Kill Me Once Read online

  ‘How about we start at the beginning?’ Brown said.

  Simmons nodded. ‘Good idea. The first thing to remember is that blood acts a lot like spilled water. Low-velocity spatter usually happens from drippage and comes from a force of impact of five feet per second or less. The size of the droplets is only a couple of centimetres. Say somebody was stabbed and they stumbled around the room bleeding. Low-velocity spatter happens in cases like that. It’s not from the initial injury, but more of a secondary circumstance.’

  ‘And medium-velocity?’ Dana asked.

  Simmons waved the hand he was using to hold the flashlight, casting eerie dancing shadows on the ceiling. ‘Medium-velocity spatter comes from a force of impact between five and a hundred feet per second. Usually comes from blunt-force trauma, but a stabbing can cause it, too. Usually happens when someone is beaten to death with a baseball bat or a fist or something like that, though. We call it “projected blood”. It leaves a very distinctive pattern. Think of it this way: it’s like somebody shot blood through one of those Super Soaker water guns. Same basic result.’

  Brown looked at the bloody sheets covering Mary Ellen Orton’s bed. ‘Pleasant thought,’ he said. ‘So that brings us to high-velocity spatter.’

  Simmons nodded and refocused the flashlight on the sheets. ‘Exactly. High-velocity spatter travels more than a hundred feet per second, resulting in a fine spray. The droplets measure less than a millimetre in diameter, and that kind of spatter usually comes from gunshot wounds.’

  Dana studied the sheets. ‘That looks like fine spray to me. Wouldn’t that mean high-velocity spatter? But the killer didn’t use a gun. He used a knife.’

  Simmons nodded. ‘You’re right. But gunshot wounds usually cause spatter in the front and back. Obviously we’re not dealing with that here because there’s no spatter in the back, only in the front. So when we add the blood indications to our knowledge that the old woman was mutilated with a knife, it’s a pretty simple equation to figure out. And if you look closely you’ll see a void, which makes a knife our most likely suspect. This shit was up close and personal.’

  Brown and Dana exchanged a look. ‘A void?’ Brown said.

  Simmons shook his head. ‘Sorry about that.’ He ran the flashlight over a clean area on the sheets and focused the light in the middle. ‘A void occurs when the blood spatter is stopped by something, an interrupting object. In this case we’ve got a void roughly the size of a man’s torso. That explains the blood you guys found on the killer’s clothing. He blocked the spray with his body.’

  ‘Very considerate of him,’ Brown said.

  Simmons laughed and flicked the flashlight off before reopening the curtains. ‘Yeah. No doubt this guy was second runner-up in a Miss Congeniality contest somewhere down the line.’

  Dana squinted her eyes against the bright LA sunshine streaming into the room. ‘Your conclusion?’

  Simmons pulled his gloves off with a loud plastic snapping noise. ‘My conclusion is that we’re dealing with one powerful son of a bitch here, Special Agent Whitestone. Much stronger than your average guy. Or at least a hell of a lot angrier.’

  Dana and Brown left Mary Ellen Orton’s apartment and stepped outside. The schizophrenic Los Angeles weather had heated up once again, so Brown took off his coat and Dana did the same. They hadn’t really gotten anywhere with any of the experts, but Dana was glad they’d given it a shot. It beat the alternative.

  They were halfway to the car when her cellphone rang in her purse. She stopped walking and dug it out. A female voice sounded in her ear.

  ‘Agent Whitestone, this is Maggie Flynn at the Child Abduction and Serial Murder Investigative Resources Center in Quantico. We’ve come up with a likely probability regarding serial killers who used plastic bags in the commission of their crimes.’

  Dana’s heart leaped up into her throat. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Dennis Rader,’ Flynn said. ‘The BTK Killer. Killed ten people out in Wichita, Kansas, starting in 1974. Didn’t get caught until 2005.’

  Dana thanked the woman and flipped her cellphone off, trying to control the hot jolt of adrenalin suddenly coursing through her veins.

  Brown folded his coat over his arm. ‘What was that all about?’

  Dana’s hands shook as she looked up at him and relayed what Flynn had just told her.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Brown said, his eyes widening. ‘So are you going to book the plane tickets, or do you want me to do it?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  On the flight out to Wichita the next morning Dana finally filled Brown in about how the plastic letters in Cleveland might tie in with her own past, keeping her voice low to make sure no one overhead them discussing the case.

  His deep brown eyes flashed with anger as he put his tray table up and turned in his seat to face her. ‘Jesus Christ, Dana. You’re just telling me this now?’

  Dana’s ears burned. She didn’t blame him for being upset with her for withholding the information, but it wasn’t as if no one in the FBI knew about it. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t show a little sympathy for what she’d been through. She doubted he’d ever been called out by name by a serial killer. Then she berated herself. This wasn’t a ‘pity-me’ party.

  Almost as if he sensed what she was thinking, Brown took the sharp edge out of his voice. ‘I’m sorry that happened to you, Dana. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.’

  ‘Still is.’

  Now it was Brown’s turn to feel embarrassed. ‘Of course. I guess I’m no whiz in the social-graces department, am I? Add that to the long list of other things I’m no good at.’

  An awkward moment of silence passed between them before he cleared his throat. ‘So did you go live with your relatives after it happened or what? You were an only child, right?’

  Dana nodded. ‘Yeah, but there were no relatives for me to go stay with, so I sort of got shuttled around to various foster homes after that. I guess I wasn’t very easy to deal with. Nobody ever seemed to want to keep me for very long.’

  Brown looked uneasy. ‘I don’t know what to say, Dana. I’m very sorry. I just wish you’d told me sooner. It makes the case a whole lot more complicated, that’s for sure.’

  She waved a hand in the air. ‘I know, and I’m sorry too. But I’m all grown-up now and we have a killer to catch.’

  Brown nodded. ‘So now that we know what the plastic bag at Mary Ellen Orton’s apartment probably meant, what else do we know about Dennis Rader?’

  As quickly as she could, Dana recounted BTK’s first murders – horrific affairs that had claimed the lives of four members of the Otero family. Then she went on to describe the other murders that had followed.

  ‘Rader was eventually caught when he mailed a round of taunts to Wichita Police on an ordinary floppy disk under the mistaken impression that it couldn’t be used to track him down,’ she said. ‘But when the authorities traced the metadata on the disk they saw that a man calling himself “Dennis” had created it. He’d also left behind a link to a local Lutheran church where he served as a deacon. In the end, a simple Internet search was all it took to bring him down.’

  Brown shook his head. ‘Not very smart of him.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’d say the guy we’re after now is smart enough for both of them. That’s the problem. We’re not dealing with an idiot here. He’s starting to make Hannibal Lecter look like an amateur.’

  Brown stared into her eyes. ‘So, do you think it might be the same man who murdered your parents?’

  Without warning, tears sprang into the corners of Dana’s eyes. She closed them quickly so that Brown couldn’t see the pain hidden there. ‘I don’t know.’

  Brown reached out a hand and touched her arm lightly. ‘It’s OK to feel scared, Dana. Anybody in their right mind would feel the exact same way in your situation. Hell, I feel scared too.’

  Dana opened her eyes and looked at him. She straightened up. The killer from her past wasn’t going to ru
in the rest of her life like he’d ruined her childhood. ‘It’s not that I’m scared of him. It’s that I’m scared of what I’m going to do to him when we finally catch the motherfucker.’

  It was almost noon before their flight finally touched down in Wichita. They found a cab outside the terminal and rode in silence over to the Sedgwick County Sheriff’s Office. Dana felt like a football player in the locker room right before the big game. She took several deep breaths and put her game face on. For the first time in months she felt like she was finally taking some real steps to close the gap between herself and the killer.

  Half an hour later she and Brown flashed their badges and were buzzed into the building that housed Sheriff Don Jackson’s office. A pretty woman in her early sixties wearing a fashionable purple blouse and stylishly cut short silver hair was seated behind a massive desk in the reception area. She looked up and smiled at them when they came in.

  ‘I’m Janie Briggs,’ the woman said. ‘The sheriff’s receptionist. I take it you’re the folks from the FBI who called earlier?’

  Dana nodded, and Janie Briggs turned in her seat. She motioned to the mahogany door on her left. ‘Please go right in. Sheriff Jackson is expecting you.’

  A moment later Dana knocked on the door and pushed it open. Don Jackson was sitting behind his desk sharpening a fishing hook. He put it down on the desk in front of him and rose to his feet as they came in, pushing a wide-brimmed hat back on his head and smiling brightly. He looked like he’d stepped right out of central casting, every inch the do-good middle-America county cop in the latest Hollywood movie.

  ‘Special Agent Whitestone, Special Agent Brown. Welcome. It’s a pleasure to have you here.’

  Jackson gestured to a pair of chairs on the other side of his desk. Dana was reminded of the fact that the position of sheriff was an elected one, which most likely explained Jackson’s obvious political acumen. Someone from the top would have had to clear this with him. ‘Please have a seat,’ Jackson said. ‘Would you care for a drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?’

  Dana shook her head, and Brown did the same.

  ‘No, thank you, Sheriff,’ she said. ‘We’re fine. Thank you for having us, though. I know you must be a busy man so I’ll get straight to the point. We have reason to believe that our killer is going to strike again, right here in Wichita. In fact, it’s more than a hunch. He is going to strike again – here. We don’t have a single moment to lose.’

  Jackson frowned and leaned back, his stomach protruding over his belt. He sat forward again, his hands on his desk. ‘Can’t say I like the sound of that. What exactly do you need from me?’

  ‘How many deputies do you have on your force?’ Dana asked.

  ‘Three hundred and fifty. Give or take.’

  ‘How many are on duty right now?’ Brown asked.

  Jackson leaned back in his chair again. ‘Well, now, we work in three shifts so that means about a hundred and twenty or so are working right now.’

  Dana nodded. ‘When did the last shift get off?’

  Jackson glanced down at his watch. ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘That counts them out,’ Dana said. ‘How long would it take you to get the rested shift out on the streets?’

  Jackson pursed his lips; he was looking worried now. ‘Everybody’s on a beeper, so I could probably have them out there within the hour, but I really don’t have money in the budget for all that overtime, Special Agent Whitestone. I’m on a shoestring already as it is.’

  Brown waved a hand in the air and rose to his feet. Dana did the same. ‘Just get them out there, Sheriff,’ he said. ‘The government will cover any cost overruns.’

  Jackson nodded. He’d obviously made a decision. They were serious about this. They needed all the manpower he had at his disposal. ‘OK, I’ll get on it right away. Is there anything else you need?’

  Dana held Jackson’s gaze as they left the room. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. If your officers find themselves in any danger – any danger at all – tell them to shoot first and ask questions later.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  18 Overlook Drive – Wichita, Kansas – 1:30 p.m.

  Bind. Torture. Kill.

  That had been Dennis Rader’s plan way back in 1974, and that was Nathan Stiedowe’s plan today.

  His latest target wasn’t the thieving bitch who’d stolen his life, but rather just another bored suburban housewife and mother on the lookout for some extramarital hanky-panky. Unfortunately for this philandering housewife, however, responding to his ad on the Lonely Hearts Club website would net her a hell of a lot more than just a little afternoon delight while hubby was away at work. Before the day was over she’d never again look at her cosy little street as if it was the hillbilly equivalent of Wisteria Lane.

  The sounds of Ashley Ball playing Lecuona’s ‘Gitanerias’ filled the car as Nathan swung his latest beauty – a silver 2005 BMW 350i equipped with power everything this time – onto Overlook Drive in Wichita, Kansas, and let out a deep breath.

  He parked half a mile down the street from the Aiken house and leaned over to retrieve his briefcase from the passenger seat. No need to bother with the ski mask, obviously; a disguise wasn’t called for this time either. Once again it was important that they should see his face. A copy of the Los Angeles Times lay across the back seat. He’d finally made the front page – or at least his likeness had. Not that the composite sketch was much of a likeness at all. As always, the amateurs had produced hopelessly amateurish work, but that wasn’t surprising. Hell, they were making things almost too easy on him.

  Nathan was still whistling the melody of ‘Gitanerias’ when he turned up their driveway five minutes later and made his way around to the back of the residence before pulling back the leather glove on his left hand and checking his expensive watch.

  One thirty-seven p.m. High fucking time for history to rewrite itself.

  He set the briefcase down next to the back door and extracted a pair of wire cutters. As he began systematically snipping the phone lines he tried to conjure up a sexual fantasy but it was difficult. Janice Aiken’s profile picture showed only a porky couch potato who most likely spent the majority of her time watching Oprah while popping an endless series of bonbons into her big fat mouth. Still, even if love wasn’t in the cards for today, Nathan knew that updating Dennis Rader’s unforgettable crime would go a long way toward helping him accomplish his own sacred mission, and the importance of that could never be underestimated. He and Dana Whitestone still had a lot of unfinished business left to attend to and he wouldn’t rest until that business was finally complete.

  But first a little more fun. The thieving little bitch was going to just love this.

  He’d just finished cutting the wires and was in the process of clicking the briefcase shut when the back screen door suddenly banged open.

  She was a girl of about sixteen, the hard nipples on her pert breasts straining against a ridiculously tight white Snoopy T-shirt. She smiled at him quizzically, showing a mouthful of silver braces. ‘Whoa! You scared the shit out of me, mister!’

  She laughed the nervous laugh of a teenager, unsure of herself despite her budding beauty. Smiling, Nathan felt a stirring in his jeans.

  The girl was blushing noticeably as she tapped her chest rapidly to indicate he’d nearly given her a heart attack. ‘What the hell are you doing back here anyway? Is there something I can help you with?’

  Rednecks. Why were they always so goddamn trusting?

  Nathan quickly turned up the wattage on his smile as he straightened back up. ‘Sorry about that, miss – didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Travis Seldon and I’m actually here to see your mom. Seems there’s been some trouble with the phone lines in the area lately and since I’m the district supervisor they sent me out here to check things out.’

  Smiling wider – instantly at ease – Marlene Aiken opened the screen door all the way and stepped aside to let him in. ‘Well, come on in then. You want
something to drink?’

  ‘No, thanks, dear. But thanks for asking.’

  As soon as he stepped inside the doorway of their warm little house, Nathan’s heart almost exploded in his chest when the huge black Labrador came barrelling around the corner at him like a runaway freight train, barking furiously as its hard nails clicked and slid across the tiled surface of the kitchen floor. Skidding to a halt three feet away, the massive Lab bowed its muscular back and bared its sharp yellow fangs. A low, menacing growl issued from deep within its thick throat.

  Marlene Aiken reached down and grabbed the dog by its worn leather collar. ‘Settle down, Rocky!’ she admonished harshly, at the same time raising her big blue eyes back up to Nathan and smiling sheepishly. ‘Don’t worry about him, mister, he’s just a big ol’ baby, this one. I’m serious – he’s all bark and no bite.’

  More than he could say for himself. Still, dogs were always bad news. They had that uncanny ability to sense things.

  Nathan forced a quick laugh. ‘All the same, could you maybe put him outside while I’m here? He really is a beautiful dog – used to have one like him myself when I was a kid, as a matter of fact – but I have these terrible allergies, you see.’

  Marlene Aiken was still smiling as she tugged at Rocky’s collar. ‘Can’t put him out because he’ll just run away, but I’ll put him in my bedroom and let my mom know you’re here. Make yourself at home.’

  Even as he fought his irritation at the altered script, Nathan nonetheless felt another, more powerful stirring in his jeans as he watched her walk away, the sight of her tight little ass shifting back and forth in her tiny yellow shorts driving him wild with lust. Why the hell did fresh meat always have to be so goddamn erotic?

  Halfway through the fantasy where he had the little slut bent over the living-room couch while he drilled her from behind, a man in his early fifties walked into the kitchen, smiling broadly as he extended his right hand. ‘Hey there, I’m Scott Aiken. You’re from the phone company?’