Neil rolled his eyes. “We’ll let the ME measure testicle size. Based on this, however, we’re probably both right.” He jiggled the shoe box, and D.D. could hear the telltale noise of glass vials rattling together. “Devon Goulding was definitely shooting up ’roids. For how long, I couldn’t tell you. But even short-term use could have impacted his heart, and been a contributing factor in his death.”
“What about roid rage?” D.D. asked, considering the matter. “I always thought that meant flying off the handle, but could it have led him to abduct a girl from a bar?”
“Beyond my pay grade,” Neil said with a shrug. “In theory, long-term steroid abuse leads to diminished sex drive, which begs the question why would he want to kidnap a girl from a bar.”
“Giving in to his darker impulses was the only way he could get interested anymore? Violence his last remaining turn-on?”
Neil shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Based upon this box, I think we can safely assume Devon Goulding used steroids and it probably was a factor in his death. As for evidence of past crimes, additional victims, only one way to find out.” Neil set down the box, took one step toward the narrow dresser that was crammed up against the wall, and started pulling out drawers.
D.D. let him do it. She was on restricted duty after all. Neil could ransack the room. She crossed to the bed and inspected the contents of Goulding’s shoe box. In addition to various colorfully labeled glass jars, there were numerous baggies of unmarked pills, supplements, hormones, God only knew. Could steroid abuse have led to Goulding’s crime spree? Their lone survivor had implied she hadn’t known him at all, had been at the bar with another man until Goulding had knocked out bachelor A and absconded with the girl. Certainly sounded primitive enough. It also sounded impulsive to D.D. Serial predators were more likely to stalk their victims, plan out the abduction. Whereas snatching a girl from outside a bar—
“Hey,” Neil interrupted her thoughts. He’d given up on the drawers and was once more on his hands and knees, feeling beneath the bureau with his gloved hand.
“Got something?”
“Maybe.”
It took him several tugs; then he retrieved a large, plain yellow manila envelope that had been taped to the bottom of the dresser. He shook it, and D.D. saw several small rectangular shapes move against the paper sheath.
Neil carried the envelope to the bed. The top flap wasn’t glued down but fastened shut with metal tabs. He flipped them up, then did the honors of opening the envelope and pouring its contents onto the bed.
D.D. counted two credit-card-size objects. Except they weren’t credit cards.
“Driver’s licenses,” Neil said. “Two females. Kristy Kilker. Natalie Draga.”
“But not Stacey Summers?”
“No Stacey Summers. Then again”—Neil held up one of the licenses to show a single bloody fingerprint—“I think our world’s most dangerous Girl Scout may have been on to something after all.”
*
THEY TORE THE REST OF THE ROOM APART, D.D. starting with the bed, Neil continuing on to the dresser. They moved methodically and efficiently, teammates who’d done this kind of thing before. Later, the crime scene techs would return with fingerprint powder, luminol, and alternative light sources. They’d retrieve fingerprints, bodily fluids, and hopefully miniscule strands of hair and fiber.
For now, D.D. and Neil went for the obvious. Women’s clothing, jewelry, anything that could tie back to other victims. Pay stubs and bar bills that might indicate other hunting grounds. And, what the hell, a killer’s diary. You never knew when you might get lucky.
D.D. had to have Neil’s help to lift the top mattress. Her shoulder already throbbed, her left arm too weak for the job. Neil didn’t say anything. He came over. Together, they lifted; then he returned to his corner and she resumed her search of the bed.
She was grateful for her partner’s . . . former partner’s . . . silence. The fact that he didn’t comment on the sheen of sweat already collecting on her brow, her clear shortness of breath. Supervisors were hardly expected to work crime scenes, D.D. reminded herself. Request paperwork on the subject, review all notes, sure. But this actual work thing . . . No, she was supposed to be safely ensconced back at HQ, where her lack of ability to carry a sidearm wouldn’t be a liability to herself and others.
D.D. searched every square inch under the top mattress, then went to work on the box spring. Later she would have to ice down, while enduring Alex’s knowing stare. But she was who she was. He knew it. Neil knew it. It was simply the Boston Police Department she was determined to fool.
“Got something.” She could feel it now. A hard lump near the top right corner of the box spring. Up close, she could see that the seam where the heavy-duty material from the sides of the box spring met with the flimsy top cover was frayed. She poked around with her gloved fingertips, and sure enough, wedged between a nest of coils . . . “A box. Hang on. Slippery damn thing. And . . . got it!”
Gingerly, D.D. withdrew the metal box. Her entire left arm was trembling with fatigue. More weights, she thought vaguely. More weights, more PT, more anything in order not to feel this weak, in order not to be this weak in public.
But once again, Neil didn’t comment. He simply took the small lockbox from her shaking hands and moved it to the corner desk, where they had more light.
The box appeared fairly standard issue. Gunmetal gray. Maybe six inches wide by two inches tall. Meant for a few precious or personal mementos, little else.
“Photos,” Neil said.
“What?” D.D. leaned closer, trying to make out the stack of pictures beneath the desk light.
“A black-haired woman. Again and again.” Neil flipped through the stack. Each photo revealed the same subject. Walking in a park, sitting with a cup of coffee, reading a book, laughing at someone off camera. The woman appeared to be in her early thirties, and beautiful, in a dark, sultry sort of way. “Former girlfriend, maybe?”
“Stashed in a container inside his box spring?” D.D. was already shaking her head. “I don’t think so. Look like anyone you know? Stacey Summers? Wait, she’s a petite blonde, whereas this girl . . .”
“Not Stacey Summers,” Neil agreed. “What about our vic downstairs? Last I saw, she was covered in garbage. I don’t remember hair color.”
“Also blond, with light gray eyes. Not this woman either.”
“D.D.” Neil spoke up quietly. He’d reached the last few photos. Both of them stilled. Same woman. Except she wasn’t smiling or laughing anymore. Her dark eyes were huge, her pale face stricken. She stared straight into the camera and her expression . . .
Now, it was Neil’s hand that shook slightly, and D.D. who didn’t say a word.
Neil set down the photos, then returned with the two licenses they’d found beneath the bureau.
“Natalie Draga,” he said. He placed the ID next to the photo as both of them looked from photos to official ID, then slowly nodded. “Thirty-one, address in Chelsea.”
“But no pictures of the second victim?”
“No. Just Natalie.”
“Personal connection,” D.D. murmured. “She meant something to him. Hence all the images.”
“Worshipped her from afar,” Neil supposed.
“Or even a girlfriend. Except it ended badly. Maybe she rejected him. And then he turned on her.”
“And the second victim, Kristy? Plus, the woman downstairs?” Neil asked. They’d gone through the box; there were no more photos.
“Maybe he liked it,” D.D. theorized out loud. “The first time was personal. The second and third were for fun.”
“There’s no way of telling where these pictures were taken,” Neil said. “The framing is too close-up, there’s not enough backdrop.”
“Our survivor claims there’s blood in the garage.”
“I could smell something,” Neil concurred.
“Have the crime scene techs gather samples. And send more uniforms to the bar where Devon Goulding worked, with photos of all three known victims. Let’s see just how close to home he was hunting. Grab a photo of Stacey Summers as well. See if she frequented that bar.”
“She was last seen at a different establishment, Birches over on Lex.”