Darby McCormick: Fear The Dark Part 9

Hoder seemed distracted. Lost in thought.

Then he stared out the window, at the snow-capped mountains in the distance. The sky was a ceramic blue and cloudless, the perimeter of the empty parking lot dotted with aspens and tall pines that creaked and swayed in the wind.

Darby had heard the stories about the man's two broken marriages; the grown son and daughter who barely spoke to their father, a relentless workaholic who had suffered a nervous breakdown and almost died from encephalitis. With a little over a year to go from the FBI's mandatory retirement age of fifty-seven, Hoder should have been at home resting, recovering from his knee surgery or coasting through his remaining time. He had certainly earned it.

Instead, he was here in Colorado. Why? Because he had nothing left in his life. As Darby drank her coffee, she felt a vague and uncertain horror about her future. She was at the halfway point in her life where the finish line was no longer hidden behind the fog of youth; it was real, it was approaching, and there was no turning back. Looking at Hoder, she felt as though she were being paid a visit from her own Ghost of Christmases Yet to Come.

'It can't be a coincidence that in all the crime scenes there was an electronic device with a camera pointed at bound family members,' Darby said.

'Agreed. I'm afraid I have a rather embarra.s.sing confession.' When Hoder looked at her, his eyes were bright and full of mirth. 'Don't tell anyone this, but I'm somewhat of a technophobe. Computers and smartphones and now these tablets frankly the whole thing gives me a headache. I can't keep up with it, nor do I want to keep up with it.'

'I feel the same way.'

Hoder chuckled. 'I doubt it. All these gizmos and programs, they make me feel old. Obsolete.'

'Technology and software changes from day to day. You've got to be a full-time geek to keep up with this stuff. The rest of us are left in the dust.'

Darby refilled her cup. The coffee was bitter, but it would do the job. 'Let's start with Wi-Fi. You know what that is?'

'Wireless internet connection.'

'See, you're not as bad as you think.'

'My seven-year-old grandson had to tell me what it meant.'

'Then I take back what I just said.' Darby smiled over her cup.

'If what you're saying is true that the Ripper recorded his interactions with the families then can I a.s.sume he may have been watching or listening or both yesterday, when you, Cooper and Williams went inside the bedroom?'

'It wouldn't surprise me.'

'How could he do that? Do you need some sort of special software?'

'That I don't know. The RCFL guys '

'Who?'

'Regional Computer Forensics Laboratory out of Denver. Forensics geeks who specialize in phones and computers. Coop is going to meet with them first thing this morning, at nine.'

'You spoke with him?'

'This morning, about five.' Coop had been up all night with four other agents on loan from the Denver office.

'Did he have anything to say about the evidence he brought to Denver?'

'No prints were recovered from the plastic bag, duct tape or plastic bindings. But there are a few potential bright spots.'

'The blood Coop recovered from the bedroom flooring.'

Darby nodded. 'There's also a chance our man left either sweat or skin cells on that piece of latex stuck to the duct tape and we have that fingerprint pressed into the polyurethane while it was still in the process of drying.'

'Wouldn't it be nice if our man was in our databases?'

'It certainly would be,' Darby said, although she wasn't pinning her hopes on it.

While there was a fighting chance the fingerprint might find a match on IAFIS, the FBI's Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, CODIS, the Bureau's Combined DNA Index System, was another matter. The majority of DNA samples stored on that database belonged to unsolved violent crime investigations. If the blood found on the floor, or skin or sweat from the duct tape, did, in fact, belong to the Ripper, and if he had left a matching DNA sample at another crime scene, a link would then have been established. If, if, if, Darby thought. She could count on one hand the number of cases where CODIS came back with a match linked to a known offender.

'DNA testing will take longer,' Darby said. 'Coop is thinking of sending the samples directly to your lab. He's also going to send the duct tape there.' Because duct tape was often used in murders, the federal lab kept its own library of tape samples.

Hoder shifted uncomfortably and then moved the cane to his opposite hand. 'Why do you think the Ripper contacted you?'

'Like I said on the way here, we don't know that the man I spoke to actually is the Red Hill Ripper.' Darby had told Hoder the details of last night's phone call as she drove him to the station, which was conveniently less than two miles from the hotel, located on the outskirts of the downtown area. She had also given him a rundown of her encounter with Deputy Sheriff Lancaster. 'For all we know it was just some local guy with a pair of binocs who gets off on watching an old lady undressing.'

'You don't really believe that, do you?'

'That I'm old? Yes, I do. Unfortunately.'

'I'm being serious. How many peeping toms do you know who call to alert their target and use a voice-changer to boot?'

'I'm not putting too much stock in what happened last night. Williams told me the Ripper has never called anyone a.s.sociated with the case.'

Ray Williams had helped her to search the wooded area near her window for footprints. They hadn't found any. She had also searched the area again, early this morning, before going to the station, and had come up empty which wasn't all that surprising. As Williams had correctly pointed out last night, there was a part of the main sidewalk that offered a direct view into her bedroom window. If the man who had been watching her had used something more powerful than a pair of binoculars a monocular or sniper scope he could have counted the crow's feet around her eyes.

'If the man who called you last night is the Red Hill Ripper,' Hoder said, 'I guarantee he'll call you again.'

'Does the media know you're here?'

'A reporter came up from Denver the day we arrived. He was waiting outside the hotel.'

'You talk to him?'

'No. But that didn't prevent him from writing a story on that "monster hunter" bulls.h.i.t. It ran in yesterday's paper.'

'Did my name appear in the story?' asked Darby.

'I don't know. I didn't read the article, but I know I didn't mention your name to the reporter.' His eyes narrowed in thought. 'If your name wasn't in the story and if the man who called you last night was the Ripper, how did he know you're here?'

'Good question. I'm wondering if he was watching the house yesterday. There sure as h.e.l.l are plenty of places to hide.' Darby polished off the rest of her coffee and tossed the cup into the trash. 'Maybe he called Lancaster for some ideas.'

'You should've woken me last night.'

'I called Williams. Besides, I thought one of us should get a full night's sleep. You looked like you were in a lot of pain yesterday, when you came by the house.'

'Just some minor swelling. Next time something like that happens, please include me, no matter what time of night and no matter how you think I'm feeling.'

Darby caught the undercurrent in Hoder's tone. The man was frightened of being put out to pasture of becoming obsolete.

'You're right,' Darby said. 'I'm sorry.'

Hoder flashed his bright and youthful smile. 'I bet saying that hurt.'

'More than you know.'

Hoder grinned as he reached for a thick folder on the counter. 'Our lab identified the knot,' he said, and removed the page and handed it to her.

The sheet of paper contained two colour photos. The top one showed two loose pieces of nylon rope loosely wrapped together, forming a knot that hadn't been tightened. There were two twists in the bottom part of the knot and one twist on the top.

'It's called a surgeon's knot, or ligature knot,' Hoder said. 'That bottom picture shows what the knot looks like after it's tightened. The way the rope's bound together, the knot doesn't have much give, which allowed him to control the tension. He could choke them slowly over hours, listening to them beg and plead for their lives; or, after one good, hard yank, he could step back and then watch them slowly choke to death.'

The break-room door opened and a patrolman with a large Adam's apple poked his head inside. 'They're ready for you,' he said. 'Agent Hoder, the chief would like to see you in his office first.'

20.

The Ripper Task Force operated out of a squad room with white panelled walls and insanely bright overhead fluorescents that reflected off the grey linoleum floor. A dozen or so cops and patrolmen packed the small room, the warm air smelling of coffee and cigarette-baked clothes. Posters advertising the state's $100,000 reward and toll-free number for the hotline had been tacked to the walls in the front of the room.

Ray Williams stood in the back, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. As Darby made her way to him, the haggard faces seated behind the scuffed desks regarded her with suspicion. Some blatantly looked her over from head to toe, like they were inspecting a piece of meat. She was the only woman in here the only living one, at least. Crime scene photographs of the dead women were held by magnets to the rolling whiteboards on the far side of the room. A map of the town was pinned to a standing corkboard: the murder sites were marked with pushpins and beside each one was a Post-It note indicating the victims' names and time and manner of death.

'Any luck with the phone number?' Darby asked when she reached him.

Williams leaned into her, a breath mint clinking against his teeth. 'It belongs to a payphone two blocks from your hotel,' he whispered. 'Not going to get any witnesses, I'm afraid. Payphone's set between two stores, both of 'em out of business. You get any sleep?'

'Couple of hours.'

Darby leaned her back against the wall. Williams's cheeks glowed from a morning shave, and his skin smelled of sandalwood and leather. Had he worn aftershave for her? She hadn't smelled any on him yesterday.

'How you holding up?' he asked.

'Never better.'

Williams leaned closer, grinning, his eyes filled with amus.e.m.e.nt. 'Does it ever get tired?'

'Does what get tired?'

'Wearing all that armour.'

Darby found herself grinning. 'Sometimes I take it off.'

'Really? And when would that be?'

'Depends on the person, and the circ.u.mstances.'

Williams cracked his breath mint on his molars and smiled with his eyes.

Hoder entered with Red Hill Police Chief Tom Robinson, a tall and reedy baby-faced man with marbled skin and ruddy cheeks. Williams had told her that Robinson, a widower and grandfather who suffered from Crohn's disease, recently had part of his colon removed and wore a colonoscopy bag. The chief refused to step down from his position until the Red Hill Ripper investigation was closed.

Robinson made a point of distancing himself from the man who had entered the room behind them Brewster Deputy Sheriff Theodore Lancaster, who was quickly finishing up a conversation on his phone. Darby, veteran of squad rooms and police debriefings, recognized a p.i.s.sing contest when she saw one.

She looked sideways at Williams, who had straightened, his eyes riveted on a neutral spot ten inches from his nose. Blood climbed into his neck and she saw the cartilage working behind his jaws. Apparently he hadn't been told about Lancaster's surprise visit.

Lancaster matched glares with Williams as Robinson took to the podium. Darby wondered how much information the police chief would reveal to his people with Lancaster in the room.

Robinson's raspy voice had a slight nasal tw.a.n.g, as though he were recovering from the tail end of a cold. 'Everyone got their cells muted? Okay, good. Listen up. Most of you have already met Special Agent Hoder. And y'all know the man standing to my left, Teddy Lancaster.' The chief's face and tone echoed the contempt he felt for the Brewster sheriff. 'I don't have to tell y'all why Teddy's here with us this morning.'

Dead silence. Hostile silence. Darby could hear the hum of the c.o.ke machine in the lobby.

'Okay, let's get down to business,' Chief Robinson said. 'The mobile lab from the FBI's Denver office had some sort of mechanical problem yesterday, so the evidence recovered from the Downes home was taken to Denver last night. Now, about what was found in the Downes house. Same setup as the others family tied to chairs, male suffocated to death, the women strangled. Same duct tape and same plastic bindings. You'll know the lab results when I do.'

Lancaster spoke up. 'I'd like copies as well.'

The chief didn't answer or acknowledge Lancaster. 'The Bureau's lab identified the type of knot the killer used,' Robinson said. 'I'll let Agent Hoder explain while I pa.s.s these out.' He started to hand out pictures from a file as Hoder folded his arms and rested them on the podium. It was easier and more comfortable to lean against it than to try to balance his weight on the cane.

'It's called a surgeon's knot,' Hoder said.

The seated men leaned forward to hear Hoder's soft voice.

'A surgeon's knot is a figure-eight knot that's generally used in sailing and rock climbing, which leads me to believe the Ripper may have experience in one or both of these areas. Maybe he took sailing lessons as a boy or spent part of his youth working on boats. Maybe his father or grandfather was a fisherman; you get the idea. The other possibility is he could simply be a knot fetishist. And, yes, such a thing exists.'

Timid laughter, but not from Lancaster. His gaze, Darby saw, kept jumping between her and Williams.

'There are the usual internet forums where people who are into bondage and S & M discuss various knots and binding techniques,' Hoder said. 'There are also people, generally men, who are simply fascinated by knots. They get together and teach each other how to tie these sorts of complicated knots. These clubs, get-togethers, whatever you want to call them, are a relatively new phenomenon. As you can imagine, they don't advertise in the Yellow Pages. They don't want to attract any unwanted attention for obvious reasons, but a few do openly advertise on the internet. We should see if such a club is operating in or around Red Hill.'

Smart, Darby thought. d.a.m.n smart. She had heard about clubs that catered to knot fetishists, but she hadn't stopped to consider that the Red Hill Ripper might be a member of one.

'My computer people haven't found a local club listed on the web,' Hoder said. 'They might have a website that can't be accessed conventionally, one that's in the Deep Web or the Darknet. Our tech guys are going to see what they can uncover. I won't bore you with the technical details.'

'Good,' someone said.

Snorts and chuckles all around.

'We're looking for a white male in his late forties to early fifties,' Hoder said. 'He's an introvert but not a loner. He'll have a steady job and be married or in a long-term relationship. He'll have a normal s.e.xual relationship with his wife or partner, but he won't share his love of knots with her or his desire to tie her up and strangle her.

'Check prost.i.tutes to see if they had a john who was into knots, possibly tied them to chairs with plastic ties and used duct tape. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that he had practised using the same knot and the same items.

'He won't have a history of anger issues. He'll be a regular guy-next-door type who is neat in appearance. The same holds true for his house. Everything will be neat and orderly, possibly to the point of an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

'That's all I have at the moment. Questions?'

There were none.

Chief Robinson took centre stage again. 'It's possible that we have an interesting development. I'll let Dr McCormick explain. That's the lady standing in the back and she's had great experience in these types of cases. Come on up and meet the fellas.'