Oliver Quick Read online

  On it went, with Oliver studying his surroundings, an imaginary garbage bag in his hand growing heavier with each passing second.

  He imaged himself pulling in to the parking lot up the hill, waiting for his opportunity to move.

  But why the busy pier area? There are literally hundreds of miles of beachfront to dump a body. Yet he chose this particular spot. Why…?

  Because he’s a narcissist. Torture isn’t enough for him. He garners some kind of rush from the threat of exposure. He believes the women are beneath him. He thinks himself superior…

  The face of the decapitated woman appeared in Oliver’s mind, pulling him back from the abyss, back to the dozens of eyes watching him expectantly.

  He sought out Holland, who promptly moved to his side.

  “What are you thinking, Quick?”

  Oliver held the shorter man’s gaze. “I’d need to see the autopsy results to be sure, but I’m willing to bet that the unsub drowned the victim before cutting her up.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Oliver shrugged. “He’s grandstanding by bringing her out here and leaving her to be found. But the water, the water is significant to him somehow.”

  “Then why cut her up?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Oliver stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “But I’d like to see the body now.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Oliver strode along next to Holland, his mind still mulling over the surrounding establishments. “Are there any cameras on the restaurant and souvenir shop?”

  Richard shook his head. “Some of the shops down the beach have cameras, but the ones closest to the pier don’t.”

  “I’m betting he knew that,” Oliver admitted with near certainty. “He’s been in both places. More than once.”

  Holland’s gaze narrowed. “He cased the places before he chose this spot.”

  “Exactly.”

  They reached the parking area at the top of the hill. Holland hesitated before opening his car door. “I’ll have the receipts pulled at both places for the last month. Hopefully we get a hit on something.”

  Oliver nodded, fishing his keys out of the pocket of his jeans. “I’d like to question the staff myself. Once I’ve seen the body.”

  Richard slid behind the wheel of his vehicle. “Follow me.”

  Chapter Three

  Oliver arrived at the medical examiner’s office behind Holland twenty minutes later.

  The two men entered the building, side by side, making their way to the back where the refrigerated bodies were held.

  It had been years since Oliver had darkened the door of the place.

  Not much had changed, he noted, recognizing the familiar scent of the chemicals used in the back. It was a smell he would know anywhere. A smell he associated with…death.

  A pretty brunette exited the lady’s room on the left, nearly running into Quick in the process.

  She barely flinched. “Excuse me, gentlemen, may I help you?”

  Oliver pushed his Oakley’s to the top of his head.

  He swiftly took in her appearance, noting her air of confidence and the direct look she gave him without breaking eye contact.

  She was no doubt used to dealing with his type. And by his type, he meant suits. Even though he wore jeans at the moment.

  Richard produced his credentials. “We’re with the FBI. We need to see the body of the dismembered female that was recently brought in.”

  The brunette eyed his identification. “I’m assuming you’ve been here before and know your way around.”

  “We have,” Richard assured her, returning his ID to his pocket.

  She simply nodded before skirting them both, the clicking of her heels echoing off the hallway walls as she strode away.

  Richard ambled ahead, stopping outside the door that read, Medical Examiner.

  He rapped on it once with his knuckles and then turned the knob, entering the chilled room without further notice.

  Oliver trailed in behind him, blocking out the smells invading his senses.

  A man Oliver hadn’t met before stood over a stainless-steel table, the florescent lights above him reflecting off his partially bald head. His gloved hands hovered above the corpse of a man that appeared to be in his late fifties.

  The tag on the doctor’s coat pocket read, Dr. T. Ramsey.

  Ramsey peered up over the rim of his glasses, glancing at Oliver and then Richard. “Holland. I figured you’d be down here before long.”

  “Hello, Teddy,” Holland greeted, approaching the table. “Have you met my associate, Oliver Quick?”

  The doctor shook his head, meeting Oliver’s gaze. “I haven’t had the pleasure, but I’ve certainly heard of you. Your reputation as a profiler is remarkable.”

  Oliver brushed the compliment aside, uncomfortable with the praise. As was his way, he got right to the point. “Has Jennifer Clayton’s body been autopsied?”

  Ramsey sent him a quick nod. “It has. She was top priority.” He jerked his chin toward the refrigerated drawers along the opposite wall. “She’s in number eighteen.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Oliver trailed across the room, pulling open the designated drawer.

  The chilly air of the refrigeration sent goosebumps peppering his arms.

  He stared down at the black body bag, remembering back to when he’d had to identify April.

  His heart began to pound, dread and nausea growing stronger by the second.

  “Is everything all right?”

  The sound of Richard’s voice broke into his anxiety.

  With a surprisingly steady hand, Oliver took hold of the body bag’s zipper and slowly glided it down. He stopped when Jennifer’s head came into view.

  The sight of a corpse always unsettled him. But the murdered ones… The murdered ones were the worst. The frozen terror in their eyes, as if they took those last horrendous moments with them to eternity.

  Doctor Ramsey appeared on the opposite side of the drawer, holding a folder in his hands.

  Oliver raised his gaze to the doctor’s. “What was the cause of death?”

  “Drowning. Repeatedly.”

  Surely Oliver hadn’t heard him right. “I’m sorry, did you say repeatedly?”

  Ramsey opened the folder and pulled a paper free. He handed it to Oliver. “Those were my findings. She’d been drowned more than once, resuscitated only to be drowned again. It’s hard to tell the exact number of times this was done to her. I can only assure you that it’s what killed her.”

  Oliver glanced down into the woman’s milky-colored eyes and then met the doctor’s gaze once more. “So, he cut the body up postmortem.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Most of the body,” the doctor muttered, unzipping the bag the rest of the way. He reached inside and lifted a pale-colored hand up for Oliver’s perusal. The ring finger was missing. “The fourth finger was removed before her death, as was the fetus she carried.”

  Oliver digested that bit of information, swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat. Jennifer Clayton’s unborn child had been removed from her body before her death.

  Unclenching his teeth enough to speak, Oliver asked, “Was the baby vaginally removed or…”

  The doctor shook his head. “He was cut from the abdomen and then the wound sewn closed.”

  “He…” Oliver began.

  “The gender of the fetus was discovered from the victim’s medical records,” Dr. Ramsey offered, saving Oliver the task of asking the dreaded question aloud.

  Getting a grip on his emotions, Oliver shut them down completely. “I take it the fetus wasn’t recovered?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Ramsey answered.

  Oliver let that sink in. “How far along was Mrs. Clayton in her pregnancy?”

  Doctor Ramsey’s gaze softened. “Thirty-two weeks.”

  Oliver briefly glanced at Holland. “That’s four deaths he’s responsible for. Not three.”

  Withou
t waiting for a response from Richard, Oliver nailed the doctor with another question. “Was a wedding ring recovered?”

  Richard answered for the doctor. “Nothing has been recovered. Not her clothes, jewelry, or her car.”

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Oliver questioned the doctor further. “Was there any evidence of rape, strangulation, any ligature marks or other wounds besides the obvious?”

  The doctor nodded. “There were ligature marks on her wrists, consistent with rope. We also found some marks and residue on her lower face, telling us that her mouth had been duct taped for quite some time. I found no evidence of rape.”

  That surprised Oliver. According to Richard, both the women discovered in Alabama had been raped. “How long was Mrs. Clayton missing before her body was found?”

  “A week,” Richard answered quietly.

  Oliver’s detachment momentarily slipped. Jennifer Clayton had been tortured, drowned, and resuscitated, only to be tortured again and again before the killer grew tired and drowned her a final time. But not before he cut her unborn child from her body.

  “He tortured her for a week.” Oliver took a step back and met Holland’s gaze. “That’s almost unheard of, Richard. Most serial killers don’t last beyond three days before their rage drives them to kill.”

  When Holland simply stood there, silently watching him, Oliver asked, “Was the MO the same with the Alabama victims?”

  Richard nodded his confirmation. “Aside from the fact they’d been raped, both victims were found along the shore of the Gulf in Alabama, their dismembered bodies stuffed into garbage bags and tied to a dock.”

  Oliver knew the answer to his next question, but he asked it anyway. “Private or public docks?”

  “Public. Why?”

  “It’s the epilogue to his fantasy.” Oliver glanced between Holland and Ramsey. “His last show of humiliation before he moves beyond them in search of a new vic.”

  A deep indention appeared between Ramsey’s eyes. “And the finger he removes?”

  Oliver returned his attention to the woman’s hand, the doctor still held. “Since it’s customary to wear a wedding ring on that particular finger, my guess is it’s significant to him somehow. A cheating wife or girlfriend.”

  Ramsey placed the hand back inside the body bag and zipped it up. “Are you saying he removes the finger as a form of punishment?”

  Oliver shrugged. “Partly. But it’s definitely his signature. And he’s most likely keeping the wedding rings as trophies.”

  “But why the babies?” Richard asked. “Why take pregnant women?”

  Oliver swung his gaze in Richard’s direction. “Were the other fetuses removed in the same manner as Jennifer Clayton’s?”

  Richard slightly shook his head. “According to the reports, the unborn children hadn’t been removed.”

  “Then why was Jennifer’s?” Oliver peered down at the now zipped bag containing Jennifer’s body, watching as Dr. Ramsey slowly eased her drawer back into its refrigeration unit.

  Oliver spun on his heel and headed toward the door without a word to either of the men behind him.

  “Quick?” Richard caught up with Oliver as he stepped into the hall. “What are you thinking?”

  Oliver didn’t slow. “I need to see the reports from the two vics in Alabama.”

  “I can get them to you within the hour, but you haven’t answered my question.”

  Sailing out the double doors to the parking lot beyond, Oliver dug out his car keys and paused next to his vehicle. “The killer saw something in Jennifer Clayton, something he didn’t see in the others.”

  Oliver unlocked his door and pulled it open. “He removed her unborn child from her body.”

  “Plus, Jennifer Clayton hadn’t been raped,” Richard unnecessarily pointed out.”

  “Yeah,” Oliver muttered softly, more to himself than for Richard’s benefit. “And I need to know what changed for him with Jennifer. Something changed.” With that, he slid behind the wheel, cranked the stifling hot SUV, and backed out of the parking lot.

  Chapter Four

  Oliver sat on his couch later that evening, drink and folder in hand. He couldn’t get Jennifer Clayton out of his mind.

  She’d had her unborn child removed from her body before her death. Why?

  Mrs. Clayton had been a twenty-eight-year-old preschool teacher with her whole life ahead of her…her hopes and dreams snuffed out by a sadistic monster bent on pain and humiliation.

  Opening the folder, Oliver scanned the details of the first page until he found what he looked for… Jennifer’s husband, Mark Clayton.

  Mark was a sales rep for a local pest control company in town. He was thirty-two years old, just four years older than his deceased wife.

  Oliver made a mental note to visit Mr. Clayton first thing the following morning.

  He laid the folder aside and picked up the next one. Inside were images and details of one of the women found in Alabama. Blonde hair, blue eyes, twenty-seven years of age.

  Laying that folder aside, Oliver opened the next one only to find similarities to the other two victims. Same hair and eye color.

  He glanced at the woman’s age, not surprised to find she’d been under thirty at the time of her death as well.

  The victims aren’t random. They’re surrogates.

  Oliver took another swig of his scotch, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was closing in on ten pm.

  He set his drink on the coffee table, along with the folders he held, and then snatched up his cell phone and put in a call to his secretary, Joyce.

  She answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Joyce. I’m not going to be in the office the rest of the week. Will you call my sister and let her know that I won’t be making the birthday party tomorrow?”

  “Is everything all right?” Though she sounded sleepy, concern lined the edges of her voice.

  Oliver chose his words carefully. “Everything is fine, Joyce. I’ve been asked to profile for the BAU on a local case.”

  “The BAU? I thought you were done working with them.”

  “It’s only temporary, I promise. I’d like for you to keep the office open in my absence.”

  His secretary remained quiet for a moment. “It’s obviously something serious if they need a profiler. Should I be concerned?”

  Since she wasn’t a young blonde, Oliver knew she had nothing to worry about.

  He attempted to put her mind at ease. “Not at all, Joyce. Hopefully, we’ll have everything wrapped up quickly, and I’ll be back in the office before you know it.”

  A brief pause ensued. “Okay. I’ll call Mindy and let her know you can’t make the party. If you need my help with anything, just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Joyce. Just knowing you’re taking care of the office is more help than anything. Have a good night.”

  He hung up the phone and placed it on the coffee table next to the folders before downing the rest of his scotch.

  The doorbell rang, eliciting an annoyed growl in the back of his throat.

  He surged to his feet and marched across the room.

  A look through the peephole conjured up Jason Haney’s face.

  Oliver opened the door and stepped back to allow his lifelong friend’s entrance. “You’re out kind of late.”

  Jason sauntered into the room and made his way to the bar to pour himself a drink. “It’s only ten fifteen. Can I get you a refill?”

  Oliver handed him his empty glass and followed him to the bar.

  “What are you up to this evening?” Jason quickly poured them two drinks.

  Oliver waited for Jason to pass him his scotch and then took a deep swallow. “I’m actually working.”

  “At this hour?”

  Oliver rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’ve been asked to assist the FBI on a case.”

  With his glass to his lips, Jason turned to face Oliver, his eyebrows nearly in his hairline. “No shi
t?”

  Oliver returned to his position on the couch and waited for Jason to take a seat across from him in the recliner. “I was a bit surprised, myself. I mean it’s been years.”

  Jason sat forward with his elbows resting on his jean-clad knees, swirling the dark liquid around in his scotch glass. “You’re profiling again?”

  Oliver shrugged. “Not on a permanent basis. I’m merely assisting them on a local case.”

  Understanding registered in Jason’s brown eyes. “Ah. The girl that was found under the pier in Panama City Beach.”

  “Yes,” Oliver admitted before taking a drink of his scotch. “Two more were killed earlier in the month over the Alabama line. Same MO.”

  Jason stared back at him without blinking. “A serial killer. Are you going to be able to handle this?”

  Oliver understood Jason’s concern. He’d watched Oliver fall apart after April’s death and had been by his side through the frustration and rage of letting her killer slip through his fingers. “I can handle it.”

  But he wasn’t so sure he believed his own words.

  Jason continued to stare, his dark-brown eyes brimming with concern.

  “I said I can handle it,” Oliver bit out, more annoyed with himself than with Jason.

  “Okay then.” Jason sighed. “I’ll let it drop. Just know that I’m here if you need to talk.” He finished off his drink, set the empty glass on the coffee table, and pushed to his feet. “I have to go. I’m meeting someone at Gulfscape in half an hour.”

  Oliver stood as well. “You have a date at eleven o’clock?”

  Jason grinned. “Jealous?”

  “Not at all. I’m perfectly content sleeping alone. But you go and have a good time. I’ll just live vicariously through you.”

  Jason sobered. “It’s been almost six years, Quick. Don’t you think it’s about time you lived a little?”

  Oliver knew his friend spoke the truth, but he couldn’t bring himself to enter the dating scene. Not yet. “I’m far too fucked up to attempt dating. My emotional baggage alone is enough to outweigh the best of intentions.”

  With an understanding nod, Jason made his way to the door and pulled it open. He stopped on the porch of Oliver’s beachside condo, appearing to consider his next words. “We all miss her, my friend. She was a hell of a lady. A lady that would want you to go on living. Even if it means without her.”