Subtle Sins

By Laurie Ellis

The first victim never saw it coming. As the rope tightened around his neck, he clawed desperately at the killer's hands. Before surrendering to death, he realized who the killer was and simply asked, "Why?"

Police Chief Madelyn Barclay jumps into the investigation like a hound on the trail but before long there's another killing. Then another. Solid evidence eludes her as subtle connections lead her astray. Dead-end clues play havoc with her mind.

Burrowing deeper into the investigation, she realizes there's more going on than just murder. It's a mind game of power.

As the department's first female police chief, Madelyn has much to prove and she worries that her reputation will suffer. Time runs short and the pressure is on. Desperate for help, she enlists the services of her old gumshoe friend, Craige McCall, who is immediately thrust into a psychological game of hide-and-seek with the killer.

Finally, a suspect emerges but he's always one step ahead and he's loaded with alibis. Could they be on the wrong track again? This killer has proven to be a terrifying adversary whose next victim might very well be one of the department's own.

Chilling suspense to the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 24, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595831371

Laurie Ellis

Raised in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, Laurie Ellis moved to Florida as a teenager and graduated from Webber International University where she was editor of the school newspaper. She is an award-winning author who called New Orleans home for over twenty years. She currently lives in San Marcos, Texas with her husband, photographer Ben Ellis.

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Copyright © 2006 by Laurie Ellis

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, places, and incidents are products

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or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-38754-0 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-83137-1 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-38754-3 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-83137-0 (ebk)

Contents

Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

Epilogue

About the Author

For my daughter-in-law

Leslie who is more daughter than in-law

Special thanks to my fellow workers at Texas State University-San Marcos: Dr. Michael Blanda, Professor of Chemistry, and David Fehlis, Senior Lab Services Technician, for their help with chemical terminology and reactions. Thanks also to Georgia Teague for listening; Mary Sullivan and Mary Powell for their insight and constructive criticism.

And as always thanks to Anne and Ben.

It is when power is wedded to chronic fear that it becomes formidable.

—Eric Hoffer

(1902-1983)

The Passionate State of Mind, 1954

Prologue

I

1987

The brothers sneaked up to the attic. They closed the door and crept up the creaky steps. It was a big old house and they knew their parents wouldn’t hear them two floors below in the kitchen.

The heat pressed down on them as they climbed. The smell of the musty abandon of a seldom-used attic penetrated their nostrils.

Shhh! Damien said.

Okay, okay, Eddie whined. I can’t help it if these dumb steps creak.

Just shut up. God, you’re so stupid!

Am not!

They reached the top and pulled the long string dangling from the ceiling. The small bulb illuminated their immediate area. They were both tall and lanky and their heads almost brushed the attic beams. They looked around at the familiar surroundings. Storage boxes of Christmas decorations and a fake tree, leaning precariously against an old rocker, could barely been seen in the far corner.

A coat rack stood watch off to their right. An old dress wrapped in clear plastic hung from one of the arms. It looked more human than not and they both quickly looked away.

They grabbed the musty Army blanket. A cloud of dust swept up from the floor and both stifled a sneeze. They walked around the steps to the empty, black cavity behind them.

Come on! Don’t be such a baby.

I hate it up here, Eddie said. He ran his fingers through his thick, wavy hair. It’s hot and creepy. Why do we have to come to the attic?

Because I said so! Jeez, you’re not Mommy’s little baby anymore. You’re fourteen for Christ’s sake.

Damien dragged his brother into the darkness, pushing him down onto the raw wood floor. He wiped the sweat from his brow on his sleeve then unfolded the blanket. He hoisted the heavy blanket over their heads; they sat Indian-style; their knees touched.

Now, close your eyes, Damien said, and talk to me.

I know how it works. You don’t have to tell me what to do! And no fires this time!

Shut up!

They sat motionless in the darkness, sweat dripping like rivers down their faces. Their shirts stuck to their bodies. Hands, palms up, rested lightly on bare legs. Their eyes were pinched shut.

Their lips never moved; their minds spoke in silent understanding.

Their thoughts became intertwined. One mind slithered into the other like a serpent until neither could distinguish his own thoughts from the other. The air became alive with negative energy, like electrical sparks from a lightening-charged transformer.

The hair on their arms stood on end as they mentally walked into the dark and frightening tunnel.

Eddie tried to ignore the hitch in his breathing. Damien felt the area between his legs getting hard.

In their mutual mind’s eye, they saw the moist, ominous tunnel stretching before them like the barrel curl of a breaking wave. As they proceeded, the area several feet in front of them lit up like a huge, hazy halo on its side. Shadows, elongated on the curved walls, remained faithful, watchful companions.

The deafening quiet kept an uncertain pace as they took in the scene ahead. Cold walls, oozing warm, red blood, screamed of tortured pain. Body parts were strewn as if thrown with reckless abandon. A leg, cocked at a forty-five degree angle, rested against a severed head. An arm curved against the sloping wall, its curled fingers frozen in agony. Human organs pulsed and pumped and gasped for a life that had forsaken them just minutes earlier.

A tiny noise escaped from Eddie’s throat while his brother proceeded wideeyed and excited. Damien latched onto his brother’s wrist and guided him through the tunnel toward the other end where they saw a dark form hulking behind a small, thin candle. The elongated eyes of the form remained fixed on the boys.

As they walked through the tunnel, the sight of the brutal mutilation of body parts unfolded before them. They saw the fear in the men’s wide eyes as the baseball bat came crashing down.

Women cowered when they passed, shivering in the cold dampness, praying for their lives; praying the baseball bat would pass them by.

One licked his lips; the other’s heart pounded. They could feel the heat, taste the moisture, hear the cries. Their breathing became erratic and their minds swirled in crazy circles, spinning faster and faster, whirling up to the very top, up to the pinnacle of that final, untamed, and glorious release.

Damien twitched and eased out a long sigh. He squeezed his brother’s wrist and pulled him toward the iridescent yellow eyes of the disappearing form at the end of the tunnel.

They opened their eyes and took a minute to bring their thoughts back to the heat of the attic. They threw the heavy blanket off and walked back to the steps. Damien stooped and descended the steps first. As he inched backward down the stairs, he looked up at his brother. What part did you like the best?

Eddie turned off the light and said, The eyes at the end of the tunnel.

II

Julian Lathrop pressed his palms against his temples and prayed for the headache to go away. Must be too much of the computer screen, he thought. He’d been spending way too much time on that report, but God almighty, if he didn’t serve up this job for the company, he might be out on his keester. Then where would he be? His nerves were a jumbled mess and something had crawled inside his head and was pounding the living daylights out of it. His brain felt like minced meat.

Julian picked up the phone and called his wife. Linda, honey, I’m going to be late. How was your day?

Okay, I guess.

You guess?

Well, you remember my talking to you about that kid in…

Julian tried to concentrate on Linda’s voice but the headache drowned out his ability to hear her.

.his mother acted like.

Julian rolled his neck and shook his head. Yes, he said.

What? Linda said. She waited for him to speak. Julian? Are you okay?

Just a headache.

It’s all those brains you have. You know what I always say.

Yes, I know. I may be a small man but I have a big heart and lots of brains.

Damn straight.

Julian tried to laugh but it hurt too much.

Lie down for a while then come home, Linda said.

Yes. I think I will.

Hurry because I miss you.

You’re good for my soul.

Love you.

I love you. Bye.

Julian plodded across the hall to the employee’s lounge. He downed four aspirins and stretched out on the sofa, folding his arm over his eyes. He tossed this way and that but nothing made his pain go away. There seemed to be some sort of energy pressing against his body but he had trouble making sense of it.

He glanced toward the corner of the dark room. He could have sworn he saw a pair of iridescent, elongated eyes staring at him. He rubbed his own eyes then searched in the darkness again. The feline eyes were gone.

Then from out of nowhere he heard a small voice. It seemed to take possession of his brain. The color of the room looked like one of his grandmother’s dresses. He remembered her calling it Dotted Swiss. Navy Dotted Swiss. Stupid name.

What? he asked.

Look, the voice said.

I can’t see a thing. Who are you?

Look.

Julian struggled to sit up. He propped himself on one elbow and squinted at the corner of the room. He saw something, he really did. He leaned forward. Hello?

The voice inside his head laughed as it whispered, Linda.

Linda? That you honey? God almighty I’ve got one heck of a headache. He waved his hand at her. Come lay with me. I feel awful.

Linda sauntered over to him. The closer she got, the clearer his eyesight became. Linda, honey? You’re naked! How did you…?

Look, the inner voice said.

Julian’s eyes opened wider. Linda? Who’s with you? Put some clothes on. He bent forward for a closer look. What are you doing? Hey, you! Get your hands off her!

He tried desperately to ignore the monster that had crawled inside his head, tried to ignore the hammer the monster was using on his brain. He concentrated on his wife and the big, handsome men with the shiny muscles, which impossibly glistened in the dark room. Their thick, oversized tongues licked Linda as she moaned and wiggled. She turned her head and gave Julian a dreamy look. She licked her lips.

Oooooo, she groaned.

Linda! Stop this right now!

Julian pinched his lips and growled like a rabid dog. His head throbbed and throbbed. His stomach churned and his mouth took on the taste of disgusting bile. His eyes opened wide when an object suddenly appeared in his hand. He frowned. Where did this come from? He squeezed the bat until his fingers ached.

Linda! What are you doing! I told you to stop! All of you stop now!

He pressed his hand against his forehead. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his wife as she pressed her hips up toward the ravenous men.

No more! he screamed and hurled the object at them.

Sounds of shattering glass momentarily distracted him, but like an annoying mosquito, their incessant moans returned. Julian scrambled off the sofa and searched for the piece of wood.

No more! he yelled and brought the bat down on their heads. She’s my wife!

But they kept groaning, Ohhhhhhh…

He hit them again and again.

Ohhhhhh, Linda sighed.

Then just as quickly as the vision appeared, it vanished and Julian’s headache eased away. He glanced around and wondered what on earth happened. Where were the bodies? The bat?

He returned to the sofa and rested his head in his hands.

Half an hour later, Julian Lathrop drove home wondering why on earth he’d had such a nasty dream about his wife. God knows they adored each other. They needed each other like flowers need rain. Julian couldn’t wait to climb into bed and snuggle close to her warm body. He whistled a lively tune as he pulled into his driveway.

He opened his door and chuckled to himself. God almighty what a dream!

* * *

Julian tossed his briefcase on the dining room table and yanked off his tie. Linda? he called and headed for the bedroom. Honey? Why is the air conditioning up so high? Darn Port Brockston humidity is in full force tonight. I’m going to have to turn it down, okay? You wouldn’t believe what a God-awful dream I had.

Julian adjusted the thermostat and stepped further into the bedroom. He tripped over something and wobbled to avoid a nasty fall.

What the…Linda, honey, I’m going to turn on the light so close your eyes, okay? Something’s in the middle of the floor.

It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the light. God almighty, Linda, what’s all that blood on the bedspread? There’s a body on the floor. He looked closer. What’s going on?

Nausea surged up from his stomach and blood drained from his face. He didn’t want to look but he couldn’t help it. He was drawn to the person on the floor.

Linda? Is that you? Linda, honey, what’s happened here?

Julian tried to keep his head from spinning out of control. Oh, how he wanted to just crawl into bed with his wife and forget about life for a while.

Julian rolled the body over and whispered, Oh, God. No.

He didn’t want to see her like this with her hair all matted; her bent arms twisted in abnormal angles; her clothes caked with blood. And over there he saw a baseball bat. He tried to ignore the flashback of his nightmare but it persisted. He thought about picking it up but couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He did pick up a picture of Linda in a gold frame. She smiled at him through the smashed cracks of glass.

Linda, he whimpered. I’m so sorry.

Julian stared at her beaten and bloody body and tried to unscramble his brain. When it finally sank in that his wife lay dead at his feet, he leaned against the wall and sobbed.

  1

1974

Charlotte sat on the edge of the bathtub staring at the baby in the water. His pink skin had turned wrinkly like that of an old man. His eyes were fixed open; so blue and piercing. He looked lifeless, bloated. She frowned and fidgeted.

She abstractly reached down and swished her fingers through the water, still warm and sudsy after all this time. She tucked her hair behind her ears then tugged on his chubby leg.

Little one, she cooed.

But the baby lay motionless. Charlotte pulled the drain and lifted the boy from the tub. She felt uncomfortable as though moving outside her world; watching herself from some secret nook in the room. She wrapped the baby in the hooded towel and placed him in the crib. She dressed him and turned the musical mobile. Rockabye Baby began playing in a lilting tune.

Charlotte fluffed the yellow and green comforter she’d made many years before, back when she was pregnant the first time. The baby was a girl then, but Charlotte had miscarried and all was lost.

Charlotte’s eyes became teary. She’d named the girl Mary.

Mary, she whispered.

Suddenly, the baby jerked his arms and legs and let out a wail, startling his mother. She took a deep breath then ran the back of her hand over his cheek. What is it?

She leaned in closer then jumped back. Stop it! she admonished.

But the baby just stared.

* * *

He was named after his father, Joseph Damien Smith. They called him Damien since his father went by Joe. He was born November 22, 1973, ten years to the day after John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas.

A sin, Charlotte had said.

She had loved President Kennedy like a brother. She admired Jackie with her pillbox hat and stylish suit. She used to get indignant when anyone would criticize the beautiful couple and their adorable children. There just couldn’t be a better family in the White House.

Joe had been raised in Seattle by parents who were both doctors. He was handsome with a square jaw and dark hair. His senior year he’d been voted most likely to succeed in high school. He didn’t disappoint his classmates. His younger brother, Alan, didn’t like change and thought it strange that Joe wanted to move to the east coast.

What on earth for? he’d asked. It’s so far away.

Joe just shrugged. Something different, I guess. See what it’s like on the other side of the Mississippi.

Whatever, Alan said. Your life.

Joe moved to Atlanta and there he met a woman who was in town for the Southern Baptist Conference. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen with her light brown hair falling in curls around her oval face. She had porcelain skin and crystal-clear blue eyes that mesmerized him. He fell for her hard; couldn’t help himself if he’d tried. He tried to persuade her to move to Atlanta but the big city terrified her.

No, she’d said. Come home with me.

So Joe followed her to the little town of Subtle. The town grew on Joe as the years passed. He liked the simplicity of the people, untarnished by big city materialism and selfishness.

Subtle only had fifteen hundred residents and everyone knew each other. Charlotte liked that about her home. She was just one of two hundred or so people who’d lived there all their lives. Most other people came and went. Lack of jobs was the reason. The youth of Subtle longed for a movie theater or skating rink. Bible school was their only excitement and most kids skipped out and headed to the corner drug store for a chocolate malt before rushing back to be picked up by their mothers.

Joe provided well for his family. As the only lawyer in town, he managed to keep busy. He didn’t charge his clients a whole lot; they couldn’t afford much. Joe owned the biggest home in town and drove the fanciest car. Not that either was flashy or opulent. Nothing in Subtle could be considered flashy or opulent.

He was a slender man who towered over most people in town. He always wore short sleeved, white shirts, starched to perfection by his adoring wife.

Joe joined Charlotte in the nursery and smiled at his son. He slinked his arm around his wife’s waist. You look tired, he said to her.

Is he, I don’t know, different?

Good different or bad different?

Something about him is unsettling.

Joe picked his son up and tossed him in the air. Damian giggled and drooled and Joe laughed. Must be good different, he said. Huh, boy?

Joe had great plans for his son. He would be a lawyer or doctor. He would go to the finest schools and graduate in the top five percent of his class. He pictured his graduation from some ivy league school, Harvard perhaps. Maybe Yale. Joe intended to see that it would be so.

Charlotte turned thirty-six three days before Damien was born; Joe had long been thirty-eight. Charlotte had hinted she wanted to try again for that little girl, but the doctor in the nearby city of Port Brockston advised against it.

As we age, Charlotte, he’d said. It just becomes riskier for both you and the baby.

Charlotte had cried all the way home. She’d grown up an only child and had always longed for a sister. She didn’t want her son to feel the same way. She spent nights in silent prayer asking God for a daughter. Joe would dry her tears and offered adoption as an alternative. Charlotte declined. She wanted her own flesh and blood. Joe’s flesh and blood.

Five years later, her prayers were answered.

  2

Edward Alan Smith was born thirteen hours after his cousin, Damien. He had blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Melanie adored her baby and would spend hours simply watching him sleep. She often wondered if he shouldn’t be a little more active. He seemed to take his cue from those around him. Why didn’t he kick and giggle and cry like most babies?

Most mothers would be glad their baby was so easy, Alan had said.

I guess, Melanie said. I guess.

Brothers Joe and Alan saw it as a good sign that their sons were born on the same day and vowed the cousins would spend lots of time together.

Alan was a burley guy, athletic and handsome. No one understood what he saw in his homely wife, Melanie. He just never liked the strong, overbearing type. He was a take-charge, tough guy and Melanie understood that very well.

Alan also had big plans for little Eddie. He would grow big and strong and become the next Roger Staubach or Broadway Joe Namath. Then again, maybe he’ll be a football coach like his old man. He smiled as he watched Melanie nurse Eddie. Whatever the kid wants to be, it’d better be good. Right now Alan had to come up with that trick play he’d been bragging about to his players.

* * *

Eddie listened at his parent’s door. They were making those scary noises he’d often heard. He’d learned never to disturb his parents when he heard the noises. His father made sure that would never happen again after the first and only time he’d run into the bedroom.

But today Eddie was hungry and headed to the kitchen for a snack. He decided to make a grilled cheese sandwich just like his mommy made. He was five years old after all. Old enough to make your own sandwich.

Eddie buttered two slices of bread and put some butter in the pan. He turned on the gas stove and put the bread in, butter side down. Then he put two pieces of cheese on the bread and covered it with the other slice of bread, butter side up. He smiled as he searched for the spatula. The sandwich began to sizzle. He found the stool and stepped up so he could see better. His heart pounded. He couldn’t wait to eat his very own, handmade sandwich!

Eddie pushed the