A Deeper Grave--A Thriller Page 2

  Bauer ended the call and tucked his phone away. “We got two bodies over on the corner of Westminster and Woodmere. Devine is already on the scene. You can drop me off at CID and head that way.”

  “Any details on what happened?”

  “She didn’t tell me a whole lot. She was bringing me up to speed on a case in her neighborhood that blew up again last night.”

  “The domestic abuse case?” Bobbie had a bad feeling about that one. The couple lived only two doors down from Holt. Every time there was a flare-up between them it was worse than the last. Holt had, unfortunately, let the escalating situation get personal for her. Like you have any room to talk, Bobbie.

  Some things were personal.

  Bauer nodded. “That’s the one.” He moved his head from side to side. “I don’t get why women stay in that shit.”

  Bobbie didn’t, either. Not really. Although she had to admit that her own experience with being abducted, raped and tortured had changed her in ways she hadn’t expected, so she tried not to judge anyone else. Talk was cheap until it happened to you.

  “How about you drop me off at the scene?” she suggested. “When I’m done there, I’ll hitch a ride with Devine.”

  Bauer didn’t answer as she slowed for a U-turn.

  “Any witnesses? Who found the bodies?” she asked, not wanting to give him time to come up with an excuse for why he couldn’t drive her car to the Criminal Investigation Division offices.

  He shrugged. “Don’t know about any witnesses. Holt said the housekeeper found the bodies.” Bauer reached for the coffee he’d abandoned in the cup holder and knocked back a slug. “She did say it’s some creepy shit though.”

  “I guess I’ll find out.”

  Creepy was relative. After what she’d gone through with the Storyteller, very little surprised Bobbie. Still, adrenaline pumped hot and fast through her veins. There was a lot missing in her life. No matter that she’d stopped the monster responsible for that loss, the emptiness remained. Being a cop was all she had left. She worked hard to stay on her toes and to maintain focus. Being a cop was her life.

  The case was all that mattered.

  Westminster Drive

  8:30 a.m.

  Detective Steven Devine waited on the sidewalk outside the tri-level brick home now surrounded by yellow crime scene tape. The lawn was neatly kept with lush green shrubbery and large trees. The house was situated in a typical middle-class suburb in an older, quiet neighborhood. Any vehicles the owners drove were either gone or hidden away in the garage.

  Bobbie waved to Devine, then greeted the officer maintaining the perimeter as she ducked under the tape. The presence of two Montgomery Police Department cruisers as well as that of the coroner’s van had drawn neighbors outside. So far Bobbie didn’t see any sign of reporters, which suited her just fine. She’d had her fill of the media over the past ten months. Be that as it may, as soon as word about the homicides hit the grapevine the newshounds would appear. Generally they weren’t far behind the coroner’s van.

  “Morning, Bobbie,” Devine said, his good old Southern boy smile in place.

  He was a couple of years younger than Bobbie’s thirty-two. Tall, lean and reasonably attractive with the kind of calming blue eyes that stirred trust, particularly in female witnesses. He kept his dark hair cut regulation short and his tailored designer suits professionally pressed. More important than all the outer trappings, his history as a homicide detective in Birmingham was impeccable. So far Bobbie couldn’t complain.

  “Morning. What do we have inside?” Bobbie headed for the front door.

  Devine’s long legs easily kept up with her hurried stride. “Husband and wife are deceased. The bodies appear to have been staged. Sixteen-year-old daughter and ten-year-old son weren’t home. The housekeeper says they frequently stay with friends.”

  “We need to confirm the location of the children ASAP.” Worry tied a knot in her gut. If the kids were home at the time of the murders there could be more bodies showing up soon.

  “Got someone working on that,” Devine said.

  Bobbie frowned. “Is this a murder-suicide?”

  “No, ma’am.” Devine paused at the door, his hand on the knob. “If you watch the news or read the papers you’re familiar with the vics, Nigel and Heather Parker.”

  Bobbie doubted there was anyone in the state who hadn’t heard about the two. The identity of the victims added a whole new dimension to the investigation. Nigel Parker had apparently spent the past several years attempting to emulate the notorious Bernie Madoff. The wife, Heather, had started her own Ashley Madison–style service to accommodate her husband’s high-powered clients as well as the who’s who in the state of Alabama. The feds believed Heather had been using pillow talk to help her husband swindle his clients. Both empires had recently begun to crumble. Nigel’s diverting and skimming had been uncovered and Heather’s “little black book” had somehow landed in the hands of a national tell-all rag of a newspaper. Even the governor’s name had appeared within those torrid pages.

  “So what are they doing here?” Bobbie surveyed the neighborhood a second time. The Parkers owned one of those luxury estates over on Bell Road. Most likely the feds had seized their property. Or maybe the family was simply attempting to live incognito.

  “According to Mrs. Snodgrass, their longtime housekeeper, the reporters, the threatening calls and letters got to be too much. This is one of the rental properties Parker owned under a shell company so they moved here.”

  Bobbie had caught a couple of clips from the FBI’s recent press releases on the local couple who’d made national headlines. In addition to Nigel Parker having received numerous death threats, shots had been fired at his home on at least one occasion. A homicide investigation involving high-profile victims was a nightmare case for any police department. Literally hundreds of potential persons of interest would have to be combed through. Not only would a lot of time be unavoidably wasted, the feds would be poking their noses and two cents’ worth into every step.

  “We’ll have no shortage of persons of interest to interview and all sorts of help from the FBI.” The reality sounded worse when she said it out loud.

  Devine chuckled drily. “No doubt. There’re plenty of folks who wanted to see this guy get his.” He jerked his head toward the street. “Uniforms are canvassing the neighbors. Coroner arrived about fifteen minutes ago. Evidence techs are processing the house one room at a time. I put in a call to Special Agent Hadden. Had to leave a voice mail.”

  “Good.” Devine was meticulous, played by the rules and needed no prompting to get the job done—all of which made his initial action this morning completely out of character. “Why didn’t you call me when you first arrived on the scene?” Fair question. He’d clearly been here an hour or so.

  “You had to pick up Bauer,” he offered. “Holt said she’d let you know.”

  Frustration inched its way up her spine. Bobbie suspected the sergeant had her own reasons for not taking this one herself. Between the baby, new nightmare neighbors, and her need to keep Bauer on the straight and narrow, Holt was spread a little thin. Still, Bobbie would rather not see a crime scene after six or so other people had already walked through it.

  “In the future,” she said as she pulled gloves from her jacket pocket and dragged them on, “you call me first regardless. No exceptions. Got it?”

  Devine nodded. “Got it.”

  “Let’s have a look then.”

  Bobbie let that particular tension go. Her new partner had garnered plenty of homicide experience in Birmingham. No reason for her to worry about him handling the scene properly. It was the principle of the thing. She was his partner. He should have called her.

  Over the past month she’d been impressed by his work ethic. Since he was single he was completely focused on the job. It
was also nice that he didn’t try using the fact that he was a man to prove he was better at every turn. With his criminal justice degree from Western Illinois University and eight years on the force in Birmingham he’d already turned down the offer of a promotion to sergeant. And if his stellar credentials weren’t enough, he’d showed his softer side when he made the lateral move to Montgomery to be close to his elderly aunt. The aunt had no remaining family beyond Devine and his parents. Since his parents had a prestigious medical practice in Birmingham, a move would have been problematic. With no complicated ties, Devine had decided he’d rather relocate to Montgomery than see his aunt sentenced to a nursing home. How often did someone his age make such a big sacrifice?

  His lapse in judgment this morning aside, he was a good partner.

  But he would never be Newt.

  Inside, the house wasn’t permeated with the usual smells related to violence. No bloody metallic odor, no hint of gunpowder in the air, but there was the lingering essence of death—that distinct uneasy impression that something bad had happened here. The living room, dining room and kitchen were one large open space. The furnishings likely cost more than the house. Every throw pillow was in place, every knickknack and piece of art expertly arranged. Two evidence techs were going over the space. Even the tiniest fragment of trace evidence could make all the difference to the case. Fortunately, MPD had a damned good forensic team.

  A staircase went both up and down from the west side of the main living area, creating the three levels. The house sported ’70s style paneling, popcorn ceilings and parquet wood flooring. She imagined the Parkers hadn’t lived this modestly in several decades, if ever.

  “The laundry room, a bathroom and a small den are next to the garage down there,” Devine said, indicating the seven or eight descending steps. “Three bedrooms and two baths are up.”

  “Let’s see the bodies.”

  Devine pointed to the second floor and Bobbie followed him up the carpeted stairs. She had a look at the first bedroom they passed. The purple walls were plastered with posters of rock bands and rap singers. The open doors of the closet showed a wardrobe of mostly black. Unlike the order she’d encountered so far, discarded jeans and sneakers were scattered across the floor. The laptop on the desk was open and displaying a stream of photos showing teenagers drinking beer and smoking God only knew what. Sweat formed on Bobbie’s skin as she crossed the room. The sixteen-year-old daughter’s bed was still made. Wherever Fern Parker was, she apparently hadn’t slept here. Maybe last night she’d decided to run away with a friend. Sixteen-year-olds were prone to impulsive behavior.

  “Let’s put the laptop into evidence.” No one wanted to believe a child was capable of murder, but it happened.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  While Devine called a tech up to the girl’s bedroom, Bobbie checked the closet and dresser drawers. She took a look behind the curtains and spotted what she had hoped not to find. Damn. Few teenagers went anywhere without their phones. “This may be her cell phone.”

  Devine joined her at the window. He blew out a breath. “Damn. I missed that.”

  Bobbie examined the phone. No text messages, no emails. “That’s why we always take a second look.” Even the best detective wasn’t infallible.

  Devine reached for the phone. “We’ll start calling her contacts list now.”

  Bobbie moved across the hall. The boy’s room was located opposite the sister’s. Blue walls and loads of Legos set the theme for the space. Shelves were crammed with books and superhero action figures. Bobbie reminded Devine to take the boy’s laptop into evidence, as well. If the younger Parker had a cell phone he hadn’t left it behind. Like the sister’s bed, this one hadn’t been slept in, either.

  Down the hall the bathroom was clear. Bobbie hesitated at the open door to the parents’ bedroom. The room was elegantly decorated, the furnishings unquestionably from their former residence. The massive bed took up most of the floor space. Bobbie entered the room and moved closer to the bed. Both victims had been marked with what appeared to be blood on their foreheads. Heather was marked with an A, likely for adulteress. Nigel’s forehead bore a T, probably for thief. Both appeared to be sleeping peacefully but the ashen skin and blue lips belied the facade of serenity. Heather’s long blond hair spread across her pillow. She wore a lacy black nightgown. Nigel’s brown hair was tinged with gray along the temples and looked as if it had been neatly combed after he was placed in the bed. His upper torso was bare. A cream-colored silk sheet was turned down at their waists.

  Bobbie drew back the covers to reveal the rest of their bodies. Heather’s gown hit the tops of her thighs. Her husband wore paisley print silk boxers. Beyond the strokes of blood on their foreheads, there was not a single speck of blood visible on the vics or the linens, no immediately observable physical injury. Not the first defense wound on their hands or arms.

  Devine joined her at the bedside. “Brace yourself for what you’ll find under those high-end nightclothes. It’s been a day or two since I saw anything this bizarre.”

  “Has the coroner given any preliminary conclusions on cause of death?” Her partner hesitated and she shot him a look. “I’m hoping your hesitation and that look on your face isn’t about me.”

  Like everyone else, Devine knew her history. Poor Bobbie had been broken to pieces by a depraved killer who destroyed all that she loved. She still saw the looks and the questions in the eyes of some. Had time and all the surgeons and shrinks been able to put Bobbie back together again? She might never be the same woman again, but she was damned well as good or better at being a cop.

  He shook his head. “It’s me.” Her partner passed a hand over his face. “The victims were taken to the garage. Based on the blood and...other stuff left behind down there that’s where the murders took place.”

  Bobbie considered the couple posed in their bed. Heather was average height and had a slim build, but her husband was tall and likely weighed a good one-seventy-five or -eighty. The killer had to be strong enough to handle getting the bodies down to the basement, and then back up to the bedroom again. Otherwise they had two killers on their hands.

  “Each vic,” Devine continued, “was disemboweled through a horizontal incision to the abdomen.” He tugged the waistband of Parker’s boxers down just enough to show a neat row of sutures. “All the organs were removed, including the lungs and heart. After the killer was finished, the incisions were closed, the bodies washed, dressed and placed as you see them now.” He gestured to the woman. “Hers is the same.”

  A year ago Bobbie’s first inclination would have been to wonder what kind of sick animal would do something like this. Now she knew the answer all too well, so instead she asked, “Were the victims conscious during this procedure?”

  “Don’t know yet. If so, there’s no indication of a struggle. The arterial spray patterns suggest their hearts were still beating at the time the primary incisions were made.”

  Jesus Christ. “What tools did he use to do his work? Were they here already or did he bring them with him?” Her voice was steady when she spoke though her heart pounded a little faster. Cops weren’t expected to be immune to this kind of horror, but Bobbie’s actions were still under the microscope. She couldn’t afford the slightest outward indication of being shaken. “Are the organs still here?”

  There had to be one hell of a mess in the garage.

  “Whatever he used, he took it with him. I found a couple of steak knives in the kitchen but nothing that would do this with any efficiency.” Devine glanced at the victims as if he hated to discuss what was downstairs in front of the couple, and then he looked Bobbie straight in the eye. “The organs are here. He—whoever did this—took a bite out of each of the hearts.”

  Bobbie surveyed the Parkers once more. Something about the MO felt familiar. Hadn’t she read about a similar case maybe eleven
or twelve years ago? “We’ll need impressions made from the bite marks if possible.”

  “Dr. Carroll mentioned that already,” Devine said.

  “Seppuku.” The word rolled off the tip of Bobbie’s tongue as the old headlines flashed through her mind.

  She had been in college—a sophomore if she remembered correctly. A serial killer had disemboweled his victims in a manner similar to the technique used in the Japanese samurai honor code ritual. The gruesome ceremonial death was carried out against those who, in his opinion, had shamed themselves. The killer had chosen victims from the local headlines—in Chicago maybe—who were suspected of gross wrongdoing. Bobbie vaguely recalled one had been a hedge-fund manager who stole from his clients—not unlike Nigel Parker. Another had been a teacher accused of having sex with two of her students—one of whom committed suicide during the trial.

  “Wait.” Devine touched his forehead as if he’d experienced an epiphany, as well. “I remember that case. But the Seppuku Killer executed himself—” he shrugged “—ten or so years ago. He fell on his sword right in front of the detectives who’d cornered him.”

  “His only shame was in being caught.” More of the details from those gruesome murders filtered into Bobbie’s thoughts. Like these, his victims had been posed in their homes or offices. She turned to her partner. “We should have a look at that case. I think he was active in the Chicago area. This may be a copycat.”

  “I’ll make a call to Chicago PD.”

  “Excuse me, Detectives.”

  Bobbie’s gaze shot to the door where a uniform—Officer Leslie Elliott—waited. The younger woman looked pale despite her mahogany complexion. “You found something?”

  “Officer Elliott,” Devine offered before she could answer, “was following up on the Parker children’s whereabouts.”

  Elliott nodded. “The boy didn’t show up at his friend’s last night. They haven’t heard from him since yesterday afternoon. We just called the six contacts in the girl’s phone and not one of them has seen or heard from her since around ten last night.”