system,” he reminded her. “It could be that she was unconscious before the killer attacked her, but somehow I doubt that anything will turn up. This looks like the work of good old-fashioned rage.”
“I have the same feeling,” Melissa muttered. “What about Mr. Patterson? Anything new?”
Rictor’s folded his arms in a contemplative posture.
“What?” Melissa asked.
“That’s the challenging bit,” he said. “Follow me.”
He led her out of the house.
Melissa had already surveyed the stage on which Mel Patterson’s final act in life had been played out, having come to its finale in the theater of the couple’s detached utility garage.
Mr. Patterson’s corpse had been found partially trapped beneath his green Ford Windstar, where he’d been crushed between the front bumper and the garage’s main door, thus causing the damage she’d observed when she arrived.
“There’s something a bit puzzling about the man’s death,” Rictor said once they were inside the building.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Well, if you remember, it appeared Mr. Patterson had been struck twice by the vehicle.”
Melissa nodded in agreement. “The first hit sandwiched him between the garage door and the minivan.”
“Which broke his hip, but didn’t have the force to kill him.”
“Then the killer backed up, collided with the workbench, and peeled forward again as Mr. Patterson tried to get out of the way.”
“Catching him in the torso, ramming him into the door a second time,” Rictor said. “His legs were crushed beneath the van’s oil pan. We had to jack it up to get him out. The thing that troubles me is that it appears he’d been working on the vehicle moments before the attack occurred.”
“What are you getting at?” Melissa asked, wary of the doctor’s disconcerted gaze.
“Well, once we got him out from under the van, we found the vehicle’s battery beside him.”
Melissa gazed at the tape outlines that marked the areas where evidence had been collected from the floor and noticed an appropriately sized rectangle less than two feet from the body.
“When we looked under the hood, sure enough, it wasn’t there,” Rictor continued. “It seems he’d been working on the air filter’s mounting bracket and needed to remove the battery to get at some of the screws.”
Melissa’s stare returned to the vehicle. “Are you saying the killer
Rictor took off his glasses. “With the gearshift in ‘park.’”
“Impossible.”
“All I can give you are the facts,” he replied. “There was no battery in the vehicle when it hit the man, and that was the only one we found.”
“What about fingerprints? Anything on the casing?”
“Just Mr. Patterson’s,” Rictor answered. “We’re still checking the house over, but if you’re suggesting the killer brought along his own car battery to carry out this specific act of murder, I’d say you’re stretching it a bit, even for you.”
Melissa smirked. “Thanks for the input, Doc.”
Rictor grinned. “I’m going to finish up in the house. If you need anything else, just holler.”
Melissa waved and gave him her thanks.
She walked around the garage, pondering what she’d learned of the situation so far: no forced entry in the house, no valuables taken, no fingerprints left behind, no witnesses to the crime. And the only motive appeared to be imitative lunacy, indicated by the letters etched in Mrs. Patterson’s forehead. In the end, it appeared her only hope of identifying the killer hinged on whatever clues the lab techs could harvest from his victims.
“Who are you?” she whispered to the empty garage. “And where are you now?”
CHAPTER 11
The Andersons’ house.
The Killer returned shortly before noon and parked in the garage, having spent the night and a good portion of the morning engaged in the tedious labor of covering up last night’s risky venture.
The gas station explosion forced the Killer to work against the response time of the area’s fire department, but also aided with eliminating certain evidence before police arrived and had a chance to collect it. True, only a handful of people could recognize the significance of Penelope Styles’ death and become alerted to the approaching carnage, but kingdoms had crumbled because of such minor oversights.
The Killer destroyed each vehicle in a rainstorm of fuel and flame.
Mutilated all the bodies and cast them into the blaze.
Due to the rural location of the store, the Killer managed to complete some of the work before the firefighters arrived, but most of it secretly took place in their presence, while they battled the flames. It was a painstaking process, operating covertly, avoiding detection, but essential to maintain anonymity. The Killer’s efforts would be rewarded with time. Proper identification of the victims would now take a matter of days, and the Killer only required one or two to complete the final preparations before Mallory’s death.
Tonight, the Killer would assemble the various components at the cemetery, the ones collected from Penelope and the others, then capture Mallory and her family the following evening. The end of five years of agony had finally crept within sight, and the Killer shuddered with anticipation, like a wild dog gnawing through a restraining rope, soon to be free.
Searching through the Andersons’ garage, the Killer collected rope, chain, and tape. Paul Wiess should cooperate nicely when shown his daughter bound and gagged, assisting with the one task the Killer cannot complete alone.
Along the back wall of the room, the Killer located a variety of lawn and garden tools and paused to select a weapon. The Andersons’ firearms remained in the van, but for Mallory’s death, the Killer preferred to use something that
A chainsaw. Tempting, but too noisy.
An ax. Perfect.
The Killer loaded the items into the van then returned to the house to make sure there wasn’t anything else of use.
Someone knocked on the front door.
The Killer halted in the foyer, poised at the foot of the staircase not twelve feet from the sound.
The doorbell rang, followed by a voice. “Mr. Anderson?”
The Killer kept silent.
“Mr. Anderson, it’s Father Kern. I was wondering if we could speak?”
Despite the fact that his calls went unanswered, Kern remained on the step.
“I heard you weren’t at mass this morning,” he said in a grave tone. “It pains me to think I’m the reason you were absent.”
The Killer drew closer, moving with caution. A tall rectangular sheet of clouded glass in the center of the door revealed nothing of the priest but a foggy silhouette.
“I assume you’ve heard I’m leaving the church,” he added. “I can understand how hypocritical that might appear in light of what we discussed about belief, faith, and salvation, but please don’t let my own… uncertainties… influence your newfound interest in The Church.”
The Killer paused inches from the door, a hand above the knob.
“I think it would be best if you sought spiritual counsel through one of my colleagues. If you decide to, that is. I’ve already talked to Father Bachman about it. He knows I’ve blessed the house for you, but if you’d like him to perform a second—”
The Killer threw open the door, and Kern snapped his head up in shock. The man’s pupils dilated, his eyes
