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But he would never be Newt.
Inside, the house wasn’t permeated with the usual smells related to violence. No bloody metallic odor, no hint of gunpowder in the air, but there was the lingering essence of death—that distinct uneasy impression that something bad had happened here. The living room, dining room and kitchen were one large open space. The furnishings likely cost more than the house. Every throw pillow was in place, every knickknack and piece of art expertly arranged. Two evidence techs were going over the space. Even the tiniest fragment of trace evidence could make all the difference to the case. Fortunately, MPD had a damned good forensic team.
A staircase went both up and down from the west side of the main living area, creating the three levels. The house sported ’70s style paneling, popcorn ceilings and parquet wood flooring. She imagined the Parkers hadn’t lived this modestly in several decades, if ever.
“The laundry room, a bathroom and a small den are next to the garage down there,” Devine said, indicating the seven or eight descending steps. “Three bedrooms and two baths are up.”
“Let’s see the bodies.”
Devine pointed to the second floor and Bobbie followed him up the carpeted stairs. She had a look at the first bedroom they passed. The purple walls were plastered with posters of rock bands and rap singers. The open doors of the closet showed a wardrobe of mostly black. Unlike the order she’d encountered so far, discarded jeans and sneakers were scattered across the floor. The laptop on the desk was open and displaying a stream of photos showing teenagers drinking beer and smoking God only knew what. Sweat formed on Bobbie’s skin as she crossed the room. The sixteen-year-old daughter’s bed was still made. Wherever Fern Parker was, she apparently hadn’t slept here. Maybe last night she’d decided to run away with a friend. Sixteen-year-olds were prone to impulsive behavior.
“Let’s put the laptop into evidence.” No one wanted to believe a child was capable of murder, but it happened.
“Yes, ma’am.”
While Devine called a tech up to the girl’s bedroom, Bobbie checked the closet and dresser drawers. She took a look behind the curtains and spotted what she had hoped not to find. Damn. Few teenagers went anywhere without their phones. “This may be her cell phone.”
Devine joined her at the window. He blew out a breath. “Damn. I missed that.”
Bobbie examined the phone. No text messages, no emails. “That’s why we always take a second look.” Even the best detective wasn’t infallible.
Devine reached for the phone. “We’ll start calling her contacts list now.”
Bobbie moved across the hall. The boy’s room was located opposite the sister’s. Blue walls and loads of Legos set the theme for the space. Shelves were crammed with books and superhero action figures. Bobbie reminded Devine to take the boy’s laptop into evidence, as well. If the younger Parker had a cell phone he hadn’t left it behind. Like the sister’s bed, this one hadn’t been slept in, either.
Down the hall the bathroom was clear. Bobbie hesitated at the open door to the parents’ bedroom. The room was elegantly decorated, the furnishings unquestionably from their former residence. The massive bed took up most of the floor space. Bobbie entered the room and moved closer to the bed. Both victims had been marked with what appeared to be blood on their foreheads. Heather was marked with an A, likely for adulteress. Nigel’s forehead bore a T, probably for thief. Both appeared to be sleeping peacefully but the ashen skin and blue lips belied the facade of serenity. Heather’s long blond hair spread across her pillow. She wore a lacy black nightgown. Nigel’s brown hair was tinged with gray along the temples and looked as if it had been neatly combed after he was placed in the bed. His upper torso was bare. A cream-colored silk sheet was turned down at their waists.
Bobbie drew back the covers to reveal the rest of their bodies. Heather’s gown hit the tops of her thighs. Her husband wore paisley print silk boxers. Beyond the strokes of blood on their foreheads, there was not a single speck of blood visible on the vics or the linens, no immediately observable physical injury. Not the first defense wound on their hands or arms.
Devine joined her at the bedside. “Brace yourself for what you’ll find under those high-end nightclothes. It’s been a day or two since I saw anything this bizarre.”
“Has the coroner given any preliminary conclusions on cause of death?” Her partner hesitated and she shot him a look. “I’m hoping your hesitation and that look on your face isn’t about me.”
Like everyone else, Devine knew her history. Poor Bobbie had been broken to pieces by a depraved killer who destroyed all that she loved. She still saw the looks and the questions in the eyes of some. Had time and all the surgeons and shrinks been able to put Bobbie back together again? She might never be the same woman again, but she was damned well as good or better at being a cop.
He shook his head. “It’s me.” Her partner passed a hand over his face. “The victims were taken to the garage. Based on the blood and...other stuff left behind down there that’s where the murders took place.”
Bobbie considered the couple posed in their bed. Heather was average height and had a slim build, but her husband was tall and likely weighed a good one-seventy-five or -eighty. The killer had to be strong enough to handle getting the bodies down to the basement, and then back up to the bedroom again. Otherwise they had two killers on their hands.
“Each vic,” Devine continued, “was disemboweled through a horizontal incision to the abdomen.” He tugged the waistband of Parker’s boxers down just enough to show a neat row of sutures. “All the organs were removed, including the lungs and heart. After the killer was finished, the incisions were closed, the bodies washed, dressed and placed as you see them now.” He gestured to the woman. “Hers is the same.”
A year ago Bobbie’s first inclination would have been to wonder what kind of sick animal would do something like this. Now she knew the answer all too well, so instead she asked, “Were the victims conscious during this procedure?”
“Don’t know yet. If so, there’s no indication of a struggle. The arterial spray patterns suggest their hearts were still beating at the time the primary incisions were made.”
Jesus Christ. “What tools did he use to do his work? Were they here already or did he bring them with him?” Her voice was steady when she spoke though her heart pounded a little faster. Cops weren’t expected to be immune to this kind of horror, but Bobbie’s actions were still under the microscope. She couldn’t afford the slightest outward indication of being shaken. “Are the organs still here?”
There had to be one hell of a mess in the garage.
“Whatever he used, he took it with him. I found a couple of steak knives in the kitchen but nothing that would do this with any efficiency.” Devine glanced at the victims as if he hated to discuss what was downstairs in front of the couple, and then he looked Bobbie straight in the eye. “The organs are here. He—whoever did this—took a bite out of each of the hearts.”
Bobbie surveyed the Parkers once more. Something about the MO felt familiar. Hadn’t she read about a similar case maybe eleven or twelve years ago? “We’ll need impressions made from the bite marks if possible.”
“Dr. Carroll mentioned that already,” Devine said.
“Seppuku.” The word rolled off the tip of Bobbie’s tongue as the old headlines flashed through her mind.
She had been in college—a sophomore if she remembered correctly. A serial killer had disemboweled his victims in a manner similar to the technique used in the Japanese samurai honor code ritual. The gruesome ceremonial death was carried out against those who, in his opinion, had shamed themselves. The killer had chosen victims from the local headlines—in Chicago maybe—who were suspected of gross wrongdoing. Bobbie vaguely recalled one had been a hedge-fund manager who stole from his clients—not unlike Nigel Parker. Another had been a teacher accused of having sex with two of her students—one of whom committed suicide during the trial.
“Wait.” Devine touched his forehead as if he’d experienced an epiphany, as well. “I remember that case. But the Seppuku Killer executed himself—” he shrugged “—ten or so years ago. He fell on his sword right in front of the detectives who’d cornered him.”
“His only shame was in being caught.” More of the details from those gruesome murders filtered into Bobbie’s thoughts. Like these, his victims had been posed in their homes or offices. She turned to her partner. “We should have a look at that case. I think he was active in the Chicago area. This may be a copycat.”
“I’ll make a call to Chicago PD.”
“Excuse me, Detectives.”
Bobbie’s gaze shot to the door where a uniform—Officer Leslie Elliott—waited. The younger woman looked pale despite her mahogany complexion. “You found something?”
“Officer Elliott,” Devine offered before she could answer, “was following up on the Parker children’s whereabouts.”
Elliott nodded. “The boy didn’t show up at his friend’s last night. They haven’t heard from him since yesterday afternoon. We just called the six contacts in the girl’s phone and not one of them has seen or heard from her since around ten last night.”
A new rush of cold slid through Bobbie’s veins. “Where’s the housekeeper?”
“She’s on the back deck,” Devine said. “She didn’t want to stay in the house.”
“Talk to her again,” Bobbie told her partner. “Since we can’t confirm the kids are okay we need to issue Amber Alerts. The killer may have taken one or both.” As Devine hurried from the room, Bobbie glanced at the other woman. “Good work, Elliott. Why don’t you show me to the garage?”
The officer’s shoulders squared and she nodded. “This way.”
Downstairs in the family room Devine had ushered the housekeeper back inside and the two were now seated on the sofa. Face crumpled in pain, Mrs. Snodgrass glanced at Bobbie as she and Elliott moved through the room. Bobbie wished she could provide some reassurance about the children, but at this point there was no way to know what to expect.
Best-case scenario the two had run away and hidden somewhere. Worst case...the killer had taken them.
A short hall at the bottom of the second set of stairs led past the laundry room–bathroom combo and a small den before exiting into the garage. As soon as Bobbie opened the door to the garage the stench of blood and feces had her holding her breath. In the two-car garage a refrigerator, its door ajar exposing the soft drinks and beer inside, stood in the storage area to the left of the steps. The paneled walls had been painted white long ago, age making them appear more off-white. One overhead light, a two-bulb fluorescent, flickered lending an eerie feel to the space.
A Mercedes SUV and BMW sedan were shoehorned side by side. Bobbie walked around the short wall that separated the parking area from the storage space. The first thing she spotted was the arterial spray on the dingy white wall. Streams of blood ran all the way down to the floor like crimson tears. Dr. Lisa Carroll, the coroner, was crouched near a large pool of blood.
“Be careful of the glass.” Carroll pointed to the fridge. “A beer bottle was dropped there. We haven’t gathered up the pieces yet.”
Bobbie glanced at the shattered brown glass. “I guess our perp got thirsty.”
“I imagine he did,” Carroll agreed. “This definitely took some time.”
Carroll and Bobbie had attended Booker T. Washington High School together. They’d never actually been friends, but Bobbie was happy to hear the younger woman had accepted the position left open by the retiring coroner last month. It was a part-time job and most of the doctors in the area didn’t want to steal the time out of their busy schedules. Carroll was hardly more than five foot two and probably didn’t weight a hundred pounds soaking wet. Back in school she’d been a wallflower and pretty much stayed to herself. Hard work and relentless determination had won her numerous scholarships. Bobbie wondered why a woman so focused and driven had chosen to be a general practitioner rather than a surgeon or some other specialist.
Carroll exhaled a big breath. “Well, everything appears to be here.”
Bobbie surveyed the pile of organs stacked in the center of the blood. Partial shoes prints were visible near the edge of the wide coagulating puddle. Before she could ask, Officer Elliott said, “The evidence tech took photos of the shoe prints, but they’re smudged.” She pointed to where the prints abruptly disappeared about two feet from the pool of blood and other bodily fluids. “Detective Devine and I concluded that the killer probably took off his clothes right there.”
Bobbie agreed. The pattern of smudged prints and the smears of blood suggested as much. The killer had planned these ritual-style murders down to the last detail, brought fresh clothes and a bag for the stained ones. No question about premeditation.
“The shower in that bathroom we passed—” Elliott hitched her thumb back toward the direction they’d come “—is as clean as a whistle but one of the tech’s checked the drain. The killer must have cleaned the bodies there and took a shower before he left.”
“I’m sure Devine also told you about this,” the coroner said.
Bobbie turned to Carroll who held a heart in her hand. She pointed to an obvious chunk that had been bitten from the organ. “He mentioned that, yes.” Damn, what a mess. “Do you have an estimate on time of death?”
Carroll blew her black bangs out of her eyes. “I’m going to say somewhere around midnight based on body temperature and the stage of rigor the bodies have reached. That said, I haven’t examined them as closely as I’d like. I felt this—” she gestured to the blood and body parts “—needed to be addressed first.”
Bobbie understood. “Thanks. I’ll check in with you later today.” She turned back to Elliott. “Let’s have a look at that shower.”
As Bobbie followed the officer back into the house her cell vibrated. She pulled it from her belt. If she was lucky it would be about the kids. Let them be safe. “Gentry.”
“Detective Gentry, this is Lawrence Zacharias.”
The name didn’t ring a bell. If this was another reporter or writer who’d managed to get her number she was going to have to break down and take a new one. Enough was enough. She was not selling her story. “How can I help you, Mr. Zacharias?”
“I represent Dr. Randolph Weller. I’m certain you’re aware of who he is.”
Hearing the name disrupted Bobbie’s equilibrium. She stalled and propped her hip against the washing machine to brace herself. She held up a hand for Elliott to give her a moment. Elliott turned her back and pretended to study the shower. Bobbie appreciated the gesture.
Randolph Weller, also known as the Picasso Killer, was one of the most prolific serial killers alive today. In addition to being a vicious murderer who’d killed his own wife and buried her in the backyard, he was also a celebrated psychiatrist. Other than the fact that he was in solitary confinement in an Atlanta federal prison for his crimes, Bobbie knew little about the man save one stunning fact: he was Nick Shade’s father.
Had something happened to Nick? Her pulse accelerated into overdrive. Memories of the enigmatic man who’d helped her survive that final showdown with the Storyteller whispered through her. She hadn’t heard from Nick Shade since that day in the cemetery...the same day Newt was buried. Bobbie felt confident the serial-killer hunter the FBI preferred to pretend didn’t exist was on the trail of another murderer no one else had been able to catch. As strange as it seemed, considering they’d worked together for only a few days, she missed him. An unexpected bond had developed between them.
Didn’t matter. Nick Shade was long gone.
“Detective?”
“Yes.” Bobbie hated the uncertainty in her voice.
“Dr. Weller would like to see you.”
If he’d announced that Weller was Santa Claus she wouldn’t have been more surprised. How would Weller even know she existed? She supposed it was possible he’d read about how she’d survived the Storyteller.
Wait, she understood now. Weller probably had some way of following Nick’s work. If so, he would know Nick had helped her end the Storyteller’s reign of terror. God knew they’d both been all over the news back in August.
“Detective, are you still there?”
Bobbie straightened, curiosity overtaking the uncertainty. “I’m sorry, Mr. Zacharias, I’m a little confused. Why would he want to see me?”
“He insists that it’s imperative he speak with you in person as soon as possible. It’s about his son, Nicholas.”
When Bobbie hesitated yet again Zacharias added, “Dr. Weller believes Nicholas is in grave danger.”
Three (#u022ee035-69f9-5715-ab13-603421c4398f)
Atlanta Federal Prison
5:30 p.m.
Bobbie had left for Atlanta as soon as she and Devine had found the missing boy. Ten-year-old Sage Parker had been hiding in the attic. The closet in his parents’ bedroom had a full-size access door that opened onto additional floored space over the back porch. He claimed he hid there a lot lately and last night he’d fallen asleep in the dusty, too warm space. Last month when the shit hit the fan in the news and his parents started screaming at each other all the time he’d found solitude in the attic among the boxes of stored Christmas ornaments and toys he and his sister once played with together.
Finding the boy alive and well was the only good news they had so far. Sage had no idea where his sister was. None of her few friends had seen her and, according to those same friends, she currently had no boyfriend. Fern Parker had vanished. Bobbie hoped she had taken off as teenagers will sometimes do when angry with their parents. The alternative didn’t leave much hope for her survival.
Other than being hungry and a little dehydrated from spending twelve hours hidden in the heat of the attic, Sage was unharmed. He insisted he hadn’t heard or seen anything. Bobbie wasn’t so sure the kid was being completely honest. She’d pushed as hard as she felt comfortable and he’d stuck with his story. After dinner his parents had begun their usual routine of screaming profanities at each other and his sister had gone into her room, slamming the door in his face. Eventually his parents had taken their screaming match back downstairs and Sage had sneaked into their bedroom and through the closet to the attic. The child admitted he hadn’t wanted to go to his friend’s house because he worried about his parents and sister, but he couldn’t bear the screaming so he hid. He’d fallen asleep and hadn’t awakened until he heard the sirens, then he’d been too afraid to come out of hiding.
Bobbie had ridden in the ambulance with him to the ER. The physician on call had suggested Sage stay twenty-four hours for observation just to ensure he was okay. His mother’s sister who lived in Nashville had been called. She’d arrived before Bobbie left for Atlanta. Bobbie hadn’t told Sage his parents were dead. She’d left that painful business to his aunt. To ensure the boy’s safety, a uniform had been assigned to his room. The FBI was sending one of its agents to serve as part of his security detail as well.
Poor kid had no idea what lay ahead of him. His entire world had been shattered. There was no way to save him from the hurt of learning to live without his parents. At the moment though, the most pressing concerns were keeping the boy safe and finding his sister. If the killer learned a possible witness had survived his killing spree he would want to rectify that oversight.
After the boy and his aunt were settled into a room at Baptist Medical, Bobbie had hit the road. She’d arrived at the prison nearly forty minutes ago and had been pacing this small waiting room since. Her patience was quickly running out. She should be back in Montgomery looking for Fern Parker and whoever killed her and Sage’s parents.
Bobbie stopped her pacing and shivered as if a cold wind had passed through her. Not so long ago she’d been in the precarious position the Parker children were in. The serial killer she had survived had wanted to finish what he’d started. She clenched her teeth and dropped into the nearest chair. No one was going to get to that little boy or his sister—assuming they could find her and the bastard didn’t have her already—as long as Bobbie was breathing.
Devine had conducted face-to-face interviews with the teenagers on the short contacts list in Fern’s cell phone. According to those few, there was a long list of newly unfriended teenagers on Facebook and Instagram who should be interviewed as well. The feds had already pushed their way into the homicide investigation and were interviewing potential suspects who had been wronged by either Nigel Parker or his wife. The FBI’s involvement was understandable since the Parker fraud case had been theirs. If Fern had been abducted they would be lead on that aspect of the case. Special Agent Michael Hadden from the Montgomery field office would work as a liaison between the MPD and the agent in charge, Ronald Vincent, of the Parker case. Hadden promised to provide any names of persons of interest the MPD didn’t have in an effort to ensure all bases were covered.
Bobbie had tasked Devine as liaison with Hadden. Chief Peterson had made it clear that his detectives and the Montgomery Police Department would remain lead on the investigation until the homicide aspect of the case was solved. According to the chief, Special Agent Vincent, who’d come all the way from New York, hadn’t been too happy about it but he’d let it go quickly enough. As much as Bobbie wanted to focus solely on who had decided to use a dead serial killer’s MO, her top priority was to find Fern.
The possible motives for the murders were easy enough to deduce. Both Nigel Parker and his wife had made serious enemies. Nigel by stealing from his clients; Heather by having affairs with at least four of those married clients and arranging secret lovers for many more of her husband’s friends. Fern was the big question mark in Bobbie’s mind. If the killer was levying vengeance, what had the girl done to deserve to be taken? What was her shame? Or was she simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, ending up collateral damage? Until she was found all they had was speculation.
“Detective Gentry.”
Bobbie pushed aside the troubling thoughts and focused on the tall man dressed in a guard’s uniform who had entered the waiting room. When she’d arrived she had gone through the usual routine of signing in and then turning over her handbag, badge, weapon and all other personal items the same as any other visitor. Eventually she had been sequestered to this small private room.
“That’s me.” She stood, smoothed a hand over her jacket. She felt more than a little naked without her department issue Glock at her waist and the backup piece she kept strapped to her right ankle. She’d left her backup piece as well as the knife she carried in the trunk of her car. Leaving her Glock in the car was out of the question.
“I’m Malcolm Clinton. I apologize for your wait. The warden had to approve your visit and he was in a meeting when you first arrived,” the guard explained. “Apparently Mr. Zacharias failed to mention that you’re a detective.”
“No problem. Can I see Weller now?” Another zing of anticipation rushed through her. The two-and-a-half-hour drive from Montgomery had given her plenty of time to come up with a number of questions she wanted to ask the infamous doctor. She had every intention of requiring his cooperation if he wanted hers.
“Yes, ma’am.” Clinton gestured to the door. “This way. We have certain procedures as you likely know. The inmate will be fully restrained during your visit and there will be two guards outside the door. If at any point you feel uncomfortable or if an issue with the inmate arises, all you have to do is call out and the guards will assist you.”
Bobbie had visited her share of prisoners, mostly in county lockup. A federal prison like this one was a first for her. “I understand.”
She followed Clinton along the somber corridor, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. As much as the knowledge that Randolph Weller was a sadistic killer sickened her, she wanted to know all she could about Nick. If he was in trouble, she owed it to him to help in any way possible. He was the main reason she was still breathing. On top of saving her life, he had helped her to see a life beyond the vengeance she had wanted so badly.
Gaylon Perry, aka the Storyteller, had murdered nearly two dozen people and no one had even come close to figuring out who he was much less catching him. Nick Shade had learned more about the psychopathic serial killer than anyone else. After discovering one of the victims had survived, Nick had come to Montgomery to wait for him. Like Bobbie, he had known the Storyteller would be back for her—the one that got away. Nick was the only reason she had survived that showdown.
“Let the guards know when you’re done,” Clinton said, drawing her attention back to the present. “You’re not to touch him or pass anything to him. He’ll undergo a full cavity search after your visit.”
Bobbie had no desire to get any closer than necessary. “Does he have visitors often?” The answer didn’t really matter, she was curious about one particular visitor.
“The only visitors he has are the two agents from the FBI who show up every week or so.”
“His son doesn’t visit?”
