Connection, page 13
“That can’t be good,” he muttered, turning into the recessed doorway of the coffeeshop and pushing against the wood and glass door. Inside the warm cafe, strong fragrances assailed his senses. There were only a few patrons scattered throughout, sipping a beverage or eating the scrumptious offerings, all homemade. Roman was pleased to see Remmy sitting near the window, even though Matt Wilson was sitting across from her. He recognized the guy from the newspaper articles about his sister. Remmy grinned at Roman and gave him a wave. He waved back then ducked into the back room to get ready to begin his shift.
“This one is of my son Skylar and Julie. That’s Bonnie in her lap.” Matt pointed to the Yorkie curled up in the snapshot.
Remmy took the picture and brought it up to study it. She scrutinized the boy’s face smiling at the huge grin he was directing toward his aunt.
“They’re close.” She could feel the love emanating from the boy in the picture. It didn’t take a psychic to see his attachment.
Matt smiled, pride in his eyes. “Very. When she’d take him for a weekend or for the week, half the time I was surprised she brought him back at all.”
“Okay. Show me more.”
Matt was against letting Remmy roam around his sister’s house. For him, it still held Julie’s energy, and he couldn’t bear to have that disrupted by the presence of someone else. Understanding and compassionate, Remmy suggested that he show her pictures, providing vivid details of things that meant the most to Julie Wilson.
“This was Christmas last year.” Matt chuckled. “You should’ve seen the look on her face when I threw that snowball.” He tapped the glossy that his son had snapped. Julie stood in shock, remnants of snow still clinging to her cheek, green eyes wide with disbelief.
Remmy felt the shocked cold that had traveled through Julie’s body at that instant. As she reached out for the print, she shivered; the photo paper felt as if it was about thirty degrees. Her fingertips actually burned from the intense cold.
Matt closely watched the woman sitting across the table. He wasn’t sure what to make of her. She had the oddest reactions to things, almost literally responding or reacting to what was in the picture presented to her. She seemed to believe so strongly that Julie was alive. He wanted with everything in him to believe her, that his sister was alive and would be found, but he feared that if he allowed himself to hold onto hope, when it came out that Julie had, in fact, been dead all along, the disappointment would kill him.
He had recently taken Skylar to a therapist to try and help the eight-year old understand what had likely happened to his beloved aunt. The boy was shattered. It wasn’t lost on him that “both his mommies” had left him. It was an uphill struggle every day, but Matt was determined to help Skylar get through it. That didn’t make it any easier to get through each day himself.
****
Brian Wong chewed on a piece of Big Red as he looked down at the discovery at his wing-tipped feet. He had to admit the sight was pretty gruesome. The body had been dismembered, the head found in a thicket of wildflowers, a large portion of the skin gone, either from decomposition or some sort of chemical that had helped it along. Further along the trail, a half-buried arm had been found, hand still attached, fingertips missing. The arm was in the same condition as the head.
“More over here!” one of the officers called out, his voice echoing in the quiet forest.
The detective picked his way over, latex-covered hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. He stepped across the yellow tape barrier two officers were setting up that declared the site an official crime scene. The latest find was the most grisly of all—a woman’s torso, amputated just above the hips. Many of the ribs could be seen through a substantial hole in her stomach caused by the feasting of the scavengers of the forest.
The officer, a young rookie just out of the academy, stood looking down at the remains, a cloth held to his mouth and nose.
“You get used to it,” Wong muttered, squatting down beside the torso. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps in the foliage. Grace Cowan emerged around the small copse of trees between him and the arm. He turned his attention back to the torso.
“They found the rest about a half mile to the west,” she said, standing just behind him and looking over his shoulder. Brian Wong nodded as he stood. Both detectives moved out of the way as the department photographer stepped in, taking photos of the body from every direction and angle. “What’s Dave say?” Grace asked.
Brian sighed, looking up into the heavy clouds, pregnant with cold and moisture. “Haven’t spoken to the ME yet.” He met her tired eyes. “Looks to me like maybe some sort of solvent was used. Dunno, just doesn’t feel like typical decomposition here. I mean, look.” He pointed toward the torso. “There’s been critter activity, but somehow it just feels too fresh.”
Grace nodded. “I agree. Has anything else been found? Personal items?”
“Nope. Nothing. Just the other body parts and...this.” Brian indicated the torso at their feet.
****
Back at her office, Grace scanned through all recent reports of missing persons. She had thought that perhaps the woman was Cameron Sanchez, but that had been discounted when the family was asked whether Cameron had a tattoo on her hip. She didn’t. Back to square one.
The Jane Doe’s fingertips had been removed, so no fingerprinting could be done, and they had no potential identifications for which to compare dental records. “Shit.” Grace ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it back into a tight bun. The patterns on the remaining skin didn’t match the typical progression of natural decomposition at all, especially given the cold temperatures, so it was likely that a chemical agent had been used—an acid, lye, or something—to speed the disintegration of the body. That made their task more difficult, because it made it practically impossible to determine how long the body had been there. Also, the cold weather had kept the flies away, which meant that the gestation stage of fly larvae couldn’t be used to gauge the time.
Grace looked up into the faces of her four missing women, one already eliminated from the victim pool. That left Pamela Beecham, Roxie Carmichael, and Julie Wilson as possibilities. Pulling the files on the three women for the twentieth time, she read up on them, trying to see whether anything new would jump out at her.
What am I missing? she asked herself over and over again.
Chapter Eighteen
“Honey, I’m home.” Sergio called out, amused at his little joke as he entered the kitchen through the garage door. He glanced around, eyes narrowed as he studied everything. Nothing was out of place; everything was exactly as he’d left it. He stopped at the fridge, absently straightening one of the plastic magnetic letters that had gotten slightly askew. About to proceed to the next room, he suddenly opened the door and grabbed a bottled water and a beer for himself.
Scrutinizing the living room, Sergio was satisfied that all was well in that room, too. The furniture, covered in plastic and sprayed down with 409 the night before, was perfect. Above the loveseat, stacked neatly on shelving, were dozens of building blocks with colorful letters or numbers on all four sides, the type a child would enjoy. They were made of wood, not of cheap plastic like the ones that were sold now. On the other wall, above the 19” television, was another shelf. On it were neatly stacked rows of TV Guides dating back more than six years.
Walking down the hall toward the bedrooms, he passed the first two—one on his right, the other on his left—a bathroom on the right, then straight back to the third bedroom, his bedroom. Before he even crossed the threshold, he could hear soft, even breathing, which brought a smile to his face. Nothing was changed in the bedroom; all was well. Julie was sleeping peacefully, just as he had left her.
Sergio wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of female blood and urine. It had been wise to leave her with the diaper. He took in the sprawled body of his prize and decided she needed a shower. Fifteen minutes later, he was leading her back to the bed.
“Um…” She made herself look into his dark eyes. “You mentioned dinner.” She trembled in his tight grip. “Is it possible that maybe, well, maybe I could eat with you? In the kitchen, or...” She held her breath. She tried not to sway on her feet, but the lack of nourishment was catching up to her. It took all of her willpower to not wince as he raised a hand and brushed her cheek with his fingertips.
“Do you want to sit down, or is it the change of scenery?” he asked.
Julie’s mind raced, trying to figure out which was the right answer. She swallowed reflexively as his fingers trailed down across her throat. A quick image of that same hand on Roxie’s throat rose in her mind. Apparently the look on her face expressed her thoughts. A cold sweat broke out on her skin as his face hardened.
“I told you it was an accident.” He forced her back onto the bed, falling with her and pinning her beneath his body. He was in her face, the hand still firmly clutching her throat, though not squeezing. “’Judge not, lest ye be judged’,” he said, spittle landing on her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, hoarse with fear.
Sergio was breathing hard, his anger and his pulse pounding in his head. He looked down into the green eyes, seeing the fear within them, the tears beginning to well. A surge of warmth spread through him, compassion lightening his touch back into a caress. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her forehead in an effort to soothe her.
“You eat in here today,” he whispered in her ear. “We’ll talk about the kitchen later.”
Julie didn’t struggle as she was bound to the bed again, her tears falling as he strode from the room.
****
Taking a deep breath, Grace entered the interview room. She was dreading this meeting. Placing the file onto the small, square table, she smiled at the two men waiting for her as she took a seat across from them.
“Hello. I’m Detective Grace Cowan. I’ve been working the cases dealing with the missing women, including your wife.” She studied the two men, who looked remarkably alike—deep-set brown eyes and short, brown hair, though the older had gray streaks in his hair. The younger sported a soul-patch beneath his bottom lip.
“Nice to see you again, Detective. This is my son, Trevor.” He nodded toward the young man sitting next to him.
Grace nodded an acknowledgment. Getting down to business, she put on the most professional yet compassionate face she could. “Mr. Carmichael,” she said softly, “three days ago a body was discovered in the woods outside Woodland. The only way to identify the female victim is by a partial tattoo.” She studied the man carefully. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I saw in an earlier statement that Roxie had a tattoo.”
Trevor looked at his father. “Mom had a tattoo?”
Mack nodded. “Yes, she did.”
“Can you tell me what that tattoo looked like?” Grace tried to get the image of their Jane Doe’s remains out of her head. In some ways it was like God trying to tell them something, trying to point a finger of recognition. Of the entire hip and pelvis area, the only remaining flesh was where the tattoo was located.
“It was a small blue fairy, little yellow wings.”
Grace nodded. The tattoo on the body was faded with time, as well as the solvent used on the body, and had been stretched with childbirth and weight gain. “I have a photograph that was taken in the Medical Examiner’s office. Do you think you could take a look at it and tell me if it’s the same tattoo?”
Trevor put an arm around his father’s broad shoulders. Mack nodded.
“Yeah. I can do that.”
“Okay.” Grace opened the folder and pulled out a picture taken during the autopsy. The image was centered only on the tattoo. They didn’t want to upset the family any more than need be.
Mack accepted the picture with a trembling hand. It only took a moment for him to break down, clutching the photo. Trevor gathered his father in a strong, one-armed hug, resting their heads together.
Grace fought the burning in her own throat as she struggled to maintain her professionalism. “I’m sorry, Mack,” she said at length, reaching across the table and resting her hand upon his much larger one.
****
Remmy held up another pack of smokes, her eyebrows lifted in enquiry.
“No, that ain’t them, neither. What about the blue and white pack?” the old man said, leaning across the counter to point.
Remmy put the Marlboros away and grabbed the pack the old man was indicating. She held it up for his inspection, trying not to get exasperated with him.
“No, them ain’t it, neither.”
“Sir, we’ve been through every brand I’ve got here. The pack you had last week just may not be here.” She returned the blue and white pack to its shelf.
“No, damn it!” He slammed his fist into the counter. “I know I bought it here!”
“Maybe you were at Smoker Friendly down on Pike Avenue,” she said, hoping he would go away. To her astonishment, and irritated amusement, he looked off into space, as though thinking. Remmy’s attention was pulled away from him as the bells above the door rang and Grace Cowan walked in. She gave her a quick nod, then turned back to the elderly gentleman.
“You know,” he said, voice just above a whisper, “I think you’re right.”
Remmy smiled encouragingly. “I’m sure they’d be more than happy to help you out over there, sir.”
Without another word, the old man hobbled toward the door, but not before letting out a huge, wet cough. Grace watched him go, disgust clearly written on her dark features as she walked up to the counter.
“Hiya,” Remmy said with a grin.
“Hi, Remmy. How are you?”
“Just peachy keen.”
“Listen,” Grace leaned on the counter, “I’ve got some good news, and some bad news.”
“Okay.” Remmy leaned against the opposite counter in the small bullpen, arms crossed over her chest as she studied the other woman.
“If I didn’t believe in your ‘visions’ before, I definitely do now. You were right. Someone was killed, her name began with an ‘R’, and she was forty-one years old.”
Remmy felt as if she’d taken a punch to the gut. Swallowing, she nodded, encouraging Grace to continue.
“Her name was Roxie Carmichael, mother of three and a wife. She’s been missing for over eight months. But,” she held up a finger, “here’s the kicker… she wasn’t dead all that time. She was left in the woods, and the ME’s office doesn’t believe she’d been there for any longer than a week, at most.”
“I’m really not sure what to think of this, Grace,” Remmy said softly, her stomach roiling.
“I know. Here’s the good news. We finally have a link. Tire tracks found near the dump site were compared to the ones in the Cameron Sanchez case, and they match.”
Remmy had heard about the young woman who’d been taken from her own bed. That was good news. Any lead was very good news. She met the intense gaze of the detective.
“Remmy, do you feel in your heart of hearts that Julie witnessed the death of Roxie Carmichael?”
Remmy met the gaze dead on. “Without a doubt.”
“Okay. Then here’s what I need from you. I want you to make a connection, make a mental call, whatever it is you do, with Julie, and get as much goddamn information as you can. I want to nail this motherfucker, you hear me?”
Remmy nodded grimly. “Yeah. I hear ya.”
****
Pamela glanced through the darkness ahead to where she could hear the soft moans. Her heart went out to the new girl. She knew what kind of a headache accompanied that first day back in consciousness. She had no idea what the bastard used to knock them out, but it was potent. She didn’t think it was a run-of-the-mill chloroform. His drug kept them out for days if he wanted it to, which was always the case with the new girls.
As much as she hated seeing another life ruined, she was glad for the company. It seemed as if he had kept Julie upstairs forever. Pamela wondered if she was still alive. Hell, she even missed Roxie’s crying and sniffling. Pamela had lived in the dark so long now, her eyes were quite well adjusted. She could make out the girl’s face well enough to see that she was just a young girl. Even younger than Julie.
“How are you doing, kid?” she asked, her voice soft.
The girl moaned again before raising her head, blinking several times. “Where am I?”
Pamela gave the standard answer: “Hell.”
Cameron looked around before a whimper escaped her lips. “Oh my god! Where am I?!” The darkness began to close. Her breathing became loud and intense, her chest heaving as her eyes grew wider. “Help! Help me!”
Pamela rolled her eyes. “Fuck.” She took a deep breath, then let the newcomer have it. “Shut the fuck up!” she yelled above the girl’s screams. “Unless you wanna loose Satan himself on your ass!”
Cameron shut up immediately, though still whimpering softly. “Who are you?”
“Your fucking best friend, if you’ll shut up.” Pamela glanced over at the girl, feeling slight guilt and pity. “Trust me on this—you’ll make it worse on yourself if you pull shit like that. No one is coming to help you, okay? No one.”
****
Upstairs, Sergio spooned another mouthful of the fragrant soup into Julie’s mouth, nearly giddy at seeing her relishing the new taste. The smile slid from his lips as he had a flashback to another time, a bad time.
He had managed to get her sitting up against the headboard of her simple wooden bed. A blanket of pure white had been wrapped tightly over her short legs; her gown that day was the color of cement. Her small, dark eyes bored into him from cracked, white skin, a map of lines threading out from those hard eyes.
Sergio brought up another spoonful, the smell of the inevitable oatmeal making his stomach churn. As he brought the spoon up to her mouth, he missed slightly, some of the lumpy mess sliding down her chin. Quickly he reached for a napkin to clean it off.
