Victim Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter wenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  For Bill Derryberry, a fine policeman, an excellent teacher and a kind, patient and much beloved friend

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Lynda Cooper, Bill Derryberry, Cindy Kelley and Dr. Mollie Thomas for kindly lending your expertise to this project. Any factual mistakes are mine and mine alone—I obviously didn't know the right questions to ask. You guys are the best!

  Prologue

  He liked the darkness. He liked the anonymity of it. And he especially liked the way the lights in that darkness reflected off their faces. Young, eager, and so very beautiful.

  His choice was usually a matter of fate, which meant there was no choice at all. This, however... This was so perfect he wondered why he hadn't thought of it long ago.

  To be able to move unnoticed through the darkness. Watching them. Their eyes intent. Slim buttocks rotating. Bony adolescent shoulders shifting as they tried, through that unconscious body language, to influence the outcome of whatever game they were playing.

  His lips slanted into a slow smile. Playing a game. That's all he was doing. Trying to influence not the outcome, which was predetermined, but the selection of the game piece.

  His eyes contemplated the ones he'd singled out for further consideration. He had made his initial choices as he moved through the crowded room, almost rubbing shoulders with them.

  Even their smell excited him. Hormonal sweat. The sharp, sweet scent of sex. Cigarette smoke, caught in the faded cotton of their tees and in the denim of their jeans. The occasional whiff of marijuana, which reminded him of his own adolescence, when that forbidden gratification had been almost all he had found pleasure in.

  His gratifications were more comforting now. Their forbiddenness so much more exciting.

  He made another slow circuit of the room, doing nothing that would draw attention to himself. Taking one last look at each of them, weighing this all-important decision.

  When he was absolutely certain, he headed toward the service door at the back, the one that led to the delivery alley behind the mall. He had parked his van there. It would be waiting for them in the shadows, as nondescript as he himself.

  He opened the door, looking up and then down the alley. There were bare bulbs above the loading platforms, but they cast only enough light to chase the shadows from the top of the ramps. Not enough to threaten his plans.

  Before he closed it again, he checked the strip of tape that had been laid over the protrusion of the latch to keep the door from locking. The young men who worked the arcade had taken care of that detail.

  During the course of the evening, they would come out into the alley in groups of twos or threes to smoke.

  Meticulous in his planning, he had watched them, too, so that he knew they were all inside now. Their needs had been satisfied, providing him with this narrow window of opportunity to satisfy his.

  He turned, his stride purposeful. His groin ached with its sudden engorgement. This moment was almost as fulfilling as the other. Its surge of anticipation almost as powerful as the release.

  As he went back down the hall, he grabbed one of the blue aprons off the line of hooks and slipped it over his head. He wrapped the strings around his back and tied them in front. Then, taking a deep breath, he put his trembling hand into his pocket, stilling the jangle of tokens it contained.

  As he reentered the game room, he kept his face turned slightly down. Other than that precaution, there was nothing furtive about his movements. He had watched the employees long enough that he had perfected their slouching, self-important posture as they moved among the machines. And as long as none of them stopped him...

  He paused behind the boy he'd chosen, watching him play. The child's face changed constantly, following the fortunes of the game. A grimace. A wince. And then...

  The lights on the machine flashed, bells ringing loudly. No one looked around. This happened often enough to be a non-event. His were the only eyes that watched as elation washed tension from the soft, unformed face.

  "All right," the boy said, his lips widening into a grin. There was a glint of metal over teeth too big for the mouth they occupied.

  Seeing the braces, he felt a momentary disappointment. Momentary, because otherwise the boy was perfect, possessing every feature that pleased him. Perfect, he assured himself again.

  Deliberately he delayed, letting anticipation build in slow, roiling waves of pleasure. It roared through his body like a drug, fueling his need. Seconds merely, and then...

  The child put his initials beside the score, and they, too, were perfect. Everything perfect.

  "We got the new version of this one in this afternoon:'

  His accent wasn't exact—he hadn't been here long enough—but it would do. Certainly not different enough to draw attention to him or to make the kid suspicious.

  The boy's eyes flicked upward from the score, meeting his. They were almost unfocused, still full of the thrill of victory.

  It made a connection between them. A union. Toward a more perfect union.

  "So much better than this," he added, feeling the adrenaline rush as he drew out the first word. "You wouldn't believe the difference."

  "Cool." The kid seemed interested for the first time.

  "You oughta try it."

  The boy's narrow shoulders moved upward, almost a shrug, and then the blue eyes darted back to the screen, eager to play again. "So when's it gonna be on the floor?"

  "We got it set up in the back. Been playing all afternoon. What the boss don't know..." He smiled, and in response the boy's grin again exposed the metal bands on his teeth.

  They were slightly green in the reflected light from the game. The sight was jarring. Throwing him out of sync, like hearing a wrong note in a familiar piece of music. Maybe this wasn't the one. Maybe—

  "I still got tokens." the kid said.

  "We got it rigged to play for free. You want to try it?"

  "Sure."

  "You can't let anybody know," he warned. "They'd all want to come."

  "Okay."

  "You here with somebody?"

  "My dad. He went next door."

  "If he's gonna miss you and raise a stink—"

  "He's in the music store. I'm good for half an hour at least."

  He hesitated a few seconds, as if he were calculating the risks. "You see that door in the back? Under the exit sign?"

  The kid turned, looking toward the other side of the room. The back of his head was exposed, a small endearing cowlick at the crown. Again the sense of Tightness descended, blocking the momentary doubt.

  This was the one. This one.

  "Yeah?" the boy said, turning back to face him.

  "I'll go first. When I get into the back hall, you follow, but not so's anybody's going
to notice you."

  "Okay." the kid said.

  "If the others see what I'm doing, they'll stop us."

  "Nobody'll see me."

  "Okay."

  He looked around the room, his eyes finding and checking off the employees. A couple were standing at the front, watching the girls parade along the mall outside. Another was intent on watching the numbers build as one of the regulars played the most popular game in the room, well on the other side. All of them accounted for.

  He looked back at the boy, whose eyes were focused on his face, their eagerness seeming to match his own. He nodded, the movement small and controlled, and then he began to walk, making his way toward the exit sign. Toward the door and the alley and the van.

  He knew that the boy would follow, never questioning his destination. Even if he had, it was one he could not possibly imagine. Not in a million years.

  And that was perhaps the greatest of all the multiple anticipations and releases he found in his game. The pleasure of seeing the final realization of what was about to happen invade their stupid, trusting little eyes.

  One

  Unfortunately for the state. Mr. Evans, the product of an illegal search cannot later be used as justification for having made it. Nor do I find compelling Officer Gateau's observation that the defendant seemed overly concerned about the damage to the back of his van. That would be a common enough reaction to a traffic mishap, however minor. I cannot see how, in that situation, it can possibly be construed to constitute probable cause to search Mr. Tate's vehicle."

  Each word of the ruling was pronounced in the precise, almost pedantic accent Judge Marlene Wexler had adopted long ago to hide her rural Mississippi upbringing. The only black female on the Orleans Parish criminal bench. Wexler's assignment to this case had been, from the beginning, the district attorney's worst nightmare.

  Her rulings were carefully grounded in the law, but courthouse scuttlebutt had long ago put her down on the side of defendants' rights versus the police. She had never been overturned. It was obvious she didn't intend to be on this.

  "Ms. Siddons has testified that she clearly heard Mr. Tate deny permission for the officer to open the rear doors of the van. And deny permission for him to search the suitcase discovered inside. In both instances, Officer Gateau chose to do so, despite the defendant's objections."

  "Your Honor—"

  "Leaving me no option," Wexler went on, speaking above the prosecutor's attempt to protest what they all knew was coming. 'No option," she repeated for emphasis, "but to grant the motion to suppress all evidence found during the course of those searches. As well as," she continued inexorably, her tone daring the district attorney to interrupt again, "all evidence recovered during the subsequent search of Mr. Tate's home."

  Because of the political ramifications of this case, if not for other, more humanitarian concerns, District Attorney Carl Evans was forced to take up that challenge, no matter how much he might dislike the position it was going to put him with the judge. "The warrant for that search. Your Honor—"

  "Was obtained from Judge Fischer based on evidence found during the illegal search of the van. Fruit of the poisonous tree, Mr. Evans, as you are very well aware. It is not going to come in. None of it is."

  The last phrase was very soft, each word distinctly enunciated. And only after the sibilance of the last syllable had died away, the pause lengthening unbearably, seeming to echo throughout the courtroom, did Judge Wexler speak again.

  "Do you have any other evidence that would justify holding this defendant. Mr. Evans?"

  The prosecutor's mouth had flattened. Now it pursed, as if he were reluctant to open it. There was, however, only so long he could delay the inevitable.

  "No. Your Honor," he said finally.

  Wexler's dark eyes settled briefly on the rookie cop who had performed the search that was about to put a serial killer back on the streets. The media had already had a field day with this case. Given the events of this morning's hearing, that would only get worse.

  "Then. Mr. Tate." Judge Marlene Wexler said, "You are free to go."

  "He's gonna walk," the voice in his headset warned.

  "Son of a bitch," Mac Donovan said.

  The utterance wasn't forceful. Mac had learned long ago that he could do nothing about the vagaries of the system he served. He was sworn to uphold it, even when it was wrong. As it had been today.

  "Taking him out the back?" he asked.

  "That's what they say."

  "Everybody in place?"

  "He may not cooperate. He's like that, you know," Sonny Cochran said, the last phrase sarcastic.

  "Good." Donovan responded, the single syllable sharp, abruptly cut off. "Maybe somebody'll shoot the bastard."

  There was soft laughter in his ear. "We should be so lucky."

  They had all known how this would play out. The uniform who'd responded to a fender bender had screwed up. As a result, the evidence he'd discovered in the back of Samuel Tate's van, the so-called murder kit that would link him to the deaths of more than a dozen adolescent boys, wasn't going to come in.

  This morning's hearing had been little more than a formality. There might have been some wiggle room if it had been the cop's word against Tate's, but Phillip Gateau had managed to conduct his search in front of the woman who'd bumped into the back of the killer's van. Once she'd been subpoenaed by Tate's very expensive lawyer, everybody within reach of a newspaper headline had known he was going to walk.

  "Okay," Mac said. "Let's assume he won't cooperate. We have to cover all our bases on this one."

  Given the nature of Tate's crimes, the department would keep him under surveillance. In light of the ruling that had just come down, they couldn't legally justify that tail, so it wouldn't be acknowledged publicly nor could it be obtrusive enough to allow Tate to scream harassment to the judge.

  But the bastard wouldn't be able to take a piss without somebody analyzing its color and the smell. Every move, every breath he took, somebody would be watching Samuel Tate.

  Damn little satisfaction. Mac Donovan acknowledged, but right now, it was all he had.

  Long shot, Sarah Patterson thought, crossing her arms over her breasts. She put her gloved fingers in her armpits to keep them warm.

  She had known that waiting out here might be wasted effort, but then, she had nothing to lose. Her lips tightened at the unintended melodrama of the phrase. She had tried very hard during the last three years to avoid that kind of self-pity.

  She turned her head, her gaze sweeping the portico at the front of the courthouse. There were people moving up and down the steps, as there had been all morning. Heads down, briefcases dangling as they climbed, going about their normal business.

  All the excitement was inside and out back. The media was waiting in force at the rear of the courthouse, along with a few of the other parents. And the cops.

  Which meant that's where they intended to take him out, just as the television news this morning had speculated. The media had better sources within the justice system than she did. They always seemed to know what was going on.

  All she knew was Tate. She had made it her mission to know.

  Once he'd been arrested, she had pored over every scrap of information available. Every article. Every psychological assessment. Every speculation. And there had been a lot of those.

  She knew as much as there was to know about Samuel A. Tate. Which was why she was waiting here instead of at the back with the others.

  Tate wasn't going to do what the cops wanted him to. He had beat the system, and he was going to glory in it. He was going to publicly thumb his nose at the fools who couldn't even get arresting him right.

  Even if the evidence they'd uncovered had been allowed in, he would still have found some way, Sarah thought, her bitterness building. Some sleazebag lawyer. Another idiot judge.

  The internal tirade dissipated in an explosion of adrenaline as her eyes focused on the slight figure emerg
ing through the double doors. She blinked to clear her vision, needing to be absolutely sure.

  When she was, her chest tightened, squeezing the air from her lungs. She didn't notice, since she had already forgotten to breathe. She watched Tate instead, tracking his movement across the porch toward the top of the granite steps.

  A couple of flashbulbs went off. Apparently she wasn't the only one who had suspected Tate might come out here rather than at the back. A microphone was thrust into his face, but he pushed it away with one hand. He said something to the reporter who held it, but she was too far away to hear the words.

  Or maybe she hadn't heard them because after her identification of her son's murderer, a cone of silence seemed to have settled over her, blocking any distractions. Her entire consciousness was focused on the man at the top of the steps.

  She didn't move until he reached the first of them. Then, unconcerned that someone might be watching, she slipped her right hand into the opening of her purse, its long strap still over her left shoulder.

  As her fingers closed around the butt of the pistol it contained, she began to climb the steps, going up them on the diagonal as Tate began to descend. He came straight down, head high, pushing arrogantly through the few members of the media who'd been waiting for him.

  They followed, mouths moving, throwing questions at him. Tate continued to ignore them, heading purposefully down the steps.

  Sensing that purpose, for the first time Sarah's concentration shifted, tracing the trajectory of his descent. At the foot of the stairs a taxi waited. If she didn't hurry, she realized with a jolt of panic, he would be inside it before she could get close enough—

  She began to run, no longer climbing the steps, but going straight across them. She was aware subliminally of other people, all of whom seemed to be converging on the spot where she was headed. Their presence had no impact on her determination.

  There was still no sound. The action played out in front of her like a silent film. And now the only other actor—the only one who mattered—was less than a dozen feet away, slightly above her and to her side.

  Sarah stopped, holding the pistol in her outstretched right hand. Her left settled under it, steadying the weapon. Just as she had been taught, she pointed the muzzle like an accusing finger at the man coming down the steps. Infinitely calm, now that the moment was finally here, she locked on her target, leading it slightly.