Once Lured Page 6

  “What’s his full name?” Riley asked.

  “Dennis Vaughn,” the man said.

  “Keep talking to him,” Riley told Bill.

  Bill nodded and kept taking notes. Riley walked back to the gazebo, where Police Chief Aaron Pomeroy was still standing beside the body.

  “Chief Pomeroy, what can you tell me about Dennis Vaughn?”

  Riley could tell by his expression that the name was all too familiar.

  “What do you want to know about him?” he asked.

  “Do you think he might be a viable suspect?”

  Pomeroy scratched his head. “Now that you mention it, maybe so. At least he might be worth talking to.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, we’ve had a lot of trouble with him for years. Indecent exposure, lewd behavior, that kind of thing. A couple of years ago it was window peeping, and he spent some time in the Delaware Psychiatric Center. Last year he got obsessed with a high school cheerleader, wrote letters to her and stalked her. The girl’s family got a court injunction, but he ignored it. So he did six months in prison.”

  “When was he released?” she asked.

  “Back in February.”

  Riley was getting more and more interested. Dennis Vaughn had gotten out of prison shortly before the killings had started. Was it merely a coincidence?

  “Local girls and women are starting to complain,” Pomeroy said. “Rumor has it that he’s been snapping pictures of them. It’s nothing we can arrest him for—at least not yet.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?” Riley asked.

  Pomeroy shrugged. “Well, he’s kind of a bum. He’s maybe thirty years old and he’s never held down a job that anybody can remember. Sponges off family he’s got here in town—aunts, uncles, grandparents. I hear that he’s been real sullen lately. Holds it against the whole town that he had to do prison time. He keeps telling folks, ‘One of these days.’”

  “‘One of these days’ what?” Riley asked.

  “Nobody knows. Folks have started calling him a ticking bomb. They don’t know what he might do next. But he’s actually never been violent that we know of.”

  Riley’s mind was racing, trying to make sense of this possible new lead.

  Meanwhile, Bill and Lucy had finished talking to the man and were walking toward Riley and Pomeroy.

  Bill’s face looked bright and confident—a sudden change from his recent gloomy demeanor.

  “Dennis Vaughn’s our killer, all right,” he told Riley. “Everything the guy just told us fits the profile perfectly.”

  Riley didn’t reply. It was starting to seem likely, but she knew better than to jump to conclusions.

  Besides, the certainty in Bill’s voice made her nervous. Ever since she’d arrived here this morning, she’d felt like Bill was teetering on the brink of really erratic behavior. It was understandable given his personal feelings about the case, especially his guilt over not solving it sooner. But it could also get to be a serious problem. She needed him to be his usual rock-solid self.

  She turned toward Pomeroy.

  “Could you tell us where to find him?”

  “Sure,” Pomeroy said, pointing. “Walk straight along Main Street until you get to Brattleboro. Turn left, and his house is the third one to the right.”

  Riley told Lucy, “You stay and wait for the medical examiner’s team. It’s fine for them to take the body right away. We’ve got lots of photographs.”

  Lucy nodded.

  Bill and Riley walked toward the police tape, where reporters craned toward them with cameras and microphones.

  “Does the FBI have a statement to make?” asked one.

  “Not yet,” Riley said.

  She and Bill ducked under the tape and pushed their way among the reporters and onlookers.

  Another reporter yelled, “Does this killing have anything to do with the murders of Metta Lunoe and Valerie Bruner?”

  “Or with Meara Keagan’s disappearance?” another asked.

  Riley bristled. It wouldn’t be long before the news was widespread that there was a serial killer in Delaware.

  “No comment,” she snapped at the reporters. Then she added, “If you keep following us I’ll arrest you for interfering with an investigation. It’s called obstruction of justice.”

  The reporters backed away. Riley and Bill disentangled themselves from the small crowd and continued on their way. Riley knew they wouldn’t have a lot of time on this case before other, more aggressive reporters arrived on the scene. They were likely to have a lot of media attention to deal with.

  It was a short walk to Dennis Vaughn’s house. After just three blocks, they got to Brattleboro and turned left.

  Vaughn’s house was a dilapidated little ruin with a heavily dented tin roof, peeling white paint, and a sagging front porch. The lawn was knee-deep with grass and weeds, and an old, decrepit-looking Plymouth Valiant was parked in the driveway. The vehicle was certainly large enough for the transportation of emaciated corpses.

  Bill and Riley walked up onto the porch and knocked on the screen door.

  “Whaddya want?” called a voice from inside.

  “Are we speaking to Dennis Vaughn?” Bill answered.

  “Yeah, maybe. Why?”

  Riley said, “We’re with the FBI. We want to talk to you.”

  The front door opened. Dennis Vaughn stood behind the screen door, which was still hooked shut. He was an unsavory-looking young man, overweight, with a shaggy beard. Excessive body hair showed under his torn, food-stained undershirt.

  “What’s this all about?” Vaughn asked in a petulant, quavering voice. “Are you here to arrest me or what?”

  “We’ve just got some questions,” Riley said, showing her badge. “Could we come inside?”

  “Why should I let you in?” Vaughn asked.

  “Why shouldn’t you let us in?” Riley asked. “You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”

  “We could come back with a warrant,” Bill added.

  Vaughn shook his head and growled. He unhooked the screen door and Bill and Riley stepped inside.

  The house was even more of a wreck inside. The wallpaper was peeling, and there were broken gaps in the floorboards. There was hardly any furniture—just a couple of battered straight-back chairs and a couch with its stuffing hanging out. Plates and bowls were scattered everywhere, some of them filled with moldy food. Disagreeable smells filled the air.

  What caught Riley’s eye were dozens of photographs randomly thumbtacked to the walls. All of them were of women and girls in casual, unsuspecting poses.

  Vaughn noticed Riley’s interest in the pictures.

  “It’s my hobby,” he said. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

  Riley didn’t reply, and Bill said nothing. Riley doubted there was anything illegal about the pictures themselves. It looked as if they’d all been taken outdoors in public places in broad daylight, and none were actually indecent. Even so, the very act of snapping pictures of girls and women without their knowledge or consent struck Riley as deeply creepy.

  Vaughn sat down on a wooden chair that creaked under his weight.

  “You’re here to accuse me of something,” he said. “So why don’t you get on with it?”

  Riley sat down on another rickety chair facing him. Bill stood beside her.

  “What do you think we’re here to accuse of you of?” she asked.

  It was an interview technique that had worked well for her in the past. Sometimes it was best not to start with direct questions about a case. Sometimes it was better to get a potential suspect talking until he tripped himself up with his own words.

  Vaughn shrugged.

  “One thing or another,” he said. “It’s always something. Everybody always misunderstands.”

  “Misunderstands what?” Riley asked, still trying to coax him along.

  “I like girls, okay?” he said. “What guy my age doesn’t? Why do people think ever
ything I do is wrong just because I do it?”

  He glanced around at some of the pictures, as if he hoped they’d say something to defend him. Riley just waited for him to keep talking. She hoped that Bill would do the same, but her partner’s impatience was tense and palpable.

  “I try to be friendly with girls,” he said. “Can I help it if they don’t understand?”

  His voice was slow, even a bit sluggish. Riley felt pretty sure he wasn’t drunk or drugged. Perhaps he was a bit mentally slow or had some neurological problem.

  “Why do you think people treat you differently?” Riley said, trying to sound almost sympathetic.

  “How should I know?” Vaughn said, shrugging again.

  Then in an almost inaudible sullen voice he added …

  “One of these days.”

  “‘One of these days’ what?” Riley asked.

  Vaughn shrugged yet again. “Nothing. I don’t mean anything. But one of these days. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Riley felt encouraged that his talk was becoming nonsensical. That often happened before a suspect really betrayed himself.

  But before Vaughn could say anything else, Bill stepped toward him menacingly.

  “What do you know about the murders of Metta Lunoe and Valerie Bruner?”

  “I never heard of them,” Vaughn said.

  Bill bent uncomfortably close to him and peered into his eyes. Riley was worried now. She wanted to tell Bill to knock it off. But interfering might make things worse.

  “What about Meara Keagan?” Bill asked.

  “Never heard of her either.”

  Bill was talking more loudly now.

  “Where were you last Thursday night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You mean you weren’t at home?”

  Vaughn was sweating nervously. His eyes were wide with alarm.

  “Maybe I wasn’t. I don’t keep track. I go out sometimes.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “I go driving around. I like to get out of town. I hate this town. I wish I could live someplace else.”

  Bill spat his next question in Vaughn’s face.

  “And where were you driving around last Thursday?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know if I was driving around that night.”

  “You’re lying,” Bill shouted. “You were driving around Westree, weren’t you? You found a nice lady there, didn’t you?”

  Riley shot out of her seat. Bill was clearly out of control now. She had to stop him.

  “Bill,” she said quietly, grabbing him by the shoulder.

  Bill shoved away her hand. He pushed Vaughn over in the chair. Already on the verge of breaking, the chair fell to pieces. Vaughn was sprawled on the floor for a moment. Then Bill grabbed him by the undershirt and hauled him across the room, pushing him back first against the wall.

  “Bill, stop it,” Riley shouted.

  Bill was pressing Vaughn against the wall. Riley was afraid he might pull his gun at any second.

  “Prove it!” Bill snarled.

  Riley managed to get between Bill and Vaughn. She pushed Bill back forcefully.

  “That’s enough!” she snapped loudly. “We’re leaving!”

  Bill was staring at her, his eyes wild with rage.

  Riley turned to Vaughn and said, “I’m sorry. My partner’s sorry. We’ll go now.”

  Without waiting for Vaughn to say anything, Riley shoved Bill toward the front door, then out onto the porch.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” she hissed at him.

  “What’s the matter with you? Let me back in there. We’ve got him. I know we’ve got him. We’ll make him show us his driver’s license, find out what his middle name is.”

  “No,” Riley said. “We’re not going to make him do anything. Jesus, Bill, you could lose your badge for acting like that. You know better.”

  Bill looked like he couldn’t believe his ears. “Why?” he demanded. “We’ve got him. We could get a confession.”

  Riley felt like shaking him.

  “We don’t know that. Maybe he is our guy, but I don’t think so.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “For one thing, that car of his is too easily spotted and remembered.”

  Bill thought for a moment.

  “So he used a different car.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think he’s organized enough to carry out this many murders without getting caught.”

  “That could be just an act.”

  Riley was getting impatient at Bill’s resistance.

  “Bill, think of how carefully all these bodies were placed. Stretched out so neatly. Arms placed in exact positions.”

  “He could have done that.”

  Riley groaned aloud. Bill was really being stubborn.

  “I don’t think he could,” Riley said. “Think about his house. Nothing is placed neatly, not even the photographs. Nothing looks intentional. Absolutely nothing.”

  “Except maybe that he intends to kill,” Bill said. He was still angry, but Riley could see that he was settling down.

  “Bill,” she said. “There’s some purpose driving this killer, some rationale for what he’s doing. So far, we can’t guess his reasons, but that’s what I intend to find out.”

  Neither Riley nor Bill said a word during the short walk back. As the town square came into sight, Riley saw that the medical examiner’s vehicle had arrived and the body was being taken away.

  Riley felt badly shaken. The interview had been a disaster, and she had no idea whether Dennis Vaughn was their suspect or not.

  Riley’s worry now bordered on panic.

  If I can’t count on Bill, who can I count on?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Riley was anxious to get Bill away from Redditch without any further trouble. Luckily, she had no problem finding a good reason to go elsewhere. She always wanted to visit crime scenes in person, even after the victims’ bodies had long since been removed. She often got her best hunches that way. Sometimes she could even get into the killer’s mind.

  So just an hour after the disastrous interview, Bill was driving her to see the locations where the first two bodies had been found. He was focused on the road ahead, clutching the wheel and not talking.

  During the drive she’d tried a couple of times to get him to talk about what had just happened. He’d refused to say a single word, obviously angry with Riley for pulling him away from Dennis Vaughn a little while ago.

  She had no idea what her partner thought he’d accomplished by terrorizing Vaughn.

  Riley felt pretty sure that Dennis Vaughn wouldn’t complain to the police about the abuse he’d suffered. He was much too despised in Redditch for anyone to believe him. But that didn’t make Riley feel any better about what had happened.

  They were heading eastward from Redditch, making their way along rural roads. When they reached a highway crossing, Bill finally spoke.

  He said, “The locals call this the ‘Six O’clock Highway,’ because it goes straight north and south.”

  Riley felt relieved that he’d finally said something.

  Bill turned right onto the highway. He soon slowed and pulled the car over onto the shoulder. He and Riley both got out of the car, and he walked directly to a particular spot.

  He pointed to the ground and said, “This is where Valerie Bruner’s body turned up.”

  Riley was impressed at his precision. This stretch of highway didn’t have any distinguishing landmarks to speak of. Bill must have memorized every bush or tree along here. He had obsessively noted every detail.

  She wasn’t surprised. Bill had been here before Valerie Bruner’s corpse was taken away in June. Riley knew that the scene was still extremely vivid in his mind.

  As she studied the location, she remembered the photograph that Lucy had shown them earlier. Valerie Bruner’s body had been laid out about six feet away from the pavement, her limbs arranged in the position that
suggested a D in semaphore code.

  “The killer stretched her out exactly parallel to the pavement,” Riley said. “The body we just saw back in Redditch wasn’t laid out like that. It wasn’t lined up with anything in particular.”

  “So what?” Bill muttered almost inaudibly.

  Riley paced back and forth, examining the place closely. Then she stopped and shut her eyes, trying to get some feeling of the killer’s presence. She took a few long, deep breaths. It was no good. She was coming up blank.

  “Let’s go,” she told Bill.

  They got back into the car. Bill drove back the way they’d come, then turned east onto a county road. The silence continued.

  “Bill, if we can’t even talk about the case, we’ve got a problem,” she said.

  “Who says we can’t talk about the case?” Bill said. “I’m fine talking about the case. It just doesn’t seem like there’s much to say yet.”

  Riley sighed. She wondered how long his defensiveness could go on. She and Bill had been seriously at odds a few times in the past, but it was very rare for friction between them to interfere with their work.

  As the car neared the Atlantic coast, the colorful leaves of autumn gave way to more barren surroundings—most of it sandy with patches of tall grass. Some distance ahead, Riley saw strange towering structures that looked to her like the gigantic skeleton of some long-extinct beast. She wondered if Delaware’s sand dunes hid other skeletons, remnants of crimes committed just a few miles from the Atlantic Ocean.

  She knew that those structures were actually a perfectly ordinary Ferris wheel and a rollercoaster. There was an amusement park in the beachside tourist town of Mowbray.

  Just when they reached the outskirts of town, Bill pulled over again and stopped.

  “This is the place,” he said. “Out here in the sand.”

  They both got out of the car and walked out across a broad stretch of sand. A hint of calliope music drifted eerily across the way from the amusement park. They followed a windbreak fence that ran perpendicular to the highway. There were a few houses not far away on the other side of the fence. After about a hundred yards, they stopped walking. Bill pointed to a tattered handkerchief that was tied to the fence.