputy. “Waterstone, see who those vehicles in the parking lot belong to. We need to know if anyone saw anything.”

“How about Brenda?” Jake asked. “She’s going to be a problem.”

“For some reason the killer contacted her, probably wants Brenda to make her famous.”

“Probably,” Jake agreed.

“I gave her strict orders not to show any photos or reveal any details she hasn’t cleared with me.”

“Good,” Jake said. “I didn’t see any security cameras when I drove up. But I’ll ask the manager. Maybe he has one at the check-in desk.”

The sound of two more vehicles rumbled into the parking lot. First the crime unit. The other—Brenda’s news van.

As if Slaughter Creek hadn’t suffered enough from the recent publicity.

Now another circus would begin.

Brenda met her cameraman, Louis Bellamy, at the news van. Now that the shock of finding the dead man was wearing off, her adrenaline had kicked in.

The killer wanted Brenda to tell his or her story, and she intended to do that.

“What’s up?” Louis asked as he hoisted his camera from the back of the van.

“A murdered man in room seven.”