Spiders in the Grove Read online

  “Even the fact that all of the victims are male,” he goes on, “is a concrete clue—how could you think otherwise?”

  “Because based on the case files,” I begin, “the crime scenes, everything about this killer, in my expert opinion, points in one direction.”

  Ware leans away from the table, and crosses his arms; he gives me a look that basically says: Well, I’m listening; and he seems a little aggravated, too; as pissed as he can be at someone he admires so much, of course.

  I slide my briefcase over this time, enter the code to unlock it, and then reach inside for my own files. As I’m spreading out crime scene photos on the table between us, Ware’s eyes veer off nervously, worried someone else will walk by and see such horrific things.

  Sliding one photo toward him, I say, “Tell me what you see in that photo.” Before giving him a chance to answer, I put a few more next to it. “Tell me what you see in all of these photos.”

  Ware looks down at them, studies them for a moment. “I can tell you exactly what I see, but we both know you’re going to point out something I obviously do not. So, it’s probably better you just tell me what it is.”

  I point at the bookcase behind the victim’s head. “A mirror.” I point at various spots in the other photos. “There’s a mirror in every single crime scene—maybe not in all of the photos you’ve ever shown me, but I can guarantee that if you go back and look at every photo ever taken of each crime scene, you’ll find a mirror at all of them.”

  He mulls it over a moment. “OK, so even if there’s a mirror in all of them, what is that supposed to mean?”

  I shuffle the photographs into a stack and place them back into my briefcase as a woman walks by. I feel her eyes on us, glancing over my shoulder covertly. Sensing she probably saw or heard something she shouldn’t have, I watch her from the corner of my eye as she makes her way toward the restrooms. This is why I hate meeting in public places about things like this; everyday people are so foolishly curious. And nosey.

  “This killer hates himself,” I tell Kenneth Ware, “but he wants to love himself.” I slide the first sheet of paper into Ware’s view, and point at the text while explaining. “All of the victims, not only are they men, but they’re fairly large men”—I point at one line in particular—“Kamir Rashad weighed two-hundred-forty pounds, all muscle.” I shuffle another sheet on top, and point again. “Abner Marin was a black-belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu—”

  “I see what you’re getting at,” he cuts in, and then leans forward again, resting his arms upon the table, “and we’ve already considered this information, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be a woman. I’ve known women who could kick my ass, and I’m six-two and weigh one-ninety-three.”

  “I’m not done,” I point out, and his lips snap closed.

  I move the papers aside.

  “All of the victims were men. Most of them were physically strong, and bigger than the average-sized woman; and some of them, like Abner Marin, were skilled in some kind of martial arts—and one was a cop, another was military—so, what I’m seeing here, rather than the obvious it-must-be-a-woman-because-the-victims-are-men theory, is that all of the victims were manly men, and that the killer is also a manly man, and that’s why he chooses them—because that’s the part about himself he hates. It also better explains how the killer could take down so many men of their size and skill, on his own, and not get himself killed doing it. If the killer was a woman, she probably wouldn’t have lasted this long.” I know that’s not true—at least not with most women I’ve ever known—but whatever steers Ware in the other direction…

  Ware doesn’t look convinced, as I knew he wouldn’t be at first; he crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head.

  “But what made you come to that conclusion?” he asks. “You need something solid from the evidence that points in that direction, or else it’s just another theory.”

  I smile. “The mirrors,” I say. “They are there for a reason. You’ve studied serial killers all your life, Mr. Ware; you already know that most, if not all of them, either take a trophy, or leave something behind.” I lean forward like him, and rest my arms on the table. “But I think you’ve been looking at the wrong one: your killer has an obvious interest in his victim’s teeth, I agree with that, and I’m still as stumped as you are, but I don’t think the teeth are what you need to focus on, or that all the victims are men—you need to focus on the mirrors; the teeth are probably just the aftermath of his rage”—I point at Ware shortly—“but the mirrors, they are the part of the puzzle telling the actual story.”

  OK, now he’s starting to look convinced—hell, I’m starting to convince myself!

  Ware stares off at nothing; his expression is that of a man contemplating the most complex puzzle he’s ever tried to put together.

  Finally, he nods, and takes a deep breath.

  “So, about that one direction you think this case is pointing?” he reminds me.

  I rest my back against the chair again.

  “I believe this killer, this man, wants to be a woman, or absolutely believes he is a woman. I believe he hates men, and kills men—men he resembles in ways that, stereotypically, make him a man—because by killing them, he’s killing that part of himself. Of course, the feeling only lasts for so long before it wears off, like it does with all serial killers, and he has to kill again. There’s also a good chance”—I point my index finger upward—“that the killer was molested and raped by men, maybe just one man, I don’t know, but I think that’s where it all stems from.”

  “What about the hair sample and the female DNA found at a crime scene?” Ware asks.

  I tilt my head to one side, playing my piano with the skill of Chopin. “How long have you been hunting this killer, Mr. Ware?”

  “Ten years.”

  “And what is something common in many serial killers, especially after such a long time killing, and not getting caught?”

  “They tend to want to get caught.”

  “And in the media, when there’s a news report about the possibility that your untitled killer has struck again, what does the media always refer to him as?”

  Ware looks now as if a bright light just flipped on inside his head.

  “They refer to him as a man,” he answers. “As he.”

  “And what is one thing many serial killers crave other than their need to satisfy their urges?”

  “Attention. And proper recognition.”

  “So, not only is he not being recognized properly because he’s constantly referred to as being a he, but he hasn’t even been given a title, therefore he doesn’t get the attention he seeks. The DNA, the hair sample, it’s all an attempt to make you and the media see him for who he believes he is: a woman.”

  Ware feels like a total fool, I can see it in his face, but, he’s newly energized; I can practically hear him talking to himself, how he’s changing all of his plans, making room for the new ones. The guy may admire me at unhealthy levels, but he’s ready to get up right now and leave me sitting here so he can get to work on this new theory he believes will break his case.

  Of course, everything I told him is bullshit.

  This serial killer is definitely a woman; the stereotypical evidence about all the victims being men, is true. I have nothing concrete to back up my belief, but I don’t need it. Sometimes you just know, you trust it, you feel it in your gut. Although, with this new DNA evidence Ware has given me, it may well be the concrete evidence I need. And it may lead me right to her. Is this what she wanted? Does she want to get caught? By me, of all people? I think she does. I think our uncanny similarities are so much more than coincidence.

  I have successfully steered Kenneth Ware in the other direction. For now. But he is an intelligent man, and what makes an intelligent man more dangerous is one who has that driving need to accomplish the thing he wants the most. This elaborate story I came up with will hold him off for a little while, but a man like Ware, I know, c
annot be held off indefinitely.

  But I have time. And, like Ware, I have a driving need to find this serial killer before he does.

  And I will.

  Niklas

  I rap my knuckles on the door, and wait; there’s not much to look at while I wait, but I look, nonetheless. A small patch of grass, not much bigger than a carpet sample, sits beside the bottom step; it’s such an out-of-place thing, surrounded by dirt and bits of gravel and glass from the driveway. Tons of potholes look like landmines—the whole fucking trailer park is one giant fucking pothole. And I smell shit. Everywhere. I look down and turn my left foot sideways to check the bottom of my boot, then the right, relieved I didn’t step in any on my way up the dirt-and-brick sidewalk. But there are piles of shit spread across the yard—I’m surprised that small patch of grass was left untouched. Cats. They’re everywhere, too; I feel like they’re just waiting for the right moment to ambush me.

  I knock on the door again, with more urgency this time.

  Jackie, my friend and fuck-buddy—unlike Nora, who I really can’t stand—opens the door, and her face lights up when she sees me.

  “Niklas!” She comes toward me, arms out at her sides, and hugs the hell out of me; I pat her awkwardly on the back, not being much the hugging type.

  “Come in,” she urges, motioning for me.

  I put up my hand. “I like you and all, but if there’s sixty cats in there, or you have some kind of hoarding problem, I’d rather just stand out here.”

  She rolls her eyes, grabs my elbow, and drags me into her matchbox trailer, which turns out to be clean, despite the neighborhood.

  “The cats aren’t mine,” she says, heading into the kitchen in full-view of the living room. “They’re kinda everybody’s around here, I guess. But they started with the lady in lot three—two cats became sixty; you get the picture.”

  “Why do they shit all over the place? I thought cats were supposed to be clean?”

  “They’re wild,” she says, taking two bottled beers from the fridge. “And inbred.”

  “Oh.” I shrug, drop the cat topic, and go back to what I was thinking as I stood outside, before I felt two hundred eyes at my back. “So, this is where you, live, huh?” My eyes scan the tiny trailer, the old beat-up sofa and maroon recliner and twenty-eight-inch flat-screen television; a stack of DVDs sit on the ugly brown carpet beside it.

  “Yeah, this is my place,” she says, waving her hand about the room before giving me the beer. “Something wrong with it? You got that judgmental look, babe.”

  I take the beer. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” I tell her, and take a swig. “It’s just that I figured fifty-thousand dollars would help you out.” I gave her the money not long ago, after the Francesca Moretti case in Italy.

  She smiles, takes a sip.

  I follow and sit down with her on the sofa.

  “It did help me,” she says. “I paid off a lot of debt. And I bought that car out there; it’s nothing fancy, but it’s dependable. I paid a year in advance rent on this place—I don’t have to worry about rent for a while. That’s always good.”

  “But you could’ve bought a place,” I point out; I look around the small area again. “You could’ve bought five or six of these.”

  She shrugs. “I had a lot of debt.”

  Hmm…

  There’s a knock at the door; Jackie sets her beer on the coffee table and goes to answer it just a few feet away. She steps halfway outside, her fingers curled around the door holding it open behind her. I hear faint voices, but only bits and pieces of the exchange.

  “This isn’t a good time, Shell,” Jackie whispers, pauses to let ‘Shell’ speak, and then adds: “No, you’ll have to come back later. Yeah, I can get you a cigarette. Hold on.”

  Jackie closes the door all the way, and while I pretend to be interested in my fingernails—or lack thereof—she grabs a cigarette from a pack on the kitchen table and takes it outside to the woman.

  Drug debt, I answer myself. Why else would a woman who sleeps with men she hardly knows, and who hangs out at sleazy bars every night, and lives in a trailer park in the worst part of town, spend fifty-thousand dollars on anything else other than drugs? I knew she had a drug problem the day I met her—she was doing a line of coke on the bar behind the bartender’s back that night—so, I guess I can’t expect anything else from her. It’s none of my business, anyway. She can do all the drugs she wants, screw whoever she wants, and I’d never think less of her for being who she is. It just surprises me, is all; I had hoped she’d appreciate that money a little more, and do something with it to better her life.

  Can’t change a leopard’s spots, and all that. It’s a shame, really, because she’s actually a beautiful woman.

  “Sorry about that,” she says, sitting beside me again. “Shellie is kinda nosey; probably saw your classic Mustang out there and wanted to know who’s driving it. Strange, nice cars parked around here has sort of become the big news topic of the trailer park. Probably cops gettin’ ready to raid Carson’s place. He lives in lot twelve; I think he’s running a meth lab over there—so, what’d you want to talk with me about?” She grins, and scoots closer, putting her hand on my thigh. “Probably a stupid question, huh?” She bats her brown eyes.

  “Actually, that’s not what I came here about,” I tell her.

  A little surprised, Jackie slides her hand from my leg and looks at me with curiosity.

  I take another drink, pull a cigarette from my pocket, pop it between my lips and set the end aflame.

  This is probably a bad idea—I know it’s a bad idea—but I’m not known for my good ideas, or my good decisions, or—leopard’s spots and all that.

  “If you’re interested,” I begin, and take another drag, “I’ve got a job for you.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “A hard one,” I say, smoke streaming from my mouth. “And I won’t lie to you, or sugarcoat anything—it’s dangerous. But it pays well, and you won’t have to do it alone; if it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure you’ll be fine, but I’m not so sure you can stomach the things you might see being done to other people.”

  Her eyebrows harden, and she cocks her head to one side. “Hmm,” she says. “I don’t know, Niklas, you’re not selling me very well. Is there anything about this dangerous, possibly traumatizing job that would make it more…tempting?”

  “One million dollars,” I say, and she blinks. “And all of it up-front; none of that half before, half after shit.”

  She puts her beer down, stunned, almost missing the table entirely.

  “Wow…well, that’s a lot of money”—she’s having trouble finding the right words—“I mean, that’s a good and a bad thing: good, because it’s a lot of damn money; bad, because it means this job, whatever it is, really is dangerous. And you’re willing to give it all up-front? That concerns me even more. So, stop with the suspense already and tell me what it is.”

  I spend an hour explaining everything: the dangers of the job and her role in it; the shit she’ll see no matter how hard she tries to avoid it; and by the time I’m done, not even a million dollars can convince her one-hundred-percent. We’re still at around, oh, I’d say, seventy-four.

  “Holy shit, Nik,” she says, standing in the room with her arms crossed; she’s been pacing the past fifteen minutes. “I knew—I mean I figured, anyway—you were into some weird stuff; that fifty-thousand you gave me, I always thought it was some kind of blood-money, and I wondered where you got it. I don’t know, I guess I just never expected anything like this.”

  “Well, what did you expect?” I’m sitting kicked-back on the sofa, my left boot propped on my right knee.

  “I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head, pacing a trench in the carpet. “I guess what I’m really trying to say is that I knew you were into some bad stuff, but actually hearing all of this, knowing what you want me to do, it makes it all so…real.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “you prob
ably would’ve been better off just imagining what kind of shit I get myself into.”

  “Yeah. Probably.”

  She stops pacing, and turns to face me.

  “But I’ll do it.”

  “Huh?” Surprised, I just look at her a moment; I’d convinced myself at seventy-four-percent she would slide back to zero. “So, you’re—”

  “Saying yes,” she interrupts. “I don’t care how dangerous it is; with that kind of money”—she pauses, looking downward, probably imagining herself bathing in it and all the drugs she can buy—“I’ll definitely do it. I’d be an idiot to pass up an opportunity like this. Somebody like me: thirty-two-years-old, fresh out of rehab, no self-respect, no talent I know of, unless you want to count my acting, but since it wasn’t good enough for Hollywood, I suppose it counts as not having talent. Where the hell else am I ever going to get even half that amount of money?”

  She kinda has a point, but I’d feel bad openly agreeing with her, so I say nothing.

  “The acting,” I say instead, “will come in handy, that’s for sure. And fuck Hollywood—they sign shit-actors every day, so their opinions of your talent are invalid.” At least I hope so, for her sake—going into this, she better be able to channel Charlize Theron.

  She blushes, as if she’s needed to hear someone say that since the day Hollywood turned her away.

  She sits down next to me again; I get the feeling she’s getting ready to say something she’s not sure how I’ll react to; but she’s not afraid of me—Jackie isn’t really afraid of anything.

  “Sounds like you really care about this girl,” she says, and I knew this was coming, “to do all of this to protect her.”

  “No, I just worry about her.”

  “You wouldn’t worry about someone you didn’t care for.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “OK,” she says, and I easily detect what she really wants to say: OK, but you’re full of shit.

  Maybe she’s right; maybe I care for Izzy more than I should. But the bigger problem here is that my brother is the one who should be worrying about her, paying someone a million dollars to watch over her. But he’s an idiot. And somebody’s gotta pick up his slack.