Rowan Gant - Perfect Trust Part 28

There's a funny thing about approaching storms and squall lines. Sometimes you can look out across the vast, empty plain of life and see them coming miles before they ever reach you. Then there are other times when there is so much clutter in the way that they are already battering you with gale forces while you are still trying to figure out if the sun just went behind a cloud or if you should seek immediate shelter.

This particular squall was on top of me before I even had a chance to look up.

The calm was definitely over.

CHAPTER 18.

Dead I am! Dead I am!

The painfully familiar chant echoed in the back of my skull as a repressed memory from the night at the morgue revealed itself in halting disharmony. A ghastly feeling of disorientation began spreading outward from my brain in a frantic race to meet the abject panic that was vomiting upward from the pit of my stomach. They arrived simultaneously in the middle of my chest and proceeded to join forces in an attempt to bring my heart to a complete stop.

I heard myself gasp loudly as I sucked in a breath. Then, with no precursor, the memory became an explosion of light that burst directly in front of me. The sight stealing flash was accompanied by a muted pop, and then followed by an electronic whine. Everything before me was immediately washed out, leaving me temporarily blinded. As the flare faded, after images blurrily joined with a grey-toned reality that began repainting itself, only to be bleached out once again by a second bright strobe.

I started, and out of reflex raised my hand as I blinked and turned my head away from the source of the overbearing luminance. It didn't help. A third and fourth flash followed quickly on the heels of the first two, and it was still as if I was staring directly into them, wide-eyed and oblivious.

"Hey, Row," Ben's concerned voice met my ears. "You okay? What's wrong?"

"Debbie Schaeffer," I muttered, or at least that is what my brain told my vocal cords to do. What came out was an unintelligible burst of syllables as I tried to force the words past a catch in my throat.

With the antic.i.p.ated fifth flash not yet forthcoming, I slowly lowered my hand and directed my squinting gaze toward my friend.

"What was that?" he questioned again.

"Debbie Schaeffer," I offered again, this time my voice winning out.

I could still see brightly colored spots dancing against a backdrop of rapidly fading after images, and it was making me a bit queasy. I blinked hard, trying to will them away. Fortunately, the blur was lessening at a quick pace and this page of reality was starting to come back into focus.

"What about her?"

"That's the connection between her and Paige Lawson," I explained, suddenly as sure of myself as I'd been in months. "This rapist."

"How do you figure?"

"The lights.""This one of those Twilight Zone things or are you just guessing, Rowan?" He was interested but not yet convinced.

"At the morgue the other night," I continued. "When I made the connection with Debbie Schaeffer I kept seeing flashing lights."

"You didn't mention anything about flashin' lights then."

"I didn't remember them until now."

"Row..."

"I'm not just plucking this out of the air, Ben," I snapped back at him. "You know as well as I do how this works sometimes. Besides, if I'm channeling the memories of someone who was drugged with Rophynol, then maybe I'm experiencing the effects of the drug as well."

"Okay, okay," he held up a hand to stave me off, "calm down. I wasn't tryin' to say you were makin' it up. I just wanna be sure we're not chasin' down a blind alley."

"Sorry," I apologized.

"S' alright," he said. "Now, do you remember anything else besides the flashin'

lights?"

"Yes," I nodded vigorously, "a popping noise and a high-pitched whine."

"Popping and whining?" Charlee speculated aloud. "Wonder what that could be?"

"I know exactly what it is," I answered as I realized I'd heard the sound many times before. Living with a professional photographer, it was hard to avoid. "It's a photo strobe. He's taking pictures of them."

"There's a thought." She nodded as understanding overtook her. "It would certainly explain the bright lights, and it's not unheard of for a rapist to take an item from the victim. A keepsake that gives him a way to relive the act. That could also explain why he keeps them for a while."

"Exactly," I agreed. "And the smeared makeup too."

"Well," she volunteered, "I suppose pictures would be as good as anything else, but I don't think they're doing it for him anymore. The frequency of the attacks has been increasing."

"Whoa, hold on." Ben was shaking his head. "Back up for a minute you two. I've got a minor problem with this theory."

"What's that?" Charlee asked.

"Debbie Schaeffer," he stated. "I'm willing to accept Paige Lawson bein' an intended rape victim. If we apply a little creativity to the Coroner's report, then we can a.s.sume that what we have is this a.s.shole jamming her with the stun gun. Zap!

She falls and cracks her head on the corner of the table, then he freaks and runs at the sight of blood. I've got enough on the physical side to back that up, so, in my mind, that all fits.

"Now, Debbie Schaeffer, that's a different story altogether. We've got no physicalevidence, and the way you've played this guy up, he apparently doesn't want these women harmed. Schaeffer was murdered and dumped in the woods."

"Are you certain she was murdered?" I asked.

He looked at me incredulously. "Well just what the h.e.l.l would YOU call it?"

"Maybe her death was an accident too," I offered.

"Okay, what if it was?" he allowed. "Even if her death wasn't deliberate-which I'm not convinced of-it's still murder if it occurred during the commission of a felony. So, yes, that makes Lawson's death murder as well. But, what sets the two apart is the fact that Schaeffer's body was dumped in the woods. That indicates that whoever did it was trying to cover it up, and that doesn't seem to fit with this guy's established pattern of dropping the victims off at home."

"What if that pattern hadn't been established yet?" Detective McLaughlin interjected.

Ben gave her a thoughtful glance, then nodded. "Okay... Okay, that might fit.

Keep talkin'. What's the date on the first case you've a.s.sociated with this guy?"

"November. Day after Thanksgiving as a matter of fact," she said.

"Nothing earlier?"

"Not that's been reported."

"Well, Schaeffer went missing late October," he mused aloud. "That could fit."

"That puts a month between her disappearance and the first reported rape," I voiced my observation as I set my mind to the task of filling the blanks-and there were plenty of them, even taking into consideration my latest secular epiphany.

"Okay," Ben nodded. "That fills in that hole, but it still doesn't give us anything concrete. Not to mention we still don't have a suspect either."

"You're positive Debbie Schaeffer didn't have any ex-boyfriends?" I asked.

"None that her parents knew of, why?"

"Well, this is just speculation, so take it for what it's worth." I confessed the thoughts that had only now started to gel in the front of my brain. "But, if everything we've discussed here actually pans out, then that would make Debbie Schaeffer the first victim, right?"

"Yeah, go on."

"Well, what if she's the impetus for the entire string of rapes?"

"You mean," Ben looked at Detective McLaughlin, then back to me, "like he's trying to relive raping her through these other women?"

"Not exactly." I shook my head. "I was thinking more along the line that she was the actual object of his desire, and through whatever course of events transpired he accidentally killed her. So, by acting out his fantasy with the other women he is somehow bringing her back to life. In his mind anyway.""Jeez, white man. Now you're startin' to sound like my sister."

I shrugged. "Maybe she's who we need to be talking to."

"h.e.l.lo?" Helen Storm's voice issued from the phone.

We had regrouped in a conference room to allow for less distraction and more privacy. Ben had begun dialing her number almost as soon as the door was shut.

"Helen, it's Ben," my friend spoke quickly. "You're on speaker. I've got Detective McLaughlin and Rowan with me. You got a minute?"

"Since you already have me on speaker, I suppose it would be rude of me to say no, wouldn't it?"

"Gimme a break, Sis."

"Oh, I suppose I can let it go this time," she laughed musically. "What can I do for you, Benjamin?"

Detective McLaughlin gave me a grin then turned to Ben and mouthed "Benjamin?"

My friend fired back a wordless glance that said in no uncertain terms, "Don't even go there."

"First off, everything we discuss here is strictly on the QT, right?"

"Of course."

"Great. Then we've got a situation we'd like to run past you and get your professional opinion on."

"You understand that Forensic Psychology is not my area of expertise, correct?"

"I know, Helen," Ben said. "We aren't that far yet. We just wanna see if the theory will fly."

"All right. I will certainly do what I can to help then."

Ben proceeded to outline our recent discussion for her, up to and including my theory regarding Debbie Schaeffer. When he finally finished giving her the run down, there was a long pause at the other end.

"You still there, Helen?" Ben quizzed the phone.

"Yes, Benjamin," she answered. "I'm still here. Do you have any idea how Debbie Schaeffer died?"

"Nothing conclusive back from the Coroner's office, so, no, not yet. Why?"

"It would certainly help to know if her death was in fact an accident or deliberate.

Of course, I'm sure you realize that since this one fact is the lynch pin of your entire theory."

"Yeah, we know. We're just battin' things around right now," Ben said.

"All right then, let us a.s.sume that her death was accidental," she outlined.

"Emotional transference is not uncommon, especially if an individual is incapable ofretaining a firm grasp on the realities at hand. But, one does not necessarily need be psychotic or possessed of severely diminished faculties for this to occur either. A cla.s.sic example is very simply that of the proverbial rebound relationship when a couple parts ways.

"However, as with any emotional upset, the severity can have a direct bearing on the outcome. If the individual directly affected-or even in part responsible for-the upset is already unbalanced, then this could certainly tip the scales in a dangerous direction."

"So what you're sayin' is we could be right?" Ben questioned.

"Perhaps." There was an almost audible shrug in her voice. "Can you tell me about the disposition of her remains? How was she when she was found?"

"Wrapped in a plastic drop cloth and dumped in the woods."

"Was she dumped, or was she placed?"

"I dunno. I guess she coulda been placed."

"You see, that is a factor as well. Was she clothed? Were there any personal items with her? How carefully was she wrapped in the plastic? Was this done haphazardly or was there reverence shown for her remains? Each of these things goes toward forming a picture of the person responsible."

"So, now you're sayin' we're probably wrong?"

"No, Benjamin, what I am saying is that there are several other factors which must be weighed in order to reach a truly viable conclusion. As it stands now, the best I can say is that your theory is a definite maybe."

"Okay," he huffed out a breath. "I guess that's better than a definite no. I appreciate the help, Sis. See you tonight at the house?"

"Of course. Is Rowan still there?"

"I'm here," I spoke up.

"Good. Would it be possible for me to speak with you for a moment?"