Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [60]
“Jeez,” Butts said. “So we could be lookin’ for a middle-aged guy after all?”
“It’s possible,” Lee admitted.
“Shawcross was pretty stupid, though,” Nelson pointed out. “This guy is much smarter.”
“What about his method?” Chuck said. “Strangulation is a very up close and personal way to kill someone. I mean, there’s rage there, but it’s a pretty controlled rage.”
“I know this is a stretch,” Lee said, “but I think there’s also a clue in the way he strangles them.”
“Slowly, you mean?” Butts asked.
“Well, yes. I think there’s significance to it.”
“He wants to hold the power of life and death in his hands as long as possible,” Nelson said.
“Yes, there’s that,” Lee said, “but I think it’s also something to do with breathing.”
“What do you mean?” asked Chuck, fishing a few bottles of water out of the small refrigerator next to his desk.
“Well, maybe he has trouble breathing—a chronic condition of some kind. I know it sounds odd, but he’s suffering along with them even as he kills them.”
“What kind of chronic condition?” Butts said, holding out his hand for a bottle of water, which Chuck tossed to him.
“I don’t really know…bronchitis, allergies…asthma, maybe. He’s too young for emphysema,” Lee said.
“Interesting,” Nelson mused, “but a bit thin on evidence, don’t you think?”
“I told you it was a stretch. There’s something else,” Lee added.
The others turned to him expectantly.
“I know what he takes from them.”
“Really?” Nelson asked, leaning forward.
“He takes the crosses they wear around their necks. Her boyfriend said that Marie always wore hers, but it wasn’t on her body. And the same thing with Pamela, according to her friends. I’ll lay odds that Annie O’Donnell wore one too.”
“Taking jewelry from the victim is not at all uncommon,” Nelson pointed out, taking the bottle of water Chuck offered him.
“He didn’t take just any jewelry,” Lee said. “He took a cross. I think it’s significant. It may relate to the victomology—how he chooses his victims.”
Butts took a swig of Poland Spring and frowned. “Yeah? How so?”
“He’s after good Catholic girls who wear crosses around their necks.”
Lee’s cell phone beeped, indicating he had a text message. He fished around for it in his pocket, his heart pounding.
When he read the message, though, it simply said:
Hey, Boss, when can we meet?
Relief flooded his veins like a sweet river. It was only Eddie. He had completely forgotten Eddie was trying to reach him. He was a little surprised to see Eddie sending text messages—it didn’t seem like his style—but he was glad to hear from him.
“Okay,” Butts was saying. “So all we have to do is find a loser who fantasizes a lot and lives with his mother. Why don’t we just go hang out at a Star Trek convention? You know what we got on this guy? We got bupkes—that’s what.”
Nelson smiled at him, but it wasn’t really a smile—it was a challenge.
“Well,” he said, “we’ll all just have to work harder, won’t we?”
Chapter Twenty-six
Chuck Morton walked down the long cold corridor of the city morgue, his footsteps sharp as gunshots. Of all his duties as a cop, he hated this one the most. As he approached the middle-aged couple at the end of the hall, huddled together, desperately clinging to one another, he recognized the body language. He’d seen it more times than he cared to remember. He took a deep breath as he got closer. The woman was transfixed on the plate-glass window in front of her, but the man turned his head toward him as Chuck approached. On his face, ravaged by worry, was written an unspoken plea Chuck had seen too many times: Tell me this isn’t happening—isn’t it possible you’ve made a mistake? Chuck looked through the window at the sheet-draped body on the steel gurney and braced himself for the inevitable flow of grief that would follow.
“Mr. O’Donnell?”
“Yes?” His voice was wary. He was tall, with thick sandy hair.
“I’m Detective Chuck Morton. We need you to—”
The woman interrupted, her voice shrill with pain. “It can’t be her! Not Annie