Deadly Obsession Part 9

"h.e.l.l, they're liable to grow bored and forget we exist. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"We find another body. Then, I highly doubt the word 'serial' won't be men tioned in the paper. Same MO, same signature-they'll likely draw their own conclusions, John. We won't have to tell them a thing."

"So far the press doesn't know squat about these bodies. They can't come t o any conclusions based on what we've already told them. But find another body in the woods near Bain Park and they'll be screaming for answers."

Cole shook his head and slumped further into his seat. John was right. If th ey found another body in the woods, the public would be tearing down the sta tion walls to get answers.

Hours later , Cole sat at his desk, reviewing the cases of Richard Chase, t he Vampire of Sacramento, and Peter Kurten, the Vampire of Dusseldorf. Othe r than the taste for blood, these two had little in common. And neither see med to parallel his case. Another dead end.

Cole thought back to a few of the old cases in Cleveland when the FBI had st epped in and offered a.s.sistance in profiling a case, something he knew littl e about.

Other than the given of the killer being a white male and the fact that most serial killers are s.e.xual offenders, he had little to go on. Serial killers a lmost always followed the same pattern, killed the same type of people. Unles s, of course, they were like Richard Ramirez, who had no pattern, who killed randomly. A product of Satan. The thought alone sent chills racing down Cole'

s spine. He hoped to h.e.l.l he never ran into that kind of evil face-to-face. In this case, the perp seemed to prey on prost.i.tutes with shoulder-length br own hair and brown eyes. High-risk victims.

Cole sent what information they did have to the Cuyahoga Regional Informati on System, CRIS, which linked information with the county's other law enfor cement officials and to the National Crime Information Center, NCIC, which put information out to other police departments across the states in the ho pes another district would match the profile on his case. Also VICAP, Viole nt Criminal Apprehension Program, had been contacted by way of filling out a 189 question report trying to link their dead body with a missing person, or to match his case with another serial crime. All of it a long shot. The y had yet to determine these were indeed serial killings.

So far, nothing seemed to match the MO or signature of his unknown subject.

But the one thing they did have was the perp's bite, sketched on acetate pap er from photographs taken with a special camera that gave the exact size pic tures of the first found victim's throat; the other being too far decomposed to get anything from. With the help of a forensic dentist, the wound could be matched to the bite impression of the suspect.

If they could find a subject, they could match his bite to that of the wound.

If the points on his impression matched that of the sketch on the acetate, t hey would have their man.

Almost three weeks had pa.s.sed since the finding of Shana Darby. Cole was n o closer to finding his perp now than he had been then. And unless another body surfaced-these cases would likely go unsolved. If the unknown subjec t did not continue to work , they would have little chance in catching him .

Laurie satin a cool, air-conditioned room at the Mansfield Correctional Ins t.i.tute in Mansfield, Ohio, waiting to speak with Robert Freeman. The bars s urrounding the room were cloaked with scarlet, velvet curtains that failed to add any warmth to the room. Chairs were placed next to tables, the only objects separating prisoners from their guests. Here, no one was allowed co ntact; prison guards stood about keeping a close eye on the people.

One of the large gray doors clanked opened. As Laurie watched, a tall, musc ular man was escorted into the room by two prison guards. The cuffs were le ft on his wrists. Rubbing the area as though reminding himself of the cuff'

s presence, the dark-haired man approached her table, his cold gray eyes em pty.

He eyed her, obviously curious as to whom his visitor was and what she wanted . He sat on the chair, a malice-filled smile curling his lips.

"What brings a pretty lady like you to the shadow box?" he asked. "Dare I h ope you've got ulterior motives?" He chuckled, the sound echoing eerily.

Laurie rubbed a hand up her arm trying to smooth out the gooseflesh that took up residence since the moment she had walked into the place.

"I'm a reporter for Westlife ." Laurie flashed him her identification card, th en tossed him a pack of cigarettes across the table.

His eyes narrowed, but he placed the offering in his s.h.i.+rt pocket. His wrist c hains rattled. " Westlife? Ain't ever heard of it. You come here to do my stor y? Got news for you, lady, ain't nothin' to tell. I got hard time for life."

Laurie thought it better to allow him to bring up Cole's name rather than he r. One mention of his nemesis and he would likely clam up tighter than the H ole, a room of solitary confinement used to isolate prisoners. "What are you in for?"

His chuckle resonated through the room again, giving Laurie a feeling of unease. Maybe she should not have come. Maybe she should have kept her no se from Cole's business.

"Lady, you ain't pullin' my leg. You knew what I was in for before you eve r walked through that door. The question is what do you have to do with De tective Cole Kincaid?"

Having someone like Robert Freeman privy to her thoughts sent a chill down Laurie's spine. The blood drained from her face.

Robert grinned at her obvious distress at Cole's name. "Ain't no need to worr y, lady." He knocked on the table, causing Laurie to jump. A guard took a ste p in their direction, but she raised her hand to stop him. "h.e.l.l, ain't no wa y I can get to you. I ain't ever going to get out of here-courts seen to it-t hanks to your little boyfriend."

"Mr. Kincaid is not my boyfriend."

"Then what are you here for? Ain't got no new stories to tell. h.e.l.l, lady, Co le Kincaid is past news."

"I'm here to find out your side of the story."

"Ain't n.o.body ever took an interest in my story. Why you? Why now, after so many years? Cole Kincaid ain't openin' up for you?" He chuckled again.

"Why don't you give him what's under that skirt? He ain't likely to turn that down-not when he ain't got n.o.body at home anymore."

His unfeeling referral to Jeanne Kincaid further unnerved her. Laurie glan ced down as she toyed with her pen. "Why don't you tell me what happened.

Why did you go after his wife?"

"Cole sent me up the river years ago for something I didn't do."

"You were innocent?"

"Well, maybe not innocent, but I didn't do what he said I did. I got a dime s entence, got out in half the time. I had a score to settle. No one pins a cri me on me I didn't commit."

"What was the crime?"

"Was robbing a bank when everything went down wrong. No one was supposed to get wasted. It was an in and out job. But some rent-a-cop decided to be a hero. Aimed the gun right at my head. That's when he got wasted."

"By you?"

"I already told you, lady, I didn't do it. I heard the pop and when I turned around, the little hero was choking on his blood. 's.h.i.+t,' was all I said. I grabbed the gun away from the squirrel who did it and he split. Ain't seen him since and my fingerprints were all over that d.a.m.n gun. I wasn't thinking . Took my gloves off to take valuables from the fingers of those lying face down on the floor. Ain't none of them who could testify to the fact I didn't pull the trigger. h.e.l.l, I had a stocking on my head. Wasn't about to sing o n the guy who done it. I went down for the murder 'cause Detective Cole said I was the triggerman. And I ain't a forgivin' man."

"Obviously. So you killed his wife for revenge?"

"I got lots of reasons to hate Cole Kincaid and I ain't about to discuss them with you. He better pray I never see the streets again. Your best bet is to stay away from the good Detective-as far as possible-if you value your life a ny."

Fear washed over Laurie like a tidal wave. "Is that a threat, Mr. Freeman?"

"I don't make threats, lady." His gray eyes matched the walls, cold and devo id of feeling. But Laurie held little doubt that this man meant every word h e said.

"You're in for life-"

"Yep," he said, cutting her off as he stood, motioning for a guard, ending the ir conversation.

Slowly, Laurie did the same as he stared at her from the other side of the ta ble. Even after she gave him her back and walked to the door, she could feel his eyes boring into her like a scalpel cuts through flesh.

Just as Laurie reached for the k.n.o.b on the door, it swung open, startling he r. A tall, thin man, with long hair entered the room as Laurie exited. A s.h.i.+ ver snaked its way along her spine. The sooner she put miles between her and Robert Freeman, the better.

Chapter 9.

Night haslong since fallen with a complete covering of clouds. Not a star s hone in the heavens, no moon cast its glow. Hiding in the darkened doorway, one with the night, the soul patiently watches the building before him. Ot hers, nocturnal as he, moved about, entering their temporary homes.

One would fall prey; one would be no more. The smell of life's blood calls to him, beckoning him forward. His dark eye s seek out and find one who he deems worthy. Brown hair cut to the shoulder s and eyes the color of liquid chocolate bids a companion farewell.

The center of his existence lengthens and becomes hard as his heart beats hea vily in his chest. He knows she is the one. His hands tighten to fists; the s inewy muscles in his biceps grow taut. A lump rises to his throat, nearly ste aling the oxygen he needs to survive.

Inhaling of the night that calls and gives him strength, he draws in a shaky breath and pushes off the cold wall giving him a haven. Eyes of evil look u p and down Lorain Road where no cars cruise the streets; Satan lends his han d.

Quickly moving across the road as stealthily as a cat, the darkly dressed sou l slips into the doorway of the Cleveland Motel. Sounds of the night fill the air; moans rise above the silence.

His muscles tense in antic.i.p.ation as he grasps the serrated knife tucked into his belt where it lays against his bare skin. Theicy steel feels good against his flesh-giving him a sense of raw power. When killing with a knife, the soul can feel the victim dying through the cold steel blade as it cuts through the soft flesh and spills life's fluids. A rush of air then spatters the blood li ke a fountain; a fountain of existence.

Life and death lies in his hands.

Running the tip against his tongue, he draws a drop of his own blood. The met allic flavor fuels his desire and quickens his steps.

He takes the stairs two at a time, for fear of losing sight of all that is im portant. Entering the room at the end of the hall is the woman he spotted out side only moments ago. His steps hasten and he soon finds himself outside the same door he saw his prey enter.

Blood pulses through his brain, pounding in his ears like the roar of a whit e-capped river as it flows downstream. Crimson fluid seems to fill his eyes, lending a red haze to the night. He can almost smell the scent of blood bey ond the closed door.

Gloves slip over sweating palms before testing the k.n.o.b. It turns easily. No l ocks will stop him this night; again, proof of evil at work, which lends its a ssistance.

Heightened to a s.e.xual peak, the soul slips into the room unseen.

A scream is cut short.

And a life is no more.

"Ahh, Christ! " Cole blasphemed as he ducked beneath the yellow crime scen e tape that cordoned off the room.

A female neighbor had called the station at promptly seven in the morning wh en she noted the slightly ajar door to Mary Stine's room. Two units were dispatched to prove the validity of the call and seal off the crime scene if th e nature of the call proved to be true.

A call to Cole's came shortly thereafter.

The neighbor sat in the hallway, being calmed by Sam O'Riley since putting him in the crime scene would be like placing a bull in a china shop.

The smell of death permeated the air. There was nothing equivalent to it. C ole recognized the stench upon entering the motel's premises.

Blood had splattered several feet away. Soaking the bed covers, the walls, t he ceilings. There could be no possible way the a.s.sailant walked out of this room without Mary's blood soaking the front of him.

"How the h.e.l.l does a guy walk down the street covered in blood and not get noticed?" Cole grumbled.

"Excuse me?" Frank Cooper asked as he gingerly stepped up behind the lieut enant.

"Nothing," Cole spat. "I was talking to myself."

He slipped the camera strap off his shoulder and began taking pictures of th e scene. The bulb flashed like a strobe light as Cole captured every possibl e angle of the room and the covered victim.

The room sported no free spot that did not have blood covering it. The room was d.a.m.n near completely flecked red-brown. The ch.o.r.e of taking pictures a lmost finished, Cole slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and lifted the corn er of the blanket covering the victim. Lying face up, eyes empty and sightl ess, the woman sported a gash across her neck, nearly from ear to ear. Teet h marks surrounded the wound. Touching the crimson color centering in the l ower part of her shoulder, the spot blanched white. The fairly warm body sh owed signs of early-nonfixed lividity. Rigor Mortis had yet to set in. This body had been dead mere hours.

Cole s.h.i.+vered.

Then taking the camera, he took pictures of the victim without the covering of the blanket. Cole doubted he would see anything but blood for days. Pla cing the camera strap over his shoulder, he took his pad and pencil from th e pocket of his pleated trousers and began taking notes of everything he sa w and making a detailed sketch of the scene, having Cooper help with the me asurements.

The handiwork of Cole's perp.

There was no mistaking his signature. The only difference, this body had be en left for them to find and not dumped in some wooded area. Given the time , would the a.s.sailant have returned later to dump the body? Doubtful. Cole felt the perp wanted them to see his work.

"Lieutenant," Cooper called out. "Look what I found."

In blood, scribed across the white surface of a counter at the back of the roo m, the killer wrote with what they presumed, by the black fibers contaminating the fluid, a gloved finger, "BS: Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot ent er into the feelings of the hunter. "

A taunt? A challenge left by the killer? If so, the son of a b.i.t.c.h was getti ng bolder. And BS, he wondered at it's meaning. A name, an abbreviation, a s ignature?

Cole took a picture of the scribbled sentence. "Write down this quote. If i t came from someplace, I want to know where."

A large, complete, bloodied footprint imbedded the carpet beside the bed. The first existence of any real evidence . After using a box cutter to cut the car pet surrounding the print, Cole tacked it to a piece of plywood to send off to the lab.

Samples of blood were taken and placed in vials. Fibers were put into coin envelopes with care. The body was measured and triangulated. Every smooth s urface had been dusted for prints. In short, Cole wanted to leave no stone unturned. He wanted to nail the killer-and soon.

Laurie heard the call over her scanner. No specifics were given, quite vague in fact, but she had a gut feeling something had gone awry. And she was not about to miss the break in her story.

Throwing on a pair of jeans and a tank-style sweater, Laurie grasped her tap e recorder, pad and pen, and headed out the door.

Cole Kincaid would not escape her this time. If correct, and there was yet another body found at the Cleveland Motel, she meant to get the story. Was this the work of the same man who had dumped the last two bodies? If so, th ey could be dealing with a serial killer in their own backyard.

Laurie sped down West 220 Street and took a left at Morton Park, following t he road about a half-mile where it dead-ended on West 227 Street. The motel loomed before her, giving her a cold eerie feeling as her car crept up to th e curb, finding a place to park.

An ambulance sat by the entrance, lights flas.h.i.+ng in the morning hours. Whit e police cruisers were scattered along the street, doors ajar. What ever wen t down here, it didn't look good. People milled about the entrance as an off icer stood at the front, barring all intruders. No one would be allowed insi de.