‘If he did, it means Timmy was in here before the killings started. Do the janitors have access to the offices?’

Robinson nodded, knowing where she was heading. ‘All the cabinets and desks are locked up every night – at least mine are,’ he said.

‘Computers?’

‘Password protected, every last one of them – and not with those rinky-dink passwords you can guess, shit like your birthday or your pet’s name.’

Darby’s attention had drifted to the pictures of the dead women on the whiteboards. For a moment the only sound she heard was Robinson jingling his change and car keys in his pockets.

Hoder said, ‘The guy from our facial-imaging lab finished up with the Tuttle woman about half an hour ago. He should be emailing the sketch to us any minute now.’

She nodded absently, still looking at the pictures. ‘You said he called the call centre’s emergency number?’

‘That’s right.’

‘That number in the phone book? On the internet?’

‘No, it’s a private line used only by cops.’

‘So somehow he got that number. And we know he got all of our cell phone numbers, because he sent out those pictures of me earlier today.’

Darby glanced at her watch. Six and a half minutes left. Plenty of time, she thought, and moved to the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Coop asked.

‘To check Williams’s office. Be right back.’

His light was still on. The computer was a tower unit; it stood on the floor, underneath the desk. She took out her penlight, got down on the linoleum and examined its back. It took her a only moment to find what she was looking for.

When she returned to her feet, she found Coop standing in the doorway, looking at her expectantly. She moved into the hall, motioning for him to follow, and checked her watch again. Three minutes and forty seconds left.

‘There’s a small USB key installed in the back of the tower,’ Darby said as they walked. ‘Those things have PC-monitoring software on them. You plug them into someone’s computer and bingo, you have access to emails, contacts, every single thing on their computer – and you can do it all remotely.’

‘You got all of that from looking at a USB stick?’

‘The words “Spy Cobra Delux” are printed along the side.’

‘Well, that’s a clue, sure.’

‘How he got his hands on everyone’s cell phone numbers has been nagging at me all day. Using a device like that makes sense since our man likes computers.’

‘And bugged your phone,’ Coop added. ‘That USB spy device, I wonder why he left it there.’

‘Maybe it does double-duty as an audio bug. We’ll run the name through Google and find out what it does.’

Coop took her to the call centre, a warm, boxy room with long counters along the walls that served as desks. The dispatcher, Betty, a mountain of a woman poured into a tight-fitting black fleece sweatshirt, sat in front of a bank of three computer monitors. She kept shifting in her seat and swallowing nervously, like someone waiting for a bomb to go off.

The woman gave Darby a headset; everyone else had headphones so they could listen in when the Ripper called.

While they waited, Darby explained what she had found to Hoder and Chief Robinson.

Darby was checking her watch when a 911 call came through.

47

Betty spoke into her headset. ‘911, what is your emergency?’

On the end of the line Darby heard rapid breathing.

Crying.

Her attention was fixed on the monitor with the ANI/ALI screen. The software had caught the incoming number but there was no address.

Land-line calls were traced in a matter of seconds. Call from cell phones took longer; the software had to triangulate the signal as it bounced between towers. Betty moved her computer mouse with one hand and punched her keyboard with the other.

Now a frightened woman’s voice: ‘He’s got us tied up in the bedroom. Me and my family.’

Darby felt cold all over. She leaned forward in her chair, elbows on her knees, and stared down at the scuffmarks on the floor. The voice had a slight echo to it. She’s on a speakerphone, Darby thought.

‘There’s a rope tied around my neck,’ the woman sputtered.

From the corner of her eye Darby could see Coop looking at her, and she recalled what he had said to her before she went into the squad room to do the interview: I saw the list of questions and answers the two of you came up with. You go on the record saying those things, you might as well be jamming a stick of dynamite up this guy’s ass. Once you light the fuse, who the hell knows how he’s going to react? Maybe he’ll decide to take his aggression out on someone else instead of you. ‘Is the intruder inside the room with you?’ Betty asked. While she had been taught to keep her emotions in check, to speak clearly and calmly, Darby caught a slight hitch in the woman’s reedy voice.

The woman on the phone didn’t answer. He’s listening in on the conversation, Darby thought. He’s telling her what to say.

‘Ma’am, are you still there?’ Betty asked.

‘Yes,’ the woman sputtered. ‘Yes, he’s here with me. With us.’

‘Where do you live, ma’am?’

Another pause. Darby pictured the killer whispering the answer into the woman’s ear. She looked again at the ANI/ALI screen. Still no address.

‘He said to put her on the line. Darby McCormick.’

‘I’m right here,’ Darby said.

Then the woman broke down, sobbing hysterically. ‘He just put a bag over my husband’s head, please, you’ve got to help us. Twenty-two –’

The woman started choking.

He’s strangling her. Darby hit the mute button on her headset and whipped round to Betty. ‘Why’s the address taking so goddamn long to trace?’

Betty’s eyes didn’t move from the screen. Police Chief Robinson answered the question. ‘We don’t have the software to trace cell signals,’ he said. ‘Only the state police can do that, system called One-Click.’

The woman’s choking filled their headsets.

Robinson continued. ‘Betty already bumped up the call to them. They can’t pinpoint a cell signal’s exact location, but they can give us co-ordinates, longitude and latitude. We’ll be able to get an address with that.’

‘How long is this gonna take?’

Robinson didn’t have an answer. Over her headphones Darby thought she heard the crinkling sound of a plastic bag and her heart leapt high in her chest. She got back on the line, reminding herself not to beg: begging was the lifeblood of a sadist, what fed their need to torture. Beg and he’d start to kill everyone.

‘You wanted to talk to me,’ she said into the microphone. ‘I’m here. Tell me what you want.’

Silence. Still no address listed on the screen.

‘Tell me what you want,’ Darby said again.

Then a gulping and gasping sound roared over their headphones, like the noise of someone breaking to the surface of the water after having been submerged.

‘Alone,’ the woman managed to say. Her wretched coughs exploded over the line for what seemed like minutes. ‘Come alone and he’ll won’t kill us.’

‘I’ll come alone; you have my word,’ Darby said. ‘Tell me where you live.’

Hysterical sobbing. ‘Please help us.’

‘I’m coming. Alone. Give me your address –’

‘Please.’

Click and the call ended.

48

Palms damp and her throat dry, Darby glanced at Coop and saw the thinly disguised blame in his eyes. She looked away from him, at Hoder, who was standing near the doorway. The colour had drained from his face. Betty hit the redial button for the phone number.

Darby felt sick and clammy, and she had trouble swallowing. A voice that wasn’t her own, cold and flat and without mercy, broke in and said: He’s using the family as bait. He’s setting a trap for you so he can kill you.

‘No matter how we cut it, someone is going to have to go into that house,’ Darby said. ‘It may as well be me.’