Once Upon a Crime, page 31
Fucking Thompson probably ratted him out.
At least there was no mention of the bullet graze, not that that was his fault.
Probably should call the station first, but if he could report something positive when he checked in, it would go a long way toward easing tensions. So, he dialed Detective Naylor.
“McPherson, I’m glad you called. I didn’t really want to leave this information in a message.”
“Sorry I missed you earlier. You have something for me?”
“Yeah. Listen, our ME is a good person, but she’s overworked and understaffed.”
“Ours, too.” He thought about Fletcher and tried to keep the contempt out of his voice. “They all are.”
“I know. I just … I don’t want you thinking less of her because of it. Or filing some kind of report or—”
“Naylor, you guys are doing us a favor. We all want to catch this guy. I have no reason to throw your ME under the bus.”
“Okay. Good.”
“So, what do you have?”
“I told you the body was stolen. Meredith — that’s our ME — still had some tissue samples. But with no body and no family and no pressure from anyone, the case got set aside in favor of more pressing matters.”
“It was a murder case. What’s more pressing than that?”
“All the other murder cases. We had five more at the time, all with bodies and families and—”
“I’m sorry. I understand.” Sort of.
“Well, anyway, when you called about Parker, I talked to Merry. Told her what you were dealing with. She ran the samples she had, and they tested positive for SMC.”
“What’s SMC? And how does it relate to my case?”
“Hang on.” The sound of rustling papers came through the phone. “SMC stands for succinylmonocholine.” He sounded the word out slowly. “It’s a metabolite associated with SUX.”
SUX? That was another promising link to the Grimm Reaper. “What’s a metabolite?”
“Has something to do with how the drug breaks down in the body. SUX doesn’t stay long, so it’s really hard to test for. If I understand correctly, it turns into SMC and some other stuff, which last longer. So, there’s a good chance my vic and yours were dosed with the same thing. Yours were just found closer to the time of death.”
“Do you know how long SUX stays in the system?”
Nothing but silence greeted him.
“Naylor? You there?”
“Yeah. Listen, I think you need to talk to a forensic pathologist.”
“I will. But tell me what you know.”
He sighed. “It can be gone in minutes.”
Then how could the reports show SUX in the blood of all their vics?
“I’m sure it’s just someone extrapolating, McPherson. Telling you it had to have been SUX because the vics were found with SMC in their blood.”
“You’re not supposed to speculate on the reports. You can draw conclusions for the jury, but the evidence needs to be accurate.”
“I know.”
“It’s not like our crime lab to make that kind of mistake.”
“Well, you should check the name on the report.”
“I will. Someone needs a serious talking to.”
“It’s not just that.”
“What?”
Naylor sighed. “Merry gave me the visitor logs for the night Parker’s body went missing. Everyone was interviewed, of course, and everyone had alibis, reasons to be there, and no obvious reasons for tampering with evidence or stealing a body.”
“But?”
“But … I hate to tell you this, but one of the names on the list is going to be very familiar to you.”
Chelsea’s eyelids fluttered open. Her head was foggy, her limbs heavy. Felt like she’d been hit by a Mack truck. She glanced around the room.
Where was she?
Wherever she was, it was freezing. Unless coldness was a side effect of whatever she’d been dosed with.
She tried to sit up but found herself unable to move. Thrashing and bucking got her nowhere. Despite having control over her body, which was proof she wasn’t drugged or paralyzed — small consolation — she was restrained.
Her wrists and ankles were bound, each tied to a tall spindle on an elaborate four-poster bed. The mattress was soft, the sheets luxurious. A brocade comforter woven with metallic threads was folded near the footboard, but no matter how much she wanted to huddle under it, she had no way of doing so.
The walls in the cramped, windowless room had been painted a lustrous gold, and on them hung large pieces of art, their placements meticulously measured — each frame hung at exactly the same height, and all were equally distributed around the room.
Chelsea would have rubbed her eyes to clear her vision if her hands were free. The flame of every candle — and there were dozens of them giving off overpowering scents of cinnamon and pine and freshly baked pie — was surrounded by a glaring halo. She blinked rapidly then squinted. Soon she was able to make out minute details. Her blood chilled as it pumped through her veins.
Fairy tales. Each frame housed an intricate painting of a fairy tale scene. Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast. Rapunzel, Little Red, Snow White.
Sleeping Beauty.
Her heart raced, and she yanked harder at her bindings. They didn’t give it all. She was stuck there, at least until the killer came for her.
Chelsea took a few deep breaths, trying to center herself. If she couldn’t keep her wits about her, she’d never get free. What did she know so far? She had been drugged, but not with SUX. Or it had been a small dose and had already worn off. She still had her clothes on, so she hadn’t been sexually assaulted, not that the Grimm Reaper raped his victims. And because she was still dressed, he likely wasn’t ready to kill her yet. Her abductor was the doctor from the hospital — Dr. Phillips.
Phillips. Why didn’t she realize that sooner? Phillip was the name of the prince in “Sleeping Beauty.” Another clue, just like all the packages and notes. But she hadn’t figured it out. Not in time, anyway.
The doctor had looked familiar. She assumed it was from seeing him at the hospital, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she had come across him at a crime scene.
Chelsea searched her memory for any inkling of him. Was he someone they had interviewed? Someone in the crowd?
The hair on the back of her neck stood. She knew where she’d seen him. The cargo van in the O’Connor security tape. His features had been hard to make out, but she was sure of it now that she had a real person to compare to the image on the video.
Relief washed through her. At least she was now absolutely certain her father wasn’t the killer.
Dad!
Had the killer gotten to him, too?
“Hello?” she called. “Hello!”
The knob turned, then the door opened with the smallest squeak of the hinges. Dr. Phillips entered and approached the bed. “Finally, you’re awake.”
She stared up at him. “My dad. Is he …”
“Your father is fine.”
Relief enveloped her. She closed her eyes and vented a slow, deep breath. A droning sound bothered her ears, set her teeth on edge. It escalated and got louder until she swore she felt it vibrating around her. Then it slowly faded away.
“Where is he? My dad?”
“Don’t worry about him. He was a means to an end. A clue, nothing more. His life or death is immaterial to me.”
“It’s not to me.”
“He’s still at the hospital. With his guards.”
“I didn’t see any of them.”
“I’m sure someone will find them. Eventually.”
“What did you do?”
“Stop asking about him,” he snapped. “He’s fine.”
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
“Who am I? You mean you still haven’t figured it out?”
She shook her head.
“Not even a guess?”
“Do I know you?”
“Oh, yes. Quite well.”
Someone she knew. Someone who recently experienced a trauma — the trigger that spawned the killing spree. Someone clever and with considerable means to pull off his crimes.
He shook his head. “And I thought you were a better detective than this. Or maybe I’m just that good.”
“What?”
He reached up and clawed at his face.
Makeup. A prosthetic mask, just like the one Jim had worn. Just like—
Oh, God.
Her stomach roiled, and she closed her eyes.
Chapter Forty-Six
“Come, sweet Aurora. Open your eyes and feast upon the visage of your Prince Phillip.”
Part of her wanted to keep her eyes shut forever, to stay locked in her mind where she couldn’t get hurt no matter how dark her thoughts were. But the other part, the detective part, needed to face her attacker. She opened her eyes and met his gaze. “Why, Scott?”
“Why?” His voice changed again, not the rich timbre of the thespian nor the sophistication of the British doctor. Not even the warm sound of the ME she’d grown fond of. His tone took on an effeminate quality — soft, creepy. Kind of like a menacing Mr. Rogers. He even had on the cardigan and sneakers. “I should think it obvious. You’re my Sleeping Beauty.”
She scoffed. “Sleeping Beauty? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m wide awake. And unlike Aurora, I fight back.”
“Don’t be that way, darling.” He ran his knuckles over her cheek, down to her jawline, then across her collarbone. “Sleeping Beauty is delicate, fragile. Docile.”
“Then you picked the wrong girl. I’m anything but.”
“You’re wrong, my dear. I’ve been watching you for weeks. In fact, I daresay I know you better than you know yourself.”
If her heart hammered any harder, it would burst right out of her chest. She rode the adrenaline spike and lashed out. “What’s the matter, Scott? Did the girls find your fascination with fairy tales weird? They kept shooting you down, so you got them in another way?”
“If you’re trying to get a rise out of me, you won’t.”
“A rise? I doubt you’re capable of that. None of your victims were sexually assaulted.”
His face darkened. He loomed over her, bent down to peer into her eyes. His breath was hot on her cheeks. “None of my projects has been about sex. And I don’t intend for this one to be, either. You’re to be my masterpiece.”
As he admonished her, spittle shot from his mouth and landed on her face. She cringed and tried to turn away from him, but he grasped her chin and roughly turned her head so she was facing him.
“Keep playing your psychological games, Aurora. It only makes my work sweeter.”
Okay. New tactic. “Is this about your family? About your mom and dad?”
He straightened and stepped away from her. When he spoke, his voice had an edge. “Ah, yes. Now we’re getting somewhere. Go on. Weave your psychological profile of me, Detective.”
“What you told me was true, wasn’t it? This is all about little Scotty having a rough childhood. What is it? Your only fond memory is of being read fairy tales when you were a boy?”
He sneered. “See? I told you. You’re a better detective than you give yourself credit for.”
“Did your father torment you with the stories, too?”
“My father? Ha. That’s rich. My father was nothing more than a pathetic cuckold, sniveling at my mother’s feet. She, on the other hand, was the one with all the power.”
Chelsea tried to play the role of the demure female he wanted, hoping it bought her time — and maybe enough goodwill — to get free. She spoke softly to him. “What happened, Phillip?”
“What happened? Where to begin?” He sat on the edge of her bed, reached for a lock of her hair, then let it trail between his fingers. “Silky.”
Dad had no conditioner, and his shampoo had left her hair dry and brittle and smelling like the forest. But who was she to argue with her captor? “Thank you. So, you were telling me about your family?”
“You asked me once if I had siblings. I don’t. But I did. I was a twin.”
“I’m sorry. What happened to him?”
“Her. We were fraternal twins, though we looked nearly identical. Mother preferred her to me. Preferred girls in general, I believe. She dressed us alike. Frilly dresses, with lace and ruffles. Patent leather Mary Jane shoes with eyelet-trimmed bobby socks. We were pretty. I dare say I was a smidge prettier than Susanna.”
Dear God, please don’t let my horror show on my face.
“Would it surprise you to learn she clothed me in dresses until I left for college? That I was forced to wear my hair long and curled and tied up with a bow?”
She blinked back tears. Swallowed bile.
“I was homeschooled until college. That’s the first I was allowed to be her son. I cut my hair short, trimmed my nails low. It was the first time I ever wore pants. I found they weren’t as comfortable as I’d hoped.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Do you know the story of Hansel and Gretel, Aurora? The real version?”
Chelsea sucked in a breath, fearing the story he was about to tell and praying he’d spare her the details. “I do.”
“It was a time of great famine.”
He was going to tell her. “You don’t have to, Scott.”
His head whipped up. His heated glare burned into her. “It’s. Phillip.”
She reached for him, though she couldn’t move her arm. “Yes. Of course. Phillip. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry. You’re sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Where have I heard that before? Oh, right. Nowhere. Never. Not addressed to me. Mother told Susanna, but never me.” He rose. Paced. Ran his hand through his hair. “Where was I? Ah … the story. A time of great famine. The mother abandoned her children in the woods.”
It was a stepmother. Not that it mattered.
“The kids found their way back home following a trail of pebbles. People think it was breadcrumbs, but it was pebbles.”
It was ashes. But she nodded her agreement.
“When they got there, the mother killed the boy and made the girl cook him for their supper. It wasn’t a wicked crone in the woods. It was the mother.”
Stepmother.
“And she killed her own son, so she, her husband, and her daughter didn’t starve.”
This far was bad enough. But what came next used to make Chelsea’s stomach roil every time her father read it to her.
“The girl obeyed, of course, because good little children honor and obey their mothers. But she couldn’t destroy her brother’s tender heart. So, she hid it in a hole in her back yard, covered with thatch.”
It was in a tree.
“That night, she was too sick to partake of the meal, but her parents dined like royalty. When they had finished, she took her brother’s bones and buried them with his heart.”
She’d put the bones in the same tree.
“The next day, a myna bird popped out of the hole and accused the boy’s mother of murdering him and feeding him to the family.”
It was a cuckoo. Chelsea remembered that detail vividly because there was a cuckoo clock in the hallway, and it always freaked her out to hear it. She didn’t learn until she was older that cuckoos can’t mimic human speech.
“The mother threw a rock at the bird. But he caught it, threw it back, and killed her with it.”
It was a lump of salt that she threw up into the tree at the cuckoo. And the bird didn’t catch it and throw it back. She missed hitting it, and gravity did the rest.
“I told you this story, Aurora, so you would understand.”
“And I do. You don’t have to say more.”
“No? I don’t have to tell you that my mother confused me with my sister and killed the wrong child? She made my father butcher Susanna like a suckling pig, made me roast her over a spit in the back yard? I don’t have to tell you that she made me and my father dine on Susanna for a week? That as I sat at the table, choking on my sister’s flesh, my mother celebrated the demise of her wretched son. She gnawed every morsel of meat off what she thought were my seven-year-old bones with a satisfied smile on her face, then licked her fingers clean? You don’t want to hear any of that? Maybe I should skip all those details and go right to my punishment when she realized she’d killed the wrong child. Would you like to hear that? It makes for a chilling bedtime story.”
Chelsea’s stomach churned. Her abject fear and desperate fury were replaced with a deep-seated sympathy for the little boy who had been damaged and tortured at so young an age. She looked up at him. “Scott, I am so, so sorry.”
“It’s Hansel!” He cleared his throat. Straightened his hair, his clothes. Took a deep breath. “It’s Phillip.”
“You deserved better. But what happened all those years ago doesn’t need to color what you do now. You deserve a happily ever after. You don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, but I do, Aurora. This world is imperfect, impure. Finding any innocence is a rare treat, an occasion to celebrate. But after the initial wonder of such a precious discovery, it’s my duty, my moral imperative, to preserve it. At all costs.”
“You want to preserve me by killing me?”
“It’s the only way. I must grant you safe passage from this realm before the evils of society corrupt you. You’re already being negatively influenced by your lecherous partner. I have to save you from the evils of the world. Set you free before you succumb to earthly temptations. Release you from the filth and depravity of this mortal coil.”
The guy was completely mental. “There’s a flaw in your reasoning. I’m not innocent, not perfect. You’re trying to preserve a condition that’s fictional.”
“You’re wrong, Princess Aurora. You are a beacon of purity. But you’re on the brink of corruption, and I must save you. In the short time I’ve known you, I’ve learned so much about you. About your duty to family, your commitment to society. Morning through night is spent in service to your subjects. You have no vices — you don’t swear, smoke, drink. Or you didn’t, until recently. Until Jim McPherson tainted you just by his mere proximity. You are in danger of further, lasting corruption, and I must preserve you before you capitulate. It’s too late. You’ve been living in sin. But I can absolve you.”
