Carved in Stone Read online

  Her eyes widened. The pupils were dilated. I suspected she was going into shock—or already had. She looked as if she’d suddenly lost her train of thought. “The bank,” I prodded, in an effort to keep her talking. “You work at First Federal, and one day, he came in. He was a patron. Is that how it went? He came into the bank, asked you out, and when you declined, he got angry.”

  She shook her head no. “That’s just it. He wasn’t angry. I said no, and that was it. He just turned around and walked away. He didn’t make a scene or raise his voice. He didn’t seem bothered at the time.” She took a ragged breath. “He tried once more, several weeks later. He must have found my number in the white pages, or something. But I turned him down, and never heard from him again.” Her hands clutched at tufts of grass. “Officer, that’s the crazy part about this entire thing. It was three years ago when he asked me on that date. Three years! Why would he focus on something that happened three years ago?

  “His name, Dorothy. Can you give me his name?”

  She almost seemed annoyed by my question. “Steve Calbert. I gave it to the other guy already. He was just a kid I knew in high school.” She shook her head back and forth. It was the only thing she seemed able to move. “I can’t feel my legs,” she repeated, her voice weaker. “He shot me in the back, and after that, I couldn’t feel my legs anymore.” She started crying, in earnest, adding lines of mascara to her already streaked cheeks. “Officer, he ran me over with his truck. He treated me like road kill, like I wasn’t a human being.” Her sobs devolved into weak, thin coughs, and she paled from the pain in her broken collarbone.

  She needed to rest. I’d pushed her far enough.

  “That helps, Dorothy, but don’t talk anymore. Focus your energy on staying strong. Focus on your breath. It’s over now. He’s gone. You made it through the hardest part. Just try to stay calm, and let’s get you to the hospital.”

  “Ran me over me,” she mumbled, as her eyes slipped closed. “He ran me over like road kill or trash.”

  Her breathing was labored. I’d pushed her too far. And we had what we needed, enough to make an arrest. In no time flat, we’d have this guy in handcuffs—if we didn’t have him already. Pushing myself to my feet, I eyed Gil, but Dorothy’s voice pulled me back into the hole.

  “Why, Officer? Why would he do this to me?”

  “It’s Detective, Dorothy: Detective Stone. But you can call me Vanessa.”

  “Vanessa,” she murmured. “I just don’t get it. I didn’t know him. I barely remember him from back in school. Why the hell did he hate me so much?” Her left hand was trembling; I slid down to grasp it. “The pressure from those tires,” she said. “You can’t imagine that kind of pressure. I’ll never forget it. I thought he was aiming those tires at my face. It was all I could think about: that tire crushing my jaw, or my head. And it didn’t matter how hard I tried to move. I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. All I could do was just lie there and take it. I couldn’t flip over, or try to crawl away. And I begged him. I pleaded with him. I called him by name.” The look in her eyes sent shivers down my spine. “I called him friend, but nothing worked. It was like he was a zombie, on drugs, or strung out.”

  She began to shake. She was definitely in shock. I peered at the nearest medic. Disapproval was written across his face. “Dorothy, I need you to be quiet right now. We need to consider your—”

  “All I could see,” she interrupted me, “were those big tires coming at my face. I couldn’t believe it—even while it was happening.” She shook her head, frowning. “The pressure of that wheel was unbearable: the popping sounds, the quick flashes of pain. I thought it was over for me, but I also thought the pain would never end.”

  The medic crawled forward. Dorothy’s blood pressure was spiking.

  “That’s enough,” he growled. “Time to go.”

  “Shooting me wasn’t enough,” she continued, her eyes unfocused as she relived the scene. “When he ground that tire on top of my chest, I couldn’t believe it was happening. How could a person be that cruel?”

  “We’re ready,” someone called out, and the paramedic slipped a needle into Dorothy’s arm.

  “Let it go, Detective. We need to lift her out.”

  I knew it was wrong, but I stayed by her side. I had one more question left to ask. “Dorothy, how did you end up over here? I saw the driveway, and you said you were paralyzed. How did you end up behind the house?”

  “He came back,” she whispered hoarsely. “He actually came back! I thought it was over. I saw him drive down the road, and I couldn’t believe I was actually still alive. I thought it was over, but it wasn’t. I was so damn stupid,” she gasped. “I started screaming at the top of my lungs. I was yelling for help, but I shouldn’t have kept quiet. I should have pretended I was dead. It was my fault he came back, and when he did, he picked me up, dragged me behind the house, and tried to cover me with branches. I’m so damned stupid.” She shook her head hopelessly. “Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut? If I’d have pretended I was dead, it would have been over.”

  I gripped her arm and the paramedic’s frown deepened. He was quickly tiring of me.

  “I wanted to know why,” Dorothy whispered. “I just wanted to ask him that one simple question. Why was he doing this to me?”

  “And what did he say when you asked him, Dorothy?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “What he said didn’t make sense. He said I had ruined his life, that I was the cause of his terrible pain and suffering. But that doesn’t make sense. I didn’t know him.”

  After giving her arm a final squeeze, I pushed myself up, and nodded to the crew. Enough was enough. She was asking a question to which there was no answer—not one normal people understood, anyway. It was one of the questions I’d been asking myself for years. Why did he do it? Why was he cruel? Why had it happened to me? The answer to those questions was easy: it was just bad luck, plain and simple. She was at the wrong place at exactly the wrong time. And most of the time, of course, people were just shit.

  They lifted Dorothy’s body with care and placed her onto the stretcher. Her bright red blood shone black beneath the moon, and looking at made me feel hollow inside. The whole thing disgusted me. But unfortunately, similar things happened every day. I turned to Gil, saw him talking on his cell phone, and waited, hugging myself against the morning chill. He’d likely ordered the roadblocks already, an APB, and a manhunt as well. We tended to work fast. We didn’t have a choice. The world at large was a dangerous place. People blamed others for things that had once been done to them. It was a never-ending cycle of violence, a snake forever eating its tail. Revenge doesn’t have a clear face for most people. For the perpetrator, the lines can be blurred. It’s the violence that offers the catharsis, the act itself. The victim, almost always, doesn’t matter.

  Gil snapped his ancient cell phone closed. “They already found him. He’s already dead. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. He drove home, parked in his driveway, turned the truck off, but never got out.”

  I shook my head in disgust, wiping my hands on the legs of my pants. I felt contaminated, like I needed a hot shower. “Sick,” I said. “How useless and sick.”

  Gil forced air through his nose. “Yeah. It is. And the information we were initially told was incorrect. The neighbor didn’t actually call it in; he did—the perp. He must have felt bad.”

  I rubbed my temples while forensics bagged and tagged everything they could. At this point, evidence mattered little. In a single evening, this case had opened and closed. There wasn’t much investigative work to be done. I lifted my gaze from the blood-soaked lawn.

  “More coffee, Gil?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Don’t think I can sleep after that.”

  Moving for the Explorer, I pulled my phone from my pocket and peeked at the screen. I could feel Gil’s eyes on the back of my head.

  “Ness, forget the coffee. Let’s get you home. Maybe you can salvage what’s left of th
e night, get a few hours of sleep, and be there when Danny wakes up. The paperwork’ll be there tomorrow. It always is.”

  I nodded, fell into the car, and dropped my head to the seat. I was tired. Sleep wasn’t a bad idea. Snapping my door shut, Gil moved around the car. It was quiet, eerie, like the calm before the storm. I always felt this way after wrapping up a case, like I was leaving the scene, but taking pieces of it with me, like the memories and ghosts were still clinging to my back.

  The shrill ring of Gil’s cell phone startled me, as did the vibration of my own, thrumming to life in my hands. It was a text message. I read it quickly. In a few short sentences, what remained of my morning was blown to smithereens. I narrowed my eyes and read it again. Gil wrenched open the driver’s-side door, his eyes alive with energy.

  Astonished, I turned. “A dumping ground?”

  “You know what that means.”

  Yeah. I did—a serial. My stomach began to flutter.

  Gil’s phone buzzed again.

  “Shit,” he muttered, peering at the neon screen. I watched his eyes widen. “We have to go—right now. And it’s not just us.”

  I frowned. “Sergeant Hadley, too?”

  He lifted his head, his eyes boring into mine. “The sergeant, the captain, and the FBI. Damn near everyone.”

  Chapter 6

  When Gil said they’d called everyone, he hadn’t been joking. The scene was practically crawling with badges. Forensics teams crouched above mounds of overturned earth, which peppered the shoreline of this swampy inlet, from the lip of the rise to the edge of the water. The sun was rising, and it was quickly growing hot. My blouse was beginning to cling to my back. In no time, my hair had gone frizzy and wild. Sarasota was humid most days of the year, but at the mouths of waterways, the air was thicker, like a curtain you could part with your hands. It was a diaphanous material shrouding everything in mist.

  Ever the gentleman, Gil offered me his arm, and we picked our way down the embankment. Dew sprang from my loafers and stained rings around my pants, and clouds of mosquitos seemed to come from every direction, descending from the sky, and rising from grass.

  Cowpen Slough was a small waterway, only fifteen miles in length, at best. It was rural and quiet, and eerily calm. I frowned. It was an excellent place to hide a body. It was an excellent place to hide a dozen bodies, I thought, as I spun around and surveyed the scene. The muddy bank was bustling with activity. People were crawling over the dirt like ants, their mouths set in grim lines as they performed their individual tasks. This was the first day—only the first day. It was the beginning of something that would likely take years. These people were preparing for a long investigation.

  Forensics, of course, had beaten us to the scene, as had the medical examiner, district attorney, and captain. Groups were bent over great mounds of earth. Others were standing with their hands on their hips, and plastic booties covering their shoes. Technicians, like prospectors, digging for nuggets of gold, were planting tiny flags by the hundreds. The scene, I decided, was like something out of a horror movie: a stray sock here, a lump of vertebrae there, a smooth dusty femur, gleaming white in a clump of grass. Having been with the force for nearly eight years now, I’d never seen anything like it. The size and scope of the investigation—if I were lucky enough to make the team—would be a first for my career. It set my heart thumping.

  This, I thought, was worse than the Serpent, who had only successfully killed two men. Had we not intervened, there would have surely been more. This guy made the Serpent seem juvenile. I was out of my depth, I told myself, but I was eager to accept the challenge. Over the years—up close and personal—I’d peered into the dark chasm that was man. It was a place where spirits were held and chained, a place where humans forgot how to act human. A time or two, I’d almost fallen inside.

  If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into you.

  Nietzsche. How right he had been. Depravity, I had learned, wasn’t rare for our species. Savagery and cruelty were parts of us all. There were certain people who just hid it better than others.

  Gil and I made our way over to Sergeant Hadley, quietly approaching as we caught the tail end of his conversation.

  “FBI here yet?” he was asking the captain.

  Captain Wahl shook his head. “About thirty minutes out. Better take your team on a walk-through while you can.”

  Hadley made a pained face. “They’re taking it over already?”

  “Nope. Not taking it over. Not yet. They can’t, at least for now. Cowpen Slough isn’t federally owned land. A private trust owns a large piece of this shitty swamp. County owns the rest. You’re standing on the public access side of a historic natural preserve.”

  “Historic,” Gil said as we came up behind them. “Then how come I’ve never heard of it before?”

  Sergeant Hadley turned around, and as if on queue, smashed a mosquito on his forearm. Holding up his hand, he pointed to a small spot of blood on his palm. “These little shits. That’s why. Take a look at this place. It’s a mini-everglades. It’s a swamp, or a bayou. It’s practically unlivable. The only things living out here are mosquitos, and a few million gnats. Ten million other kinds of bugs, too, I’m sure. I’d hardly call it a family destination.” Pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat, he wiped his hand and then met Gil’s gaze. “Heard about this morning. Sounds like Dorothy Foust had a long road of rehabilitation ahead. She’ll never walk again, from what I understand. But she made it. She’s alive.” He motioned toward a row of orange flags. “Wish I could say the same for them.”

  “All women?” I asked.

  “Too soon to tell, but looks that way.” Moving away, he motioned for us to follow. “Forensics is still digging up bones, but so far, they’ve identified six different bodies. They think some of these bones date back fifteen years, twenty, maybe more. We won’t know anything ‘till we get them back to the lab.” He negotiated his way through the swampy grass and mud, frowning at his soaked boots, and pointing to a pile of remains.

  “They’re saying this is the oldest victim. Forensic anthropology will likely confirm.”

  I peered at the human mess, at a pile of bones, and soiled, tattered rags. As usual, my eye was immediately drawn to her hair. Not that it mattered much; this body was far too old. Any hair had disintegrated years ago. I swallowed and asked the question I always asked at a murder scene. Gil was used to it by now. He was a good sport.

  “Hair?” I asked stiffly.

  Sergeant Hadley shook his head. “Nope. This one’s been out here too long. But the newest is over there, if you want to take a look. She’s been out here less than a month, by our estimate.”

  “Hair?” I pressed.

  Hadley met my gaze. He, too, was accustomed to this particular question. “Blonde, but many of the others weren’t blonde. Some red, some black, and yes, Vanessa, some were brunette. Mixed races too: Black, Asian, White, Hispanic. This one doesn’t seem to have a type.”

  “Who found the site?” Gil asked, and Hadley gave a shrug.

  “Same person who always finds a serial killer’s dumping ground: a runner, of course. Marathoner, actually. Said he saw our a vic’s T-shirt from the road.”

  “And I take it you believe him?”

  Sergeant Hadley waved a hand. “We’ll check him out, of course, but take a look at this place. This guy’s been hiding women in this swamp for years. What do you think happened? He got for his morning run, and suddenly had a change of heart? Got a bug up his ass to call it in?” He shook his head. “Runner’s clean. I’m positive. This is something else.”

  “Okay,” Gil allowed. “What is it then? Perp getting sloppy?”

  “Maybe. Probably. No one’s found this place in twenty-odd years. Let me ask you something, Lieutenant Knowlton: if you’d been killing women for twenty-something years, and in all that time, you had never been caught, wouldn’t you start to doubt the system?” Hadley’s well-trained eyes swept the scene
. “This guy’s ego is too damn big for that. The older victims are buried deeper, and the recent ones, more shallow. He’s overconfident. He’s taking less care and time putting ‘em in the ground.”

  I left the conversation for a closer inspection. I needed to see it for myself, by myself. I wanted a better look at the most recent victim. And maybe, I thought, my eyes skimming the open gravesites, some of the others still had their hair. I negotiated tall heaps of earth, piled in parallel rows. An army of orange flags fluttered in the breeze—a breeze that was perfumed with chrysanthemums and mulch, and the distinctive notes of death and decay. To my left, the purling river was a delicate sound. I stood straighter, and peered across the water, to where an old log lay rotting at its edge. It was almost like a bench or a stool, a place where one might sit and meditate. It was a nice place for personal reflection. I could imagine sitting there, reading a book, or enjoying a moment of solitude. How often had he sat there, hands folded across a knee, reflecting on what he had done to these women? How often had he enjoyed the stillness, while staring across the water, mud and dirt caked beneath his fingernails? The images made me shudder, and for a moment, I wondered how often he came here, how long he typically stayed, and how he’d feel when he found out we’d taken it.

  One of the forensics techs wordlessly touched my arm. Motioning to my feet, he handed me a pair of plastic booties. Slipping them over my loafers, I eyed the shirt—the one the runner had obviously seen. It was neon pink, fluorescent, bright and incongruous with the colors of nature. I peered at the newest woman, still fresh and pungent in her shallow grave. A team of CSI’s were standing around her, while a photographer snapped digitals from every possible angle. She was definitely a blond, young, and in good shape, probably a runner herself, I thought. I followed the lines of her lithe body, from her head to her midsection, and finally to her feet. Catching my breath, I stayed my nausea. She may have been a runner once, but those days were over, now. I pressed two fingers to my nose.