Northern Virginia
June 18, 2004
Baldwin

Kaylie Fields was smaller than the others. Nestled gently into the base of the tree, the ropes holding her in a loving embrace. Her hair was plastered against her face—she’d been out here during the storm, just like he’d been worried about. Sorrow welled in his chest. He’d been afraid of storms as a child; he wondered if she’d been scared. But that was silly—she’d been dead and lashed to the tree long before the storm broke. There was no way for her to be scared, not anymore, and really, what was a little thunderstorm compared to being kidnapped, beaten and murdered? Her legs were obviously broken, a cruel act Baldwin assumed happened almost immediately after the abductions so the victims couldn’t run away. None of the autopsies had shown ligature marks on the bodies—why tie someone up if you could incapacitate them?

Baldwin heard one of the Fairfax County guys stumble off, retching. His first dead body, probably, or his first child victim. Kaylie looked to be peacefully asleep, a vision marred only by the slight scarlet stain spread across her naked torso and the awkward bend to her shins. Stabbed through the sternum, just like the previous five girls. The Clockwork Killer had struck again.

There were a few differences in this kill from the others. One was the distance from the previous dump sites. The first five victims had been found just off the main hiking trail. Kaylie was deep in the forest, discarded like leftovers from a camping trip. They wouldn’t have found her so quickly if it hadn’t been for a phone call the parents received detailing the dump site. Another shift in the MO—the call had come from a pay phone in a dark alley in downtown D.C., possibly the work of the killer, or someone he’d paid off to make the call for him. They were scouring the tapes of the cars coming in and out of the park, with no luck. They still had no idea how the bodies were being transported into the park.

He’d never felt a case so far out of his control before.

Charlotte sighed deeply, and Baldwin turned to see her scratching notes.

“It’s different,” he said.

“It’s him,” she replied. “He’s just making us dance.”

The day had not improved from there.

The crime-scene techs had worked Kaylie’s body to no avail. There was no evidence on the body, nothing in the crime scene, the dump site. The storm had washed away the microscopic evidence they might have otherwise found. Baldwin had them take the soil from around the body, hopeful that they could find something in the alluvial muck that pointed them in the right direction. None of the Great Falls Park Rangers had seen anything. The video cameras had a multitude of cars coming in and out of the park, but all of them checked out. It was as if the killer had flown in, dropped the body at the base of the cliff and flown out again.

Of course that wasn’t the case. He had been there. But how? They’d been watching Arlen’s house. There was no movement, in or out, all last night. He must have dumped the body before they’d started watching him—that was the only way.

Unfortunately, another round of interviews with Harold Arlen had been preempted by the expensive defense lawyer that had been retained by Arlen’s twelve-step parent organization, who vociferously claimed he was being unfairly railroaded. He used their own work against them—they were watching the house, they knew he wasn’t able to leave and deposit a body. Add to that the nagging little question of the lack of physical evidence. The pictures on the computer just weren’t enough. Arlen insisted he didn’t know how they got there, and if this went to trial, it was possible for the attorney to claim the photos had been planted, or accidentally downloaded. All it would take was one juror who agreed, and poof, no more case. Without corroboration, they just didn’t have enough.

The media was losing faith, accusations were starting to fly. And if the pattern was followed, another girl would go missing tonight.

It was late when Baldwin had dismissed the team to get some rest, as if that was possible. He and Charlotte had stayed in the office for a while, waiting. When no call came, they relaxed a fraction, and Baldwin decided that they should get some food, recharge and start fresh in the morning. Sleep had been his enemy this week—he was running on caffeine and takeout, and his body was rebelling. Added to the mix was Charlotte, who jumped him every time they got a few minutes alone. Intense and powerful as the sex was, he was getting worn-out from all the pressure. There was a bit of desperation in their lovemaking now, coupled with a sense of insecurity and fallibility. He was beginning to sense Charlotte would bleed him dry if given the chance.

Yet here he was, spent and gasping on the bed again.

Charlotte was pacing the bedroom. She was naked, her hair flying out behind her with every turn.

“It’s him, goddammit. We know it’s him. There’s got to be something there. Something that tells the story. Where is he keeping them? How does he disappear with them so easily? Everyone is on the lookout. We’ve had units on Arlen for days now, there’s no way he slipped out without our notice. We’re chasing a fucking ghost.”

“He’s not a ghost. He’s right there in front of us. We’re just missing the clues.”

She turned on him, small white teeth bared in a grimace. “What could we have missed? We’ve been in his house. We’ve watched him. He’s the single most perfect reformed child molester I’ve ever seen.”

“Exactly. That’s what’s wrong with him. He’s too perfect. He will slip up, Charlotte. We are running out of time, yes, but he will make a mistake.”

“How many girls need to die before we figure out what that is, Baldwin?” Her voice caught. Add vulnerable to the list of qualities he never thought he’d see from her.

“Come here,” he said.

Obediently, she walked to the bed. “Again,” she said, husky, demanding, and he almost laughed.

“Charlotte, I’m only one man. I don’t think it’s possible for me to—”

She proved him wrong, once more.