Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (19 page)

Freaki
n
’ A.  DeeDee was right.
  Megalo Do
n’
s leaving bite wounds resembling feet on his vic
s
’ shoulders.  W
e’
ve got a possible signature, from what Bite Doc and I have analyzed on both vics.  Most profilers agree the signature satisfies some perverted sexual fantasy couched in a larger sadistic framework in the per
p’
s mind.  The biting signature means Megalo has a sadistic need to satisfy, and it relate
s—
for some reaso
n—
to feet. 

But why?

I figure answering that question is part of the key to solving the riddle of Megalo Don.  It goes to motive, and determining motive will explain why the Do
n’
s hung up on leaving bite marks of feet in his vic
s
’ flesh.  It will also help me interpret the crime scenes when we finally learn where the Don is killing his vics.

“
Doc, I have to be sure.  Yo
u’
re telling me these bites definitely are not normal?  The
y’
re not some guy with really bad teeth, maybe a meth-head with a kinky predisposition. . .
?
” 

I hope h
e’
ll answer using plain English, but i
t’
s too optimistic a wish. 

“
Far from it, Detective
,”
he says, making no effort to hide his satisfaction with Megal
o’
s brilliance, and his disgust with my ignorance.
 “
He uses some sort of special dentures to inflict them.  The
y’
re homemade.  But the molds he uses to make his special dentures are of
most
excellent quality
.
”

The hell?  Is Doc admiring the Do
n’
s handiwork?  I reverse my earlier decision to lighten up on the doc as a suspect, and give myself a mental pat for running a BCI check.  Is Bite Doc getting off on the per
p’
s perversion?  Is he covering his own homicidal brilliance by making homemade
molds
in clear view of NPD, using them to chew women to death?  The brutal thought is not evidence based, but I drill down on Bite Doc.
 “
Yo
u’
re saying he custom makes these molds for each murder
?
”

“
Yes.  He brings them with him to the scene, or wherever he plans the attack
,”
Bite Doc continues
,“
and then he uses them as a . . . sexual apparatus
.
”

Biting back a sarcastic innuendo, I stay focused on the reason
I’
m here.
 “
Doc, is he using these dentures . . . to disguise his bite
?
”
 
If so, that shoots hell out of Bite Do
c’
s theor
y—
and any hope I have of forensically establishing signature using bite mark patterns. 

“
No, h
e’
s not worried about being caught
,”
Bite Doc says, that peculiar adoring glow of adulation again flushing his pasty face.
 “
He gets off on inflicting bite-wound patterns of feet
.
”

I shoot the old coot an admiring gaze.  H
e’
s a nut job, for sure.  He might even be the serial killer
I’
m looking to catch, a fact I keep ever-present in my mind.  But the do
c’
s knowledge of the exotic devices a sadistic man like Megalo Don can dream up to sexually attack and kill women like Meer
a—
and the second and now our third vi
c—
is encyclopedic.  The ma
n’
s freaky, but Bite Doc knows his teeth, and
I’
m here to learn, and to catch a killer.

“
Do you think the vics are strangers to Megalo Don
?”
I ask.  Mentally reviewing Megal
o’
s sadistic sexual preferences, I carefully watch Bite Do
c’
s reaction.  He never raises a wintry eyebrow. 

“
I
t’
s possible, but I wo
n’
t say for a certainty.  He is a complex individual. 
Most
complex
,”
he reiterates, emphasizing his point.
 “
His sadistic fantasies involve inflicting pain, exquisite deliberate pain.  In his mind, i
t’
s required.  His goal is to frighten his victims into submission and then to eat them slowly and watch them agonize . . . for arousal purposes
.
”

“
Kinky bastard
,”
I say, not bothering this time to apologize for my language.  At this point, I do
n’
t care if I offend Bite Doc.  I stare at the photos of both vic
s
’ shoulders.
 “
So . . . yo
u’
re saying h
e’
s into sexually and psychologically abusing his vics
?
”

Engrossed in examining the latest vi
c’
s color photos, Bite Doc rumbles
,“
As I said, h
e’
s complicated.  Most likely, h
e’
s charming to a certain extent.  And he at first makes friends with his victims.  He easily impresses others with his intellect
.
” 

Bite Doc coughs, clearly uncomfortable.  The description he just gave me fits him, except for the charming part.  Ted Bundy was charming, or many of his vics found him so, but Bite Do
c’
s anything but. 
I’
ve studied everything on Bundy, but unlike his unsuspecting vics, I figured he was exactly what he looked like: a sicko serial killer.  Is Bite Doc in Bund
y’
s category?

“
But after h
e’
s sated himself sexually
,”
Bite Doc continues
,“
he kills his victim
.
”

“
In other words, she has to be alive while h
e’
s biting her to get a sexual charge
?
”

He stares a pinhole in my forehead with a look that could kill. 
Did
n’
t I just explain all this
?  I play dumb and let him glare.
 “
Yo
u’
ll have a difficult time catching him
,”
he says, finally.
 “
H
e’
s a mixed offender, to steal a bit of your profiling jargon.  H
e’
s both sane and insane.  Complicated
.
” 

“
As i
n‘
Hannibal Lecte
r
’ complicated
?”
I say, persisting, despite the do
c’
s growing impatience.

Again,
that
stare.

“
I disagree, Doc
,”
I say.
 “
I think our perp is insane.  Period
.
”

Bite Doc snorts.
 “
I see you are illogically immersed in media archetypes
.
” 

He slides one of the color photos under his beat-up but sophisticated looking old microscope, like the ones Q uses in James Bond movies.
 “
Think Bundy
,”
he says.
 “
Ted
.
”

Then he gnashes his teet
h—
a la Hannibal Lecte
r—
at me, and laughs.

“
Whoa, Doc, back off
!
”

I bristle at Bite Do
c’
s putdown.  His news that our killer is like Bundy shocks me into near apoplexy.  Bund
y’
s case coul
d’
ve gone on indefinitely if the co-eds he bit had
n’
t helped identify him, if the bite marks h
e’
d inflicted on their buttocks had
n’
t forensically matched Bund
y’
s own teeth. 

Now I have a real problem. 
Ho
w’
n hell can I solve this case within Captain Meye
r’
s short timeframe
?
“
Doc, not to sound doubtful, but are you certain
?
” 

His heated glare tells me
I’
ve pissed him off thoroughly this time. 

“
Detective, have you bothered to see the latest victim in the morgue
?
”

A twinge of anxiety grips my gut.  Bite Doc asked the question like h
e’
s enquiring whether
I’
ve visited my terminal mother in the nursing home in the past hour.
 “
No, I have
n’
t
,”
I say.
 “
The coroner just faxed me the vi
c’
s photos this morning.  Why
?
”

“
Come
,”
he says, sounding bored to wooden indifference by my ignorance.
 “I’
ll show you something.  A lady
,”
he adds
,“
that even you are not likely to seduce with your uniform and badge
.
”

“
There is no such creature
,”
I say.

Bite Doc snorts his disagreement.

Chapter 16

My mind is racing.  My hear
t’
s thudding out of my chest.  If i
t’
s the Viking cop here to see me, then
I’
ve got to walk out there and face him.  I can hear him now
,“
Yo
u’
ve got two choices, Miss Colby.  Talk.  Or take the perp walk
.
”

But how can I protect Robin if I talk to Detective Hawks?  If
I’
m in jail?

Worried sick, I unlock the door to Bric
k’
s front office and hurry in. 
I’
ve got my plan for dealing with Detective Hawks, but
I’
ve also got a problem: I look like death warmed over.  Why did
n’
t I take time this morning to comb my hair?  How can I distract him looking like a gypsy witch?

I flip the wall switch.
 “
Damn
!
”
 
Nothing.  No lights.  Did I forget to change the bulbs for the overhead lights?  Aurelia will probably write me up for that, in addition to all my tardies.

I squint and search the reception are
a’
s deep gloom.  Wha
t’
d Brick say? 
Our new client has the nicest teeth h
e’
s ever seen?
  I shoul
d’
ve picked up on that, too, instead of trying to recall the LE
O’
s smile.  The ma
n’
s a cop.  He snarls: he does
n’
t smile.  Leastways, he did
n’
t last night.

The cop looming in the reception are
a’
s darkness does
n’
t smile, either.  But her teeth, not that sh
e’
s smilin
g—
sh
e’
s no
t—
and everything else about her, jump out, screaming for attention.  Sh
e’
s not in uniform, but I can smell a cop a mile away.  Sh
e’
s go
t“
detectiv
e”
written all over her.

I glance toward the sliding window separating my office from the front reception area and feel grateful i
t’
s there, a barrier.  Leaning forward across my desk, I search through the glass window, acting like
I’
m looking for her badge number, but I can barely see.  I
t’
s like swimming in split pea soup in here with no lights.

I’
m fighting panic. 
Wha
t’
s she want?
 

“
Bosom Buds is next door
,”
I offer, hoping sh
e’
s not here about Robin but knowing dang well she is.  Giving her the name of Bosom Buds, the breast reduction facility run by Doctor Frederick Minehauser, I hope I can get rid of her by herding her to Cincinnat
i’
s premier face and boob fixer.  She looks like the type, plastic top to bottom.

“
Do I look like I need a plastic surgeon
?”
she snarls.

“
Hell, no
.
”
 
I stare at her toothy grimac
e—
sh
e’
s also not here for dental wor
k—
and then at her ginormous ladies.  Sh
e’
s not here for breast implants, either.

“
Are you Alaina Colby
?”
she demands.  

I know better than to answer when cops take that high-handed tone. 
I’
ve got the little card with my right
s—
if
I’
m arreste
d—
in my jean
s
’ pocket. 
I’
ve memorized it.
 “
I wish to speak with my attorney
,”
I say. 

“
Ha! 
Y’
all must be shitti
n
’ me, right?  You want an
attorney
?
” 

My heart pounding, I zip my lips and glare.  She steps closer to the reception window separating us.  When she does, I realize why sh
e’
s here.  With her Kentucky accent, sh
e’
s gotta be from Newport PD about the Coca-Cola truck Stoke and I boosted.  A bigger fear grips me.  What if Stok
e’
s gone on the lam with Oma
r’
s money, instead of making the deposit like I told him to do?  But Stoke would
n’
t do that to me, would he?  I try to imagine where h
e’
d go on Oma
r’
s deposit, a few hundred bucks.  Back under the rock he crawled out from under, I hope. 

“
Just charge me and then give me my phone call
,”
I say.  Instantly, I get another of her loud throaty laughs.  Sh
e’
s tall and leggy, a jumping-out-of-birthday-cakes kind of babe.  I can see sh
e’
d be fun at a party, but this is no party. 

A dark thunder cloud of anger kicks up inside my skull. 
Where does she get off laughing in my face?
  Sure,
I’
m a deadbeat.  Robbery.  Fleeing and eluding.  Blowing off my crim quiz and trashing my GPA, maybe losing my scholarship.  And no
w
—

“
What do you want
?”
I ask. 

“
Are you Alaina Colby
?”
she repeats, clearly flexing her authority.

“
I, u
h—
yeah, I am
,”
I say, defiant.
 “
So what
?
”

She runs her gaze down my chest and then back up to my face, sneering like
I’
m a turd sh
e’
s kicking off her shoe.
 “
Were you in Oma
r’
s last night, dancing topless
?
” 

“
Well, yeah,
I—
work there
,”
I say.
 “
Any law against that
?
”

“
Yes
.
” 

Yeah-ass
.  She ladles out every word, her drawl so syrupy I could eat pancakes with it.

“
Newport has anti-nudity ordinances
.
”

“
Nudity is free speech
,”
I argue, warming.  This is a familiar argument. 
I’
ve actually written a senior paper on it.
 “
Protected
,”
I add, in case sh
e’
s not up to speed.

“
Yes, but breach of minimum dress requirements is a misdemeanor. 
Not
protected.  I can arrest you
,”
she warns.
 “
Anti-nudity ordinance zero, eighty-two, eighty-five
.
” 

Impressive.  If I switched the zero to the middle of that ordinanc
e’
s number,
I’
d have Officer Barbi
e’
s measurements.  But i
t’
s obvious sh
e’
s trying to sweat me down before my arrest.  I
t’
s also obvious sh
e’
s an amateur.  My thunder cloud of anger darkens, little veins of lightning cracking against my craniu
m’
s horizon like electrified black chrysanthemums. 

“
At the risk of repeating myself
,”
I say
,“
what the hell do you want
?
” 

“
Why did you run last night
?
”

“
U
m
—” 

She knows I ran last night? 

I reason through my answer.  No, I cannot spew ordinances like she does, but
I’
ve picked up Robin from jail many times, so I know wha
t’
s what. 
I’
m also a crim major.  She has to at least tell me why sh
e’
s going to arrest me. 

“
Who the
fuck
are you
?
” 

She shakes open a leather wallet that costs more than this semeste
r’
s textbooks.
 “
Kentucky NPD
,”
she says.

I figured right.  Sh
e’
s a badge.  The shiel
d’
s cold glimmer shocks me, even though
I’
ve been expecting this since the moment I got Detective Hawk
s
’ messag
e—
his orde
r—
to call him. 

“
Homicide
,”
she says, her fake smile girdled between luscious pink lips and a grimace that says sh
e’
s irritated with me.
 “I’
m asking one more time.  Why did you run from Detective Hawks last night
?
”

Uh-oh.  Crap.  Homicide?  So this, whateve
r“
thi
s”
is, is a little more serious than jacking a Coke truck or robbing a bar.  Homicide cops do
n’
t do robbery.  Do
n’
t do Coca-Cola truck jackings, either. 

Robin.  H
e’
s done it now. 
Everythin
g’
s starting to make sense.  His phone call. 
Do
n’
t tell anyone where I am.
  Robi
n’
s violent when h
e’
s using meth.  H
e’
s already broken two guy
s
’ jaws and put a couple of others in the hospital. 

My brain tripping over my fear, I try to figure out my next move. 
Where is that punkass brother of mine?  Who has he murdered?
 

I’
ve got to find that little butt tick if i
t’
s the last thing I do. 

And then because I love my punkass brother, and because
I’
m a Colby and fleeing and eluding the la
w’
s instinctual, I resort to type.  Raising my hand, I wave five fingers at Officer Barbie and start backing away from the reception window. 

“
Um, can you give me five minutes? 
I’
ll be right back
.
”

“
Hon
,”
she says, blue eyes narrowing
,“y’
all would
n’
t be gettin
g
’ ready to bolt on me, would you
?
” 

Who, me?  Run from the law?
 “
Hell no
,”
I say, backing.

With the power of a pissed off alligator, she whips forward and jerks open the sliding glass window separating my office from the reception area.  Then she springs up from the floor and starts climbing in the window.  Sh
e’
s half way through and spidering across my desk before I can manage to turn and fly toward the back.