When Darby spoke, her voice was calm. Clear. ‘He said I had nice tits. His words, not mine.’ She smiled. A couple of men returned it. A few avoided looking directly at her altogether. ‘Then he said he liked my choice of underwear, which, for the record, was a pair of white boy shorts made by Hanes. I buy them in a three-pack at Target.’
She got a few chuckles. It immediately diffused most of the tension in the room. But not Williams’s: his heated gaze bored into the deputy sheriff, and Lancaster returned it.
‘He said he couldn’t wait to get me into his rope. He ended his call with a long, drawn-out goodbye, and hung up. He called from a nearby payphone, and he used some cheap piece of shit voice-changer. That’s it.’ Darby turned back to Lancaster and said, ‘Any more questions about my boobs and underwear, Sheriff?’
Lancaster remained stone-faced and serious; her words had washed right over him. ‘Anything you’d like to add to Agent Hoder’s profile? Maybe another avenue we should explore?’
Darby felt her iPhone vibrate inside her jacket pocket; a text message had been delivered. She ignored it but wondered if Coop had just sent her an update from Denver.
‘I agree with Agent Hoder’s assessment,’ she said. ‘The only thing I would add is that the Ripper’s sexual sadism and need to bind and torture women – that’s something he probably experimented with as a teenager, meaning he practised tying himself up. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he dressed up as a woman when he did it. I would also take a serious look at any suspect who’s familiar with autoerotic asphyxiation.’
‘Could you explain that please?’
‘Explain what?’
‘Autoerotic asphyxiation. I don’t want to assume everyone here is familiar with the term.’
Her phone vibrated again. Another text had come through. She ignored it and said, ‘It’s cutting off oxygen to the brain, usually by using a rope, while masturbating. Supposedly, it heightens the orgasm.’
‘Have you had any experience in this area?’
‘I haven’t, but I’m sure you won’t mind answering any questions these boys might have.’
Someone stifled a laugh. Then she heard footsteps coming her way, turned and saw Ray Williams waving his hand at Robinson.
‘Excuse me, Chief,’ Williams said, ‘but I need to borrow Dr McCormick here for a minute.’
Robinson gave a short, curt nod. Lancaster tracked Williams as he walked all the way to the front of the room. As Williams held the door open for her, the chief started to explain how Red Hill and the deputy sheriff’s people were going to start working in shifts at Pine Hill Cemetery. Almost all of the Red Hill Ripper’s previous victims were buried there. It was Hoder’s belief that the killer would visit the graves to relive the murders.
Not if he recorded them, Darby thought as she stepped out into the hall. It was surprisingly quiet for a police station: the only sound was that of a janitor wringing out his mop in a bucket.
Then she remembered the text message that had come through. She retrieved her iPhone as the door swung shut behind Williams.
‘What is it with you and Lancaster?’ Darby asked. ‘He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.’
‘May I see your phone? I’m having problems getting a signal on mine.’
Darby caught the slight hitch in his voice, and his eyes seemed wired. He looked like he was going to snatch the phone from her hand.
She stepped away and hit the button on her phone; the screen came to life.
‘Give it to me,’ he said. ‘Please.’
Williams looked alarmed. Sick. But Darby didn’t hand over the phone. She swiped her thumb across the screen and felt her stomach drop.
22
Darby had received two text messages. Neither contained any words: there was just a thumbnail picture in each. She tapped the first photo and when it enlarged she broke into a cold and greasy sweat.
The photo had been taken through her window. It showed her standing inside her hotel room, naked and facing the camera, her back arched and her hands frozen behind her head; she’d been in the process of tying back her damp hair when the camera’s shutter had snapped shut.
The second photo showed her standing in the low-rise underwear that hugged her hips.
She looked up at Williams, saw the expression on his face and knew he had been sent the same photos. His face blurred and she felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach.
Inside the squad room she could hear Police Chief Robinson speaking in low, hushed tones. When Darby went to look through the door’s glass partition, Williams darted in front of her and blocked her view.
It didn’t matter. The glimpse she had caught was enough.
Darby walked away and, finding her legs unsteady, stopped and placed a palm flat against the side of the Coke machine.
Then Williams was standing next to her. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, his voice sounding far away, as though he were speaking to her from down the end of a long tunnel. ‘I’m going to go back in there and make sure every one of those photos is deleted.’
But you can’t delete what just happened, Darby thought. You can’t delete what they just saw.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes and, inhaling deeply, replayed what she had seen inside the squad room before Williams had blocked her view, how the men were standing together, each one looking at his cell. One stared lasciviously at his screen while another puckered his lips and arched his eyebrows and whistled approvingly at her nakedness.
‘I don’t know how the bastard got our numbers,’ Williams said. ‘But I promise you we’ll find out. I’ll get a court order and within an hour we’ll have traced the cell.’
‘Burner.’
‘What?’
‘Burner. Disposable cell.’ Her voice sounded foreign in her ears, as though someone else were speaking. ‘You can buy ’em for next to nothing in practically any convenience store. That’s why anyone looking to avoid a wiretap uses them. He’s probably already chucked it.’ It was a dead end and Williams knew it.
‘Let’s go to my office. It’s right down the hall. You want some water? A Coke?’
Screw this. Darby brushed past him, her heels clicking across the floor.
Williams caught up with her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Going to see who else got these pictures.’
‘I’ll do it.’
Darby stopped walking. ‘What do you want me to do, Ray, go and hide in your office? Hang my head in shame because this asshole sent out some tit shots of me? Screw that.’ She pushed open the door and entered the squad room.
I still own the first weapon I ever purchased: a Springfield bolt-action rifle. It had an M84 telegraphic sight and fired .30–06 shells from a clip-loaded, five-round magazine feed. The Springfield was one of America’s finest firearms. It became the standard infantry rifle during World War II and, because of its accuracy and reliability, was used by snipers during the Korean and Vietnam wars.
There’s a range I sometimes go to just outside of Denver, one that offers paper targets printed with human silhouettes. Mostly I practise near my home. Twice a month, usually on a Sunday afternoon, I pack a lunch and a thermos of black coffee and head deep into the woods behind my house to keep up my long-distance shooting skills. I’ve conducted this monthly ritual for as long as I can remember. The reason is both simple and practical: no matter how meticulous and prudent I am with my planning and execution, there’s always the risk of my secret life being discovered.
Every decision we make involves managing consequences. I have thought long and hard about how I want to depart this world, the mark I want to leave, and it doesn’t involve my being handcuffed and escorted to a waiting patrol car. History doesn’t remember compliance and co-operation. It records blood. When the police come for me, I’ll turn myself into Colorado’s version of Charles Whitman, the former Marine and engineering student who, after stabbing his mother and wife to death in their sleep, entered the Tower of the University of Texas at Austin the following morning and, armed with bolt-action rifles and several other firearms, killed seventeen people and wounded thirty-two others in a mass-shooting rampage. I have boxes of rifle ammo stored in strategic locations all over the house. I need only remember to save one bullet for myself.