When Death Draws Near (4 page)

“I DON'T UNDERSTAND,” I SAID TO CLAY. “SHE WAS
really hurt. How could she leave—?”

“The nurses told me she slipped out late last night.” Clay rubbed his neck. “I drove to her apartment, but the door was open and the place empty. As in a hurry-to-leave type empty. Just like the others.”

“You commented about that before, but I'm not sure I know what you mean.” I pulled a pencil out of my pocket and twirled it.
The rape victims and their families all leave town without a trace?
“Was there any sign of foul play?”

“No.”

“If all your witnesses are leaving town, why didn't you post an officer outside Shelby Lee's door?”

“I did. She must have waited until he took a restroom break—”

“Why did it take so long to see if she'd packed up? You said
you
checked this morning. Why didn't the officer go to her place immediately?”

“He wasn't looking in her hospital room. When the nurse discovered her gone, the officer called me—”

“Why didn't you have her apartment under surveillance?”

Clay shifted in his chair. “I had patrols beefed up, but—”

“Does the press know about the previous victims leaving town?”

“No.”

I stood. “The news media know I'm here. They're going to wonder why I didn't get a composite drawing, especially with Ina Jo missing.” I held my breath. If Clay brought me in as a token gesture for the press, sending me right back would look bad for him.

With Clay's handling of the case, my drawing skills might be the only way to identify the rapist. And I wasn't leaving town until that mother was reunited with her baby.

Clay absently stroked his gold watch while he stared off in the distance.

I didn't move.

His head nodded slightly, as if he'd just come to some agreement with himself. His gaze returned to me and his eyes narrowed. “Well now, seeing as how we've been as busy as a moth in a mitten, I haven't had time to bring you up to speed on these cases.”

Relaxing slightly, I pulled out a sketchbook and pencil, then nodded encouragement.

“We thought the first rape, earlier this year, was a single incident. Found a beat-up prostitute. We weren't surprised when she took off. A month later a second victim, another prostitute, did the same thing. It wasn't until the next two victims that we saw a pattern. Both were taken in the same month.”

“The slimebag was accelerating.”

“Yeah.”

“Did he have a victim type?”

The sheriff pulled a file from a drawer on his left, opened it, and read. “Classic low self-esteem, un- or underemployed, late teens to late twenties, often homeless, in a shelter, or high-risk prostitute. The two women taken that month were living at home in poorer, single-parent households.” He looked at me. “Now, not only did the victims scoot out of town, so did their families.”

“You mentioned that you thought it might be from shame.”

“There was a lot of talk.”

I refrained from commenting about that kind of thinking. “Why do the newscasters call him the Hillbilly Rapist?”

“The newspapers nicknamed him. You're smack-dab in the middle of Hatfield and McCoy country, the country's most famous feud. We celebrate Hillbilly Days in April. And his choice of victims is, shall we say, from country stock. I suspect the Hillbilly name came from all that.”

“So outside of the victims, no one's actually seen him?”

“Nope.” He opened and closed his hands. “Now—”

“Did you call in the FBI or State Crime Lab profiler?” I asked.

“We did, but didn't get much more than what we already had.”

“Which was?”

He looked down at the file and shuffled through a few pages. “The Hillbilly Rapist is motivated by the victim's suffering. Needs to control and inflict psychological and physical pain over hours or days. They call him an—”

“Anger excitation rapist.”

Clay's eyes shot up. “Impressive.”

I grimaced. “Not so much. Some of the stuff you need to learn to be a forensic artist. I worked on a serial killing case recently where one victim was held for hours. And two of Ted Bundy's earlier victims were captured and held before he killed them. Your serial rapist just hasn't moved to the next step of murder.”

“Yeah.” Clay glanced at his watch. “The biggest thing the profile noted was the rapist had a really good way of finding victims. Another month gave us another young woman, this time a gal working at a sandwich shop. We thought he was slowing down until we got two missing persons reports.”

“Why did you think they were his victims?”

“They fit the type. Both were underemployed, about the same age, and their apartments showed signs of a quick move. So we believe his actual count was three for that month.”

I shifted in the chair. “So. Learning and honing his craft.”

“And accelerating even more.”

“Again, classic behavior of a serial rapist.”

“Yeah. And now that clerk's missing. We've usually had more time between his grabbing the gals. Predictable time. We'd worked out that his next victim was going to be taken on Halloween. Now we need to look at that timetable.”

“So you're pretty sure Ina Jo is with him?”

He didn't answer. He was staring at my hand. Following his gaze, I discovered I was twirling my pencil like an out-of-control metronome. I stuck the pencil in my pocket.

“He holds 'em someplace remote for up to five days.” Clay glanced out the window at the surrounding mountains. “Not hard to do around here.”

“He must convince them during that time that their only safety is in fleeing for their lives. Telling them something like
he's going to kill her family if she talks.” I leaned back in the chair and thought. “From what I remember about this type of rapist, every part of his crime is meticulously planned and methodically executed. And probably recorded somehow for future reference. What about physical evidence? Have you found any DNA?”

“Nope. No body fluids at all. As you said, he's careful. Very careful.” He leaned back in his chair and gave me a slight smile. “We've been doing all we can to solve this. Seems like we've reached a dead end, at least for now. Maybe when Ina Jo shows up—”

“Do you have any visual recordings of interviews with the previous victims?”

“Nah. Not really. For the most part, we didn't get a chance to videotape anything. The women bolted before we could set anything up. Why?”

“Sometimes body language or verbal clues will relay a great deal of information.”

The sheriff tapped his lips with his finger. “Interesting. We might . . .”

“Yes?”

“We had one woman we interviewed and taped. We weren't all that sure she was a victim of the Hillbilly Rapist.”

“Maybe a copycat?”

“Something like that. I can arrange for you to watch the interview.”

“Sounds good. And what about surveillance videos? I can develop a sketch should you have something blurry or from a weird angle.”

“We might have one,” Clay said. “It may not be anything, but the timing was about right and no one could make hide nor hair from the photo.”

“Let me look at it and let you know.”

Clay punched a button on his desk phone. “Reed here. Have someone set up the conference room and pull the Johnson interview . . . Oh. When will they be done? Okay, set it up for then. Yeah. Okay.” He disconnected. “I've set it up for this afternoon. I'll run you back to your hotel.” He stood.

“Okay, but—”

“I'll send a car at one thirty to pick you up.”

He opened the door to his office and glanced at me.

“One more thing.” I rose from the chair. “I was almost hit last night.”

Clay frowned at me. “What do you mean?”

“I was walking back to the hotel when someone driving a black pickup tried to run me down.”

“Did you get a license plate?”

“No. The truck sped around the corner before I could get a good look at it.”

Clay rubbed his chin, then tugged his ear. “Well, Miz Gwen, I suspect that was just a drunk. Why would anyone want to hurt you?”

Except you told the local television station. Which means you're lying. Again.

CLAY'S RESPONSE PUT ME ON HIGH ALERT FOR
black pickups. Unfortunately, black seemed to be the most popular color for trucks in this part of Kentucky.

Driving from one end of town to the other didn't take long. The horseshoe-shaped town of Pikeville had a population of just under seven thousand. Tree-covered mountains rose steeply on all sides.

During the short drive, Clay relaxed enough to update me on the history of the community. “Although folks have lived around here since the mid-seventeen hundreds”—he pointed to a terraced mountain rising above the road—“that's what really helped the town grow. The Pikeville Cut-Through Project. Officially started in 1973, it took fourteen years to move eighteen million cubic yards of earth. That allowed the town to grow to more than four hundred acres.”

“Which explains why a lot of buildings look new.”

“Yep. We have a university, new library, shopping center—everything a big city has but with a small-town feel.”

Including big-city crime.
I kept my thoughts to myself as we pulled up in front of the hotel. “Did you grow up here?”

“Nearby.”

“You sure seem proud of your town.”

“And of Kentucky. We have plans—” He stopped abruptly.

I pretended not to notice a possible slip of the tongue and stepped from the car. “See you later.”
Plans? We?

The stricken look on the clerk's face told me Ina Jo hadn't been found locked up in the laundry room. I didn't much feel like eating, so stopped off at the vending machine on the way to my room. I bought cheese puffs, Oreos, and a chocolate bar. With my daughter safely with her father, I didn't have to be a good example.

The phone was ringing as I entered, but no one was on the line when I answered. I rang the front desk. “Did you just put a call through to my room?”

“No. I mean, it's an automated system. If someone knows your room number, they can dial direct.”

I hung up and stared at the phone for a moment.

The maid had cleaned my room, leaving my clutter of art supplies on the table. I opened the cheese puffs and started stuffing my face. Still munching, I strolled to the bedroom, sat on the bed, and kicked off my shoes. My feet constantly hurt. Chemotherapy had permanently damaged the nerves in my soles, making it feel like I was walking on gravel.

The looming vision of returning cancer drove me off the bed. I paced from the bedroom to the living room and back again. What if they gave my interagency job to someone else because I had cancer? How would I pay for treatments? Where would I live? How would I work?

“This is ridiculous.” I picked up my cell and dialed Beth.

“Gwen! I thought you'd never call. How are you feeling? How is Pikeville? Have any bodies shown up? Did you catch the rapist? Do you need a partner?” As usual, Beth sounded breathless.

“Fine. Small. Yes. No. No.”

Beth was silent for a moment. “You do know I hate it when you do that.”

“I'm teaching you—”

“I know. Effective interview techniques.” The background musical theme from a forensic show stopped and Winston, my Great Pyrenees, barked.

“How's my dog?” I selected a lead holder from the pencil box and sat at the kitchen table.

“Aha! Something
is
wrong.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you wouldn't call this early in the morning to ask about Winston and you're tapping a pencil rapidly on some surface.”

I stopped tapping and pulled a sketchbook in front of me. “Actually, everything's fine—”

“Ha! Another clue!” Beth sounded jubilant. “You used the word
actually
. That means
actually
there really
is
something wrong.”

Doodling Beth's face, I silently vowed I'd never teach Beth another thing about statement analysis. “I need you to research a couple of things for me.”

“Sure, but I have houseguests, so unless I can find time, I'll have to email or text you the answers.”

“That's fine . . . um, but weren't you just watching one of your forensic shows?”

“It's my cousins from Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, and they're even crazier about crime stuff than I am.”

“Is that possible? Don't answer that. Can you look up Sheriff Clayton Reed?
R-e-e-d.
Anything you can find out.”

“Will do. Now are you going to tell me what's wrong?”

I drew a halo over her sketched face. Why didn't I tell her? She was my best friend.
Oh, and, Beth, by the way, my cancer's returned. I'm going to die.

I knew why the words wouldn't come. I didn't want her pity.

“Gwen? Hello?”

“Everything's fine. Just wanted to hear a cheerful voice.”

“You dropped the pronoun
I
, so I don't believe you. I'll leave you with this: ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' Take things one day at a time, and when you're ready to talk, I'll be here.”

My eyes burned. “Thank you, Beth.” I managed to disconnect before my throat closed up. Now I was feeling sorry for myself, and that was unacceptable.

I went to the bathroom, got a tissue, and blew my nose.
Stop it!
Returning to the table, I pulled closer the pad of paper I'd been doodling on. At the bottom of the page I wrote
Known
and
Unknown
, then drew a line between them, forming two columns. Under
Known
I wrote:
likes young women, has distinct victim type, has isolated location to hold them, likes torture, gets them to leave town or no report.
I stopped writing. Was that all I had on him? Under
Unknown
I wrote:
smokes? (cigarette burns), convinces them to leave town? knows about forensics? Check photos (if available) to see if similar appearance
.

This wasn't useful. I simply didn't have enough solid information.

Checking my watch, I was startled to see it was almost time to head over to the sheriff's office. I swiftly packed up the items I needed, grabbed a denim jacket, and headed to the lobby. A deputy waited in a patrol car parked by the front door, and I slipped into the front seat next to him.

He greeted me once I had the seat belt fastened, “Ma'am,” and drove the short distance to the sheriff's department. We entered through a side door opened with a key card, and I followed him to a well-appointed conference room. Large windows overlooked a colorful autumn hillside, while comfortable tweedy chairs surrounded an oversize walnut table. Clay waited next to the television and video setup. “Have a seat. You'll be happy to know thanks to you we identified the body already. Notified the family.”

“Glad I could help. By the way, have you been calling my room?”

“No.”

“Did you give out my room number?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Never mind.” I turned to the set.

“We've been working on the Hillbilly rapes for months,” Clay said in an oddly rehearsed way. “This sort of thing reflects badly on our community.”

Not to mention the poor victims
.

“We welcome your expertise and input to help identify the perpetrator.”

There's that elusive “we” again.

“Let's see what you can find on the Teri Johnson interview.” He used the remote to turn everything on. A striking blonde in her mid- to late teens appeared on the screen. She sat on one
side of a stark metal table while a detective faced her on the other. The detective reminded me of the handsome actor Derek Morgan on the television show
Criminal Minds
. An open file rested in front of him.

Clay handed me the remote. “Push this button to start, this to pause, this to reverse, and this to stop.” He hesitated a moment. “Did you want me to tell you why we were suspicious of her?”

“Not yet. Let me watch this, make some notes, and then we'll talk.”

“Okay.” He moved to the door. “My office is just up the hall. Come and get me when you're ready.”

I gave him a half wave.

As soon as he left the room, I started the tape. The young woman was speaking. “You remind me of a TV star or something. Are you, like, famous?”

“No, ma'am,” the detective answered. “Are you okay? Can I get you something? Water, a soda . . .”

“I'm fine.”

“Thank you for coming down here today. You're not in trouble, and as I said before, I believe you, but I need to be sure we have all the information we need to follow up on this.”

“Sure.”

He shuffled the papers in front of him. “Now, could you start at the beginning? Just tell me the same thing you said to me in the hospital.”

“Sure. My boyfriend drove me home after going to a movie. Some kind of science-fiction flick. I hate science fiction, and this movie was really stupid.”

My boyfriend?
I jotted a note.

“He and I were sitting in the car in front of my house and he started saying stuff like I was flirting with some other boys.” She waved her hand as if swatting away the comments.

He and I?
Another note.

“Well, I wasn't flirting. They were friends.” Her voice rose. “He's so jealous. He saw a delivery guy drop off a box and he was convinced I was dating someone. That night he said some really mean things, like the rapist wouldn't touch someone like me because I was too old and, like, well, he called me a bad name. I told him he was wrong and a pig, you know, stuff like that, and then, you know, sort of got out of the car.”

I wrote her story as fast as I could, noting the cluster of “you knows.”

She leaned forward. “He drove off, you know, and left me, didn't even see if I was safe or anything—”

“What time was this?”

Bad interview technique, Derek Morgan clone. Never interrupt the witness
.

“About ten. It was dark . . .” She took a deep breath. “Do you think this will end up on TV? You know, like a special or maybe in the paper?”

“Your name won't be released, if that's what concerns you.” He paused in his writing. “And I don't think he knows where you live.”

“Oh.” She absently played with her long hair. “That's good. And I know you'll protect me. That's what you do, isn't it? Serve and protect? You know how awful this guy is.” She reached for a tissue and dabbed her eyes.

The detective awkwardly patted her arm. “You're safe now.”

She smiled slightly at him. “Okay. Like I said, it was dark.
I decided to walk around the block before going in. I was still mad—”

“Were your parents home?”

Interruption number two.

“Yes. I got to the alley at the end of the block, the one next to the Kramer house, and this guy jumped out and grabbed me. I guess he was hiding behind that big maple tree. I was going to scream, but he put his hand over my mouth.”

“He grabbed you from the front?”

Leading question. You're flunking the interview, Derek.

“No, from the back. He pulled me tight against his body. He was very strong. He said if I screamed, he'd cut me with a knife. He showed me the knife.”

“What kind of knife?”

“A big one. Like this.” She held her hands about eight inches apart. “Then he put a blindfold over my eyes. I was so scared.”

“I'm sure you were. That had to be terrifying.”

“It was. He started to drag me somewhere when I told him I had AIDS. I said I was dying. That's when he let me go. I took off the blindfold when I heard him moving away.”

The detective tapped his pen on the paper for a moment. “Did you see him?”

“Mostly just from the back. He was walking away slowly, looking over his shoulder at me. He had dirty black hair and walked with a limp.”

“Excellent.”

Not really. You just gave direct, qualitative feedback, encouraging her to invent information.

“He disappeared down the alley.”

“Did you see him get into a car?”

“Um, no. The alley was dark and he kinda went out of sight.”

“What happened to the blindfold?” he asked.

She shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. “Oh. Um. What do you mean?”

“You said he put a blindfold on you and you took it off. Did you drop it at the scene?” His pen hovered over the paper he'd been writing on.

“I'm not sure. Are we going to be much longer? My mom's waiting . . .”

“Nope. I'll just have you read over what I wrote and sign it.”

Turning off the video, I tapped my pencil on the table while I thought about what I'd seen. This wasn't a copycat frightened off by the threat of AIDS.

This was a liar.