Serial (19 page)

Hogart, 2005

Beth Colson watched the boxy yellow back of the school bus rumble down the dirt drive to the county road and then turn toward the highway. For an instant the pale face of a student was visible staring out the rear window. Not Eddie, she was sure.

Dust raised by the bus was still hanging in the air when Sheriff Wayne Westerley’s cruiser slowed and made a right turn into the drive. It was a gray SUV with
SHERIFF
lettered on both sides and a roof bar full of lights. There were extra lights mounted on the front, down low and protected by wire guards.

The big vehicle navigated the bumpy dirt drive easily on its oversized knobby tires. Beth moved back to stand by the front porch while Westerley parked near the stand of big oak trees that were showing their golden fall leaves.

He climbed down out of the big SUV and came toward her, smiling. Beth couldn’t help but think how trim and handsome he looked in his tan uniform and black leather cross belt and holster. He even had a black tie on today, tucked in between his uniform shirt’s top two buttons. Beth had always thought that was an odd way for uniformed men to wear their ties. Either you were going to wear a tie or you weren’t.

“Special occasion?” she asked, smiling at Westerley.

He grinned and appeared puzzled.

“You look so dressed up and nice in your uniform.”

“Always special when I come see you, Beth.” He removed his black-visored garrison cap and stopped and stood a few feet away from her. Behind him dust was still settling. A bird started nattering in one of the oaks. “I saw the bus on the way in. Eddie get off to school okay?”

Beth smiled. “Yeah. He’s on the honor roll again this year. Can you believe it?”

“Sure. He’s a super kid.”

“He is that.”

“I got some news,” Westerley said. “Thought it best if I came and told it to you in person.”

Beth felt a cold weight in her stomach. “This bad news?”

He shrugged. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Who you are, I guess.” He removed his cap and held it before his crotch with both hands, as if he’d forgotten to zip his pants. “Now that DNA makes identification so certain, even after years have passed, there’s this organization, a bunch of lawyers running around the country reopening old crime cases where there were blood samples taken. Those samples, mostly taken to determine blood type, are still around in old evidence files.”

The bird stopped its nattering and the forest around the house was silent. “I heard about that on the news,” Beth said. “They started doing that after the Simpson case.”

“DNA science has gotten more sophisticated since then. And so have the people using it to free wrongly convicted prisoners.”

“Not a bad thing,” Beth said.

“Yeah. Well, this organization looked into the state’s rape case against Vincent Salas.” Westerley moved slightly closer to Beth, as if he wanted to be within range to catch her if she fell. “They determined that Salas couldn’t have been the one who raped you, Beth.”

Beth did feel dizzy. The sky, the woods, the sheriff himself, seemed to spin for a few seconds, as if the earth had tilted. She felt Westerley’s hand on her arm, steadying her.

“That ain’t possible,” she heard herself say.

“It is, Beth. The DNA proved it. Salas’s attorney’s been to the state capital, rushing this thing through. They don’t want an innocent man in prison one day more than he has to be there.”

“Innocent? Can that really be true, that he’s innocent?” A thought hit her hard. “If Salas didn’t rape me,
who did
?”

“That’s something you don’t need to worry over, after all these years. Besides, the statute of limitations has expired.” Westerley wasn’t positive of that, but it had to be close. “Bastard who did it, from way outta state, the kinda things he’d do and the life he musta led, he might even be dead by now. Time has a way of leveling things out. Let that part of the past stay buried in the past, Beth.”

Westerley was gripping both her arms now, looking down at her from beneath the visor of his cap. “You must have made a mistaken identification, Beth. It happens. You didn’t do it on purpose. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Except send an innocent man to prison.”

“There was plenty of other evidence against him.”

“How could that be, if he wasn’t guilty?”

“It’s that kind of world, Beth. That’s why a jury needs to find beyond a reasonable doubt. The jury in your case thought it was doing just that, that there was no reasonable doubt Salas was the rapist.”

“When’s Salas gonna be released?”

“In three days.”

Beth began to cry and shake her head sadly. “What did I do? Oh, God, what did I do?”

“Your best,” Westerley said. “You believed Salas was the one, or you wouldn’t have pointed him out in a lineup, and in the courtroom. None of this is your fault.”

“All of it’s my fault.”

She was suddenly hugging Westerley, and his arms were around her.

“You want me to be with you when he gets out?” he asked.

“You suppose he’ll be furious with me?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure how he’s gonna feel. I know this: I’m gonna have a talk with him right off. You won’t have anything to fear.”

“I’ve got me to fear, Wayne. My conscience.”

“I don’t see how you could have done anything different, Beth.”

“I coulda been more sure.”

“It’s so easy to say that after the fact. Knowing what you knew, thinking what you thought, feeling like you did, there wasn’t much else for you to do.”

She looked through a mist of tears up into his eyes. “You really believe that?”

“Damned right I do.”

“I wish I could be as sure as you.”

She dug her forehead into his shoulder, and her body trembled with her sobs. The woods began to trill with the sounds of insects becoming more active in the building heat. A breeze kicked up, stirring the leaves and moving the dust around.

“You want me to stay with you?” he asked.

She hugged him harder. “Yeah, I want you to stay with me.”

I do, and I don’t.

New York, the present

Jock Sanderson finished with the tiled floor of the ladies’ room at the Uptown Diamond Theater, then used the wringer on the bucket to press and roll out the mop head.

He stood leaning on the mop’s wooden handle, surveying his work. The cracked gray tiles gleamed as best they could after so many years. The metal stalls were free of graffiti, if you didn’t look too closely at the remains of a lipstick sketch of a huge male organ on one of the stalls. The things women drew and wrote in public restrooms never ceased to amaze Jock.

He made sure he’d put a new plastic liner in the trash receptacle by the door. After a last look around, he backed out of the restroom, pulling the mop and bucket on rollers behind him, making sure the bucket didn’t tip as it
thunkthunk-thunked
over the tiles. It was good to get away from the smelly ammonia-based disinfectant he’d used to swab down the old walls and floor. His nasal passages were clear enough now, thank you.

The Uptown had only recently been reopened and used for off-Broadway productions. The repertoire group that acted there was currently doing
Hamlet
. Not Jock’s kind of thing. Too melancholy. Not that Jock walked around with a silly grin pasted on his face. It was just that he believed people could and should do something in this world, make their own way, create their own wake in the water. Like when he was in prison for that rape he’d had no part in. Behind the walls, he’d made himself a cutting tool out of a piece of broken glass he’d found, diligently filing it to shape on concrete and hiding it in his waistband.

He’d used it to cut the first con who’d had a go at him. Then he’d stomped on the glass weapon, grinding it into bits so it could yield no fingerprints. Nobody ever learned who’d opened the assailant’s gut so that closing it required thirty stitches.

Jock fell under the protection of a gang of skinheads. He’d been safe then from the gangs of black and Hispanic cons. All it took was keeping quiet most of the time and getting a few ballpoint ink tattoos that identified him as somebody not to bother without damned good reason.

Not that his time behind the walls hadn’t been hell. It would be, for a guy like Jock. But he was a fast learner and an operator.

He had to smile as he rolled his bucket along the Uptown’s side aisle, careful so the soapy water wouldn’t slosh out onto the carpet. Figuring angles, keeping quiet, holding your cards close—he’d learned those things in prison. They were also useful on the outside. They helped him to get things done.

Like Judith Blaney.

He dumped the bucket’s contents in the backstage sink, then rolled the bucket and mop toward the lobby. He made his way to the exit. It was six in the morning and already plenty bright and warm outside.

After helping to load the equipment in the Sweep ’Em Up van, he said good-bye to the rest of the cleanup crew and then ambled toward the subway stop that would take him south through Manhattan and home. It was already warm, the time of year when the concrete canyons didn’t completely cool off during the sultry nights. He wouldn’t smell so good on the subway, but he could put up with the sideways glances and people trying to get some space between him and them. It wouldn’t always be that way.

Underground in the subway stop it was cooler. The platform was already crowded. There were working people like Jock, standing back on their heels and tired from their night jobs. There were a few out-and-out alkies who’d fouled themselves and smelled even worse than Jock. Already there were plenty of men and women dressed for the office, some of them toting attaché cases or folded newspapers. Getting an early start. Trying to stay employed in the lousy economy.

Everybody became more alert as a breeze moved over the platform. A train was approaching, pushing the air ahead of it through the narrow dark tunnel. A distant set of lights became visible, and the crowd on the platform moved nearer to the edge, preparing to board the train as soon as it lurched to a halt and the doors slid open.

Jock suddenly became aware of a man standing close to him, actually nudging his arm.

He looked over to give the guy a dirty look, and found himself facing the Skinner.

Jock drew in his breath. “What the hell …”

The Skinner smiled grimly and handed him a small cardboard box, the sort of thing a cheap piece of jewelry might come in.

“I thought you should have this,” the Skinner said, “as a reminder that it would be best if we kept our secret just between us.”

He turned and walked away, losing himself in the mass of people eager to board the train.

Jock knew he’d soon have to board and fight his way to a seat. The train had arrived and was already starting to slow.

He raised the lid of the tiny box and at first didn’t know what he was looking at. Some kind of snail, only too large for that. He prodded it with his forefinger and found it cold and pliable. Some sort of seafood? Dead, thank God.

Then he noticed the contour and color of the object and, staring at it, realized it was a human tongue.

Judith Blaney’s tongue!

It must be!

The message was indirect but clear.
This is what happens to people who talk against the Skinner. Who can’t keep a secret.

Jock quickly replaced the lid and swallowed hard to keep last night’s doughnuts down. It almost worked. He had to clamp his teeth and lips together and gulp down the sweet and bitter column of bile that rose in his throat.

He slumped on a hard plastic seat molded for the derrieres of extraterrestrials. The train thundered through darkness while he sat holding the tiny white box on his lap with both hands, all the way to his stop.

After he’d climbed the concrete steps to street level, he began walking fast on sidewalks that hadn’t yet become packed with pedestrians. He was aware of the hardness of the concrete through the thin soles of his shoes.

He dropped the box in the first trash receptacle he came to. Casually. Not glancing back.

Only then did he slow his pace.

He was perspiring heavily. The odor of his own stale perspiration nauseated him. Bile rose again in a bitter column at the back of his throat.

Judith Blaney’s tongue. Jesus!

For a second—only a second—he felt sorry for her.

Then he thought about the detective who’d questioned him in his apartment. He couldn’t recall her name. The one with the black hair and eyes, and the big boobs. Despite her femininity, there’d been a kind of toughness about her.

She’d told him that if he came up with any other information he should call her. What if he called her with this? Handed her the box and said he’d found it in his mailbox or some such thing? “Maybe this will tell you something,” he could say, not smiling at her, keeping a straight face. A penitentiary face. All the while watching her expression as she slowly realized what she was holding. Pearl. Yeah. That was her name, Pearl something. With her job, she’d seen some shit, so maybe the tongue wouldn’t bother her and might even turn her on somehow. You never could tell; women were funny that way.

But he wasn’t about to go back and even touch that box again. He wanted its contents out of his life. Forever.

Still, the thought of handing it to the cop with the boobs amused him. It actually made him smile.

The Skinner sat on a park bench near a Central Park play area and searched through the
Times
and
Post
, as he always did after taking a victim. He’d watched local TV news faithfully, too.

Again, there was no mention of the missing tongues—neither Candice’s nor Judith’s.

There was plenty of other lurid detail in the news reports, especially in the
Post
. He’d looked in the latest giveaway copy of
City Beat,
too. Even though the thin paper was a freebie, it had broken some big news in New York. It must have spies and purveyors of gossip all over the city, calling themselves journalists.

Of course, he knew why there’d been no mention of the tongues. The police were holding back that piece of information so they could be sure they’d have the right man when finally they had a suspect. Only they and the killer knew about the missing tongues.
Our little secret.
The police envisioned an interrogation that would be like a quiz with a trick question. The suspect would have to pass the simple test to be authenticated, and then he would be bona fide and hell bent.

Maybe it would be fun to contact the police, or one of the papers or cable news channels, and mention the tongues himself. Keeping his identity unknown, of course. Taunt the police. Taunt Quinn, who was supposed to be some kind of super hunter of serial killers.

No, he decided; better to let them think they were ahead in the game. Or at least catching up. It was enjoyable, even titillating, to know so much that Quinn didn’t. To know that Quinn wasn’t half as smart as he thought he was.

In fact, having Quinn as lead investigator was a bonus. The Skinner appreciated Quinn. The famous serial-killer hunter made everything a lot more challenging and interesting than some NYPD drone would have done. A man to match the mountain. Almost.

The Skinner extended his legs as he leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes. The morning sun’s heat felt wonderful on his face. He decided he felt good. The turnover of the tongue to Jock Sanderson had gone well. The little bastard would still be shaken by that. He’d been given plenty of reason to guard his own tongue, to make sure it didn’t say the wrong thing to the wrong people.

Not that he hadn’t had reasons already. But it was always best to give people like Sanderson motivation they could
feel
as well as reason out. The Skinner knew the kind of man Sanderson was. A schemer and a taker, without ethics or shame. A survivor who would do first of all what made the best sense for him. He would not be too prideful or stubborn to be scared into safe behavior. The severed tongue had been effective.

And here was an amusing thought: Maybe the tongue was something Judith Blaney owed Sanderson. A better-latethan-never piece of the entire woman he’d wrongly served time for possessing.

The Skinner relaxed in the warm sunlight, feeling the weight of his tension evaporate.

He assured himself that there was symmetry and justice in the world, and that destiny was on his side.

“He’s fixated on it now,” Helen Iman said. The lanky redheaded profiler was leaning, all six feet plus of her, with a palm flat on Quinn’s desk. Quinn marveled at how long her fingers were. No doubt she could palm a basketball.

“So he figures to remove the tongues of all his future victims,” Quinn said.

Helen nodded. “That’s the way it usually works in these kinds of cases. Two times in succession means a trend.”

“Fedderman checked with slaughterhouses. They don’t use the kind of knives to remove calves tongues that were used on the victims.”

“Human victims, you mean,” Helen said.

Quinn looked at her. “You a vegan, Helen?”

“No, no, just a plain old omnivore. Still, when you think about some of the stuff we eat…”

“The trick is not to think about it,” Quinn said.

“Maybe the Skinner’s mastered that part of it.”

At first Quinn didn’t know what she meant. Then he did. “Oh, Christ! You don’t suppose…”

“That the killer might be consuming the tongues? That to him they’re a delicacy?”

“I’ve seen so many things I didn’t think possible,” Quinn said.

“I doubt that he’s into cannibalism, but we can’t rule it out. I do know that if he isn’t, he might be plenty pissed off if it was in the news that he was probably eating pieces of his victims. Even cannibals don’t like to be called cannibals. And being falsely accused might make somebody go crazy with anger and make a mistake.”

“Could shake things up,” Quinn said. “Whether he’s eating parts of his victims or not.”

“A win-win,” Helen said.

“Do you think it might be more valuable to us that way than holding back the tongue information from the media?”

“That’d be up to you to decide.”

Quinn sat back and looked up at Helen’s bony face. It was still attractive, but it would become craggy as she aged. She smiled down at him from her lanky height, made even taller by the three-inch heels she was wearing. She should be coaching or starring on a women’s volleyball or basketball team. Or maybe even flaunting her tall self on fashion-show runways.

He smiled. “You seeing anybody, Helen?”

“Why? You interested?”

“Somebody worthwhile should be.”

“Somebody like Fedderman the clotheshorse?”

“Sure,” Quinn said. “Feds is a good man.”

He knew Helen had been going out with some creep of a lawyer who specialized in representing cops’ widows with insurance claims. Sometimes doing more than simply representing them. Guys like that, it always amazed Quinn that women couldn’t see through them, even in times of grief. Maybe it was because they wanted so badly to believe.

Women,
he thought.
So easy to fool and difficult to deceive.

“Want me to give you Feds’s number?” Quinn asked.

Helen straightened up her long frame and smiled. “I’ve already got his number, Quinn. And it doesn’t work the combination.”

Quinn considered phoning Renz and discussing whether the business with the victims’ tongues should be made public, along with the theory that the Skinner was not only a killer but a cannibal. If Helen Iman was right, that kind of publicity might drive the Skinner over the top. It might cause a killer who had raised procedure and caution to the level of art to make the one mistake that was all Quinn and his team needed.

Renz might go along with it. Then again, he wouldn’t like the additional heat directed at him for not being competent enough to apprehend a monster like the Skinner.

Quinn reached out and dragged the phone across his desk to him. But he didn’t call Renz. He called Cindy Sellers at
City Beat
.

Sellers had no scruples, and she could keep a secret. Probably Renz was already secretly feeding her information about the Skinner murders; she was his favorite media stooge and ally. Renz had used her to plant and manipulate information in a number of cases. But that wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t as if they were friends. Neither was the kind of person who had real friends. And Sellers wasn’t above playing a double game. In fact, it would appeal to her baser instincts.