His Garden of Bones (Skye Cree Book 4) (12 page)

“I don’t know exactly. But there’s no flesh left on them, no tattered clothing anywhere in sight.” Josh scanned the businesses up on the hill and the cross-traffic on the street. He studied the ridgeline down to the seawall. “Nor does it appear that they’ve been unearthed recently. See, there are no holes anywhere on shore, no massive grave to excavate. No indication the bones were dug up, or planted here at some point, or thrown out in containers or cartons, at least not from the highway, too far to toss them out like that—busy section of street, too busy not to attract attention from all the businesses nearby. If a vehicle stopped to unload that kind of cargo, for the time it would take, someone would see that kind of dump. That only leaves one conclusion.”

Skye shifted her feet, considered the factors in his theory. “They came in from the sea, washed up on shore, recently, perhaps even overnight.”

Josh rubbed his chin in thought and looked out at the water. “You got it on the first try. I’ve lived in Seattle all my life, made so many trips back and forth across the Sound that I couldn’t even begin to count all of them. There’s a marker not far from here commemorating the loss of the
Dix
, a ferry that sank
in 1906, carrying millworkers and their families. After spending the weekend in Seattle, the lumber company had a habit of transporting their employees back to Bainbridge for the work week. But that Sunday night the
Dix
hit an Alaska freighter heading to Tacoma. The
Dix
went down within minutes, taking forty-five people with it to a watery grave.”

“I remember reading the history. If memory serves, the marker’s around that curve in the trail near Duwamish Head. Didn’t they finally locate the wreckage of the
Dix
several years back?”

“I think so. As far as I know there were no plans to raise it. But the bodies were never recovered.”

“You aren’t suggesting these bones could belong to the children from that maritime disaster, are you?”

Josh shook his head. “I’m not suggesting anything. I don’t know exactly where they came from. But I intend to do my own research until I find out.”

A
t the downtown Seattle Marriott, former FBI profiler Emmett Cannavale, took center stage at the law enforcement seminar to talk about what he’d learned over the years about serial killers.

The fifty-five-year-old retired Fed wasn’t all that tall, maybe five-eight, but he had a presence that surpassed physical traits. That Chinook heritage Travis had mentioned earlier was evident in his black hair and dark brown eyes. He regaled the crowd with anecdotes, an easy smile, and could be charming at times to make his point.

The conference room had already filled to capacity by the time Josh and Skye found a seat. They sat among cops from across the state who had gathered to go over stacks of cold cases, hoping to get their chance at hearing the famed profiler’s take on a variety of serial homicides with one common characteristic, a sexual overtone to each crime. Each case competed with the other for a resolution. They’d brought their own three slim file folders that held the few facts they knew about the murders of Carrie, Taylor, and Lisa.

Cannavale held court like a professor in charge of his classroom. The crowd, eager and attentive, listened as he went over the usual characteristics of a serial offender. The speaker rattled off his points by citing the list of traits serial killers most often exhibit beginning in early childhood. From abusing animals to going through psychological or physical trauma, such as a head injury, to developing an odd or embarrassing fetish, including voyeurism, to compounding their problems by using alcohol or drugs, Cannavale warned that society invariably faced the making of another Ted Bundy if it failed to recognize the problem in youth.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” Skye whispered to Josh from the back row. “This isn’t really new info.”

“Our goal is to get Cannavale one on one. That’s why we came. Right now he’s hitting the high points.”

“He’s going over repetitive ground,” Skye grumbled, that stubborn bent to her tone clearly evident. “Look around. There are at least two hundred cops here who brought tough cold cases. Every single one of us in attendance knows serial killers don’t stay choirboys forever and the ‘expert’ is wasting time spouting off about how they got started. Who cares?”

Josh recognized impatience and squeezed her hand. “Down girl. He’ll get to us as soon as his speech is done. If necessary, we’ll pounce on him during the afternoon break.”

Their first shot at talking to Cannavale came during the working lunch when everyone drifted to tables set up in the back to pick up their cold sandwich and chips. The no-nonsense meal suited Skye’s mood. But for the first time all day, she did feel bad for the guy who was just trying to grab a bite to eat while he could. Her sentiment, however, didn’t prevent her from interrupting his ham and cheese on wheat.

She introduced herself and Josh before making her brief presentation. Getting down to the bottom line, she said, “Today we brought three recent cases that are remarkably similar. We think our killer is making a statement for a specific reason. We just don’t know what it is yet.”

Without a word, Cannavale picked up his paper napkin and wiped his mouth, opened the first file, then the second, then the third.

“Much of what I say, you probably already know. But for what it’s worth, your guy is highly organized, likes to use his hands, and keeps trophies. He has no problem dismembering. By that I mean he’s comfortable with a knife. He fixates on the breasts, probably because he has a thing for that particular body part.”

Skye didn’t try to mask her disappointment. Her face showed all the frustration she felt. Why had she thought this former government guy held all the magical answers?

“Take a seat,” Cannavale said, looking up at the couple. “I can see you’re both disillusioned. But profiling isn’t an exact science no matter how many TV shows present it as such. Why don’t you tell me what you think?”

Josh pulled out a chair for Skye before sitting down across from Cannavale and picked up Lisa’s folder. “We think he’s cutting out the implants because he sees them as intrusions to what he considers the perfect body. What we can’t figure out is why he made the girls get them in the first place only to cut them out.”

“Maybe he didn’t. You might be dealing with a guy who hears voices.”

“A schizophrenic?”

“Sure. Ed Gein, Berkowitz, Richard Chase, they were all diagnosed as such. There’s also the possibility he’s fractured into more than one personality.”

“That would be a new one,” Skye said to Josh.

“Add in the fact that serials are usually proficient at masking their real self, their true feelings to the outside world, especially with family and friends. I’d say you have a disturbed man, probably white, between twenty-five and thirty-five. He gets off on the suffering your three victims felt. That tells me he’s proficient at what he does. Translation: He’s killed before these three.”

“Which means we’re looking at the tip of the iceberg,” Josh stated.

Skye nodded. “On that we all agree. He wanted us to find these.”

“That sounds like a reasonable conclusion. But keep in mind what I said about the trophy thing. Remember, when they keep the bodies close to them, bodies are considered trophies.”

“You think he doesn’t like letting go of his other victims,” Josh stated in understanding.

“That, or he’s like Ridgway, and puts them where he has access, where he is able to go back and forth whenever he wants.”

Skye scrunched up her nose. “Yuck, you’re inferring that he practices necrophilia on a regular basis. You should probably know the coroner has yet to find semen on, or in, any of his victims.”

Cannavale arched a brow. “That’s interesting. That suggests this isn’t a sexual perversion but something else.”

Josh let those two things sink in before adding his own distinctions. “I don’t think this guy handles conflict very well.”

The profiler picked up the photographs Skye had included in the files and studied them, taking his time with each frame. “You’re probably right. Little things could cause him to go off the rails at the slightest provocation when he doesn’t get his way. Let’s say, for instance, he’s walking down the street and decides he wants a cup of coffee. He goes into a coffee shop, stands in line with everyone else and when it comes his turn he places his order. He takes his first sip and realizes they had the gall to get the order wrong, maybe too much milk, or too much cinnamon, whatever. This incident would be enough to send him over the edge, piss him off enough to want to exact revenge in some way.”

“So he sees any slight as a personal affront?”

“Exactly. He also sees women as inferior, having only one purpose in life. That probably stems from childhood, and a shameful or embarrassing sexual experience. He made that into an excuse to turn violent. Even if it isn’t during his sexual acts, something triggered his serial killer instincts.” Cannavale smiled. “I can see by the look on your faces that you’d already figured that much out on your own.”

The profiler chose that moment to point a finger at Skye. “Which means your killer no doubt sees you as being out of your league against him, so much so, that you have no right to pursue him.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Skye muttered.

Josh’s protective nature stirred inside, his sense of outrage ramping up. “So Skye’s not a viable threat, but rather someone he looks down on with disdain?”

Cannavale stabbed a finger toward Josh. “Make sure you have her back because he’ll likely come after her in some way.”

“The flowers. He sent me flowers and left them on my patio. We thought he was simply trying to get my attention.”

Cannavale shook his head. “Knowing where you live? Not a good development at all. My guess is he
is
showing off to get attention but not for the reason you think. Since he’s convinced himself you’re deficient as a human being, he wants you to know you aren’t worthy. Until this guy’s in cuffs, I’d take extra precautions.”

Josh didn’t hesitate. “Believe me, I intend to.”

“How long are you in town?” Skye asked.

“Till Monday, at which time I intend to head to the Cascades to spend a long vacation in the mountains with my wife until after New Year’s.”

“Then if you haven’t already made plans for Sunday, how would you feel about a home-cooked meal at my father’s place?”

“I never say no to home-cooking. Maybe you both should start calling me Emmett.”

“Okay, Emmett. You’ll need directions.”

Later on the ride home, Josh wanted to know, “Do you really think it’s wise to invite him to dinner the same night you’re meeting Travis’s main squeeze?”

“You know me. I guess we’ll find out the hard way if it’s a mistake. If nothing else it should be an interesting meal.”

A
s it turned out, they picked Emmett up from the lobby of his hotel and explained they’d be eating dinner in Everett at The Painted Crow, the forty acres of ranchland Travis owned that hugged the Washington coastline where he bred and sold American Paint Horses.

“Interesting name. Probably something to do with his spirit guide,” Emmett deduced, his attention turning to Skye. “Which makes me wonder. What’s yours?”

While Skye zipped her Subaru in and out of the Sunday afternoon traffic, she spared a glance in the rearview mirror at the man sitting in the backseat. “White wolf. And you?”

Emmett grinned in the direction of the driver. “Coyote. Lifelong enemy of the wolf. I see conflict in our future.”

Skye shot him an amused look. “Goes without explanation. You might want to include Josh in that statement. It probably isn’t a good time to tell you that you’re surrounded by wolves—at least in this car.” She looked over at Josh. “You should definitely tell him what happened to you and how you acquired your
wolf
tendencies.”

“I don’t think I have to.” Josh angled in the passenger seat so he could meet Emmett’s eyes. “You picked up on something the other day when we were sitting across from each other I saw it in your eyes.”

“I did indeed. You’re perceptive like the wolf, keenly smart and cunning. I’m fascinated to hear how you have wolf blood running through your veins.”

“Suffice to say, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Skye’s spirit guide.”

“And the fact that I led us into what amounted to a trap, an ambush with Ronny Whitfield, didn’t help matters,” Skye admitted.

“Ah, yes. I’m familiar with your background. I discovered in the records that Whitfield died of an unfortunate animal attack.” Emmett cocked a brow in Josh’s direction. “Your wolf’s doing?”

By way of an answer, Josh ignored the question. “Right about now, most people would merely consider all three of us insane or delusional.”

Emmett nodded. “But we aren’t most people. What we are to some are anomalies. Even now, Chinooks are still viewed as extinct by the federal government.”

“That’s crap,” Skye muttered, passing a slower vehicle that seemed to have a hard time finding the gas pedal.

“I’m sure you’re referring to the tribe’s historical fight with bureaucratic red tape. I read your extensive bio as well as the book you wrote about it,” Josh admitted with a grin. “I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Emmett grinned back. “The wolf makes for a worthy adversary because he’s insightful and takes his time sizing things up before he acts. And yes, my people briefly won the right to establish ourselves as a tribe and be recognized as such back in 2001, only to lose the recognition within a matter of months. We’ve been fighting in court ever since. Imagine being from the tribe that kept Lewis and Clark’s entire expedition alive, and yet we have to fight for our tribal existence, our very heritage. We’re just one of a hundred Native tribes petitioning and working our way through the court system, fighting for federal recognition.”

“It’s the same with the Duwamish,” Josh pointed out.

“Good thing we come from a long line of stubborn people, right?”

Skye nodded in agreement. “We do. Look at me, the Nimiipuu. Just because a bunch of French Canadian fur traders supposedly spotted a couple warriors with a bone sticking through their noses, the nimrods called us Nez Perce, meaning pierced nose. We’ve been stuck with that tag ever since. Forget the fact that nose piercing wasn’t even part of the Nimiipuu’s culture.”

“Exactly. So do you guys live around here?”

“Not anymore. We bought a place over on Bainbridge Island, a spot where Skye has room to plant a garden if she wants. Whenever we head to Seattle these days we take the ferry.”

“I see. So in order to leave you flowers on the back porch, your unsub had to go out of his way to take the ferry to get there? Interesting.”

This time, Josh retold the whole story.

“Hmm, you don’t find it odd that your wolf didn’t sound an alarm?”

Skye and Josh exchanged long stares. “We questioned that back and forth until we decided that maybe I slept through Kiya’s fuss. That’s her name by the way, Kiya. I’d been up all night so I guess I didn’t hear the racket. That’s the only explanation.”

“Unless this unsub put a block of some kind on your spirit guide,” Emmett suggested.

“A block? You mean like a spell?”

“Exactly like a spell to prevent your wolf from picking up his presence.”

“But he’d have to be Native in order to know about Kiya, or spirit guides in general for that matter,” Josh pointed out.

“Not necessarily. Don’t be so quick to rule out other ancient peoples who practiced curses and the like.”

“I hadn’t considered that. By the way, what do you call your coyote?”

“Coyote.”

Skye belted out a laugh. “Now that’s original.”

She steered the car toward the exit ramp, made a left turn at the stop sign, and drove past towering evergreens and rolling pastureland. The ranch sat among a lush forest of Douglas fir and spruce.

As the vehicle flew under the iron gate-topper, horses grazed in the front corral. Looking beyond the two-story house, steep cliffs dropped down to a narrow stretch of inlet rocky shoreline scattered with conifers and beach grass.

The unmistakable aroma of salt and sea mixed with pine met them as they stepped out of the car.

Travis appeared on the wide porch with a stylish woman draped on his arm. The couple sent up a friendly wave to their guests.

Skye decided she’d need to work on getting used to seeing a female with her father. She couldn’t deny they made a striking pair. At five-ten, Travis was quite a bit taller than the petite, thirty-something Chenoa Starr. Skye had to admit Chenoa’s warm exotic eyes, high cheekbones, silky black hair, and ready smile were all huge pluses.

Despite all that, it was the apparent age difference that didn’t sit well with Skye. From the looks of her, Chenoa had to be no older than thirty-five, which made her more than fifteen years younger than her fifty-two-year-old father. The fact that Chenoa had chosen a tight-fitting, neck-plunging cocktail dress that looked like it deserved its own Academy Award didn’t help put Skye in a better frame of mind. The out-of-place attire went a long way to prevent Skye from becoming a charter member of the Chenoa fan club. 

Maybe Josh had been right. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to bring a guest with them to meet the girlfriend.

As if reading Skye’s mind and disapproving thoughts, Josh sent her an “I told you so” look that reminded her it had been a bad idea to bring Emmett along. The look earned him an infuriated glare from his wife. But it was too late to change the dynamics of the showdown now.

“Hi, Dad,” Skye finally managed. “I’d like you to meet Emmett Cannavale.”

“Ah yes, the former olive tree grower. Nice to meet you. Welcome to The Painted Crow.”

Emmett let out a laugh. “Thanks, I plan to retire one day to the family farm my father handed down to me. So do your heart a favor and make sure you stock up on plenty of olive oil in the future. It’s good for the ticker. My wife will thank you for it.”

“I’d think olive trees are tough to grow here?” Skye said. “What with the cold and damp winters?”

“Our farm uses the hardy Arbequina variety. It tolerates coastal climate really well as long as the temps don’t drop below twenty degrees. We take precautions against the winter weather beginning with the November harvest season by layering mounds of dirt around the trunks. It protects the young trees. I’ll send you a couple for your own yard. You’ll be shocked by how much fruit two trees will give you.”

“Would those produce green or black?”

“Spanish olives are actually dark brown, very smooth and buttery in flavor.”

“Here that, Josh? We’ll be able to grow our own olives.”

Josh put an arm around Skye. “Does that mean you’ll make those great big ones stuffed with cream cheese?”

She poked him in the rib. “Someone’s hungry.”

The group drifted through the front door and into a masculine living room, a traditional man’s room filled with soft black leather furniture, chrome accents, and mahogany wood. The walls were decorated with several large landscapes depicting Native scenes in oil done by Native American artist Ty Moon.

Making herself at home in her father’s house, Skye was about to play hostess and take drink orders from everyone when the charming Chenoa beat her to it.

“Now, what would everyone like to drink?”

With that one sentence, Skye gritted her teeth, found herself clenching her jaw. But despite the instant dislike she’d taken to the woman, Skye resolved to get through the evening without being rude.

That proved even more difficult when Chenoa fussed over Travis like a clucking hen with her baby chicks. It made Skye want to barf.

To make matters worse Chenoa brought out appetizers that looked like they came straight from the freezer aisle—tasteless mini quiches, brown clumps of hamburger shaped like meatballs, and a plate of chicken-stuffed taquitos.

Not exactly a menu that corresponded with the rich, snobby equestrian image Chenoa seemed determined to present to the world.

When the woman kept rattling on about all the blue ribbons and trophies she’d won from her various horse shows, Skye all but lost her appetite. She listened as Chenoa droned on about how a rider had to control a thousand-pound mare using every muscle throughout her entire body—as if the guests were supposed to find that information the least bit fascinating. While Skye sat there feigning interest, she conjured up a vision of Chenoa going head first into a muddy trough.

That made her feel better until the woman announced, “And this year Travis is taking me to the Savannah Classic so I can accept the award for Horsewoman of the Year.”

Skye and Josh traded fed-up looks then slanted one over at Emmett, who wore a bemused expression on his face. The profiler seemed a snicker away from reacting to the motor mouth who couldn’t seem to shut up about herself.

That alone had Skye on the verge of committing a social faux pas. To keep that from happening, while they waited for dinner, Josh tried to turn the conversation to something more appealing, at least to them. He asked Emmett about highly organized serial killers and the ploys they generally used to achieve success.

Skye lifted her glass of red in Emmett’s direction. “Our guy is definitely not one who kills simply at random. He’s methodical and takes pride in his work.”

“Until he isn’t,” Emmett offered up. “Methodical, that is. I’ve studied the cases you brought to me in greater detail. I believe Josh is right about why the killer mutilated those young women. The implants were an affront to him in some way. But he dumped them where he did because he wanted them found.”

Realizing they’d gone over this same topic at the seminar, Skye picked up on the gist of Josh’s intent, which was fine by her. As long as she didn’t have to listen to Chenoa prattle on about her hobbies, she could talk about the weather. But serial killers would make for a better dialogue. “I think the guy wanted to get a reaction and sit somewhere so he could keep an eye on the scene.”

“It was the middle of the night. He probably brought night vision goggles,” Josh suggested. “In order to do that his spot had to be high above the shopping center.”

“Like a rooftop,” Skye offered.

“You’re looking at someone who wants your attention so much that he may go all in to make sure he gets it, Emmett noted. “Even if it means he’ll try a new angle, something he’s never tried before.”

Josh chewed on that. “And you still believe we might be dealing with several different personalities?”

Emmett nodded. “Consider the possibility of at least three. You’d do well to keep it in the back of your head as you move the investigation forward. Keeping an open mind means less chances to miss a vital chunk of the puzzle when dealing with a splintered identity.”

About that time, Chenoa appeared in the doorway to the dining room arm in arm with Travis. “Time to eat.”

The cozy couple reinforced how the woman had prevented Travis from mingling with his other guests. One more mark against Chenoa, Skye decided, as everyone moved to the table. After getting comfortable they attempted to pick up the discussion where they’d left off.

But Chenoa headed that idea off with a terse reminder. “Excuse me, but I don’t think this is the time or place to have a morbid conversation about serial killers over my delicious lasagna casserole.”

“We were just touching on the fascinating concept of personality disorders,” Skye pointed out, hoping to either push Travis to finally engage in the topic or drive Chenoa over the edge. “That’s one of the reasons we invited Dr. Cannavale here tonight. Tomorrow he leaves town for the holidays and who knows when we’ll get this chance again to pick his brain or to talk to him in depth, one on one. You obviously don’t appreciate just how special this opportunity is.”

Chenoa sent Travis a scathing look. “That’s all fine and well but no one bothered running this by me. I had no idea you’d want to spend the evening chatting about something as vile as murderers and the like. It never occurred to me that you’d want to. But it should have.”