Chapter 22

TWENTY-TWO

Josie’s shoulders knotted with tension when she saw the incoming call on her cell phone. Adjusting one of the shoulder straps of her bulletproof vest, she scanned the remote mountain road where over a dozen police vehicles were now parked. It was after twoa.m. Inky blackness closed in all around them. The only illumination came from headlights and Josie’s ringing cell phone. Once she had figured out where the photo was taken, she’d left a voicemail for the property owner. They couldn’t go in until Josie spoke with her. She just hoped that the woman would be up this late. While they waited for the return call, the Chief had assembled as many officers as he could and they’d formed a perimeter around the premises. Not easy considering this place was surrounded by forest. Still, they had to be careful and strategic in their approach in case the killer was still on-site or had set a trap for them. Josie strongly doubted anyone was living or staying in the house, but they had to find out.

Gretchen sauntered over and pointed to the phone. “Want me to take that?”

Honestly, Josie didn’t want to talk to Kim Rowland ever again, but she wasn’t going to let her personal feelings affect how she performed her job. She swiped answer.

Kim said, “Has my dad’s glass monstrosity finally burned down?”

Josie fought to keep the irritation out of her voice. The only residence in the city with a private helipad was the home of the late Peter Rowland. A Denton native, he had made a fortune developing state-of-the-art security and surveillance systems. He’d kept a home in Denton even though he rarely visited. When he died, his daughter inherited his empire. Kim was every bit the sociopath her father had been. Years ago, Kim had come to town to escape her mobster boyfriend, wreaking havoc wherever she went. Josie’s fiancé at the time, Luke, had had an affair with Kim after she convinced him to cover up a double homicide and hide her in his home. He’d destroyed his and Josie’s relationship as well as his career. Kim’s other machinations had threatened the life of the son of one of Josie’s best friends. He was a newborn at the time. The memory of plucking him from a freezing, rushing river—and certain death—still chilled Josie to the bone.

That was the tip of the iceberg.

“It’s still standing,” Josie told her. “But we might have a body on the premises. We need to search the property and for that, we need your permission.”

“Wow,” Kim said. “That will bring the property value down, won’t it?”

Naturally, she had no concern for the victim. She could have sold the property years ago but didn’t. Josie said, “Do we have your permission or not?”

There was a heavy sigh. “Fine. I don’t care.”

“Thank you. Is anyone living in the house?”

“No,” said Kim. “Who would want to live there?”

Josie ignored the question. “Is the security system active?”

“I think so. I can find out. I have a property management company that does upkeep and lawn care. Their people are only there once a month. That’s it.”

Depending on what they found, Josie would prepare a warrant for any surveillance footage available from the security system.

“Has the helipad been in use?” Josie asked. “We believe the lights around it may be on.”

Kim said, “No one has been using the pad, but the property management company has lights all over the property that are on timers. They go on at a certain time of night and off during the day. It’s supposed to deter people from messing with the place since it’s basically vacant.”

“Great, thanks.”

Before Josie could hang up, Kim said, “Do you still see Luke?”

Her tone was bland but the muscles in Josie’s shoulder blades pulled so taut, it was painful. Through gritted teeth, Josie said, “I have to go.”

She hung up before Kim could utter another word. Gretchen gave a low whistle. “Guess we’re lucky she decided to go to New York City instead of settling here.”

Josie adjusted her vest again and checked that her radio worked. “Let’s go.”

With Noah still at the stationhouse speaking to Remy Tate, and Turner at home—or under whatever rock he lived beneath—it was just the two of them and the uniformed officers. The ERT was also there, on standby, as well as an ambulance. Josie and Gretchen led the way down the long driveway, guns drawn, flashlights positioned under their pistols. Several pairs of uniformed officers followed. The driveway was paved but it curved in several places and seemed to go on for miles even though Josie knew it was not that long. It was darker here. The sounds of frogs trilling and crickets chirping was deafening. Every so often, the trees alongside the driveway gave way to small clearings. Flashlight beams swept over the strange sculptures displayed in them. Josie remembered thinking that the place had an almost Alice in Wonderland feel to it when she was last here.

She knew they were nearing the house when LED lanterns appeared on either side of the driveway, lighting the rest of the way. The house rose in the distance, looking as though a giant hand had spilled it from the sky. It was flat but tiered, each level getting smaller and smaller as it rose toward the trees overhead. The first floor was almost entirely glass. Inside, soft lights glowed. White couches that Josie remembered from having visited Peter Rowland here nearly eight years ago still sat in the living room. She wondered if Kim had ever set foot inside. The house seemed trapped in time.

“Car,” said one of the officers behind them.

Immediately, Josie’s gaze was drawn to the right where an older model Toyota Camry was parked beside a sculpture of several rabbits running across a log. Josie and Gretchen kept watch all around them while the two uniformed officers approached, shining their flashlights inside the car.

“Empty,” said one of them.

“Radio to the units on the road,” Josie instructed. “Give them the tag number so they can look up the owner.”

Once he had done so, they carried on, drawing closer to the house. The glow of LED lights from the driveway and along the front walk to the house was trapped by the canopy of foliage overhead, giving the entire area an otherworldly feel. Goosebumps erupted over Josie’s bare arms.

“There,” said Gretchen, swinging her flashlight and pistol to the left, toward the small helipad that sat near the front of the house.

This time there was no helicopter parked there. Beams from the recessed lights stretched upward into the darkness. Overhead, a break in the trees revealed hundreds of sparkling stars, breathtaking beauty shining down on a scene of horror. A figure sprawled across the asphalt. Josie’s heart sank. She’d known what they were walking into, but again, just like at the Cleo Tate scene, her heart filled with sadness at the loss of life and the knowledge that another family was about to be shattered.

While Josie, Gretchen, and two other officers approached the helipad, the rest of them surged toward the house to clear in and around it. Kim had had the property management company text them a code to get into the house. The four of them remaining out front trod carefully so as not to disturb any potential evidence. The smell of decomposition hit Josie like a slap in the face, far stronger than it had been at Cold Heart Creek. It was a sickening combination of rotting meat, rotting fish, excrement, rotten eggs and oddly, a hint of mothballs. Josie was used to it. One of the uniformed officers behind her gagged. The young one, probably. This might be his first dead body—or at least the first one in which the body had entered the second stage of decomposition. The odor was unmistakable. As the victim came fully into view, the gagging intensified.

From what Josie could tell, the victim was a woman. She lay on her stomach, head turned to the side, long blonde hair fanned out across the blacktop. Either she had been killed shortly after Cleo Tate’s murder, or the high heat and humidity of the July weather had significantly sped up the decomp process because her body was bloated. Immediately after death, autolysis occurred. The body’s own enzymes destroyed its cells. The bacteria in the gastrointestinal tract began to digest the intestines. Eventually, intestinal bacteria found their way into the rest of the body, causing a buildup of gases and organic compounds: methane, hydrogen sulfide, cadaverine, putrescine, skatole and indole. The gases filled the internal cavities, causing the body to swell, sometimes to twice its size.

Shouts of “Clear!” came from the direction of the house, again and again, until every last inch of the place was deemed safe.

Josie swept her flashlight along the body. Blood congealed around the woman’s torso, blending in with the asphalt. Drops of dried blood were scattered across her marbled cheeks. Her tongue bulged through her parted lips and her eyes protruded from their sockets—the gases building inside her body forcing them outward. Insects teemed in and around her body. They were more plentiful and active than they’d been at the Cleo Tate scene, which meant this woman had been left out in the elements longer.

The young officer behind her dry-heaved. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“Not at my crime scene, you’re not,” Josie told him. “Get out of here.”

He didn’t hesitate. The next thing Josie heard were his footfalls as he ran back down the driveway. Then, retching. The other officer said, “Fucking rookies.”

Gretchen sighed. “Let’s not get any closer. I’ll radio Hummel and call Dr. Feist.”

As she stepped away, Josie continued to sweep her flashlight up and down the body. While the recessed lights along the perimeter of the helipad gave off a dim glow, it wasn’t enough to make out details. Clad in a pair of jeans, one of the woman’s legs was straight while the other bent at the knee. One of her hands pressed into the asphalt beside her cheek while the other reached over her head, touching the grass that surrounded the helipad. It looked like she had tried to crawl away.

Widening her scan to the area around the body, Josie’s torch caught on an object near the woman’s feet. A knife. It was similar to the knife found near Cleo Tate’s body. The killer had left the murder weapon behind again. Once might have been a mistake born of carelessness and adrenaline. Twice was intentional.

What was he trying to say?

Josie’s radio squawked, a unit from outside the perimeter responding. “Car belongs to Stella Townsend, twenty-four, Denton resident.”

“Copy,” Josie replied.

A glance at her phone told her it was late but not too late to send someone to Stella Townsend’s house for a welfare check. Her Camry hadn’t been on the list of recently stolen vehicles. Josie radioed her request and units were dispatched. Again, she used her torch to take in the scene until her gaze caught on the next piece in this twisted killer’s game.

Gretchen returned. “ERT are on their way. Dr. Feist will be here in a half hour.” She pointed her flashlight toward the helipad. “I hope this guy didn’t put the next polaroid under her body ’cause it will be destroyed.”

“He didn’t.” Josie focused her light on one of the pockets in the back of the woman’s jeans. A square of white peeked out. “It’s right there.”

“Shit,” said Gretchen.

Hours later, after the ERT had meticulously processed most of the scene, Hummel removed the photo from the victim’s pocket. He let Josie and Gretchen see it and take pictures of it before putting it into an evidence collection bag.

Another outdoor scene. Another fragmented view of something. Blue sky filled the upper left corner of the polaroid. The rest of it was blurred but looked like the edge of a building, maybe, with white siding. Over the top of it was a darker, distorted shape that cut across the white. The eave of a roof, perhaps.

Whatever it was—wherever it was—Josie was certain it was the place where the killer’s next victim had already drawn her last breath.