They sat Johnson on a kitchen chair they’d earlier brought to the family room, and he immediately rolled off, trying to escape. His pathetic crawl toward freedom was futile, his attempts to scream hampered by the sedative. It took only a few minutes before they had him restrained-ankles duct-taped to the chair legs, wrists secured to the armrests.
Ethan spoke, his voice calm, reasoned. He didn’t sound crazy; today was one of his good days. The lights were on and they made no attempt to hide their identity.
“Do you remember me?” Ethan asked Johnson.
Karin’s stomach fluttered at what was to come. The seductive nature of death was a natural high superior to anything drug addicts injected into their veins.
“Fuh. Bahs.” Johnson’s eyes moved lazily. Panicked, but unable to focus.
“You’re the fucking bastard!” Ethan turned to his special black box, with his special tools. She watched with wide eyes as he removed a long, thin, shiny steel needle.
“Darling,” he said to Karin, “please hold Corporal Johnson’s right hand.”
She complied. Here, for the next hour or two, she was the subservient one. Within these walls, Ethan took charge. For this, she didn’t mind relinquishing control. The anticipation of Johnson’s reaction, his punishment, was exciting enough for her, and Ethan knew exactly how to elicit pain. She only knew how to kill.
But she was learning from Ethan, and she enjoyed her lessons.
Johnson strained against her grip, but Karin was strong. She bent back his pinky until he cried out.
Ethan snapped at her. “No games.”
She didn’t apologize, but released the finger. Watched the needle as her partner pushed it into just the right spot between the forefinger and the thumb. On just the right nerve to make Johnson …
Scream.
The scream was short-lived as another needle went in at the base of his skull. And another. And another.
“You left me to die!” Ethan sneered.
In went another needle.
She listened to the story again, though it was different now. Ethan had become a bit of a whiner. She didn’t like that. She wanted to tell him to suck it up and be a man, no matter how much he had suffered. His plan-well, her plan that she gave to Ethan-was to make Johnson and the others suffer just as much.
Of course a well-placed bullet would have been just as effective, but this exercise wasn’t solely about dying.
Tears ran in salty streams down Johnson’s dark face, glistening in the harsh overhead light.
“Why?” His plaintive plea came out a whisper.
“Shoes,” her partner commanded.
She removed Johnson’s shoes and socks. Their captive’s mild tranq would have worn off by now, but with his nerves in agony and his limbs restrained, Johnson couldn’t fight back. He could barely cry out, though a shrill, high-pitched hiss came from deep in his throat as soon as the needle hit the right nerve between his toes.
She didn’t think a man could hit that note.
CHAPTER ONE
The homeless man’s murder had been ritualistic, brutal, and efficient.
Megan Elliott swatted flies that swarmed near the body next to the Dumpster as she squatted beside the victim. It was midmorning and the temperature was already eighty degrees. The bullet had gone in clean, execution style, behind the ear. All signs suggested that he’d been killed right here, in a narrow alley separating a parking garage from the historic Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament.
There didn’t appear to be signs of struggle, but here in the decrepit underside of Sacramento, that was difficult to determine. While the city did a fairly good job at keeping most of the streets clean, on the north side of downtown, away from the Capitol building and closer to the soup kitchen, the grime and unwanted bred. Here, homeless weeded through the garbage off K Street for something edible when the city rolled up the sidewalks; or they slept against brick walls, clutching their meager possessions in a desperate grip.
No sign of struggle, and based on the lack of blood spatter, the victim had been prone when shot at close range. But he had the same outward injuries as the other two known victims. His hamstrings had been cut clean through, incapacitating him. His wrists had been duct-taped to something, as evidenced from the chafing and band of missing arm hair. And he was barefoot.
“What are you thinking?”
Megan stood and, though she was five foot eight, she had to look up at Detective John Black, who had to be close to six and a half feet tall.
“All the appearances of an execution, but you’re absolutely right. The M.O. matches the murders on the recent FBI hot sheet.” And to maintain good relations with local law enforcement, she added, “You were right on the money there. Thanks.”
“His hamstrings weren’t cut here. Not enough blood. No spray or cast-off.”
Megan glanced around, but there was no blood on the brick wall or in the alleyway. Where had he been attacked?
Without touching the filthily clad victim, she inspected the deep gash in the back of his legs. She mimicked a slicing motion with her hand and then said, “I’ll need the coroner’s report, but it appears that the killer sliced right to left, cutting both legs with an even, fluid motion.” She stood and said, “Turn around.”
Black did, looking over his shoulder. She said, “You’re much taller than the victim. If the victim was walking, the killer would have had to have walked up behind him and-slice-cut the hamstrings.” She mimicked the motion against the back of Black’s knees. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. If the vic was lying down, why would the killer slice his legs across?”
“It would help if we could locate where he was attacked.”
Megan agreed. “If the vic went down on his knees, that should be obvious at the autopsy with bruising or evidence on his pants. But why shoot him here? Why did the killer move him at all after the inital attack?”
Wearing latex gloves and plastic booties over her shoes, an attractive, well-dressed woman who may have been thirty on her last birthday approached. “Nice theory, but maybe you should wait for crime scene analysis.”
Black’s lips twitched. “Simone, FBI Supervisory Agent Megan Elliott. Agent Elliott, Simone Charles, CSU Supervisor.”
Megan nodded. She’d worked with the prickly perfectionist before. “We’ve met. So, what does the evidence show, Simone?”
“My team just came off a triple murder in the Pocket. Sorry for being late.” She didn’t sound sorry, but Megan noticed the red eyes and tight expression. She’d heard about the murder-suicide before she’d left FBI headquarters. A man came home early in the morning, drunk, and shot his wife and two kids while they slept, then blew his own brains out.
“You’re not late,” Megan said.
Simone motioned for one of her team to photograph the scene and the body. “I’ll walk the area and be right back. You have a wide perimeter,” she noted to Detective Black. “Any reason?”
“To keep the vultures at bay.” He nodded toward the KCRA-3 van parked at the edge of the crime scene tape.
She grinned and walked away, dropping markers at specific spots.
Black said, “So was he killed here or not?”
Megan clarified. “He was definitely shot right here, small-caliber handgun is my guess, twenty-two caliber, behind the left ear. A twenty-two is very effective at close range.”
Megan had seen far too many execution-style murder victims when she was part of the national Evidence Response Team that went to Kosovo ten years ago. Which led to the question of why disable the victim first if only to shoot him?
If the evidence held true compared with the first two known victims, Megan already had the answer: between the time the victim’s hamstrings were cut and when he was shot, someone had received sick pleasure from torturing him. Handicapping the victim was to keep him from escaping.