Lawyer Trap

40





DAY SEVEN–SEPTEMBER 11

SUNDAY AFTERNOON


Brad Ripley’s shot face stayed in Teffinger’s mind on the drive back to the office, but soon faded as he drank coffee and delved into the reports that Sydney had put together on the four victims.

The central theme appeared to be that there was no theme.

If there was any connection between the four women—other than the fact they all disappeared at about the same time and ended up buried in the same place—it wasn’t popping out in neon lights.

Other than those two facts, the women had no obvious overlap.

He took a sip of coffee, found he had let it cool too much, and swallowed what was in his mouth but dumped the rest in the snake plant.

Then he walked over to the pot for a refill.

Come on.

Think.

But instead of coming up with some brilliant theory, he stared out the window aimlessly, across the street to the houses that had been turned into cartoon-colored bail bond dens. A couple of small boys raced down the sidewalk on bicycles, pedaling as fast as they could, a reminder of how innocent we all start out. How does someone go from that to sawing someone’s head off?

The oversized industrial clock on the wall said 3:52.

It was probably time to head home since his brain had pretty much turned to mush at this point anyway. Or, to be more precise, head to Davica’s house and take her for a ride in the ’67.

Then his cell phone rang.

Katie Baxter.

She sounded as if she had just stepped out of a plane crash. “Nick! I need you over here, right away.”

“Here, where?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m still at the crime scene. Brad Ripley’s. The guy who got shot in the face.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Just come over,” she said. “You have to see this for yourself.”

When he arrived at the victim’s house, he put on his gloves, registered with the scribe, and found Katie Baxter in the media room.

She seemed to be equal parts excitement and stress.

“Sit down and watch,” she said. “I have to warn you, though, this is graphic.”

He sat down on a leather couch and faced a flat-panel television while Katie got a DVD playing. Within ten seconds he moved to the edge of the seat, leaned forward and watched, with his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers laced together. For some reason the day’s coffee suddenly kicked in and twitched his nervous system.

“It’s almost two hours long,” she said.

He stared at the screen, already committed to watching every single goddamn second.

The film was obviously homemade, but of very high quality. In it, a man wearing jeans, a black sweatshirt and a black mask toyed with a tightly bound woman.

He cut her clothes off with a knife until she was totally naked.

Then he played with her.

Teffinger recognized the woman.

Tonya Obenchain.

The real estate agent.

Body No. 2 at the railroad spur, the one who got suffocated.

He looked at Katie.

“Does this go all the way to the end?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He fast-forwarded through the whole thing and called Dr. Leigh Sandt, the FBI profiler. “Leigh,” he said. “It’s me, your favorite pain in the ass.”

“Nick? Is that you?”

“Afraid so,” he said.

“It’s Sunday, man. Don’t you ever give it a rest?”

She had a point.

He hadn’t even painted a landscape in over three months.

Not even a little two-hour piece.

“Never mind that,” he said. “I have a snuff film I need you to take a look at. The perpetrator’s wearing a mask but we’re pretty sure it’s a guy named Brad Ripley, who coincidentally just got his face shot in. The main thing I need right now is a confirmation that Ripley’s the guy in the film.”

“Are you telling me you have an honest-to-God snuff film?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Lucky you, the whole thing on film.”

“This is part of the four-body case,” he said. “The one CNN’s been chatting up.”

“Interesting,” she said. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to need on our end. The guy’s wearing clothes in the film, I assume. Look around the house, find ’em and bag ’em. If the film’s good enough quality …”

“… It is …”

“… we’ll be able to match them to the ones in the film based on stitching and dye markings and stuff like that. Also, see if you can find other film with him in it so we can compare body posture and movements. We’ll need the guy’s exact height and weight too. Any idea when the film was made?”

“Early April is my guess,” Teffinger said.

“That’s five months ago. Ask around with neighbors etcetera just to see if the guy’s body has changed significantly in that time period, you know, if he went on a diet or pigged out or anything like that.”

“Done,” Teffinger said. “By the way, did I say thanks?”

She laughed.

“No.”

“Well, remind me to.”

She smiled. “I’ll add it to the list.”