So Broken, page 11
“He’s trapped somewhere and being trapped is leading him?” Faith asked. “That makes no sense.”
Trammell flicked the scalpel across Faith’s cheek, splitting the skin and sending rivulets of blood down her cheek.
“Sense,” West said. “Order. Logic. Right and wrong.”
Each word brought a fresh stroke with the scalpel. Faith felt her vision swimming as the blood loss overcame her.
“You are obsessed with this, Faith,” West said, leaning down until his eyes met hers. “You are obsessed with this, and so, you cannot look away.” He stood and backed off, and Tramell’s looming figure replaced his. “And so, you cannot leave.”
Trammell leaned down. Faith could smell his sour breath as it passed his rotting, yellowed teeth. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, then pressed the scalpel to her throat. “Let’s see how you bleed, little girl.”
He sliced her throat open.
***
Faith gasped and sat bolt upright in the chair.
“Jesus!” Matt cried out.
The vehicle swerved right, then left, as Michael narrowly avoided driving off the road. His eyes snapped to Faith. "What happened? What's wrong?"
Turk was instantly awake. He stood in between them and looked at Faith with concern.
“I’m all right,” she said. “I had another nightmare. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Matt asked.
Faith took a deep breath and reminded herself that Matt was only trying to be helpful. “Yes,” she said, “I’m sure.”
“All right,” Matt said. “Well, we’ll be back in Pembroke in a few minutes, so try to avoid napping, okay?”
She glared at him. “Was that supposed to be funny?”
“Not at all,” he said, “I just want to go home to Ellie when this is over and rolling a police cruiser off the road in the ass-end of middle-of-nowhere, Washington seems like a bad way to make that happen.”
“So learn how to drive,” she quipped.
Turk started licking her face, and she laughed and pushed him away. “I’m fine. Really, I am.”
Turk didn't seem convinced, and neither did Michael.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she replied. Then, to change the subject before he pressed her, she asked, “So things are better between you and Ellie then?”
“They’re good enough,” he replied.
She lifted an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”
He frowned at her. “Since when are you so interested in my relationship?”
“You’re my friend,” she said, “I want to make sure that you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.” He sighed. “Look, it’s… Ellie just isn’t going to be happy as long as my job involves putting my life in danger. I’ve come home with bruises from the last few cases, and she doesn’t want her husband to end up dying forty years before his time.”
“Is that all it is?” Faith asked.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
Faith didn’t reply. In the past, Michael and Ellie had argued over Michael’s continued professional partnership with Faith. The two of them had once been lovers, though only briefly and not for years. Still, Michael spent more time with Faith than he did with Ellie since they worked closely together, and Ellie was understandably jealous. Faith hoped that her growing relationship with David would soften some of the tension, but it occurred to her now that Ellie’s trouble with her was based on more than just her past relationship with Michael. From Ellie’s perspective, Faith was deeply troubled. She had twice suspected Ellie of being the Copycat Killer, and their encounters had been… less than cordial.
“It isn’t because of you,” Michael said shortly, guessing the reason for Faith’s silence. “She’s not jealous.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Faith said.
“You didn’t have to.”
Faith sighed. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Michael. I’m sorry.”
They rode in silence for another few minutes. Michael broke it when he said, “I’m sorry, Faith. I…” he sighed. “Things with Ellie have actually been pretty rough. She’s pushing for me to commit to retiring.”
Faith looked at him. “Commit to retiring? You mean you’re considering it?”
“Well, yeah. I’ve been considering it. You and I talked about it.”
“We talked about it, but I didn’t know that you were giving it serious thought.”
“I told you I was,” Michael said irritably. “I don’t want to end up like the Boss. Much respect to the man, but the only reason he hasn’t drunk himself to death is because he has godlike willpower. My willpower is not godlike, and I spend a few too many minutes staring wistfully at the single malts when I go shopping these days.” He sighed. “I’m not like you, Faith. I believe that you can do this for the rest of your life. I believe that they’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming into retirement. Me?” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as though steeling himself for an argument. “There are more important things to me than this job.”
Faith actually had considered retirement as recently as the night they had started this case. Staring down at David’s broken body had made her realize that there was a limit to what she could endure. Leaving was out of the question as long as West was at large, but after…
“I understand,” she said quietly.
Michael looked at her with surprise. His grip relaxed, and he nodded and said, “Well, whatever happens, I’ll keep you up to date. And don’t worry. I’m not going to move across the country and change my number and stop talking to you.”
“Doesn’t Ellie want you to move across the country?”
“Let’s not talk about Ellie anymore,” Matt demurred. “Besides, we’re back in Pembroke. We need to figure out our next move.”
“Can we figure it out over lunch?” Faith asked. “I’m starving.”
Michael grinned and pulled into the parking lot of a diner. “I thought you’d never ask.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Michael bit into the largest hamburger Faith had ever seen and sighed contentedly. “Oh yeah,” he said, “that hits the spot.”
Faith took a bit of her own, much more reasonably sized, burger and felt a similar rush of satisfaction. “Wow. This is really good.”
Turk happily chowed down on his strip steak, his face lit up with contentment. She smiled down at him and thought again of how nice it would be if he could spend the last few years of his life like a dog and not chasing down violent criminals.
“See,” Michael said, “this is what beef should taste like. None of that grass-fed, organic, soy-based bullshit.”
Faith smiled. “I don’t think you can have grass-fed soybeans.”
“Whatever. You get my point. Good food isn’t supposed to be healthy.”
“I don’t think you’re entirely aware of what you’re saying,” she said, “but I’m grateful for this hamburger anyway.”
“You know,” Michael said, taking another bite.
“I’m sure you’ll tell me in a few minutes when you’re done chewing,” Faith teased.
Michael lifted his middle finger, and she laughed. He swallowed and said, “I was going to say that you can be really annoying when you get pedantic like that.”
“Well, get used to it,” she said, “because I have no plans to change anytime soon.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
She took a bite of her own burger and thought back to her dream. West—or the image her subconscious had created of him—said that the killer was trapped. But where? When? Why?
“How and wherefore?” she muttered.
“What’s that?”
She sighed. “In my dream, I…” she thought about it and decided it would be a waste of time to try to explain the conversations she’d been having with herself. “Well, it doesn’t matter. The point is that I think our killer is stuck somewhere in the past.”
“Where?”
"That's the question. It would have to be somewhere and something that gives him a reason to hate these victims. In fact, he might not see it as hate. He might see it as protection."
“Like he’s protecting his victims? Is that what the cuts are? Some sort of ritual?”
“No,” she said. “The word vengeance makes it clear that he sees this as a punishment. But I think he also sees it as protection.”
“From what?”
She thought a moment. “From war,” she finally said. “All of our victims were involved in war one way or another. Geoff Murray sold weapons, Gabriel Duke lobbied for a greater defense budget. Barrett Jones was a sniper.”
“It seems a little unfair to group Jones with the others, though,” Michael said. “That’s like shooting a tiger and a bear, then tracking down a single wasp. I know that’s a shitty metaphor, but do you see what I mean?”
“Yes,” she said. “Jones was a much smaller fish compared to the others.”
“So why him? I could see someone being on a mission to kill people like Murray and Duke, but Jones just makes no sense.”
“I agree,” Faith said, “and that makes him the key.”
“The part that makes no sense is the key?”
“Making that part make sense is the key,” she explained, “or rather, figuring out why that part makes sense.”
“So why does killing Jones make sense?”
Faith sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Why would the killer feel trapped in the same place as Jones? Or maybe he felt trapped because of Jones?” She shook her head. “I feel like we’re circling the answer, but we can’t quite reach it.”
“I feel like we find a different answer every ten minutes and then just as quickly find out why that answer is bullshit.”
“Yeah,” Faith said.
She set her burger down and steepled her fingers. “What the hell are we missing?” she asked softly.
Her phone rang, and she and Michael exchanged a look. They knew what this phone call was.
With a sinking feeling, she answered. “Bold.”
She listened to the Pembroke PD dispatch officer, and her heart completed its journey to the floor. “Understood. We’re on our way.”
She hung up and smiled dejectedly at Matt. “Well, we have some fresh evidence to look at.”
He sighed and dropped his burger. “Goddammit.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “My thoughts exactly.”
***
Faith and Michael stared somberly at the body in front of them. This woman had been killed the same way as the other victims and staged the same way as well. Like the first two, she had been killed elsewhere—a field of tall grass a hundred yards off the road—and moved to the place where she had been found, in this case a call box. She had been propped up to a sitting position and remained there, her head slumped forward on her chest.
She happened to be Congresswoman Belinda Montclair of Tennessee’s Seventh Congressional District. She happened to be a very active proponent of increased military spending and what pundits described as the “bomb first, count bodies later,” movement.
Her death was easily the most high-profile of their victims so far, and probably the most high-profile of their career.
“This is going to be an issue when the press finds out about it,” Michael said.
“This is an issue now,” Faith replied.
“Yeah, but it’s going to be a bigger issue when we have microphones in our faces everywhere we go.”
“Yeah,” Faith agreed. “Dammit.”
“We should call the Boss,” Michael said. “He’s going to want to be aware of the blowback from this.”
Faith sighed. “Yes, but let’s wait until we look at the scene. When we call, I want to be able to give him concrete evidence that we’re on top of things. The last thing either of us need is a dressing-down.”
“Good point.”
The three of them got to work examining the scene. Turk trotted into the field, nose to the ground, looking for evidence along the path of the murder. Michael looked around the call box, trying to find footprints or tire marks or any other kind of physical evidence that could be useful.
Faith looked at the body. She squatted down and stared at Montclair’s body, trying to imagine what the killer saw.
Montclair was one of the younger members of Congress. At thirty-nine years old, she wasn’t overly youthful in appearance, but she was a strikingly attractive woman, a fact she used to great effect to advance her career and her positions in Congress. Faith put gloves on and carefully lifted her head. Montclair’s sliced throat looked horrific, but Faith ignored that for the moment and tried to think what she would have looked like alive.
She had almost flawless features, symmetrical and just angular enough to make her appear strong without also looking severe. Her eyes were dull and filmy now, but in life, they would have been a brilliant green.
She was beautiful, but beauty wasn’t a motive for this killer. Gabriel Duke was as attractive as Montclair, but Barrett Jones was average-looking, and Geoff Murray was, in Faith’s opinion, a few ticks closer to ugly than average.
So what else was she?
She was influential. Her beauty was just a tool at the end of the day. She, like all of their victims, had the ability to impact the waging of wars. Like Duke, she had the ability to influence defense policy.
Like Barrett…
She wasn’t like Barrett. That was the frustrating part. That was the missing link. An arms dealer, a defense lobbyist, and a very pro-military congresswoman. That all made sense.
So why Jones? Why a former Marine who just wanted to drink with his buddies every now and then and hang out with his family during the day?
She sighed and studied the wounds. They were as precise and careful as before. The single stab wound to the heart that killed Montclair, and the cuts to the arms and throat that matched the other victims. The word vengeance was written in front of her this time rather than above her due to the call box’s small size, but other than the location, everything was exactly the same.
Vengeance for what?
West’s words from her dream came back to her. “Your mind fixates on anything disorderly and refuses to look away. It’s so easy to distract you, Faith.”
Barret was disorderly. The word vengeance was disorderly, or at least an order she didn’t understand.
So what was consistent? What was ordered?
The method was ordered. It was, in a macabre way, elegant, even artistic.
Was this killer using art to send a message? Well, he was, clearly, but was it intentional? Was that the point?
That could explain Barrett. He might prefer high-profile victims, but maybe the urge had struck him before he was aware of high-profile victims. It might have been enough for him to have a symbol of war he could deface.
And what was the message? That war bled nations dry? Or was it more personal, that war bled people dry? And how would the killer’s actions be informed by that personal connection?
She hated coming back to the personal connection after it had failed them several times already, but her mind kept returning. She heard West’s mocking voice in her mind and pushed it away. She had found killers this way before. If nothing else was coming to mind now, then she should at least pursue the one lead she actually had.
She felt for Montclair’s cell phone, and when she found it, she pulled it from Montclair’s pocket. It had been a long time since Faith had taken the cybercrimes course at the Academy, and a lot had changed since then.
Well, if she couldn’t get into the cell phone here, she could have Pembroke PD look at it. Assuming Pembroke had a cybercrimes division. If they didn’t, she would have to send it to the Seattle Field Office, and if she did that, it would be days before they were able to learn anything from it.
She had to get in now.
She opened the phone and attached a small usb flash drive she carried at all times on duty but had never used until now to the charging port. The screen flickered and then rebooted. When it rebooted, it opened to Montclair’s home screen, bypassing the password screen.
Faith pumped her fist in victory and began looking through Montclair's texts. She felt a touch uneasy going through the private communications of a dead woman, but if she could get any evidence at all, she was sure Montclair’s spirit would forgive her for the violation.
The texts from her family were hard to read. She had a husband and three children ranging from eleven to fifteen. It broke Faith’s heart to see the loving texts from all of them.
“I’m so sorry, guys,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
She opened another text thread, labeled, CLEANERS, and her heart didn’t feel so broken anymore. Unless Faith was greatly mistaken, most people didn’t send nude photos of themselves to their cleaners, and most cleaners didn’t talk at length about how appealing they found particular parts of their employers’ bodies.
So Mrs. Montclair was having an affair.
Faith pulled out her own phone and logged into the FBI database. A few keystrokes brought her to the phone number search, and she plugged in Mr. CLEANERS’ number.
The match came up to Aaron Blakely.
Mr. Blakely was an artist, a sculptor, to be exact. He lived in Miller, Washington and was known for his disturbingly violent creations, many of which featured realistic wounds, death masks and copious amounts of blood-colored paint and stains.
One image in particular caught Faith’s eye. It was of a woman on a cross with her arms outstretched. Her throat and arms were cut, and above her was a capstone with the label MARTYR.
The name of the piece was VENGEANCE SATISFIED.
She called for Michael and showed him the image. His eyes widened. “Huh. Nice piece.”
“Isn’t it?” Faith agreed, “I think it’s very informative, don’t you?”
“Well, I’ve always believed that if you truly want to understand the meaning of a work of art, you should talk to the artist.”
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