Matters of Seduction Page 6

  She paused and stared out the window for a moment. “Another thing. It’s not unusual for this type of killer to follow his crimes in the media, or even to take it upon himself to contact the police. And that brings me to the tape.”

  Cahill’s mouth tightened. “Ah, yes, the tape.”

  “If he’s the one who sent the tape to the police— and I think he probably is—then it tells us a good deal more about him. For one thing, he’s done his research. He knows something about serial killers. He goes through all four classifications to make sure we know he doesn’t conform to any of them.” Pru glanced at Cahill. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you had me go through the list.”

  “‘I don’t hate women,’” Cahill quoted. “‘Nor do I take their lives for sadistic pleasure. I’m not on a mission. I’m not a thrill seeker. I don’t hear voices inside my head. I don’t fit any of your profiles because I’m not like any killer you’ve ever known.’”

  The hair at the back of her neck lifted. Listening to the killer’s distorted voice alone in her apartment last night had been unsettling enough, but to hear Cahill repeat those words was somehow even more disturbing.

  “He’s taunting us,” Pru said. “He can’t resist bragging about how good he is. He wants attention, respect, and he damn well wants to make sure everyone appreciates how clever he is.”

  “Traits of a thrill killer,” Cahill pointed out.

  Pru sighed. “I know. So the tape is another anomaly. Like I said, he’s obviously done some research. If he knows the general classifications, then it’s probably a safe bet that he’s also aware of the distinctions between an organized and disorganized crime. That could explain why he’s so hard to pigeonhole. He could be manipulating the MO, the crime scene, even his own personality in order to mislead us.”

  “Very good, Agent,” Cahill said approvingly.

  Pru was allowed only a split second to bask in the glow of his praise.

  “But there’s a fifth classification that you failed to mention,” he said. “It isn’t as well documented, but the guys in the Investigative Support Unit at Quantico have been seeing it more often in recent years.” They were approaching their exit and he automatically slowed. “Are you familiar with the term ‘surrogate killer’?”

  “Surrogate,” Pru murmured. “As in replacement? Stand-in?”

  Cahill nodded. “He kills under the orders or influence of someone else. The most famous case, of course, is Charles Manson.”

  Pru sucked in her breath as the purpose of their trip suddenly became crystal clear to her. That was why they were going to see Stiles.

  She studied Cahill’s profile as she digested the sudden revelation. “Do you really think John Allen Stiles could be manipulating someone to kill for him from his prison cell?”

  Cahill shrugged. “I think it’s entirely possible. Whether we can prove it or not is another matter.”

  Pru couldn’t help shuddering, although she tried to mask it by leaning forward to retrieve something from her briefcase. Since her meeting with Cahill in his office yesterday, she’d done some research. John Allen Stiles had raped and murdered five young women in a three-month killing spree before the police had finally apprehended him. Somehow, according to the reports she’d read, he’d gotten to know his victims. He’d insinuated himself into their lives, and they’d become so infatuated with him that they’d willingly let him into their homes. One word that kept coming up in the descriptions of Stiles was charismatic. Another was manipulative.

  The rose petals, candles and champagne found at the three recent crime scenes were disturbingly reminiscent of the murders Stiles had committed two years ago, as was the posing of the bodies with a long-stemmed rose.

  And in just a little while, Pru would be coming face-to-face with him.

  SURROUNDED BY PINE WOODS and a beautiful state park, Huntsville was like any other small East Texas town with one notable exception: it was known as the capital of the state’s penal system. The area was home to seven separate correctional facilities including the infamous Walls Unit, which housed the state’s only death chamber.

  Pru had spent four years in Huntsville attending Sam Houston State University so she knew the importance of the prison system to the economy of the region. In time, like everyone else who lived and worked in the area, she’d gotten used to the sight of all those sprawling facilities enclosed by fences topped with razor wire.

  But newcomers were often dumbfounded to discover that, rather than being in a remote location, the Walls Unit was right smack in the middle of town, surrounded by homes where people lived and raised their children.

  In college, Pru’s apartment had overlooked the thirty-two-foot-high wall, and the view often included protesters who came for nearly every execution. That was one thing Pru had never gotten used to nor would ever forget.

  She and Cahill were expected at the prison, but they still had to go through the same procedure as every other visitor. Guards with mirrored poles checked beneath their vehicle, and their credentials were thoroughly scrutinized. Once they signed in and relinquished their weapons, they passed through a metal detector and then a uniformed guard escorted them to the warden’s office.

  Jim Pickett was a middle-aged man with sandy-colored hair and a thick, neatly trimmed mustache. He was only around five foot six or so with a thin, wiry build that seemed to exude nervous energy. He shook hands with both of them and as his gaze met Pru’s, his eyes sparkled with what she might have assumed was good humor if not for the furrows in his brow and the deep grooves around his mouth and eyes. He had a tough job and it showed.

  He motioned them to chairs across from his desk and then wasted no time in getting down to business. “You’re here to see John Allen Stiles.” Taking a file from a drawer, he slipped on his glasses and perused the contents of the folder. “I took the liberty of doing a little research after we spoke on the phone, Special Agent Cahill. Since Stiles’s transfer from the Harris County Jail eighteen months ago, he’s been a model prisoner. No fights, no gangs, no trouble whatsoever.”

  “What about visitors?” Cahill asked. “We’re interested in anyone on the outside he may have been in contact with.”

  “I had someone check the logs after you called. The only visitor he’s had other than the chaplain is his sister, Naomi Willis. She comes every two weeks, rain or shine. And then, of course, his attorney. He’s got a new one to handle his appeal. A man named Hathaway. Jared Hathaway. He’s out of Houston, I think.”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar to Pru, but she couldn’t place it at the moment.

  “What about phone calls?” Cahill asked.

  “You know the drill. Unless privileges are revoked, each inmate gets a limited number of phone calls per month, and they’re monitored.”

  “Our San Antonio office recently traced a series of cell phone calls to and from the Ellis Unit,” Cahill told him. “We know cell phones are a problem in prisons. Is it possible Stiles could have gotten his hands on one?”

  Pickett’s gaze was very direct. “Anything’s pos sible. And you’re right. Cell phones are a huge problem for us. It used to be that the contraband we worried about was drugs and weapons. Now it’s cell phones, and I can guarantee these guys aren’t using them to call home on Christmas or Mother’s Day. You catch an inmate with a phone, though, and he’ll flush it before you can ever lay a hand on it. And the pressure in those toilets…well, let’s just say…you don’t want to have an arm anywhere near one. Last time the FBI came looking, we had to drag the sewer. Those boys were raking out cell phones like pulling bass out of a lake.”

  “How do they smuggle them in?” Pru asked.

  Pickett shrugged. “Any number of ways. Nobody likes to talk about it, but we had a guard not too long ago that was bringing them in. You get someone like that in here…not too bright, not too educated. He’s working for little more than minimum wage, and these inmates…they know how to sucker people. They’re experts
when it comes to manipulation. They’ll bribe someone or feed them a hard luck story. You’d be surprised how many people fall for it.”

  “What about the Internet? E-mail?” Cahill asked.

  Pickett shrugged. “No inmate in the Texas prison system is allowed to use the Internet. But just like cell phones, that doesn’t mean they don’t have access. A lot of these guys have taken to cyberspace like ducks to water, and they know how to get around the system. What they do, see, is snail-mail their information to friends or activists on the outside who forward it on to prisoner pen pal sites. They set up an account and then the mail starts pouring in.

  “Some of the inmates are legitimately reaching out because they’re bored and looking to make the time pass faster, but a lot of them run scams. They portray themselves on these Web sites as innocent, abused, misunderstood individuals just looking for a friend, a sympathetic ear, what have you. And the people that buy into their sob stories are usually lonely, vulnerable women who think they can rehabilitate these guys with a little TLC.”

  Pickett shook his head in disgust. “These inmates…most of them don’t have a conscience. Right and wrong don’t mean anything to them. That’s why they’re in here. They’ll fleece some poor, unsuspecting woman out of thousands of dollars and not blink an eye.”

  “And there’s no way to monitor these Web sites,” Pru said.

  “It’s damn near impossible,” he agreed. “There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of them worldwide. Searching each and every one for inmate ads would require a full-time team of investigators. Same goes for separating Internet-generated mail from regular mail. It can’t be done because we aren’t allowed to open ninety percent of what comes in here.”

  “So, in other words,” Cahill said, “Stiles could maintain regular contact with someone on the outside, and no one here would ever be the wiser.”

  Pickett gave them a thin smile. “That’s the reality of it. Not a damn thing we can do about it, either.”

  Chapter Five

  Rather than using one of the visitor’s booths, Pickett had arranged for Pru and Cahill to interview Stiles in a small interrogation room equipped with a two-way mirror. The only furniture in the cinder-block space was a rectangular table and three straight-backed chairs. One chair was placed at the far end of the table, facing the two-way mirror, and the other two occupied the opposite end.

  Pru and Cahill took their seats, and after about five minutes, the door opened and two guards escorted Stiles into the room. He wore the regulation orange jumpsuit with his inmate number stamped above the left breast and across the back. A chain connected the cuffs around his wrist to the shackles around his ankles, causing him to walk with a slow, awkward gait.

  At first glance, there was nothing extraordinary about the man at all. In his early thirties, he had brown hair, blue eyes, and he was shorter than either of the guards, probably two or three inches less than six feet. The jumpsuit was so ill-fitting, it was hard to tell about his build, but his face was thin, his shoulders narrow. He looked almost fragile, and other than prominent cheekbones, completely nondescript.

  He certainly didn’t appear to be a Casanova type, a man capable of attracting the intelligent, professional women who had ultimately become his victims.

  That was Pru’s initial impression, but the moment his gaze met hers, she understood. The impact exploded deep inside her gut, and she almost gasped. It was as if he’d momentarily sucked all the air from the room, leaving her breathless and chilled. And yet, when he smiled at her, Pru couldn’t tear her gaze away.

  The word used to describe him in the reports she’d read flashed through her head. Charismatic.

  Oh, yes. John Allen Stiles was charismatic to the extreme, although Pru wasn’t sure that completely explained her reaction to him.

  She found herself staring into the eyes of a brutal killer, and she couldn’t look away.

  The sensation was terrifying.

  Cold sweat broke out along her forehead as her heart pounded inside her chest. For a moment, Pru wanted more than anything to get up and flee his presence. She didn’t want that man looking at her. She didn’t want to breathe the same air he breathed. If there was such a thing as true evil, Pru believed she’d just come face-to-face with it.

  She moistened her lips, willing away her panic. She couldn’t let him see how he affected her because he would find a way to use it against her. He knew how to manipulate women. He was a master, and she couldn’t lose sight of what he had done in the past. What he might still be capable of orchestrating from his prison cell.

  He eased himself into the chair at the opposite end of the table from Pru and Cahill. He appeared perfectly calm. No telltale twitches. No darting eyes. He seemed to be in his element and enjoying it.

  One of the guards stationed himself directly behind Stiles while the other moved to the door. Stiles tracked the second guard with apparent amusement before bringing his focus back to Pru. She tried to suppress a shudder as their gazes connected yet again.

  He smiled. Knowingly. Charmingly.

  “How good of you to come and see me,” he said.

  He might have been welcoming her into his parlor, so cordial was his tone. His voice was low and well modulated. He was an intelligent, educated man who liked to kill.

  Beside her, Cahill sat perfectly still. He, too, seemed calm. If he experienced any of what Pru had felt when Stiles entered the room, he didn’t show it. His voice, when he spoke, was just as pleasant, although there was an edge of something in his tone that also made Pru shiver.

  “I’m Special Agent Cahill and this is Special Agent Dunlop.”

  Stiles lifted a brow. “The FBI? Well, well, well. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Cahill said, still in that same matter-of-fact tone. “But first I’d like to show you some pictures.” He pulled photographs of the three recent victims from his pocket and placed them on the table. “I want you to tell me if you recognize any of these women.”

  Stiles smirked. “Are they dead or alive, Agent Cahill?”

  “They were alive when these pictures were taken.”

  “Ah.” Something gleamed in Stiles’s eyes. Pru almost expected him to smack his lips. “I confess, you have me intrigued. What happened to them?”

  “They were strangled. They were each found clutching a single red rose. Sound familiar?”

  Stiles shrugged. “Well, you know what they say. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I’m puzzled, though. Why would you think I’d recognize them? Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with their demise?” He held up his shackled hands. “As you can see, I’m a bit indisposed at the moment.”

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Cahill shoved the pictures away from him, then nodded to the guard at the door. The man came over and slid the pictures down to Stiles.

  “Just take a look.” Cahill’s voice was still controlled and unthreatening. “Tell me what you think.”

  “Of course. I’m happy to oblige in any way I can.” But Stiles made no move to pick up the pictures or even glance at them. Instead, his gaze moved back to Pru. She suspected he’d sensed her nervousness and was entertained by it. “I do have one stipulation, however.”

  Cahill never altered his tone or expression. “And that is?”

  “I want to speak to Agent Dunlop. Alone, if you don’t mind. In fact, you can leave now, Agent Cahill. You and I are finished.”

  “Let’s not make this difficult,” Cahill said. “Take a look at the pictures.”

  “You have my terms.” And just like that, the mask of a refined, affable gentleman dropped, allowing Pru a terrifying glimpse of the sadistic monster hiding inside. His blue eyes turned icy, and there was nothing human behind them. Certainly no conscience. No remorse. He’d brutally raped and murdered five women, and those eyes were the last thing his victims had seen before they died.

  Pru dropped her gaze. She had to clasp her
hands tightly in her lap to keep them from trembling.

  “Why don’t you let your partner speak for herself?” Stiles suggested. “What do you say, Agent Dunlop? It’d be a pity if you made the trip all the way up here for nothing. All you have to do is agree to a nice little tête-à-tête with me, and then I’ll look at your pictures. I’ll tell you everything I know about them. You have my word.”

  Pru wasn’t quite sure how she managed it, but she shrugged and looked him in the eyes as she said with cool indifference, “If that’s what it takes.”

  He smiled. “I knew you’d see things my way. Agent Cahill? I believe you’ve been outmaneuvered.”

  Cahill hesitated, then stood. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

  “How chivalrous,” Stiles taunted. When the door closed behind Cahill, he returned his gaze to Pru. “Alone at last.”

  Pru glanced at the guard behind him. “Not quite.”

  “Just ignore them,” Stiles said. “After a while you won’t even notice they’re there.”

  “Will you look at the pictures now?” Pru asked him.

  “We haven’t had our chat yet.”

  “Please look at the pictures, Mr. Stiles.”

  Something dark glinted in his eyes. “That wasn’t the deal. If you want me to act in good faith, then I’m afraid you’ll be held to the same standard.”

  She drew a breath. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “You, of course.”

  “I didn’t agree to that,” she snapped.