HER LAST MISTAKE Read online

  “This makes no sense,” Jack said. “Remember, the police report said for this one that there wasn’t even any sign of forced entry. Somehow, he just rolled right in, killed him, and left. But not before tucking him in all nice and neat.”

  Rachel was listening, but she was also reading over the coroner’s findings. Carl Jackson had been strangled to the point that his windpipe had popped. In the pictures, she could see the bruising around the neck, in the shape of two ovals that were darker than the rest of the bruising. She assumed this was where the killer’s thumbs would have met, pushing in hard enough to destroy the windpipe.

  Moments later, the coroner stepped back into the room. There was an assistant with him, helping to guide in the wheeled table. The entire body was covered, but Rachel could see just a bit of Gloria Masterson’s hair sticking out from under the sheet.

  “At the risk of seeming uncaring, there’s really not much to see,” the coroner said. “Especially if you’ve already seen the police reports.”

  In saying that, he slowly pulled back the sheet. He pulled it down all the way to the top of Masterson’s breasts. Rachel had seen enough dead bodies to where it didn’t bother her anymore, but it had become more difficult after she’d gotten the cancer diagnosis. Apparently, it was still a bit hard despite the good news she’d received from Dr. Emerson.

  The coroner was right. With the exception of Gloria Masterson’s smoother skin, the bruise area was exactly the same. There seemed to be a bit more swelling, but that was likely just because this death had been more recent and was right in front of her face instead of in a photograph.

  “Based on what you’ve seen, do you think the bruising patterns around each neck indicates it was the same killer?” Rachel asked.

  “I do. Right down to the damage inflicted to the trachea. The curvature where the index finger and thumb meet are identical, too. These two people were definitely killed by the same person.”

  “Did you notice anything that struck you as odd?” she asked. “Maybe not noticeable enough to write down in the report but something you noticed all the same?”

  He looked down to the body and a frown crept into the left side of his mouth, making his face look slightly lopsided. “Now that you mention it, yes…I did notice something. And I’m not quite sure how to explain it.”

  “Can you try, at least?” Jack asked.

  The coroner sighed and nodded. Looking at Masterson, he started to speak. “Sadly, I’ve seen strangulations before. And in almost every case—not all of them, but the vast majority—there is more than just strangulation. You’ll see bruises here and there elsewhere on the body, maybe a busted lip or bloodied nose. I’m under the impression that because of the lack of a struggle at the scene, that the killer straddled each victim and choked them in the bed. To do that, his knees would be pinned to either side of the legs of the victim. And to keep someone down like that, he’d need to press down and that would create a bit of bumping and pressure—probably enough for the creation of small, minor bruises. But none of that is the case with either of these bodies.

  “Take that consideration and add it to the fact that he staged them in a way that makes them look as if they’re peacefully sleeping, and it makes me think…well, it seems like he was doing his best to be careful with the victims…to be gentle with them.”

  Rachel nodded but couldn’t help saying, “Why be so gentle with them if his main intent was to kill them?”

  The coroner shrugged. “I guess that’s why they called you guys in.” He looked to them both one last time, gauging to see if he’d offended them. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  They both shook their heads in unison. In the end, Rachel had been right; it was the bodies themselves that had given them their first concrete answer—that the killer seemed to be taking great care with their bodies when he strangled them. It was an answer that begged several other questions.

  And those questions, she hoped, would be able to be answered by the living.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  There were several things about the job that Jack and Rachel did differently. None of them were huge, glaring obstacles for their partnership and, if Jack was honest with himself, he appreciated most of their little differences. What he’d always been pleased with, though, was how many similarities they had when it came to the job. It made sense, as they’d been trained by the same institutions.

  One of the many things they had in common was the theory that working a case from the most recent victim made more sense, as that particular trail would be warmer and more relevant than earlier victims. That was why they looked back at the police report immediately after leaving the coroner’s, looking at the sparse listing of family and friends that was listed for Gloria Masterson.

  There were only two names. The first was a sister that, in parentheses next to her name, had been labeled as estranged and living in Puerto Rico. Another note by the name stated that a few different attempts had been made to contact her but she’d never answered the phone. The other name was Talina Salgado. The label she’d been given in the report was: employee / cleaning lady.

  Doing their best to work with the little bit of reasonable time they had left in the darkening day, Rachel called Talina’s number and placed the phone on speaker mode while Jack drove back into Gloria’s neighborhood. They figured they could ask around the neighborhood to see if anyone had anything valuable or interesting to say about Gloria—particularly about the few days prior to her murder.

  When Talina the call answered, she sounded slightly tired and uncertain of herself. It was a lot to gather from just a single “Hello?” but Rachel could hear it clearly.

  “Hi, is this Talina Salgado?” Rachel asked

  “It is.”

  “Ms. Salgado, this is Agent Rachel Gift with the FBI. I was hoping you might be able to answer some questions about your employer, Ms. Gloria Masterson.”

  There was a slight pause from the other end, but Talina eventually said, “Yes, that’s fine. The police already spoke with me. Does that help?”

  “It always helps, but we’re running the case now. So please forgive me ahead of time if we ask you questions you’ve already answered. My partner, Agent Rivers, is also here so he may chime in from time to time.”

  “Okay, that’s fine.”

  “Ms. Salgado, what can you tell me about the scene when you discovered that Ms. Masterson was dead?”

  “I showed up for work, to clean her house. I felt right away that something was strange because she’s a woman of habit and routine. She wasn’t downstairs, wasn’t listening to music like she did every morning before starting work. And when I eventually went upstairs to see if she was okay—I thought she might be sick or even injured, you know—I thought she was still sleeping. That’s how it looked to me. But then I found out she was actually dead, so I called the police.”

  Her voice trembled a bit near the end, but she did a remarkable job of keeping her wits about her.

  “Did you see the bruising around her neck?” Rachel asked.

  “Not at first, no. But when I went back in there, I saw it then. But the sheets…the sheets looked like she’d just gotten into bed, you know. She was tucked in all cozy and comfortable.”

  “And when you arrived, what time was it?” Jack asked.

  “Just a bit after ten. She’s usually awake pretty early. Six o’ clock, I believe.”

  “Was there anything strange about the house when you arrived?”

  “The front door was still locked. And on the days when she knows I’m coming, she always unlocks it. There was that and then, of course, just how quiet the place was.”

  “Do you recall anyone walking on the street nearby as you got closer to her house?” Rachel asked.

  “Sorry, but no. The cops asked me the same thing, and I just can’t remember seeing anyone.”

  “The police report says the only family she has is a sister, and they mention there’s some sort of estrangement between them
. Do you have any idea what that’s about?”

  “Just a little. Gloria didn’t like to talk about her sister very much. She lives in Puerto Rico and all I know for sure is that there was some sort of disagreement between them over how the care of their father was handled in his final days. He had a severe case of dementia when he died. And then after he died, Gloria’s sister was offended by how their father had divvied out things in his will. So she left. I don’t think the two of them have spoken in almost two or three years.”

  “And what about Gloria’s husband?” Rachel asked. “He’s listed as deceased.”

  “Yes, and I was hired after he passed away. Heart disease…almost two years ago.”

  Rachel made a mental note to look into the sister more out of just checking a box than anything else. Based on what Talina had told them, she doubted the sister had anything at all to do with it.

  “Ms. Salgado, do you know if Gloria had any enemies? Any people that had issues with her, no matter how small?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there. I do know that she was a very private person, but the few social things she did take part in…she never really shared much about them.”

  During the conversation with Talina, Jack had brought them back into the secluded neighborhood where Gloria had lived. Dusk was quickly giving way to night, meaning that the reasonable hours to go around knocking on people’s doors was fading.

  “Ms. Salgado, thanks for your time,” Rachel said. “I hope you won’t mind if we have to call you again as the case progresses.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m available to help any way I can.”

  They ended the call just as Jack brought the car to a stop adjacent to Gloria’s house. The street lights had come on, gathering insects, and lighting up the sidewalks. As they got out of the car, they both looked around at the streets. The houses were a good distance apart from one another, meaning they’d likely end up taking the streets in little sections—knocking on a few doors and then driving the car down to the end of the street to do the same all over again.

  “You take the right side, and I’ll take the left?” Rachel asked.

  “Sounds good to me,” Jack said. Yet when he looked down the street, he saw the shapes of two people walking a dog. They were heading their way, speaking lightly as they walked closer to the agents. “But maybe we start with them?” Jack added.

  Rachel joined him and they closed the distance between themselves and the dog-walkers. As they drew closer, the pair of figures revealed themselves to be a man and a woman; the man was holding the handle of the dog’s leash with his left hand and holding the hand of the woman with his right. Seeing the other two people walking toward them, the man slowed a bit, and then the woman.

  They were no more than ten feet apart from one another when Rachel finally spoke. “Hey there,” she said. “Sorry to bother you. I’m Agent Gift, and this is Agent Rivers, with the FBI. We’re in the neighborhood trying to get some information on the woman that lives here,” she said, nodding her head back a bit at Gloria’s house.

  “Ms. Masterson?” the woman asked.

  “Yes. I assume you two live here in the neighborhood?”

  “We do,” the man said. When he adjusted his grip on the leash, Jack saw the wedding band on his finger. Apparently, these two were married. Their dog, a rather pudgy Jack Russell, sniffed enthusiastically at Rachel’s shoes. “And we heard about what happened,” the husband went on, a sad timbre to his voice. “It’s pretty awful.”

  “Pretty scary is more like it,” the wife said.

  “Did either of you know Gloria Masterson very well?” Jack asked.

  “Not well, no,” the husband said. “Just in the way you sort of know the people that live in your neighborhood.”

  “Does anything you do know stand out to you at all?” Rachel asked.

  They both looked at one another, shrugging at the same time. “Not really,” the wife finally said. “We’d see her out walking every now and then. We live just back there,” she added, hitching a thumb behind her and across the street. “Four houses down. I’d be on the porch and see her walk by sometimes, usually in the morning while I had my morning coffee.”

  “Around what time would you say this usually was?” Rachel asked.

  “Six thirty or seven. I sit out most mornings, up until it’s just too cold, you know? And whenever I was out, I’d see her. A creature of habit, I suppose.”

  “Which is odd,” the husband said, “because we’ve heard other neighbors say they’ve seen her out walking much earlier than that. There’s a small group of guys I play poker with and one of them said he’d seen her at least half a dozen times walking around the streets at night. Or early morning, whatever.”

  “It wasn’t just your friend trying to be funny?” Jack asked.

  “Doubtful. I’d heard about it before but never really cared, you know? As bad as that seems.”

  “Based on what you do know about her, would you say there was anything strange about her?”

  “I don’t know her well enough to make that judgment,” the wife said. “The impression I always got was that she became something of a shut-in after her husband died.”

  “Same here.”

  “These late night and early morning walks,” Jack said. “Based on the stories you heard, was this recent or further in the past.”

  “Oh, recent,” the husband said. “Not even three or four months.”

  This did strike Jack as odd. A woman that had been strangled in her bed and then arranged to look like she was resting peacefully—but she’d also had a penchant for walking around the neighborhood at all hours of the night. If this little detail turned out to be true, it could place an entirely new face on the case.

  “Thank you both,” Jack said.

  The couple nodded, the Jack Russell gave the agents an inquisitive glance, and then they were on their way.

  “Well, that’s interesting,” Jack said, looking back to Gloria’s house.

  “It is. But she was middle-aged and lost her husband two years ago. Talina Salgado said Gloria was a woman of routine, so maybe late-night walks were just part of that.”

  “Maybe,” Jack said, but he didn’t sound so sure. He sighed and looked back down the street, the crowds of insects thickening around the streetlamps. “Let’s go knock on some doors and see what else we can find.”

  They split up and did just that. Door after door, Jack heard more of the same—that Gloria kept mostly to herself and that yes, on occasion, folks would see her taking walks late at night, often after midnight, as well as once the sun had come up. And yet again, something about that picture superimposed over her body being displayed as if she’d been deeply asleep made Jack feel doubtful about something.

  There was something there, something to be dug up and examined but, for the time being, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it might be.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He knew he’d killed that woman, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember when it had happened. Had it been last night? The night before? He wasn’t sure. It was getting harder and harder to keep track of the days.

  The realization that he’d killed another one was the first thing on his mind when he woke up. The second thing on his mind was that he felt like crap. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up and actually felt rested.

  He sat up and looked at his bedside clock. He wasn’t all that surprised to find that it was 10:55 in the morning. Well, he assumed it was the morning. That would be the only thing that really made sense. He’d gone to sleep when it was dark outside—not that it really mattered anymore. Day…night…his brain just didn’t seem to care anymore.

  Exhausted and feeling like his head might very well float away at any moment, he got out of bed and made his way into the kitchen. He eyed the coffee maker and considered brewing a pot of coffee. Not too long ago, a nice, strong cup of coffee first thing in the morning would get him going. But it did
no good now. Hell, it didn’t even taste good to him anymore.

  He forced himself to make a lazy breakfast of cereal and a piece of plain toast. As he ate, he struggled to keep his eyes open. It made him think of what his mother had once told him about what happens when little boys get tired—that little angels are stacking bricks on his eyelids. Well, if that were the case, the little bitches were building a house based on the way it felt.

  He figured he should probably go see a doctor for whatever was wrong with him, but it was too late for that now. After what he’d done, after the lives he’d taken, it seemed foolish to willingly walk into a doctor’s office.

  After breakfast, he went into the bathroom and took a shower. He used cold water and it did manage to stir him awake a bit. He was almost fully alert when he got dressed and checked his email. He had a few projects coming down the line this week but he knew he wouldn’t be able to focus on them today. Maybe tonight. Because of whatever was going on with his sleep cycle, he could only truly focus at night.

  That’s when he got his work done…and the other stuff, too.

  Ah, the other stuff. He was beginning to like it. Killing Gloria Masterson had been proof of that. More than that, it was really the only thing that made him feel fully awake—fully alive—anymore.

  After checking his emails, he opened up the blinds and looked out toward the parking lot of his apartment complex. He watched traffic flow along, envying the fully awake people, the people that had managed a full eight hours of sleep the night before. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but he remained in place until an enormous yawn broke his concentration. He didn’t even bother looking at the clock again when he returned to his desk and looked at the slightly wrinkled sticky note sitting on the side of his desk. Lately, time had meant pretty much nothing to him.