The Stranger You Seek

14





Forty-eight hours ago David Brooks was found in a bloody hotel bed and the second letter to Rauser hit the news. It had been a week since the first letter about Lei Koto gave the killer a name the media loved, Wishbone. The threat was real. A killer roamed our streets. To ratchet up the city’s boiling point, Atlanta was baking at a hundred degrees for the second straight week. The assault rate was soaring as it always does when big cities and blazing hot summers collide, and the news was full of warnings. The owner of a downtown convenience store shot … Another case of road rage on Atlanta’s highways … Code-red smog alert.

No one felt safe. It seemed Atlanta’s streets would find a way to get you. The atmosphere was pure crisis.

At my office, things were piling up. My desk was a mess. I couldn’t find evidence that I’d paid the electric bill, a bank deposit had been waiting for days, and I hadn’t done any billing in three weeks. I hated billing. I do it only because I have to. The agency was growing and seemed determined to become a roaring success with or without me.

Truth is, I’d never really had my heart in the business. I hadn’t had my heart in anything since Dan and being fired and getting sober. Most of the messes I’d made as a practicing drunk had been cleaned up, but I realized during those hot, anxious weeks that there was a chunk of me missing still, a disturbing lack of emotion. Life seemed to blow right past me without leaving anything behind. When I shut down—why I shut down I don’t know exactly—but that night, driving to the Brooks scene with my heart slamming against my chest, and walking into that room where a killer had killed so recently that the body was warm and the wine hadn’t lost its chill, I was alert, alive again. I felt something. That it takes a dead body to bring me around is screwed up, I know. But then Dan lay under me like a corpse for five years and I still managed an orgasm most of the time. To be fair, he did offer the occasional pelvic thrust when duty called, but he’d long lost his appetite for anything that was readily available. My ex-husband was all about the hunt, which meant one day after the wedding ceremony he had absolutely no challenges.

I wanted to get as much done as possible at my office before the lab reports came in from the medical examiner and the crime labs on the Brooks murder. It would take some time to piece together all the information in an assessment that might help guide investigative strategy. The reports would take time too, I knew, but I wanted to be ready. The proper way the scene was processed, the ability to more fully understand victim/offender interaction, would give us all a greater understanding of motive. If we could pierce this killer’s motive, I was convinced, it might lead us to him.

I was planning the trip to Denver, going through my closet, thinking about what kind of clothes I would need. Neil had been right: The corporation that hired us to find their thieving accountant wanted me to deal with him personally, and I needed the money. Their former accountant was in for a big surprise when I showed up at his house. The plan was to fly in one night and fly back out the next. Easy, I hoped. The imprint of Helen Graybeal’s coffee cup on my head and the bruised wrist William LaBrecque had given me hurt enough to serve as reminders that these things do go wrong from time to time. And Larry Quinn’s laser-treatment-gone-wrong case and another date with William LaBrecque were still waiting for my attention. I wondered how agreeable LaBrecque would be to being hauled into APD for processing.

My phone warbled. “Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to call,” Rauser told me. I had sent him a text message before going to sleep last night and never heard back. It wasn’t like him. “Busier than a one-armed paper hanger,” he said. “ME’s report on stomach contents is in. Trout, crab, turnip greens, some kind of sweet potato dish, and a good amount of white wine. We’re showing Brooks’s picture around to all the local restaurants, especially in the Buckhead area where he was killed.”

“Turnip greens and sweet potatoes in Buckhead?” I asked.

“Probably one of those whoopee-shit fusion places that make little designs in sauce. And get this: There was evidence of a condom on the body, Keye, but it wasn’t in the suite. Also, soap residue all over the body and all over the sheets under him. Brooks was squeaky clean except for some of his own semen. No other DNA on his body. Fingernails trimmed and brushed out. We got a load of stuff from the room, though, but it’s going to take weeks to break it down. Probably got stuff from three years ago in the carpet. Soap on Brooks was consistent with the hotel brand, which is also missing from the room. Oh, and something else interesting. Housekeeping says they put three washcloths in the room. All missing. No condom, no washcloths, no open bar of soap, one missing glass.”

“A sponge bath,” I said. A clearer picture was emerging of this killer, who was capable of more than just a con to get a front door open, but also of a clever, manipulative seduction. “That would account for the seminal fluid and the soap residue on the sheets. Must have been part of their sex. It’s one more thing that separates Brooks from the other victims.”

David Brooks was spared hours of torture. His body was covered in a loving way. He meant something in the life of this murderer—real or symbolic, he was significant.

“Killer came from behind, right?” I asked.

“Exactly right. Reached around from behind and stuck the knife blade into the substernal notch. Wounds are consistent with the knife used at prior scenes.”

The others had known what kind of danger they were in, what kind of monster had entrapped them. They had experienced the terror that comes with that knowing and been left naked with their legs spread. Brooks was different. Brooks was special. The killer didn’t want him to see death coming. Why? I shared my thoughts with Rauser and we grew quiet.

“Lobby cameras show Brooks checking in alone,” Rauser said finally. “No other outside surveillance except at the lobby. The unit next door was empty, and since there are only two of those units per building, it’s isolated. Somebody shoves a knife blade into my chest, I’m gonna scream like hell. The hotel was a good choice.”

“That kind of stab wound paralyzes the diaphragm,” I told him. “Air can’t pass through the vocal cords. It’s impossible for the victim to make a sound. Death is instantaneous. It wouldn’t have mattered where they were. It’s a completely silent kill.”

“That’s some creepy shit right there, Keye,” Rauser complained. “Christ. I don’t think I even want to be hanging out with somebody that knows that shit.”

“Hey, I’m just spreading the sunshine,” I said.

“We’ve been poking around in Brooks’s private life, and he was one womanizing sonofabitch. The guy would do anything that moved. No evidence that he was bisexual, but most guys hide that anyway.” I could hear the tension in his voice. And the exhaustion. “To be honest, I don’t feel one step closer to understanding how he picks them.”

“No,” I said. “We know one thing we didn’t know two days ago. The killer had feelings for Brooks. That’s huge, Rauser. You may have a victim who knew the killer in his life. What did he call it in the first letter, ‘the inner circle’?”

“So you don’t think this is the beginning of him having intercourse with the victims. You think this was specific to Brooks?”

“I think he knew him and I think that Brooks symbolized someone significant. Someone he loved and lusted after.”

“God,” Rauser complained. “What the f*ck am I doing in this business?”