He let go of the knife in his pocket. Tommy would have the chance to grow up. One Robinson was enough for tonight.
“Go back to bed, son,” he said again more firmly.
“Okay, Daddy. I love you.” The little boy turned and headed back down the hall.
Black hood stood there for far too long, staring up at the empty space where sleepy Tommy had been, where he’d said, I love you, Daddy. He should be making his escape; finishing up his last task. I love you, Daddy.
He suddenly felt ashamed to even be in the same house with the child who’d said that to him, however mistakenly. He cursed himself. Go, go now. The husband is probably right now phoning the police. Go, you idiot!
Down in the unfinished basement he shone his light on the capped piping that marked a future toilet area. He unscrewed the cap, took out the large Baggie of items, stuffed it in the pipe and screwed the cap back on just so. In planting evidence one could neither be too obvious nor too obtuse. His fence-straddling would have to be perfect.
He slipped outside, crossed the backyard and made his way to his blue VW parked several blocks off. He took off his hood as he drove away. Then he did something he’d never done before. He drove directly to the home where he’d just committed perhaps his most heinous crime of all. The murdered mother was in her bedroom. Tommy was in his—the third dormer window from his left. The kids got up at seven to be ready for school. If their mother wasn’t up by then, they’d go and get her. He checked his watch; it was one o’clock now. Tommy perhaps had six more hours of normalcy. “Enjoy them, Tommy,” he mumbled to the dark window. “Enjoy them… And I’m sorry.”
He drove off, licking at the salt of the tears sliding down his cheeks.
Chapter 82
King had already left in a rental car by the time Todd Williams called Michelle with the news of Jean Robinson’s death. When she arrived at the stricken home, it was surrounded with police and emergency vehicles. Neighbors stared terrified from windows and porches. There was not a child to be seen anywhere. The three Robinson children had gone to a nearby relative’s home with their father.
Michelle found Williams, Sylvia and Bailey in the master bedroom; all three were staring down at the former lady of the house.
Michelle recoiled slightly as she saw what had been done to the woman.
Sylvia looked over at her, and nodded in understanding. “Stigmata.”
Jean Robinson’s palms and feet had been mutilated as though to resemble the markings of Jesus on the cross. And her body had been laid out too, like the son of God on that piece of chiseled wood.
Bailey said wearily, “Bobby Joe Lucas. He did the exact same thing to fourteen women in Kansas and Missouri in the early 1970s, after raping them.”
“I’m pretty certain no rape occurred here,” said Sylvia.
“I wasn’t suggesting that. Lucas died of a heart attack in prison in 1987. And her nightgown is missing according to the husband. That would fit our killer’s M.O.”
“Where’s Sean?” asked Williams.
“Out getting some questions answered.”
Bailey looked at her suspiciously. “Where?”
“Don’t really know.”
“I didn’t think Batman went anywhere without Robin,” said the FBI agent sarcastically.
Before Michelle could fire back a response, Williams said, “Well, can’t you call him? He’ll want to know about this.”
“His cell phone was broken during the chase with Roger Canney. He hasn’t replaced it yet.”
“I’m sure he’ll hear about this soon enough,” said Sylvia. “Bad news always travels faster than good.”
“Where’s the husband?”
Williams answered, “With the kids. He was on the road when it happened. He’s a salesman with a high-tech outfit. He said he got a call from his wife’s cell phone a little before one o’clock this morning. The voice said his wife was dead. He tried calling her cell phone back but there was no answer. Then he tried calling the house but the line wasn’t working. We later found the wires had been cut. So he called 911.”
“When did Robinson arrive here?”
“About an hour after my men. He was on his way to Washington for a sales conference.”
“He likes to travel pretty late at night.”
“He said he wanted to put his kids to bed and spend time with his wife before he left,” answered Bailey.
“Any reason to suspect him?” asked Michelle.
“Other than that there was no forced entry, none that we can see,” replied Williams.
“And no one saw anything?” she asked.
“There were only the three kids here. The infant of course can’t help us. The oldest boy—”
A female deputy rushed into the room. “Chief, I just finished interviewing Tommy, the middle child. He said his father was in the house last night when he woke up. He doesn’t know what time it was. He said his father told him he forgot something, to go back to bed.”
At this instant another deputy burst in. “We found something in the plumb pipe in the basement.”
They placed the Baggie taken from the plumb pipe on the dining room table and observed its contents through the clear material.
“St. Christopher’s medal, belly ring, gold anklet, belt buckle and an amethyst ring,” inventoried Williams.
“All the things taken from each of the first five victims,” said Bailey.
Williams immediately turned to one of his deputies. “I want Harold Robinson taken into custody right now.”
Chapter 83
King’s first stop had been a physician friend of his in Lynchburg who was also a well-respected pathologist. They’d gone over Battle’s autopsy results very carefully. A more detailed report had been prepared by Sylvia, which included the toxicology results and microscopic examination of Battle’s brain tissue.
“From the gross finding of the unusual wrinkling on the thoracic aorta and the microscopic lesions on the brain, I certainly can’t discount it, Sean,” said his learned friend. “Those certainly are telltale signs of the disease.”
“One more question,” said King. “Can it affect the fetus?”
“Do you mean can it cross the placenta? Absolutely.”
King’s next stop was UVA Hospital, where he met with a professor in the pharmacology department. This was really what had started it all going in his mind.
He quickly received confirmation of his suspicions.
The professor informed him that “a person who abuses strong narcotics builds up a tolerance to them. Over time the desired effect is diminished, and higher doses of the drugs are required to achieve the desired result.”
King had thanked him and went back to his car. Well, I certainly know someone who’s been taking strong narcotics: Dorothea.
His next target was an antique shop in Charlottesville’s downtown mall area that he’d been to several times. With the shop owner’s help he found the object he was looking for.
“It’s a cipher disk,” explained the owner. He pointed to the round piece of metal that had an outer ring of letters and an inner one. “You can decode encrypted messages that way. You move the rings to line up the two sets of letters: a fore, s for w and so on.”