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King hit the gas and the car lumbered forward. The ride was so bumpy it knocked the phone out of Michelle’s hand. He hit the brakes.
They looked at each other.
“Damn it, he shot out the tires,” said King in disbelief. “That’s what the gunshots were about. Let me see if I can still drive it.” After a hundred feet it was very clear that if they drove over five miles an hour, they’d soon break an axle.
Michelle jumped out of the car and shone the light at the flattened front and rear tires on her side. She ran back and examined Junior’s truck. There were two tires shot out there as well. Michelle called 911, gave them the information, then called Todd while King slumped against his car.
When she was finished, she came over to him and said, “Todd and his men are on their way.”
“That’s good to know,” he said quietly.
“You never know; they might get lucky and nail the guy, Sean.”
“The good guys are rarely that lucky.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared back at the half-built house.
Michelle slapped her hand against the car’s hood. “God, I feel like the biggest rookie in the world for letting that guy get the drop on us. I can’t believe we were probably ten feet from this maniac. Ten feet! And he got away.” She grew silent, staring at the ground before glancing over at her partner. “Okay, talk to me, what are you thinking?”
He didn’t answer right away. When he spoke, his voice quivered slightly. “I’m thinking that tonight three little kids lost their father and a wife her husband. And I’m just wondering when it’s going to stop.”
“Not until someone stops him.”
King never took his eyes off the unfinished house. “Well, starting right now, that’s our full-time job.”
CHAPTER
43
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AS KING HAD PREDICTED,
the police arrived too late to catch Junior’s killer. When news of yet another murder became public, the entire area fell into a complete frenzy. The mayor of Wrightsburg, in a stunning show of no confidence in either Todd Williams or the FBI, demanded that the National Guard be called out and martial law declared. Fortunately, no one granted that request. The national news machine had descended on Wrightsburg and its environs with an enormous appetite for detail, no matter how trivial or irrelevant to the investigation. The large media trucks and their sky antennae and news jockeys with wireless mikes in hand became as ubiquitous as the sprouting spring buds. The only people happy about this situation were the local restaurateurs, innkeepers and conspiracy buffs,
who could be heard spouting endless theories. Nearly everyone was grabbing for their fifteen minutes of fame.
Todd Williams was inundated by the journalistic deluge, as was Chip Bailey. Even King and Michelle failed to entirely escape the flood, watching in dismay as details of their previous high-profile investigative exploits were dredged up and made part of the current story.
More law enforcement resources were called in, both federal and state, and King wondered if the additional manpower was helping or hurting the investigation. The latter seemed to be the case as everyone jockeyed for position.
The letter finally came. It proclaimed that the killer of Junior Deaver was now imitating the clown prince of darkness, at least in serial killer circles: John Wayne Gacy. And you thought he only killed young men and boys, the message tauntingly read. Now you know he doesn’t mind knocking off big fat rednecks like Junior Deaver.
They were all at another early morning task force meeting at the police station. The large conference room had been turned into a war room of sorts with banks of computers and telephones manned twenty-four/seven, charts, maps, stacks of files, highly specialized personnel running down all leads, tons of coffee and doughnuts and not one viable suspect anywhere in sight.
“Gacy strangled many of his victims using that ligature technique,” explained Chip Bailey.
“You certainly know your serial killers,” said Michelle.
“I should. I’ve spent years tracking them down.”
“And in prison the big, jolly fellow started doing paintings of clowns,” added King, “which accounts for the mask, just in case we couldn’t figure it out solely from the hangman’s tourniquet.”
“And Junior’s watch was definitely set to five o’clock,” said Michelle. “So either our serial murderer can’t count or whoever killed Bobby Battle was a copycat.”
“I think we can assume there are two killers out there,” conceded Bailey. “Although there’s an outside possibility that there’s only one killer and he’s messing with the numbers for some reason.”
“What, he’s angling to be charged with five killings instead of six?” asked King. “I don’t know about other places, but in Virginia they only execute murderers once.”
Williams groaned and reached for the Advil. “Damn, my head’s starting to hurt again.”
