A Deeper Grave. Debra Webb

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СКАЧАТЬ 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

      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 СКАЧАТЬ