Grave Instinct Page 11

  Susan came back to herself, thinking about her aunt Naomi's insomnia, wondering if her smoking interfered with her raphe system. “Maybe she needs to cannibalize somebody else's brain to recover,” she muttered to herself, thinking of the foolish information floating around on that first Web page she had cursorily visited.

  Since the news of the Brain Thief had been aired on TV, everyone was hoaxing in one manner or another, and the Web was filled with lunatics who professed responsibility for the killings. Word had it that the FBI was inundated with such fools. “Got brains?” asked one Internet site.

  Savannah Police Department Same morning

  “You don't understand. I had too much to drink. I get mean when I drink, but I'd never hurt anyone, 'specially my sweet Winona,” Nathan Campbell told them, his brown eyes wide and bloodshot. “I picked a fight with her. Wanted to test her, you know. See if she really meant all those things she said. I wouldn't do that kind of thing if I was sober.”

  Campbell was several years older than Winona, and their relationship had been stormy. Jessica saw instantly that Nathan Campbell was in a state of exhaustion and mental anguish. He blamed himself for his girlfriend's death. Agitated, no words of solace could calm him or dissuade him from his belief. The end result: It proved difficult to get relevant information out of him.

  “Can you tell us the make and model of the van?”

  “I think it was a Dodge, maybe a Plymouth, maybe late '90s, but I couldn't swear to that.” This corroborated info from the near-abducted woman in Fayetteville, North Carolina.

  “Did you see anything at all of the driver?”

  “Older guy I think. White, I think. Didn't recognize him, but didn't really get a good look at him, either. Pretty sure he wasn't one of our crowd or a regular at the club . . . at least, I don't think so.”

  “Did Winona act as if she knew him?”

  “I can't say but maybe . . . maybe she did act that way, I mean. I first saw her alone where I left her. I'd gotten so mad I fuckin' drove off. . . but I was just going round the block—throw a scare into her, you know.”

  “So, you drove around the block and then what?” pressed Jessica.

  “By the time I came back around, she was being chummy with this guy, flirting through the passenger window like a cheap hooker.”

  “What did you see of the driver?”

  “I didn't get a decent look. Like I said, his van didn't look familiar, but she acted friendly like maybe she knew him. But I thought that was for my benefit, you know— that she knew I'd come around the corner and was playing me, you know. That's when I kept going the second time. Time I drove back again, the van was gone and so was she.”

  “You think she could have known him?” Combs asked again.

  “I thought she was doing it all for my benefit, to teach me a lesson, you know. I thought for sure she'd get back out of the van as soon as I disappeared, and that I'd just come back for her again. I'd been drinking, not thinking so clear, you know? I got pissed off again. I went home thinking it was over for sure between us, and I slept it off. Next thing I know, the cops're knocking at my house and my parents are waking me up.”

  “Did you happen to notice the van's plates? In state, out of state?”

  “I didn't see 'em. Damn me . . .”

  “Did Winona ever talk about meeting anyone on the computer?” asked Combs, who had a team working that avenue of inquiry.

  “No ... no, she said people that did that were sick fucks.”

  “Did she spend a lot of time on the Internet?” persisted Lorena.

  “Nah, she wasn't like addicted to it or anything. Why?”

  “Just part of routine questioning these days, Mr. Campbell.”

  “Is that how the son of a bitch works?” he asked.

  “We're exploring that notion.”

  Sheriff Combs had already pressed the local deputy related to the victim, Jeff, to confiscate Winona's computer. Amanda Manning's parents had turned over her computer to Combs as well, and leads had been made and investigated regarding men who had propositioned Amanda over the Internet. So far, none had panned out.

  When they had discussed this line of inquiry, Jessica was guardedly enthusiastic, but she had suggested, “Watch for any crossing of the same guy in contact with both victims. If we have probable cause, then we can get the Net server to open its files.”

  “It'd help if Richmond and Winston-Salem would share what they have along these lines. You think some high-ranking SOB with the FBI could get on them to confiscate and examine the computer tracks of the other two victims?”

  “I've already asked Santiva to push for it, Lorena.”

  “Who knows . . . maybe we'll get lucky.”

  Combs volunteered to go through all of Winona's E-mail to see if anyone had contacted her for a meeting on or around the time of her murder. She would also attempt to find any matchups with correspondence between the two young women—Winona and Amanda—as well as anyone writing to them both.

  Here in Savannah's largest police station, Jessica felt the weight of the case on her shoulders. She stepped away from Campbell and his weak-to-useless testimony. “We still have little to go on.”

  Combs countered, “We've got more than we had. The tire prints, two and a half shoe prints. We know for a fact now that the killer leaves a mark on his victims.”

  “Yeah ... his final statement of power and ownership. The marking likely makes the bastard feel good, that he holds sway over his victim even after death. I can't tell you how many times I've heard such killers profess a belief in an afterlife that'll reunite them with their victims—that they will be connected throughout eternity.”

  “Madness begets fantasy.”

  “Mad Matthew Matisak himself had such plans for me,” Jessica confessed.

  “You'll have to tell me about it sometime.”

  “On the way back to your town.”

  “Well, while we have little to go on, it is a good deal more than the Skull-digger's left anyone before now.”

  Campbell asked, “Can I go now? I gotta go see Winona's folks. Try to explain.”

  “I'd caution you away from them for a while, Nathan,” Jessica suggested. She and Sheriff Combs had gone to the Miller home earlier in the day to question the barely functioning, distraught parents to no avail and to confiscate the computer and all of Winona's disks. They found a typical young girl's bedroom, filled with stuffed animals, rock CDs, posters, makeup and mirrors. Jessica's gaze had fallen on a sculpture of an angel on the girl's nightstand. Winona was not quite out of her teens yet. “If the victims have any one thing in common, I'd call it innocence,” Jessica had confided as Lorena lifted the angel statue and stared at it.

  Nathan Campbell now nodded at Jessica's advice to keep his distance from the parents for the time being, but she sensed he would not heed her words. “Maybe you're right,” he said without conviction.

  “You might want to get some professional help too, Nathan. You're free to go. Your parents are waiting outside.”

  Campbell stood, thanked them and left in a dejected state, his shoes having been confiscated and replaced by prison booties.

  “What now?” asked Combs of Jessica in the empty interrogation room.

  “Boyd's having Campbell's shoes and his tire treads checked against the casts. But Nathan doesn't strike me as a vicious killer.”

  Just then Jessica's cell phone rang and she dug it out of her pocket. “Coran,” she said into the phone, “how can I help you?”

  A strange, strident male voice replied, “Don't believe a word of the lies my woman has told you.”

  “Who is this, please?”

  “I'm not the Skull-digger. I'm cured of all that a long time ago. Just don't waste your time coming after me.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You focus all your efforts on the right man. Not me.” The phone went dead.

  Jessica went into the answered calls in her phone log and punched SEND for a dial back,
and though it rang, no one picked up. Her phone displayed a number with a 609 area code. A different number but still a New Jersey exchange— the Atlantic City area of New Jersey.

  “What was that all about?” asked Combs.

  “Not sure, but I may just follow up on a lead that'll take me to New Jersey.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “I've got to alert Eriq about this call I just got.”

  “Go right ahead. Then maybe we can get a bite to eat, a cup of coffee,” suggested Combs, looking tired.

  Jessica again caught Eriq and put him on the speaker-phone. “The creep may have called me.”

  “What creep? Cahil?”

  “None other. He didn't identify himself, but he pleaded with me not to listen to the woman who'd fingered him. He's got my cell number now. The number he called from was an Atlantic City exchange.” She read the number off to him. “Maybe it'll help to pinpoint his location.”

  “What'd he say, exactly?”

  “He's concerned I'd be wasting my time on him, that he's not the Skull-digger.”

  “If it's from a pay phone, we'll check surrounding area hotels. If it's from a phone he owns, we've got the bastard, and this time no one's going to let him out of his cage ever again,” said Eriq. “Oh, and we're running down leads on the wife-slash-girlfriend as well.”

  “Maybe the wife's already dead, and he took my number off her body.”

  “I've made arrangements with Deitze for us to see him at two P.M. tomorrow afternoon. Can you make that?”

  “Make it four if you can.”

  Eriq had an incoming call. “Let me know of any new—”

  “Will do!”

  He hung up and Jessica did likewise. She looked over to Lorena and said, “I'm with you. Let's go get something to eat and drink.”

  PEOPLE milled about the corner restaurant called Savannah Sal's in downtown Savannah, just off the historic section of the city where tourists flocked. Jessica watched the crowd, trying to get her mind to relax from the case. She watched people try the patience of those behind the counter as they stared at an overhead quick-order menu; she saw others picking up their orders and complaining about this or that. Still others searched for their parties, while a few urgently sought the bathrooms. A number of people sat reading newspapers, while one or two worked on their laptops, one of them laughing at something on his screen, the other grimly silent. The average clientele appeared to be of college age, and countless textbooks were stacked and flung across tables and on seats. Some of the young people looked hungover.

  Jessica and Lorena had coffee while awaiting a waiter to find them in Sal's more formal dining section. Jessica rested her head in her hands, complaining of her lack of sleep.

  “I know what you mean,” agreed Lorena.

  Jessica excused herself and snatched out her cell phone and contacted J.T. back in Jacksonville. She informed him, “We've got an identical killing up here, John, down to the skull etching on the inside. But he left tracks this time.”

  “Foot prints?”

  “Shoe prints and tire marks.” Jessica quickly brought J.T. up to date on both the Cahil angle and that she had to be in Pennsylvania the following day to meet with Jack Deitze. “I need you to get all the evidence gathered on the Manning girl, including the bone fragment, up to Quantico ASAP.”

  Their drinks arrived with hot rolls and butter. “Thanks, John. I gotta go now.”

  For a brief time, the two women remained quiet, each trying to cut the edge of her hunger. Combs broke the silence. “So, anything else you can tell me about this Cahil guy?”

  “He hit a number of cemeteries in New Jersey as a modern-day grave robber, a ghoul—the old expression aptly fits here, Lorena. Hasn't been a recorded case of actual grave robbery—as opposed to grave vandalism—in the U.S. since.” “The New Jersey Ghoul, yeah, I remember now. Saw a segment on Ripley's Believe It or Not that highlighted his questionable accomplishment as the last of the ghouls.”

  “Apprehended in 1990 in a Morristown cemetery with a bone saw. He cut the heads off and took them with him. Left the graves wide open.”

  “1990, yeah ... I was still in high school at the time, but I recall the case. Something about necrophilia, that he robbed the graves of their heads and used them as sex objects. A real sick freak.”

  “I don't know too much about the man's motivations.” Jessica wanted to change the subject, so she asked, “How old are you, Lorena? You must be the youngest female sheriff in the South, or the country for that matter.”

  “Democrats thought a woman running for office would fail, but we surprised them. I got the black vote and the Indian vote and a good chunk of the white vote.” Lorena stirred back to the case. “So, how does grave robbing and brain snatching go together?”

  “I'm not sure, and I'm not sure that Cahil won't lead to another dead end. If I hadn't gotten those two calls, we probably wouldn't even be looking at the guy.”

  “So, you don't think anything'll come of it?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I'll know more after I talk with Dr. Deitze.”

  “The clown who authorized Cahil's release? Good luck.”

  The waiter returned with two hot steaming plates, Jessica's a roast beef dinner and Lorena's a vegetarian lasagna. Jessica glanced at the decor as she ate, studying the walls covered with historical items supposedly out of old Savannah's past: old soda pop and cigar signs, buckets, milk pails, rusty traps, harnesses, an entire plowshare heavy enough to kill someone should it fall. Combs, following Jessica's gaze, said, “All items no one in his right mind would hang above a plate of food anywhere but in a restaurant.”

  Jessica laughed in response, and Combs joined her.

  “I still have no idea how someone like Cahil could get my private number.”

  Combs said, “Doesn't take much these days with computer access to everyone you know on the planet, Jess. Remember the Theresa Saldana stalking murder attempt?”

  “The actress who survived—what was it?—seven or eight knife wounds?”

  “Yeah, that's it. Her attacker told police that a hundred dollars to a private eye gave him the family address.” Combs allowed the fact to sink in. “And nowadays with the damn Internet it's easy enough to get information on your own. Cut out the middleman to get names, addresses, phone numbers.”

  “But I'm very careful with that number.”

  “The celebrity stalker told Saldana that he was a production assistant for Martin Scorsese, and wanted to know if she would look at a script for 'Marty.' Now, maybe you didn't get a call from Scorsese, Jess, but you did get one from a resourceful lady in a day and age when you don't have to be all that resourceful to electronically get reams of information on what you want.”

  “I know you're right. I guess I just want to hold on to the illusion that I have some privacy left.”

  They continued their meal. Then Combs asked, “What next?”

  “I want to be on hand at the Miller girl's autopsy. From there, I find a bed, get a good night's sleep and tomorrow get myself up to Philadelphia and the penitentiary.”

  “I'll be heading back to Jax-town, but I'll keep you apprised of anything useful we might find on the Net searches, if you'll part with that number of yours.” “Why don't you steal it, if it's so damned easy to do?” Jessica joked.

  “How do you know I haven't already?”

  Jessica wrote out the number on a pad and gave it to Combs. “I want to thank you, Lorena, for all your help and hospitality. Sorry you've got that long drive alone.”

  “Not in the least. Just doing my job.”

  Pennsylvania Federal Penitentiary for the Criminally Insane, outskirts of Philadelphia 4:15 P.M., July 13, 2003

  ERIQ had failed to show up, leaving Jessica on her own to deal with Dr. Johnathan “Jack” Deitze. Furious, she had telephoned Santiva only to learn that he'd gone to Atlantic City, New Jersey, on a lead in the Skull-digger case. She pictured his search there motivated out of a sens
e of desperation. He must have a great deal of pressure on his back at the moment to stand her up and leave her alone with Deitze. She told Henrietta in no uncertain terms that her boss was to get in touch with her as soon as possible. Henrietta conveyed the last of Eriq's message to Jessica: “You are to meet a Detective Maxwell Strand at the penitentiary. The two of you can interview Dr. Deitze.”

  “Strand? I don't know any Strand.”

  “He'll be looking for you.”

  The facility was a gleaming new and sleek structure back in the '70s when it'd been built, but its age was beginning to show in small ways, from poor windows to cracks in the tiled floors leading through the massive lobby where a pair of security guards walked her through a tired metal detector. A man in a suit watched her give up her two guns and come through the detector with unusual interest, and he asked, “Dr. Coran? Dr. Jessica Coran?”

  “Yes.”

  The tall, stout man with thin gray hair looked too old to be a working police detective. “I'm Strand.”

  “Are you with the Philly police?”

  “No . . . Retiring Morristown PD in a couple of months. I worked the Cahil case with my partner. We apprehended Cahil in the act.”

  “What more can you tell me about our target?”

  “Nobody knows more about him than I do, but Deitze will tell you he does.”

  She sensed there was no love lost between the cop and the shrink. “So, fill me in.”

  “Full name is Daryl Thomas Cahil, aka the Ghoul, age thirty-six. Apprehended in Morristown after things became too hot in Newark for him. Caught red-handed in the disinterred grave of a child named Amiee Lee Pheiffer by my partner, Reed, and me. Cahil was only twenty-three at the time.”

  “How much does he weigh?”

  “Kinda slight from his photo, which I've sent copies of to your boss, who's likely forwarded it on to every law-enforcement agency in the southeast by now. Weighs maybe 155 maybe 160.”

  “Did you send a picture of him at twenty-three years of age?”