The officer displayed another set of photos, this one of an older woman, her hair matted with blood, her face and body bruised, a red line rimming her throat where he’d cut her. “It was a wonder she survived.”
“Any idea what set him off?” Derrick asked.
Miller shook his head. “Said he was at her house trying to get his ex’s address, but she refused to give it to him. Said she knew he’d kill her if she did.”
“Do you know where this woman is now?” Ellie asked.
“Afraid not. The mother said she went to a women’s shelter and begged us to leave her be.”
“Have you sent anyone to check on the mother since Vinny escaped?” Ellie asked, folding her arms across her chest.
“I called her and left a message warning her, but she didn’t answer.”
“And you didn’t think to go out and check on her?” Ellie asked in disbelief.
He looked contrite for a moment, then shuffled some papers and shook his head.
Sorry son of a bitch. No wonder some people criticized small-town law enforcement.
Seventy-Four
Pigeon Lake
Ellie swung the Jeep down the graveled drive of the clapboard house belonging to Vinny Holcomb’s mother and came to a stop. Pigeon Lake, a small lake only a short drive from Stony Gap, was named for the pigeons that gathered in flocks, circling the muddy water.
A dark green sedan streaked with filth was parked beneath a carport.
“Mother’s name is Martha. She worked at a dry cleaners a few miles away,” Derrick said, skimming the information Sheriff Miller had given them.
“Poor woman,” Ellie muttered. “Couldn’t be easy being attacked and nearly killed by your own son.” She had to live with the fact that her son was a murderer, just like Ellie needed to live with her own parents’ betrayal––and her own mother was paying for that right now, fighting for her life.
“His rage against women fits the profile,” Derrick agreed. “But he strikes me as too impulsive, not a planner.”
Ellie opened the car door and climbed out, the afternoon breeze swirling leaves around her feet and bringing the scent of rotting garbage. A spider web clung to the awning over the front door and the windows looked foggy. Pigeons had nested on the windowsills.
Derrick scanned the yard and property while she knocked. Once, twice, three times, but no one answered.
“Ms. Holcomb, it’s the police. We need to talk,” Ellie said.
Another knock, then she leaned against the door and listened. Nothing but the sound of water dripping from inside.
Twisting the knob, Ellie pushed the door and it creaked open. She covered her nose and mouth at the terrible stench that assaulted her. She and Derrick held their weapons at the ready as they crept inside.
“Police. Is anyone home?”
Ellie’s shout was met with silence, the sound of dripping water echoing from down the hall. Derrick motioned that he’d check the kitchen and she inched towards where she assumed the bedrooms were. The first one held assorted junk, magazines and a twin-sized bed. It looked as if it hadn’t been dusted in months, a thick layer of grime covering every surface.
Creeping slowly, Ellie pivoted and paused at the second bedroom. The ancient bed was made, the corners of a faded floral bedspread neatly tucked in. There was no one in the room.
But the stench grew stronger. A buzzing sound mingled with the dripping water.
Bile rose to her throat as she paused in the bathroom doorway. The scent of death and body waste permeated the air.
Flies buzzed around the woman’s body, which was sprawled on the bathroom floor in a pool of dark blood.
Seventy-Five
Ellie’s shout sent Derrick racing down the hallway.
The buzz of insects resounded from the back room and the stench of death hit him as he rushed to the bathroom. Already the body was decomposing, maggots crawling in the woman’s hair and clothing. Dried blood spread over the floor, cabinet and the side of the tub where it looked as if she’d tried to pull herself up to stand, before collapsing back down.
“Fuck, this is messy. He must have killed her right after he escaped.”
“My guess, too.” Ellie nodded toward the dozens of stab wounds in the woman’s chest and stomach. “This is definitely personal, a crime of passion. You can see the rage in the number of times he stabbed her and the viciousness of the attack.”
“Assuming Vinny did this, it’s not the MO of the Weekday Killer,” Derrick agreed. “No posing. No daffodils. Nothing staged or symbolic in this chaos.” Which meant the unsub was still out there. “His mother sent him away, so he had motive to want her dead.”
“Could it be possible that he purged his rage on his mother, then planned the others?”
“Possible, but not likely,” Derrick said. “A perp doesn’t go from this type of spontaneous violence to methodical planning. Just look at the way he left her, lying in her own blood and waste. The other victims were left on petals, dressed for their funerals, adorned with makeup. And he took the time to sew their lips shut, leaving the rhyme in their mouths.”
“You’re right. He’d also need time to get the makeup, research the trail, buy or gather the dresses.”
“But if he was working with someone else, the other man could be the planner.”
As Ellie stepped into the hallway, Derrick began capturing the crime scene on his phone. The room was a mess. Toiletries strewn across the counter, a can of hair spray on the floor, manicure scissors in the sink, as if, in desperation, she’d tried to find something to defend herself with. The towel bar had been ripped from the wall, with a bloody towel on the floor, the sink dripping and slowly leaking.
He stepped closer, peering inside the sink and noting blood droplets in the basin.
The killer had tried to wash the blood from his hands. Another glance at the hardware and he noted a bloody print on the faucet.
If Vinny’s DNA was here, they’d soon confirm that he’d killed his mother.
And if he was working with a partner, the man who’d helped him escape, it couldn’t be Hiram, since he was locked away. So who the hell was it?
Seventy-Six
Crooked Creek
While crime investigators processed Martha Holcomb’s house, Ellie and Derrick stopped to grab sandwiches at the Corner Café.
Lola greeted Ellie with a worried look. “Hey, Ellie, any word on Shondra?”
Ellie’s heart stuttered. Every second that passed lessened their chances of finding her alive. “Not yet, but we’re still looking.”
Hushed whispers rippled through the room, and Ellie felt all eyes on them. She caught a glimpse of the mayor’s wife, the local librarian Gertrude Cunningham and Lily Hanover, the president of the garden club, seated in a booth. Meddlin’ Maude fluttered in and joined them, her mouth wagging as she glanced at Ellie.
Irritated, Ellie stared at them, but the women quickly looked away, disapproval radiating in the vicious stares they threw in her direction.
Ellie rubbed a finger over her shield. Dammit, she didn’t care what those old biddies said. Except her mother had once thought they were her friends and they’d completely turned on her.