The Stranger You Seek - By Amanda Kyle Williams Page 0,55

Rauser and me?

I clicked on Properties and hit the Details tab on the email program in an attempt to trace it. The email had gone to Rauser’s address and my address; no other addresses visible. I looked at the return path, one of those free email addresses, temporary, of course, but I knew every effort would be exhausted to trace it. It was gutsy using the Internet. Neil and cyber detectives like him would be able to find the source, the computer where the email originated. Wishbone must be getting bored.

I thought about that night at the Brooks scene when I’d turned to the growing crowd outside the scene tape and felt the killer’s presence there. The air had a wild feel that evening. Something rank and restless had been stirring out there. I was certain APD had been over the video of the crowds at all the scenes, run background checks and comparisons. Maybe a second look was a good idea. I thought about pulling in to the dirt drive in the rain at the LaBrecque scene. I searched my memory. There were cars on the main road, but I hadn’t suspected I was walking into a murder scene. All I was going to do was pick up a bail jumper, a wife beater. I’d been looking only for his blue pickup truck. Why LaBrecque? How did he fit in? How did the killer know I was coming for him?

I gave her LaBrecque. Did you know that? And what a thrill that must have been for the profiler to walk into. She was all alone out there on that land, in that cabin. I could have so easily come back for her.

Is it true that you “gave” me LaBrecque? Or did you simply get ahold of the police reports and decide to make this boast? A little more drama just for fun? Trying to rattle the profiler? What is it about me on this case that bothers you so much? And why didn’t you come back for me that day?

I used the decaf Barbra with the big red lips brought me to swallow a couple of Advil. My shoulder still ached from Roy Echeverria sinking his teeth into me, and my head was pounding. The dream, the letter, the case, this killer—it all fascinated and repelled me, like wiggling my toes around in a shark pool, which was, of course, the attraction and the terror of this kind of work.

You’re wondering why David was different, aren’t you?

Yes. Tell me. Why was Brooks different? He’s another key to your past, isn’t he?

The killer had referred to him in the letter by his first name only. Again, something that indicated familiarity, even affection. Was it real or symbolic?

And William LaBrecque. He was different too. Have you even begun to figure out how?

No, goddamnit, I haven’t even begun to figure it out, but I’d known the moment I’d seen LaBrecque in that cabin that it was you who’d been there before me. I saw your marks all over him. Why do you turn them over? Rauser had asked me this once. I still didn’t know the answer.

I got out my notebook and made another list of the victims in order of their murders, then drew columns for date, location—living room, kitchen, hotel, cabin—cause of death, time of death, number of ante-mortem and postmortem wounds, and approximate survival time after the first assault according to the autopsy. A check mark identified those victims with a connection to civil law. A star next to Brooks’s name reminded me there was sexual contact.

I drew an arrow from the first name, Anne Chambers, to the last, William LaBrecque. Both had been treated to an extraordinary amount of rage, both beaten savagely with a heavy tool, both died from blunt-force trauma. Did these two people have some personal connection to the killer? To each other? I tried to remember the details of Anne Chambers’s file. I’d been over the police file, the autopsy and crime scene reports and photographs, reviewed the physical evidence. It had been determined that the primary crime scene and the disposal site were one and the same, which was typical for this offender. Anne’s murder took place in her dorm room and it was a particularly brutal killing. There were deep ligature marks around her neck and wrists, and she was so badly beaten with the fat end of a lamp that the bones in her face and skull were crushed. I thought