Blood Marks Page 2

  Let someone mention Schweitzer, Romain would bring up Hitler.

  For every Mother Teresa, Romain had an Attila the Hun.

  Mention a place where human beings were treated with dignity and respect, and Romain would mention Palestinian refugee camps.

  In other words, his outlook on life was less than cheerful.

  He also smoked like a chimney. His theory was that since he was breathing heavily polluted air every time he stepped out of doors, since he was eating food laced with all kinds of known carcinogens, since he was exposed to all sorts of electromagnetic fields by the computers he used in his work and the power lines strung all over town, since like everyone else in Houston he was in at least some danger of being shot by some random crazy on the street, and since he was also in plenty of danger of being smashed to a pulp in traffic by some drunk running a red light, then it didn't make a hell of a lot of sense to deprive himself of one of life's few pleasures on the off chance that it might kill him. If smoking didn't get him first, one of the other things certainly would, so he might as well enjoy himself.

  Therefore, he was sitting at his desk smoking an unfiltered Camel when Howland came in the door at ten-thirty. Howland was holding some file folders in his right hand.

  Romain mashed out the butt in his overflowing ashtray, reached in his pocket and pulled out his crumpled pack, straightened it, got out another cigarette, stuck it in his mouth and lit it with a disposable butane lighter. Only then did he deign to notice Howland.

  "Yeah?" he said. He had a raspy voice and habitually sounded rude. He was rude. He hoped Howland would go away.

  "I have to talk to you," Howland said, obviously regretting it. "I believe the Chief set up an appointment."

  "I don't give a shit about appointments," Romain said, which was the truth. In fact, had he actually remembered Howland's having an appointment that morning, he would have tried to find some kind of excuse to be out of his office.

  "This is confidential," Howland said. "Do you mind if I shut the door?"

  "Go ahead," he said.

  Howland shut the door reluctantly. Howland did not smoke.

  After shutting the door, Howland sat in the chair across from Romain's desk. He sat without an invitation, because he knew from experience that Romain would never have invited him to sit.

  The desk was littered with papers, and most of the papers were spotted with ashes from Romain's cigarettes. There was a computer terminal on one corner of the desk, and the keyboard was in front of it. Howland had seen Romain use the computer, however, and he knew that the psychologist would not leave the keyboard there. He preferred to put it on his lap.

  Romain sat impassively, smoking his cigarette, inhaling deeply, letting the smoke trickle out of his mouth and nose, saying nothing.

  "It's about some murders," Howland said finally.

  Romain snorted smoke. "I figured. You're a homicide investigator, after all. I'm not stupid, Howland."

  Howland tried not to let Romain's attitude bother him. As much as he disliked the man, he knew that Romain knew his business. He passed the file folders across the desk to Romain.

  "I'd like for you to take a look at those," Howland said.

  Romain crushed his cigarette and took the folders. Howland saw that the tips of his fingers were stained by nicotine.

  For a long time there was no sound except the shuffling of papers as Romain went through the folders.

  When he was finished, he put them on the table and lit another Camel and sucked in the smoke.

  "So?" he said as he exhaled.

  "So I don't like it," Howland said. "There's no connection that I can see between the killings. You've got mutilations, simple bullet wounds to the head, tortures, a stabbing. Different women, different parts of town, no relationship among them. But what bothers me, aside from the fact that they're all unsolved, is that if there isn't a connection, then we've got nine crazy fuckers running loose instead of one or two."

  "And you want my help," Romain said. It wasn't a question. He knew what Howland had come for.

  "That's right. You went to that conference on serial killers the FBI held at Quantico last year. Maybe you learned something that I can use. Or maybe you can just tell me to forget it, that there's no pattern at all, and that all those women were killed by different people."

  Romain had gone to Quantico, all right. He had heard all the experts, and they had confirmed all his worst suspicions about human nature. He had studied the interviews with the serial killers and sexual murderers that the FBI staff had conducted and compiled, and he had not been particularly surprised at anything he read.

  Human beings were shit, all right.

  Romain had not been any more popular in Virginia than he was in Texas. No one at the conference liked him; they all tended to shy away from him when they passed him in the hall. But they listened when he talked.

  The men at Quantico prided themselves at being able to think like serial killers, but they'd never met anyone quite like Romain. He could get right in there inside the killer's mind with the best of them. He knew what made the fuckers tick, knew what drove them. He was so good that sometimes it was almost scary.

  And he didn't even work at Quantico.

  More than once, his name would come up in conversation, at the breaks when he wasn't around, and the discussion would always be centered on the fact that it was a good thing Romain was on the side of the law. If he were one of the bad guys, he would be hell to catch.

  So while no one at the conference liked Romain, they damn sure respected him. Howland did, too.

  That was why he sat up and paid close attention when Romain said, "Oh, there's a pattern, all right. You just missed it, Howland."

  "All right, then," Howland said. "Tell me what I missed."

  So Romain told him.

  Chapter 4

  Casey Buckner didn't know why she'd ever moved to Houston.

  Maybe it was to get as far from West Texas as she could after the Asshole, which is how she would from now on refer to her ex-husband, had dumped her.

  She should have known it would happen eventually.

  He was fifteen years older than she was. She had been a student in his graduate class on the later Romantic poets, and the way he talked about Byron and Keats and Shelley had made her squirm in her chair with desire.

  "She walks in beauty, like the night," he had read soulfully, his eyes looking right at her, or so she thought.

  What a crock. Well, at least that's the way she saw it now. At the time, she'd thought she was going to come right there in the classroom.

  Anyway, she had fallen hard, and she thought he had, too. Maybe he had. He'd married her, after all, and he hadn't had to do that.

  It had lasted for ten years, some of them good, but the only good thing left now was their daughter, Margaret, who had been born early in the second year of the marriage.

  Casey had left her graduate studies to stay at home and care for Margaret, and she had never regretted it, even though it meant that she had gotten only six hours beyond her master's, a fact that was making it hard for her to get a job in the competitive field of teaching on the college level.

  The Asshole didn't care about that. He had gotten involved with another one of his graduate students, just the latest in a series, as Casey had later found out. This one was the same age Casey had been when she was in his class.

  Ironically, it was the same class on Romanticism. There was something about the way the Asshole read Byron, she had to admit it.

  He had been "decent" about it, as he had put it, giving her a generous settlement and promising to be faithful in his child support payments. So far he'd lived up to that promise.

  But she'd had to get out of Lubbock. The red dirt, the dust storms, the icy winters, though she had become accustomed to them and even enjoyed them, all reminded her of the Asshole now, and she damned sure didn't want to be reminded of him. She also didn't want to take the chance of running into him on
campus if she decided to complete her graduate work.

  She was afraid she would be tempted to kick the shit out of him.

  So she and Margaret were now residents of Houston, Texas, the currently depressed region known as the Oil Patch, sitting right there in Hurricane Alley, and it was worse than she had ever imagined it would be.

  She'd lived in Dallas most of her life, before grad school, at any rate, and she'd only been to Houston once, and that had been during the winter. It hadn't seemed so bad, then.

  It seemed really bad now, in the middle of July. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and the temperature was sitting at 95 degrees. That was a comfortable temperature in Lubbock, where the humidity usually came in at around 30 percent, but the humidity in Houston almost matched the temperature. All you had to do was step outside and you were immediately covered with a slick coating of sweat that wouldn't go away. It just kept getting thicker.

  The mosquitos could get through it, however. They had no trouble at all. She swatted at the big one that was humming in her ear as she tried to carry the thirteen-inch TV set from the U-Haul trailer to the apartment she had rented. Thank God, the apartment was on the first floor.

  One reason she had been tempted to move to Houston was that, while she could not get a full-time teaching job at a college or university, she had been virtually assured by three different department chairmen at nearby community colleges that there would be part-time openings on their campuses in the fall. They had further assured her that teaching part-time was the best way to open the full-time door.

  She was pretty sure that was bullshit. They were all going to exploit her by paying her as little as possible and passing the raises on to the full-timers.

  Still, if she could get two courses at all three schools, or, even better, three courses at two of them, she could survive. She wouldn't be making as much as a high school teacher, but she would be doing something she liked and maybe she could even find time to take a graduate course or two at the University of Houston.

  She had found an apartment near the Astrodome, just off Stella Link, and she had quick access to Loop 610, so she could get anywhere quickly, or as quickly as was possible given Houston's traffic and the distances she would have to travel. But if there wasn't a traffic jam on the loop, though there often was, she'd be just fine.

  Day care for Margaret in the afternoons was going to be a problem, however. Having to pay for it wasn't the trouble; the Asshole was going to take care of that.

  It was just that Margaret was used to being at home with her mother, and her mother was used to being there with her daughter, too. Well, life was never stable, and if they could adjust to the climate, they could adjust to day care after school.

  Just as she had lugged the TV set almost to the door, a man appeared out of nowhere and asked if she could use some help.

  "I live just down the way," he said with a smile. "Seventeen-H."

  Casey and Margaret were in 15-G. It was probably all right to get help from a neighbor, though Casey had heard plenty of bad things about Houston. Even the Asshole didn't want her to move there.

  "I'm sure it's not safe," he had said. "There are more murders there every day than we have in Lubbock in ten years. I don't think it will be a good place to bring up a child."

  "Too bad," Casey had told him, more determined than ever to go. He had given up his visiting rights to Margaret in the divorce, hadn't even seemed really concerned. A nine-year-old would probably have cramped his style with Charlotte, his new love, and the coeds who were sure to follow, so he had absolutely no say in where she went.

  She put the TV set in the outstretched arms of her new neighbor, taking the opportunity to look him over. He was tall, tan, well muscled. His face, while not exactly handsome, was clean-cut, and he had wide blue eyes. He was wearing cutoff jeans and a faded Warren Zevon T-shirt. He looked about thirty, a couple of years younger than Casey.

  "I'm Casey Buckner," she said as he took the set.

  "Rob Hensley," the man said. His smile revealed white, even teeth.

  Casey was suddenly conscious of her own appearance.

  She was one of those lucky people who didn't look their age; she was sure she didn't look a day over twenty-five, certainly not old enough to have a nine-year-old child.

  She was wearing shorts and a tank top in deference to the heat, and she knew that her legs and breasts were as good as anyone's and better than most. Too bad the Asshole hadn't fully appreciated them. Maybe one day he'd realize what he was missing.

  Her blond hair was pulled up and back, caught in a bun at the back of her head, and she smiled at Rob Hensley, who was looking her over just as she was studying him.

  "I'll open the door," she said, walking ahead of him to the apartment.

  She opened the door and felt the cool air come rushing out to greet her.

  Margaret came rushing out, too. She was brown and thin, more like the Asshole than her mother.

  "Where's the TV?" Margaret said. "It's almost time for Wapner."

  Casey laughed. She had taken Margaret to see Rain Man a couple of years ago and ever since then Margaret had been a big fan of "The People's Court."

  "The TVs right here," Casey said. "Mr. Hensley is helping me bring it in."

  Margaret looked at Rob. "Bring it in here," she said. "I'll show you where to put it."

  Rob laughed good-naturedly. "I can see who runs the show around here," he said, following Margaret.

  He set the TV set on a small table when she directed him to it.

  "Here's the plug," Margaret said, pointing to the wall outlet.

  Rob plugged in the set, and Margaret promptly turned it on and began searching through the channels.

  "That ought to keep her occupied for a while," Rob said to Casey. "Can I help you unload the rest of that trailer?"

  Why not? Casey thought. He was a good-looking man; it was time for her to make the acquaintance of a man or two. She couldn't brood forever about the way the Asshole had treated her.

  "Sure," she said. "If you don't mind."

  "I don't mind," he said. "I don't mind at all."

  Chapter 5

  Howland spent the rest of the day in his office going over the files again. Romain had certainly given him something to think about.

  "The pattern is that there is no pattern,” Romain had said. Howland didn't get it. 'But why should there be, if there's no connection?" he said. Then he thought of something.

  "Or do you mean that they all seem to be motiveless? That's certainly true."

  "Let me rephrase it so that you can understand it," Romain said, tapping the folders with his stained fingertips. "It's not simply that there's no pattern. There's something that's very interesting about every case you have there, except for one, the earliest one."

  "Ellen Forsch,” Howland said.

  "Yes, Forsch. That one's different. But the others are all the same."

  "They're not the same at all," Howland protested. "I just told you that they weren't."

  "Oh, but they are," Romain said. "You just haven't seen it yet."

  And then it dawned on Howland. It was so obvious that it practically hit you in the face. How could he not have seen it sooner?

  His expression must have given him away.

  "I can see you've got it," Romain said. "You should have spotted it immediately, but I can see why you didn't."

  "It's like a Sherlock Holmes story," Howland said. "I don't remember which one."

  "I don't read fiction," Romain said, his mouth twisting. He got out a cigarette.

  Howland brushed his hair back from his forehead. "There's a story, I don't remember the name, where Holmes says that the peculiar thing was a dog that didn't bark."

  Romain breathed smoke. "Perceptive guy, that Holmes. We could use him on the force here in Houston."

  "I think he's dead," Howland said. "He'd be long past retirement age by now, anyway."

  Romain shook his head, stirring the cloud of sm
oke in front of him. "Never mind that. Tell me what you've finally spotted."

  "All the killings are the same in one way all right," Howland said. "But it's not what's there that makes them the same. It's what's not there. It's what's missing."

  "Correct, Mr. Holmes," Romain said. "And what's missing?"

  "Nothing," Howland said. "Or everything, depending on how you want to phrase it."

  Romain balanced his still-burning cigarette on top of the pile of crushed butts in his ashtray. "Let's say everything. Everything's missing."

  "Or nothing's there," Howland countered. "There's not a clue in a single one of those folders. Those are the cleanest crime scenes in the history of Harris County."

  "Absolutely," Romain agreed. "What do you think the chances are that nine different killers, or eight, not counting Forsch, would leave a scene like that? One in a million? A billion? Probably higher than that, I would think."

  He was right, no doubt about it. It was as if the women had been murdered in an antiseptic environment. It didn't matter what the method was, knife, gun, garrote. There was not, in any instance, again with the exception of Forsch, a single trace of the killer remaining. It was almost impossible that such a thing would happen once, much less eight times.

  "We do have something on Forsch," Howland pointed out.

  "She might not be part of the group, then, but we might have to think about that," Romain said. "I would surmise that the others were quite likely all killed by the same man, however, someone who knew what he was doing. Someone who is almost as smart as we are."

  " 'Almost?' " Howland said. "Hell, he's way ahead of us."

  "Not as far as he was," Romain said.

  "Sure he is," Howland said. He didn't like this a damn bit. "Even if it is the same man, we still don't have a clue as to who he is or when he'll kill again. If he does."

  "Oh, he will," Romain said. "There's no doubt of that. No doubt of that at all. They always do."