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“This is Special Agent Ricky Northcutt with the FBI,” the man said. “I’ve been out on vacation and only got back to Atlanta yesterday. I saw your ViCAP request.”
Will leaned on the hood and his pulse picked up. “That’s right. It came back with no matches.”
“That might not be quite true,” the fed drawled. “There was nothing for metro Atlanta. But we had a case in Athens two-and-a-half years ago. A coed at the University of Georgia was kidnapped and her body turned up the next day. It had the same genital mutilation you describe. And the scene was clean as a whistle. Not a damned bit of DNA or much other evidence.”
“Much other?”
“She was restrained,” he said. “Her wrists seemed to have been tied with duct tape. There were marks on her wrists and some duct-tape fiber. Works for everything, right?”
“How far is Athens from Atlanta?” Will had never been to Georgia.
Northcutt said about sixty miles. “I’m not sure if that’s any help to you. I would have called sooner, but our resources are stretched so thin now on criminal cases. Anti-terrorism is the priority…”
“Any suspects?”
“Not a one. The other thing that caught my eye about your report was the word ‘deathscape.’ There was an index card pinned on this girl’s forehead that said, ‘Deathscape Number One.’ It was written in block letters with a felt-tipped pen.”
Will stood and nervously walked around the car, taking the information in.
“Was she a nursing student?”
“No,” Northcutt said. “I think she was computer science. But she was out on a secluded trail near campus, riding alone on her bicycle.”
***
Will heard the women’s laughter before he saw the boat, a sleek new model with several young women wearing bikinis and acting as if everything they heard or saw was the funniest thing they had ever experienced. The boat slowed and came to a halt three slips down from where Kristen’s craft would have been docked.
Then he saw the man.
He was standing at the water’s edge and looked to be somewhere north of sixty with the mien of a Civil War general: bushy beard and moustache and long, white hair combed back from his forehead. The image was broken by his clothes: an old T-shirt and shorts. He was filming the girls on the boat with a video camera.
Will left Cheryl Beth to her calls and walked in his direction, which, as usual, took quite a bit of time. But the man was so distracted that he didn’t notice until Will was right behind him.
“Hi.”
“Oh, howdy.” The man put down the camera and faced him. He had skin the color of Spam.
“Nice view.”
“You better believe it, and I’m not talking about the boats.” He chuckled.
Will used his left hand to show his badge and identification. “I’m Detective Borders, Cincinnati Police.”
“Whoa.” The scraggly face tensed. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here, officer.”
“Relax,” Will said. “Do you come out here to take pictures often?”
The general hesitated, then nodded. “It’s only harmless fun,” he said sheepishly. “My boat’s over there on that trailer. It’s not like I’m trespassing. There’s so many pretty girls, and, hell, it’s not like I’m going to get any now, but at least a man can dream, can’t he?”
“I said relax,” Will said, sounding a little less relaxed now. He felt time working against him. The detectives Fassbinder had sent out earlier last week interviewed everyone who was at the marina, a small group during a weekday, and then called each slip owner at home. This man might have fallen through the cracks.
Will asked him if he had been here the previous Saturday afternoon.
He had.
“Did you see a young woman who owned the boat that would have been tied up over there?” He pointed fifty feet to the empty slip where Gruber’s craft would have been.
“The lady cop.” He nodded slowly. “Kristen. That was a damned shame, a tragedy.” Then he stepped back and held out a hand. “God, man, you don’t think I killed her, do you?”
