Lydia lay on her king-size bed, her body wrapped in soft white Egyptian cotton sheets and a rose-colored chenille blanket, the down comforter in a twisted mound on the floor where she had tossed it during her restless night. What would it be like to wake up beside him every morning? What would it be like to wake up one day, have to wake up with the knowledge that he would never lie beside her again?
“Anybody who ever said it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all is an idiot,’’ her mother said to her once on a rare occasion when they’d discussed her father. “You can’t miss what you never had.’’
Lydia had met her father only once, on the day after her mother’s funeral. She sat alone in the living room staring out the bay window at the woods behind her house. The day was cool and sunny in cruel contrast to the way she felt. She heard the doorbell but paid no attention, assuming it was another neighbor come to offer their condolences. She dreaded having to smile politely, having to say she would be all right. Then she heard her grandfather’s voice as he opened the door, then a soft murmuring, then silence. To Lydia her grandfather sounded angry, but she thought she must be mistaken. Then she saw him at the door, his face tight and ashen.
Hovering behind her grandfather, she saw a stranger with her eyes. Tall and slouching, poorly dressed, he held flowers and looked ashamed. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“You don’t have to see him, Lydia,’’her grandfather said.
But her curiosity was great. It was the first feeling she’d had other than grief and horror since her mother died. “No. It’s okay, Grandpa.’’
She stood up and her father walked toward her. He held the flowers out to her. She took them, her eyes fixed on him. In all the fantasies she had had about him in her life, none of them had even come close to predicting the ordinary man who stood before her. She had imagined him as a great lover, dark and handsome; a motorcycle daredevil, reckless and brave; an international spy, suave and sophisticated. What other kind of man could have stolen her strong, beautiful mother’s heart and left her broken and forever sad? Surely some great danger or some irresistible intrigue had lured him from her mother and their child. In spite of what her mother said.
“Don’t fantasize about your father, Lydia,’’ her mother told her numerous times. “He was just an irresponsible man, living for get-rich-quick schemes, always looking for something more than what he had.’’
She had never believed her mother until this moment, as he stood before her, eyes begging, hands quivering. It was like another death for her.
She let the flowers drop to the floor, turned her back on him, and walked back to her perch by the window. She might have forgiven him for leaving them, for breaking her mother’s heart, but she could never forgive him for being so unremarkable. She could never forgive that he had obviously left them for nothing.
There was a soft knock at the door. She closed her eyes and rolled over, feigning sleep. She heard Jeffrey push the door open and walk into the room. He sat on the bed beside her.
“Lydia?’’
“Hmm?’’
“You want to get up? Morrow will be here in an hour to go over to the church.’’
He touched her shoulder tenderly. His hair was lightly tousled. Unshaven, clad in a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans, he seemed irresistible. But she resisted him.
“Okay.’’
“I’ll make some coffee.’’
Even in this moment she knew she could call him back to her.
“Jeffrey.’’
“Yeah.’’
“Make it really strong.’’
“You got it.’’ He answered without looking at her as he eased the door shut.
But in the end, I’m just a coward. What am I afraid of?
It was a question she couldn’t answer. She only knew that when she thought of surrendering to Jeffrey, she was a child again standing in front of the open door of her mother’s house. That sinking fear, teetering on the edge, mere moments from total devastation. It consumed her, paralyzed her, forced her into loneliness.
It wasn’t only him. It had been this way for as long as she could remember, with every person who had ever tried to get close to her. He was the only one who had stayed around, gauging perfectly when she needed him to be close or far. It wasn’t fair to him. She knew that.
She flipped the covers back and got out of bed. The clock glowed 6:50 a.m. as she stretched, feeling her stiff muscles warm and relax. Arms in the air, back arched, then torso against each lean, tight thigh, her flexible body energized with each gentle movement, with each deep breath.
She switched on the light and examined her naked body in the full-length mirror. Unlike most women, Lydia loved her body. It was lithe and lean, but muscular and strong, with a womanly fullness around her hips and breasts. She leaned in closer to examine her face, her creamy skin. Tiny lines had started to make their debut on her too-often frowning brow, around her eyes. She didn’t much care, wise enough to know the passage of time was one thing she could not control. Her cold beauty was hard-lined and knowing, sometimes brutal. Her gray eyes did not betray the child’s fear that lurked some days within her heart, or the fragility of her soul.
“Good morning,’’ she said to the killer, staring at her own eyes in the mirror. “I’m coming after you today.’’
She thought about the package he’d left for her last night.
“Well, he’s fucking with us now,’’ Jeffrey had said, annoyed. “He was right at your doorstep.’’
He’d been angry last night. Angry that the killer had been right within his grasp and got away, and angry at Lydia for the same reason, she imagined. They had sat again at the kitchen table after the police had left, taking the package to be analyzed at the lab. They were avoiding totally what had almost happened between them in the woods, avoiding Jeffrey’s obvious pain and frustration and talking about the “gift’’ the killer had left.
“He obviously knows you, knows where you live, and knows what you do for a living. He gave it a lot of thought. Which means he gives you a lot of thought,’’ Jeffrey had said quietly.
She had nodded, the impact of the visit finally pressing on her. “It means that I am part of his design, that I figure somehow into his plan.’’
“How did he know you were involved?’’
“Maybe that was always his intention, to draw me in somehow. I just beat him to the punch.’’
“He’s watching you.’’
“Yes, I believe he is.’’
“You don’t seem overly concerned.’’
“What do you want me to do?’’
“I don’t know. Maybe we both just need to get some rest.’’
So they had parted with much unsaid and unresolved between them. She had almost turned back to him as she walked up the stairs. They had been so close. If they hadn’t been interrupted by the police, there was little question as to what would have happened.
She was some combination of disappointed and relieved as she walked into the adjoining bathroom and felt the cool hard tile beneath her feet. The room was a study in the varied uses of white marble – the floor, countertop, and sink were all formed of the beautiful stone. With mirrored walls and bright marquis bulbs, no inch of the room escaped reflection except the steamroom and shower, which were enclosed behind frosted-glass doors that reached from floor to ceiling. The countertop was a pretty clutter of the finest cosmetics and toiletries, expensively packaged soaps and lotions, bath salts, powders, fragrances. Lydia loved the smell, the feel of these things. They were a tiny indulgence she afforded herself, in honor of her mother. Marion, too, had cherished the luxury of a beautiful bathroom, filled with products that pleased the senses and soothed the skin. But Marion had never allowed herself the pleasure of the costly items she saw in magazines. Lydia would have lavished her mother with such things, had Marion lived to share her wealth. So instead she bought them for herself.
The cold water of the shower braced her skin, shocking the last sleepy cobwebs from her head. She lathered herself with lavender soap, at first enduring and then enjoying the frigid water raising goose bumps on her flesh. She washed her hair twice and then conditioned, letting the cold water beat on her back while she let the conditioner sit, making her hair soft. When she emerged, her body glistening, she dried herself with one of the plush black towels that hung on the wall. Then she wrapped herself in it and brushed her teeth.
Jeffrey placed a mug of coffee on her bedside table. He heard the shower and shivered, knowing that it was ice cold. Cold showers for the morning; hot showers at night. He could hear her saying the morning was the beginning of the day, no time for luxury or relaxation
– it was time to get moving. He smiled at the thought, but he held a sadness inside of him, mourning the moment that had passed between them last night. He knew that it could not be recaptured, and could already feel her laying distance between them. He let her do it, aware that she would have to come to him. Like a lunar eclipse, that moment could not be forced – only anticipated. He walked from the room and closed the door as Lydia emerged from the bathroom.
The sight of the steaming coffee at the bedside made her want to smile and cry at the same time.
Lydia and Jeffrey followed behind in the Kompressor as Morrow’s beat-up squad car led the way to the church. High winds whipped sand around the car and rushed loudly through Lydia’s partially opened window making conversation between them difficult. Not that there was any conversation. The silence between them was like barbed wire. If he tried to get through it, it probably wouldn’t kill him. But it would hurt like hell. So Jeffrey kept quiet, watching the landscape pass and preparing for the interview ahead.
In Jeffrey’s imagination, the Church of the Holy Name had taken on cathedral-like proportions. Maybe because of the significance it seemed to hold for Lydia. So, he was a bit surprised when they pulled up beside the tiny adobe church, with its simple wood doors, unassuming bell tower, and cross-shaped windows.
“This is it?’’ he asked.
“This is it,’’ Lydia answered. She walked up the three small steps and pushed the heavy doors in, followed by Jeffrey and Morrow.
A frail, dark-haired man wearing faded but well-washed and pressed jeans and a white oxford shirt approached them, and Jeffrey was again surprised when Lydia introduced him as Juno. From Lydia’s description he had expected to see Gabriel in flowing robes, ensconced in a heavenly light. As he took the hand Juno offered, Jeffrey was delighted by the blind man’s entirely earthly, rather plain appearance.
As Juno disappeared through a door beside the altar to get Father Luis, Jeffrey, Lydia, and Morrow moved over to the glass case by the church entrance. Laid out on a red-velvet cushion beneath the glass were two leather-bound Bibles, three rosaries, and a hand-carved crucifix. Morrow removed an evidence bag from the pocket of his J. Crew-style barn jacket and held it on top of the case. The crucifix contained in the plastic bag was identical to the one in the case.
“They’re the same,’’ Lydia said, certain.
“Looks that way,’’ answered Morrow, nodding.
Lydia’s eyes drifted to the back of the church to the doorway through which Juno had disappeared moments before. Jeffrey noted it was the third time her eyes had followed the path Juno had taken. She wouldn’t even glance in Jeffrey’s direction and they hadn’t made eye contact all morning. She was moving away again, just as he had accused her of doing last night. Maybe it was always going to be like this with her. Maybe it was just time to forget it, time to move on, sad as the thought made him.
Jeffrey sat down in one of the pews and watched as a man in beige coveralls painstakingly polished the long wooden table on the altar. He seemed to make endless small circles with the cloth in his hand and moved slowly and stiffly, as though he were a robot low on fuel. Every few circles, the man would shuffle a few inches to the side and begin polishing another small section. Maybe sensing that he was being watched, he lifted his eyes and looked at Jeffrey with a blank, unseeing stare. Not blind, but uncomprehending. The man was obviously mentally impaired. Jeffrey smiled but the man looked back down at the table, returning to his circles. An old woman kneeled in the first pew, her head bent. Jeffrey could hear the murmuring of her prayer.
Morrow walked around the church, his footfalls echoing loudly as he looked behind some embroidered wall-hangings, and under the pews. He stepped into the confessional, touching the tattered Bible with a tentative finger.
“Bet you haven’t been inside one of these in a while,’’ said Lydia from the other side, through the wrought-iron grating, startling him.
“About as long as you,’’ he shot back, more weakly than he would have liked.
Lydia chuckled. He couldn’t be sure if she was laughing at him but it was a safe bet. He went back to join Jeffrey.
The wood inside the confessional was spotless
– meticulously scrubbed and dusted. The cushion on the small bench was old and worn with bits of white stuffing visible beneath the red velvet cover. Lydia felt uncomfortable, the same feeling she had had in the garden, during her first visit, like somebody’s eyes were on her. She peeked through the grating, but Morrow was gone. She picked up the Bible off a narrow shelf. The leather was smooth and malleable from years of use, and the pages, the edges gilded with gold, made a crisp whisper as she flipped through the book absently. She hadn’t held a Bible since her mother’s funeral.
“Lydia,’’ Jeffrey called.
She walked from the confessional to see Juno and the man who must be Father Luis Alonzo sitting in the final pew. She was introduced to the priest and he rose as he shook her hand.
As Jeffrey told the priest about the recent disappearances and what they had come to suspect, Lydia watched Father Luis’s open, earnest face darken with concern. He leaned slightly forward and began knitting his hands. She could see him searching his mind for the last time he’d seen Harold and Christine, Shawna, or Maria. And in his deep, brown eyes, she saw the flicker of something else. Something she hadn’t expected and which didn’t make sense. Fear.
“Of course I’d noticed their absences. At first I thought nothing of it. It is not uncommon for people to drift away from the church and then return. Then I read in the paper that first Shawna, then Harold and Christine were missing.’’ He shook his head. “I never connected them to each other. Then Maria, may she rest in peace. Even then I never made the connections.’’
“We’ve missed Shawna very much,’’ he continued quietly. “She was a great help to us. Maria came to confession every Wednesday and to mass every Sunday. Christine and Harold came to Sunday mass sporadically over the years.’’
Morrow pulled the crucifix from his pocket and handed it to the priest. “Did you make this, Father?’’
The priest inspected it, holding it in a hand that trembled slightly. “Yes, it looks like an older one. Where did you find it?’’
“At Ms. Lopez’s apartment. One was found at the homes of each of the other missing persons as well.’’
The priest tapped his foot lightly on the floor. It was an unconscious gesture, the slender black leather shoe rapping a staccato on old wood. Lydia and Jeffrey exchanged a glance. “I have to admit, I never imagined any harm had befallen them. Maria, of course – the headlines were shocking. But Shawna, Christine, and Harold were all troubled people. I thought they had just run off.’’
“That’s what we all thought,’’ said Morrow.
“Not all of us,’’ muttered Lydia. The priest appeared not to have heard her, but Morrow shot her an angry look.
“And it still might turn out, though it’s doubtful, that Shawna, Christine, and Harold have nothing to do with our case,’’ interjected Jeffrey. “But, Father, if you know anything that could help us, now would be the time to let us know. Anybody any one of them may have mentioned to you. Someone they were afraid of…?’’ Jeffrey sat down beside the priest, who seemed to be deep in thought.
“Nothing comes to mind,’’ he said, sighing.
Lydia spoke up for the first time. “Father, it seems obvious, with all of these people being members of your congregation, with the dog’s body that was found here, with the crucifixes that were found in each of the victim’s homes, that this church is somehow tied in. Has anyone said anything to you during confession that may have sounded suspicious or threatening?’’ She fixed her eyes on him as if she were trying to read his mind.
“Obviously, I would be loath to violate the sanctity of the confessional. But I can tell you that certainly I have heard nothing of the nature you mean.’’
“Does the church have any employees other than you and your nephew?’’
“No, we have volunteers who care for the church. Some are just parishioners who want to give time to the church, like Shawna. Some do community service here, you know, as punishment for a minor offense of some kind, and some of them come from the school for the mentally challenged.’’
“The man who is here today, was he from the school you mentioned?’’ asked Jeffrey.
“I’m not sure who you mean.’’
Jeffrey looked up and saw that the man was gone. The old woman who had been praying had also left unnoticed. “He was polishing the table.’’
“We didn’t have anyone in today to do volunteer work, as far as I knew.’’ He turned to his nephew. “Juno, did you schedule anyone?’’
“No, I didn’t. The people from the school are always scheduled because they need to be supervised,’’ he explained. “They usually come in groups. The volunteer parishioners come and go as they please.’’
“Did either of you see the man I saw?’’ Jeffrey asked Morrow and Lydia. Both shook their heads. “Morrow, can you go take a look out the door?’’
“Sure,’’ he said, rising and walking to the entrance.
“Father, can we get a list of names, addresses, and telephone numbers of your congregation and volunteers?’’ Lydia asked.
The priest hesitated. “I don’t think I’m within my rights…’’
Morrow returned, overhearing the priest’s reluctance.
“Father, this is a murder investigation. If you would like me to get a warrant, I can do that,’’ said Morrow, respectfully but with authority.
“No, no, that won’t be necessary.’’ He rose. “I’ll just get what I have from my office. Of course, not all of the people who attend mass give their addresses.’’
“Of course. What you have will be good enough for now,’’ Jeffrey answered.
When the priest had left, Morrow turned to Jeffrey. “I didn’t see anyone out there. There are no vehicles except for ours and the church van.’’
“I wasn’t aware of anyone else being here today, except for Mrs. Mancher who walks here to pray nearly every day,’’ said Juno.
“Did you notice any other vehicles when we came in?’’ Jeffrey asked Lydia and Morrow.
“No, the lot was empty,’’ Lydia answered, and the chief nodded his agreement.
The priest returned with some xeroxed pages and handed them to Jeffrey.
“Thank you, Father. Lydia, is there anything else you need from Juno and Father Luis at this point?’’
“Just one thing. Father, have you noticed that any of your parishioners, or any of your volunteers, drive a green minivan?’’
He let out a small laugh. “Well, in fact, I drive a green Dodge Caravan.’’
All three of them looked at him.
“But it’s been in the shop for the last week, and I’ve been using the church van for all my business. My minivan is an older model and the transmission is slipping,’’ he said; then added uncomfortably, “It’s a fairly common vehicle.’’
“What service station is it at, Father?’’ Morrow asked. “No disrespect, of course, but we’ll need to take a look at it.’’
“It’s at the Amoco station in town. I’ll call and let them know you’ll be dropping by.’’
“Anyone else you can think of?’’ asked Morrow.
“No, but I’ll certainly keep my eyes open.’’
The priest was kind and eager to help, but Lydia was sure he had something to hide. The fact that he owned a green minivan had thrown her a bit. She turned the possibilities around in her mind. Was he protecting someone? Was he involved in some way? She looked at him, his eyes filled with emotion and empathy, his large soft hands, the slight paunch of his belly. It didn’t seem likely.
“Father, have you noticed anyone strange lurking about the church? Someone who has recently started coming to mass but that you haven’t met before?’’ she asked. “Someone whose behavior has struck you as odd?’’
Lydia saw something in the priest’s eye – a thought he considered voicing but dismissed.
“No, all my parishioners have been coming here for years, many of them as children themselves.’’
“The man I saw today?’’ said Jeffrey. “He was large-framed, with sandy-blond hair. He wore beige coveralls. He appeared to be…you know, a bit on the slow side. Does this sound like anyone you know to be a volunteer here?’’
“Well, there is Benny. He doesn’t go to the school I mentioned. But he is somewhat impaired. According to his mother, he has the intelligence of a twelve-year-old. He does come by occasionally and do some work for us. He loves to work in the garden. In fact, his name and number are on the list I gave you. Benjamin Savroy.’’
“Thank you for your time, Father, Juno,’’ said Jeffrey, shaking each hand. “You can expect us to be stopping by again.’’
Lydia said her good-byes as well. “Father, Juno, if you think of anything – no matter how small or insignificant it might seem to you, please call us.’’
The three left and the church was quiet and peaceful again. The air still tingled with her essence, even as Juno listened to their cars pull away. Lydia’s scent still lingered, mingling with the odor of wood, candle wax, and incense.
Juno had remained silent throughout his uncle’s interview. He felt strongly that something horrible had befallen all the missing people. He had little doubt they had met with a fate similar to Maria’s. Juno was not an emotional person by nature and though he was deeply saddened by these events, they failed to move him to tears, as they did his uncle. Juno possessed an unflappable inner peace. Though he had great empathy, and a tremendous capacity to feel, the core of him, his faith in God, in the order of His universe, remained solid. No matter how horrible a tragedy occurred, no matter how people suffered, Juno knew in his heart that he and all people were part of a plan, God’s plan. After death, all suffering would fade from memory and the plan would be revealed. This is what his Bible and his heart told him.
And as he had listened to their conversation, something had begun to tickle at the edge of his consciousness. Like a whisper from a distant place, he caught the scent of lavender, of rose, of Lydia. His thoughts had turned to her many times since they had met. To touch her was like an electric shock, blue heat. He had seen her so clearly that first day – her power, her emotion, her fear and vulnerability. The different shades of her, the black and white of her soul and the internal battle that was waged there, intrigued him, excited him. It was so unlike anything he known in his own inner life.
He realized that his uncle was sitting in the pew in front of him but hadn’t said a word since they had been alone. “Uncle, will you be all right?’’
The pause was pregnant with sorrow, and when the priest spoke, his words were taut with tears. “Yes. But it is not for myself that I am afraid.’’
“Of course.’’
The priest rose and left Juno alone in the church. In the silence Juno contemplated Lydia and Jeffrey. The rising temperature in the church told Juno that it was nearing noon. Jeffrey’s tone had been quiet and professional but the sound of Lydia’s name on his tongue was liquid with love. In the way Jeffrey’s lips touched those three syllables, Juno could feel his passion for her, taste Jeffrey’s painful restraint.
At wedding services, Juno often played guitar. Seated on his wooden stool, he perched at the altar, to the right of Father Alonzo. He could hear the bride and groom exchange their vows, and could sense almost instantly who married for money, for fear, for lack of any better opportunities. On only a few occasions had he heard the sound of fierce, tremulous love in the voices of both being joined before the eyes of God. Only rarely had he heard the melodic pitch of two souls bound long before they had reached the church to exchange their earthly vows.
He detected such a bond between Lydia and Jeffrey. But the chorus of her fears was louder.
Lydia dragged on her cigarette, face like stone, eyes staring at the road in front of her. She drew smoke into her lungs, its drug soothing her, cooling her agitation like ice water in her veins. Jeffrey rolled down his window as he watched her slender arm move from the steering wheel to her lips. It was a graceful, sensuous movement – more so because it was unconscious.
“I want to stop by the station and see what they’ve come up with on that list of park visitors. I want to cross-check it against that list of volunteers,’’ Lydia said, again driving too fast up the winding road away from the church.
“And I want to go talk to that slow kid,’’ said Jeffrey, forever politically correct.
“So, what do you think?’’ she asked him.
“I’m not sure. That priest has something to hide, though.’’
“I picked up on that, too. You think he’s involved?’’ she answered, her words punctuated by a sharp exhalation of smoke.
“He drives a green minivan, he made the crosses that were found at each scene, he had knowledge of and proximity to all the victims. If he wasn’t a priest, I might have taken him in,’’ Jeffrey said, only half joking. “I don’t think he’s involved directly. But I think he knows something. I’m going to have Morrow put some men on the church, have them lurk about, make people uncomfortable and see what shakes loose. We also need to get a tech out to that minivan.’’
“Jeffrey?’’
“Yeah?’’
“How long are you going to stay?’’
“As long as I need to.’’
A leaden silence fell between them. He waited for her to say something to clarify the meaning of her question. But she just reached for the ashtray and stubbed out her cigarette.
“Why?’’ he asked finally. “Do you want me to get a room somewhere?’’
“No,’’ she said quickly, sharply, glancing over at him. “Of course not. Don’t you dare.’’
“Then why?’’
“I was just wondering,’’ she said, quickly lighting another cigarette with one hand. After she took a drag, she added, “I just don’t think I can get through this without you.’’
“Well, you won’t have to. In fact, you never have to get through anything without me, if you don’t want to. As you well know.’’
He stared out the window as he said this, and she looked over at him, her heart tight in her chest. He put his hand on her knee and she did not remove it. Why are you more afraid of him than you are of serial killers?
The minivan lead was a weak one but it was all they had right now. So Lydia sat in an uncomfortable orange plastic chair, in a rickety carrel housing a computer that might have been older than she was. The sun beating in through a window in the police station’s computer center warmed her back as she entered into the Division of Motor Vehicles database the license-plate numbers of vehicles that had entered Cimarron State Park in the hours between Maria Lopez’s time of death and the discovery of her body.
This was grunt work pure and simple but she had wanted to do it. Jeffrey and Morrow went with forensics to the service station to have a look at the priest’s minivan. It was a reasonable thing to do, but it just didn’t work for her. She couldn’t reconcile the priest she had met with the killer in her mind. However, maybe the killer had access to the van, had been using it without the priest’s knowledge. It was certainly worth looking into. But her time was better spent going over what they had. Morrow had been surprised that Lydia wanted to run the lists. But she knew that no one would be more likely to pick up an inconsistency or make a match than she would.
Meanwhile, the only prints recovered from the Lopez crime scene were Maria’s and those matching Mike Urquia, who they already knew had been there. The killer must have been wearing gloves. It was also likely that he had worn gloves when delivering Lydia’s “gift’’ last night, as no prints or DNA had been found. A local homicide detective was visiting area shoestores and searching the web for boot treads that matched the footprint left at the dump site. In the absence of any substantial physical evidence, the best they could hope for was a lucky break. And that Lydia’s “buzz’’ would lead them to it.
So, she started with the list of 123 vehicles that had entered the park on the day following the Lopez murder. Of those cars, 60 had been rented from Albuquerque Airport rental-car offices, two were school buses shuttling kids in for a nature walk, and the remaining 61 belonged to private citizens in the area.
Going down the list of vehicles, she punched each plate number into the DMV database. On the screen before her a name, picture, and address popped up. She checked each name against the list of parishioners, then plugged it into VICAP, the FBI’s database of violent offenders. If the plate was a rental, she would check the lists already delivered from the rental-car offices this morning to find the corresponding driver and go through the same cross-referencing process. She wanted to see faces, look into eyes – even if they were just license photos.
Armed with the list of church parishioners and volunteers, the log of visitors to Cimarron State Park, and lists of rental-car customers, Lydia had felt the “buzz’’ big time. She had known there was something hiding in the lists in front of her. But now nearly done with the list and no minivans, no matches with VICAP, and no church parishioners matching visitors to the park, she was starting to feel tired and frustrated. None of the people whose pictures popped up on the computer screen had a big tattoo on their forehead reading “Serial Killer.’’ You’re missing something. Something so obvious.
She entered the next plate number and it turned out to be a rental. She crossed-referenced it with the lists and found that it was a green 2000 Jeep Grand Cherokee picked up at Avis at six p.m. the night Maria Lopez was murdered. It was rented to a Vince A. Gemiennes of 124 Black Canyon Road in Angel Fire, New Mexico. It wasn’t a minivan but he was the only local resident to have rented a car that day. She entered his name into the DMV database and was surprised to be informed that there were no matches. It must be a fake name. She entered it into VICAP, hoping that it would pop up as an alias but she had the same results…no match. She sat for a moment, tapping her pen against the side of the carrel. She reached for her cell phone to call Jeffrey and then changed her mind. Instead, she wrote down the address Vince A. Gemiennes gave to Avis and left the station without a word to anyone.
She felt another momentary pang of guilt as she got into her Kompressor. You should at least bring a uniformed officer with you, she thought. But instead, she checked the Glock in her glove compartment to make sure it was loaded, raced out of the parking lot, and headed up Highway 64 toward Eagle Nest Lake alone.
She took the turnoff onto Black Canyon Road
– though “road’’ was a vast overstatement for what basically consisted of a wide dirt trail. Heavily wooded by towering aspen on either side, the road was so dark, Lydia had to turn on her headlights to see the inconspicuous numbers on the widely spaced mailboxes. She was familiar with the road from her property search and she knew that each private drive led to the beautiful custom log “cabins’’ that were common in the resort area. Most of them had spectacular views of Eagle’s Nest Lake and were wildly expensive. She went back and forth up the road looking for number 124 and eventually ascertained that it must be the only turnoff without a number and a mailbox.
She made a right off Black Canyon Road and took the steep, winding drive up until the trees parted and she reached a clearing where the drive ended. It was an empty lot. She took the Glock out of her glove compartment where she had put it as they left the house that morning, placed it in her bag, and got out of the car.
It was so quiet she could hear the sound of her engine cooling. She turned when she heard a quiet rustling and saw a doe staring at her, wide-eyed and poised for flight. The sky was moody, scattered with clouds, and the air hinted of cooler temperatures on the way. She smelled pine and the scent of burning wood as she looked down into the valley, onto Eagle’s Nest Lake surrounded by the Touch-Me-Not Mountains. It was a spectacular view and it dawned on Lydia slowly that she had seen it before – had, in fact, been at this very lot.
The real estate agent she had spoken to had shown her this property, thinking Lydia might want to design and build her own house, since Lydia’s ideas about what she wanted were so “particular,’’ as the real estate agent haltingly phrased it. And though it was a beautiful piece of property, Lydia hadn’t liked that she could see other people’s homes from the lot.
Her mind began to race. She looked at the piece of paper in her hand at the name written there. Vince
A. Gemiennes…There was something about the name, something off and something familiar at the same time. It was too big a coincidence that the address she had found was an empty lot she herself had almost purchased. But if she had been led here, then this man had constructed all of his planning to do that, and it would mean he had been watching her for years. She wasn’t sure which of those two possibilities was more far-fetched. Had the killer somehow known she would become involved in the solving of his crimes? Had she somehow been part of his design all along? The thought chilled her as she mentally retraced her visits to New Mexico.
She had first visited the Santa Fe and Angel Fire areas nearly three years ago when she had come to Albuquerque for a book signing. As soon as she first stepped foot off the plane, she felt like she had come home. It was something about the way the air smelled, about the sky and the stars that seemed to wrap around her like a blanket. It was something about the buildings
– how they were small and warm, how there was a coziness, a womblike comfort to their interiors. And then there was the terrain, the gorgeous mountains, the hot springs, the trees in the highlands, the desert. It just felt like heaven to her and after she had left, she’d kept longing to return, so much so that she’d bought property here.
The book signing had been held at a Barnes and Noble in Albuquerque. She tried to remember now if there had been anyone there who’d imprinted on her memory as especially odd, but there had been so many book signings between now and then in so many Barnes and Nobles across the country. And there were always one or two freaks that had to be escorted from the signing table. She just didn’t pay attention anymore.
She thought about all the various people she had encountered during the purchase of her home: real-estate brokers, mortgage brokers, maid service, lawn maintenance people, locksmiths. She could think of nothing that had made her uneasy, no one who had seemed off to her.
“What do you want from me? And why did you want me to come here?’’ she said softly. She thought about the pen he had left for her and the note: Vengeance is mine. Did he want to wreak vengeance on her? Did he perceive her as having wronged him in some way? Had she written about him and offended him?
She walked the edge of the clearing, peering down a slight slope that led to a heavily forested area. She could see the windows of the neighboring house through the pine glinting in the sunlight. She sidled down into the trees, holding on to branches to keep her balance, her lizard-skin boots not finding much of a hold in the dirt. Once she reached level ground, she walked away from the clearing, her eyes on the forest floor, scanning for anything left by humans…a matchbook, a cigarette butt, a soda can, anything. She heard a soft rustle of leaves to her left and turned, expecting to see the doe again but there was nothing there. The sun moved behind a patch of cloud and it became more difficult to see the ground. Then about fifty feet in front of her she saw, mingled in with the green, red, and brown of nature’s palette, a square inch of pure white.
She continued to move toward the white patch, when she was startled by her cell phone. “Hello?’’
“Where are you? The desk sergeant said you took off out of here like you were being chased by a ghost.’’
“Hold on a second.’’
“Lydia…Lydia…’’
His voice was distant as she bent down and started brushing aside the leaves and dirt. Sticking out of the ground was a soft corner of plastic. She moved away from it, not wanting to touch anything and contaminate the scene any more than she already had.
“Jeff,’’ she said into the phone, as she looked around her into the darkness of the trees.
“Lydia, where the fuck are you?’’
“I’m at 124 Black Canyon Road, there’s no marker, but it’s the only drive without one on the street. You better come with Morrow. We’re going to need the ME and all the usual suspects.’’
“What have you found?’’
“I think someone’s been buried here.’’
Jeffrey’s voice was soft, but authoritative enough to hold rapt the room of men and women gathered to discuss what was now the first serial-murder case the jurisdiction had ever seen. In the room dimmed by pulled shades, Lydia, Chief Morrow, Henry Wizner, and several local police officers sat around the conference table taking notes. The shifting tray of slides in the projector that Morrow operated punctuated Jeffrey’s comments. Images of gore and decay reflected on the screen.
“We’ve asked Private Investigator Jeffrey Mark and Lydia Strong to be involved in what we now consider to be a serial-offender situation, because of their vast experience in this area,’’ Chief Morrow had said by way of introduction between them and his department. “Having them here allows us to conduct this investigation without calling in the FBI, which no one wants. So I will ask that you give them the same amount of respect that you give me, and take their orders as you take mine, and by the time the feds hear about this, we’ll all be heroes instead of local yokels that couldn’t handle the situation ourselves.’’
“The bodies of Christine and Harold Wallace were found today,’’ Jeffrey began. “So now we have three corpses missing their hearts. We don’t know where the killer is removing them or why. We do know that the locations where he’s dumped the bodies are not the locations of the kill. As far as evidence goes, we have turned up nothing except a partial footprint at the Lopez dump site.
“Due to some very unglamorous but very important legwork – no pun intended – on the part of Homicide Detective Raymond Barnes,’’ Jeffrey continued, motioning to a heavyset man with a military bearing and haircut, “we have determined this boot to be a Timberland Toledo with a rubber lug sole. This doesn’t help much because it’s a popular boot sold in virtually every men’s retail shoestore in the area.
“The bodies of Christine and Harold Wallace were in bad shape. But we are trying to determine at this point whether he removed their hearts after he killed them or before.’’
“Why is that significant?’’ asked one officer.
The image of Christine and Harold’s gutted bodies flashed on the screen behind Jeffrey. “Because it tells us exactly how sick a fuck we’re dealing with.’’
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter moved through the room.
“Because,’’ Jeffrey continued, more seriously, “the more we know about what he does, the closer we are to why he does it. The more we understand about his motivations, the more we understand him, and the better profile we have.
“So this is what we know about him: His MO is to overpower his victims, either incapacitate or kill them, take them alive or dead to another location, and then to dump their bodies in a third location. The killer’s signature behavior is that he removes their hearts. For those of you that missed last week’s episode of Profiler, a ‘signature behavior’ or ‘aspect’ is something that an offender does above and beyond what he needs to do to commit the offense. It’s something he does to satisfy his emotional needs. Removing the heart is one part of it. I believe that what he does with the heart is another part of it. We’re in the dark as to what the underlying motivation is at this point.
“But we know enough to draw a decent profile. We know that he is an ‘inadequate’ type by the way he blitz-attacked Maria Lopez; he used as much force as he had to subdue her. He forced his way into her apartment and put chloroform to her face. When that didn’t work, he killed her there. We know he is highly organized, in that it was necessary for him to burglarize the supply warehouse and set up an operating room somewhere, stalk his victims, perform his sick ‘surgery,’ and dump the bodies – all without getting caught. He is likely to be white and in his mid-to late thirties, on the older side of the traditional serial-killer profile, because it takes maturity, organization, and skill to do what he is doing. We are probably looking for a person with some medical background but probably not an actual doctor or surgeon. More like a buff, someone that would have liked to have been a doctor but failed in some way. He holds down a job somewhere. He probably lives alone or he has a place separate from his home where he’s doing his crime.
“The other notable element is that this killer seems to have an agenda other than the pleasure of the kill. He wants something else. He has a plan – either real or imagined. Ms. Strong seems to be a part of that agenda.’’ A picture of the items the killer had left on Lydia’s doorstep appeared on the screen.
“The message he left for her indicates he wants some kind of ‘vengeance.’ Whether he wanted revenge on his victims, whether he wants it from Ms. Strong, we can’t be sure.’’
A collage of photos of the victims’ faces loomed on the screen behind him. “So far, the victims are all different physically, crossing age, gender, and racial lines. But they all attended the same church with varying degrees of regularity. They were all leading somewhat lonely lives with checkered pasts. Christine and Harold had extensive records of drug abuse and domestic violence. Shawna was a chronic runaway and a discipline problem. Maria allegedly accepted money for sex. We can see by the way he disposes of the bodies that he is remorseless. These people are less than trash to him. He did not have intimate connections to them in life.’’
The image of Maria Lopez’s trashed apartment was next on the screen. “We were hopeful that Maria Lopez’s apartment would contain some physical evidence. But the only hair we found we matched to Maria Lopez and Michael Urquia, who has been eliminated as a suspect. Same deal with the fingerprints. We found some fibers at the scene, but it takes a while to sort through that, and State is working on it. We found blood and skin under- neath Lopez’s fingernails that has been sent to the lab for DNA testing…we all know that takes forever. Same with the bodies of Christine and Harold – checking for blood or DNA that doesn’t match theirs. Again, it’s going to take a few days. And then it will only help us if our killer has been entered into the system somewhere for some other offense.
“We don’t know for certain if anything was missing from the victims’ personal belongings. Shawna Fox, whose body we have not recovered and who may or may not be one of the victims – though we believe she is – took nothing with her when she left her foster parents’ home. Neither her foster parents nor her boyfriend Greg noticed anything missing from her belongings. In other words, we’re not sure if he’s collecting trophies.’’
Lydia, sitting in a darkened corner in the back of the room, had been listening intently to the facts though she was more than familiar with them at this point, hoping that there was something that she missed. But when Jeffrey mentioned trophies, the image of her mother’s garnet earring occupied Lydia’s mind again for a moment. She remembered it glittering in the palm of Jeffrey’s hand as he’d returned it to her, and she shivered.
“Chief Morrow,’’ said Jeffrey, “this is the plan of attack I suggest. First, you need several stakeouts. One at each site where we found bodies because killers often return to the scene to relive their kill. And one at the Church of the Holy Name because all the victims were parishioners there. And one at the home of Lydia Strong. He has likely developed an obsession with her, and we can expect to see him there again.
“All officers are advised to be on the lookout for someone fitting the profile driving a green or other dark-colored minivan. You can always find a good excuse to pull someone over if you look hard enough.
“Rental-car companies have been advised to alert us if someone using the name Vince A. Gemiennes tries to rent a car. This was the name, obviously a fake, someone used yesterday to rent a 2000 Jeep Grand Cherokee, which has since been impounded. The address that was left led Lydia to Christine and Harold Wallace’s bodies today. This could have been a huge break for us but apparently it was a very busy day at Avis yesterday and none of the three women working the counter remember this person enough to give a description. We have them here at the station now, looking over airport security tapes, hoping they will see someone that jogs their memory. Unfortunately, there is no camera directly on the Avis rental desk.’’
“How did he rent a car? He had a fake credit card and driver’s license?’’ asked one uniformed officer.
“Well, we’re not a hundred percent positive. In the file, there is neither the imprint of the card or a copy of the license as there should be. All the girls insist that no one could have rented a car without those things. But the records have disappeared.’’
“But it’s possible that he could be walking around making purchases with a fake credit card.’’
“Yes, and area merchants are being notified via fax and e-mail to be on the lookout for someone using that name.’’
Lydia wrote down the name again in her notebook, Jeffrey’s voice fading to background noise. It was an odd name, clearly fake since there was no record of it at any of the government offices. She traced the letters. Had she heard it before? Did she somehow know this person? She had the sense she was missing something.
Jeffrey paused and looked down at his notes. “Also, someone should start going through records of local arrests over the last two years. We are looking for sex crimes, domestic violence, pedophilia, animal mutilation. Keep the profile in mind, though. And remember also that we are looking for someone with a medical background.
“One of your people should get online with VICAP and plug in the elements of this case, see if anyone turns up. Though it’s highly unlikely, we could have a traveler. Remember Johansen?’’
“Yeah,’’ Lydia replied, shaking her head and speaking up for the first time. “The traveling salesman who liked to pick up women in bars. He was an attractive guy. When a woman checked him out, he took her back to her apartment, strangled her, gouged her eyes out, and cut off her breasts. Seven victims, all found in different poses across the country. We finally figured out that he was positioning the bodies in the shape of letters. By the end, he’d spelled out ‘FUCK YOU.’’’
“That’s the one,’’ Jeffrey said, and the local officers groaned.
“Someone else,’’ Jeffrey continued, “needs to start going over the crime-scene notes and photographs. Go back to the locations and poke around, get the feel of them, make sure nothing was missed. Then start going to places like the bar, the restaurant where Maria worked, the church. Observe, ask questions, start making people uncomfortable.
“Does anybody have any questions?’’
When no one spoke, Morrow stood up. “Okay. Let’s get to work,’’ he said, as he starting handing out assignments to different officers at the table. In pairs the officers filed out, each with their tasks before them, looking a little overwhelmed, Lydia thought.
“Is there anything else you think I should do, Jeff?’’ Morrow asked when he was finished.
“Chief, you are the hub of this whole operation. You probably have a better overall picture of this community and its crime activity than anyone does. Spend time thinking back on anything over the last few months or even as long as a year that has struck a chord with you.’’
“You got it,’’ Morrow said, with alacrity. He walked away feeling like the clumsy kid finally chosen to play on the softball team.
Jeffrey looked around the room for Lydia, then caught sight of her through the window, leaning against her car, smoking and staring off into space. She was waiting for him. He walked out of the station house and approached the car. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until this is over. And don’t even think of pulling another stunt like you pulled this afternoon.’’
“Yes sir,’’ she answered sarcastically.
“Lydia, I’m serious. There’s no reason for you to be a renegade. What were you hoping to prove by going there alone?’’
“Nothing,’’ she said, shrugging. “I just didn’t want to wait for you to get back.’’
“But you’re not going to do anything like that again, right?’’
“Right.’’
“I want to drive,’’ he said, nudging her aside playfully with his shoulder and reaching for the driver’s-side door.