Canaan Camp

Chapter Six

Gaining Trust

 

Canaan Camp

          "Something about him makes me uneasy," said John Campbell.

          Joshua smiled tolerantly.  "He wasn't raised as you were, John.  He's had a troubled life, but he's come a long way to be where he is."

          Campbell had never doubted Joshua's judgment, but he was beginning to.  Cal Hodges had somehow ingratiated himself with Joshua very quickly.

           "His past doesn't worry me," he said carefully.  "It's the way he behaves.  He doesn't behave like a new convert."

           "Well he hasn't been converted yet, John, not completely."

           "Then why is he staying with you?"

           "Are you questioning me, John?"

          If Campbell believed in anything, he believed in Joshua.  The stranger made him uncomfortable.  In his gut he knew that Hodges didn't belong in Canaan.

           "I would never question you, Father Joshua," he said.  "But I don't trust that man."

          Joshua smiled tolerantly again.  His favorite child and most trusted assistant felt threatened.  "Think of him as an enemy who is turning our way, John.  Perhaps God has sent him to become a great and powerful warrior for us."

           "I can't see him as another St. Paul."

           "Careful, John," said Joshua irritably.  "Satan enters a man through his pride.  Look to yourself.  Beware of ambition."

           "Ambition?  All I want is to serve you."

           "By questioning my decisions?" asked the old man petulantly.

           "I didn't mean to question your decision---"

           "Of course you did!  It's exactly what you did."  Joshua regretted the sharp words as soon as they loosed.  He rested a hand on the younger man's shoulder.  "I'm sorry, John.  I shouldn't have snapped at you, but I know this young man was sent to us.  I feel that he is going to do something important.  You must trust my judgment, son."

          Although John shared in the consensus that Joshua was a prophet, familiarity had eroded his once uncritical awe. 

           "I do trust you, Father Joshua.  Totally."

          It was true, but he was beginning to see that Joshua was all too human, and feared that he was far from infallible.  He lapsed into silence, but remained convinced that Joshua was wrong about Hodges.

 

May 19, Fayetteville

          Paget awoke refreshed, but still wired.  He shaved and showered leisurely and then went into the living room.  Shivering from the frigid, maxed out AC, he heard Mandy moan.  Surprised that she was still alive, he dragged her into the bedroom and threw her onto the bed.  Then went back for the lamp to finish her off.  While he was showering he thought about the large cache of drugs in the apartment and decided that the stuff might help him survive the mind-numbing boredom back at the camp.  After getting dressed again, he packed the pimp's stash into a carry bag and took the money in his wallet

          On the way out of town, he stopped to top off the tank with money taken from pimp's apartment.  Despite the shade of the canopy, he fidgeted in the sticky heat while waiting for the balky pump.  He reminded himself to keep it near but below the speed limit.  Being asked to show a license would not be good, especially since he had enough PCP in the trunk to wire a medium sized town for a month.  Grumbling to himself that he must have picked the slowest pump at the station, he thought again about what he might be able to do with the rohypnol.  He liked using the correct term for the roofies.  Knowing stuff like that set him above the riffraff.

          He had never used the drug of course.  Only pathetic losers needed the stuff---normally, that is.  Paget flashed on a scene:  Joshua calls Miss Dusky up to the house to help clean, and then leaves her alone while he goes down to the church for the afternoon.  I use the "I'm a real shy but helpful guy" thing to set her at ease and then slip her some into some wine and---

          The nozzle jumped in his hand and the pump began the irritating beeping.  As he slammed the nozzle into its slot, he noticed a couple of college kids with backpacks in the sunlight beyond the canopy.  The boy said something drowned out by the steady noise of highway traffic.  He grabbed her upper arm, and the girl jerked away, blonde hair swirling into her face.  She brushed it away angrily.

61.

                  "Slap her," Bobby advised under his breath.

          He watched with mounting interest as the girl snatched up her backpack and stalked toward him, her short angry steps caused her white halter to bob enticingly.  Paget clenched his teeth as she neared with her head down.  As she turned around the back end of his car, he moved into her, dropping his cup on contact.  Ice and soda splattered on the oil stained pavement.

           "Oh!" gasped the girl.  "I'm sorry.  I should have watched where I was going."

           "It's okay," he said flashing her his best disarming smile.  "It was about empty anyway." 

           "I hope I didn't get any on you," he said looking at her sandaled feet, feigning concern.  Mid thigh shorts accented her long tanned legs.  Tightly trim waist made her at most nineteen or twenty.

           "Not much," she said.  "Besides, it wasn't you.  It was my fault.  You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

          We'll see who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, Pale Babe, he thought.

          She saw immediately that he found her attractive, as she did him.  He had an interesting face, but Jackie was no fool, and wasn't about to become too friendly with a perfect stranger.

           "Having a bad day?" he asked sympathetically.

           "Sort of.  Sorry it had to affect you too," she said, giving him a polite, but dismissive smile before continuing toward the station and a pay phone.

           "You shouldn't be doing what you're doing, you know," he called after her.

          She turned back to look at him. "What?"

           "Sorry.  I probably should just mind my own business, but you and your . . . friend were hitching, weren't you?  Even if you have a guy with you, that's not a good idea.  I just hope you're not . . . uh, incautious enough to go try it on your own."

          Her lips pursed in irritation.  Jackie had endured enough condescension for the day.  "Are you always so full of advice with strangers?" she asked tersely.

           "Hey, no offense.  It's just not safe for a young---for a woman to take rides with strangers.  If something happened to you and I hadn't said something, I'd feel real bad about that."

           "No offense taken," she said, somewhat placated.  "You're right, of course." 

   She ran fingers through her blonde hair.  "A bad day is no excuse for ill manners."

           Someone hit brakes, panic stopping on the highway.  When she looked past him to see what had happened, he took the opportunity to examine her more closely.  His eyes traveled down from her face, and he tried to imagine what she would look like, how she would act if he could only set the hook.

          Keep flipping the bait in front of her.  Sooner or later Pale Babe will suck it in.

           "Where were you headed?" he asked.

          She hesitated, but decided telling him could do no harm.  Besides, after Gerald had been such a jerk it felt good talking to a handsome guy. "Kansas City.  We were going to see my mom for the weekend.  Now I've got to call one of my sorority sisters for a lift back to the dorm."

          She set the backpack down.  "Thanks for your concern," she said.

          Still here, he thought, his pulse kicking up a notch.

62.

           "Too bad you can't go see your mom."

          Jackie didn't usually talk to strange men, but everything about him set her at ease.  He was dressed casually in a light blue button-down shirt snug in the shoulders.  His biceps were well defined, but not grossly so.  He was obviously interested in her, which was flattering.  She needed that today.  The late model sedan he drove spoke of solid respectability.

           "How long since you've seen her?" he asked.

          A voice warned her not to encourage familiarity, but she wasn't a kid anymore, and it was the middle of the day in a crowded parking lot.  So what could it hurt?  Besides, it felt good after the fight with her boyfriend.  It was like she was getting back at him.

           "New Years," she said.  "I haven't seen her since the holidays."

           "Six months?"  Paget reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip.  "That's a long time."

          He peeled off ten twenties and extended them toward her.

           "What are you doing?" she asked.

           "Look.  There's a bus station about three blocks from here," he said extending the bills to her.  "This should be enough to get you a ticket there and back.  Go see your Mom."

           "I can't accept that.  I don't even know you."

          He had anticipated the response and was ready for it. "Look.  I just had a run of luck in the market---made a big profit.  I can afford it.  Believe me.  Besides, rescuing a damsel in distress---I mean what could make a guy feel better than that?"

          Jackie hesitated, obviously tempted.

           "Hey.  Come on.  Take the money.  Your mom wants to see you."

           "Do you live here?" she asked.

           "Why do you ask?"

           "Maybe when a girl meets an interesting and decent guy she'd like to know if she might meet him again."

           "Not much chance of that.  I live up in Lexington."

           "Missouri?"

          Nibble the bait.  Come on, he thought as he nodded.

63.

                    "That's north of Kansas City, isn't it?" she asked looking down in thought.

           "Yeah.  I'm headed home too.  I'd ask you if you wanted to ride along, but we've already talked about not riding with strangers.  I'd really like you to take the money."

           "It's not that I'm ungrateful, but let me think about it minute.  By the way, I'm Jackie Benson."

           "I'm Bobby Mentira," he said, watching her face intently to see if she got it. entira meant either "lie" or "liar."  He liked doing things like that.  It added spice.  "My father was Latino," he said when he saw she didn't get it.

          A speculative look narrowed her eyes.

          Come on.  Suck it in, he thought.

           "I can't take your money, but . . . if you wouldn't mind I'd like to ride along with you," she said with a nervous smile.  "Would that be all right?"

           "I can't think of anything I'd like more, Jackie.  I honestly can't."

           "I have to use the bathroom first.  Can you wait?"

           "Sure.  By the way, can I get you something to drink?  I seemed to have spilled mine, and I need to get another for the road."

           "Get me a Diet Coke," she said cheerfully.  "But I'm buying the next round."

          Paget let his eyes follow her until she disappeared inside.  A quick look toward the highway assured him that the boyfriend was gone.

          Tough luck, Gerald, he said to himself as he popped the trunk.  Don't worry.  Bobby Lee's gonna take real good care of your little blonde friend.

          He took two small pills from a Ziploc bag.  Without alcohol, it would probably take more than one of the roofies.  Inside, he bought a bottle of soda and took it into the bathroom, where he used the handle of his knife to pulverize the pills on the edge of the sink, before scooping the power into her soft drink.  He twisted the top on tightly, and inverted the bottle, hoping the stuff would dissolve.  On the way out he bought his fountain drink.

          As expected, he got back to the car way before she did.  What the hell women always took so much time in the bathroom for, he had no idea.

          When Jackie came back to the car, Bobby leaned across to open her door.

           "Put your seat belt on," he said.

           "Yes, sir, Mr. Law Abiding Citizen," she said lightly.

64.

                   "Always, Miss Benson."  He twisted off the cap to her soda and handed it to her.

          She took a sip.  "Ughh.  Tastes funny," she said, wrinkling her nose.

          Don't you do this to me.  Don't you dare.

           "That diet stuff always tastes funny," he suggested as he pulled onto the highway.

           "I think this one's turned bad."  She screwed the top back on.  "I can't handle that.  I'll get another one the next time we stop."

          The urge to hit her was almost more than he could stand, but with effort, Paget controlled his rage.

          Okay.  Okay.  Miscalculation.  We'll think of something.  She's in the car.  No way is she slipping off the hook now.    

          By the time they crossed into Missouri she was in full yak, going on and on about some sorority crap.  He threw in a word whenever he could to keep up his end of the conversation because he knew that the more women talked the more comfortable they became.  He paid little attention to what she was saying, because he was busy thinking about how he could play it.  By the time they reached Springfield he had a new plan.

           "I've got find a way around the oil," he said as he approached the 60 exit.

           "Oil?"

           "Tar actually," he said as he hit the ramp.  "Sign back there said they're resurfacing the interstate north of town.  Didn't you see it?"

           "No.  Are you sure?"

           "Yeah.  We'll take 17 up.  It'll take us a little out of our way, maybe fifteen minutes or so."

 

          A half hour later they were still traveling east, and Jackie felt the first stirrings of unease.  "Where are we?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

           "Highway 60," he said distractedly as he searched the roadside ahead.  "We had to detour, or don't you remember that?"

          She stiffened at the change in his manner.

          He signaled as they approached the access to an outer road running parallel to the highway.  "Let's pull off get some gas and that soda you wanted."

          She glanced at the guage, seeing that he had used barely a quarter of a tank.

65.

                  "I'm good.  We don't need to stop."

          He pulled onto an outer road and accelerated toward a weedy parking lot where a rusty sign advertised gas at sixty-nine cents.  The isolated station's windows had been broken out.

           "Nice price," she joked nervously.  "But I don't think we'll find anyone to take our money.  Let's go back to the highway."

           "Let's not," he said, barely slowing down as he pulled past the rust streaked above-ground tanks and drove around behind the abandoned station.

          Terrified, Jackie unsnapped her belt and dove for the door as the car came to a stop behind the derelict building.  He grabbed her hair and hauled her back.

           "Now guess what happens," he said tonelessly.

          Holding her fast, he unfastened his seatbelt with his left hand, flipped off the ignition, and opened his door.  He then clamped his arm around her neck, loosed her hair, and clapped a hand over her mouth to cut off her screams.  Then he dragged her across the console and out of the car.

 

Fayetteville, May 20

           "Peppy Pearson," said the beat cop.

           "Yeah.  It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy," said the detective as he studied the battered face.

          The head was grossly misshapen, sunken and pitted by repeated blows of such violence that "blunt trauma" seemed inadequate to describe.  Pearson dealt drugs, so it didn't take a genius to come up with a probable motive.  He went to the bedroom to examine the other victim.  Her head also had been savaged.  The apparent murder weapon, a heavy metal lamp, lay beside her.  The perp had taken the time to remove both the shade and the cord, meaning that the crime hadn't been sudden or impulsive.

           Spatter and streaks of aerosol blood on the headboard, wall, and the ceiling told him that the killer was right handed and had delivered most of the blows while kneeling on the bed.  Cast off in the other room suggested Pearson was killed where he lay, so the vast quantity of blood here must belong to the female.

           "Sir, what do you make of this," asked the policeman who had first responded.  Did they start to clean up the scene and then decide it was too big a job?"

66.

                   The detective looked at the bundle of bloody bedclothes in the corner.

           "I don't know.  From the bloodstains in the other room it looks like she was killed here, and then taken out there . . . and then brought back in here.  It doesn't make sense."

           "Drugs," said the other with a shrug.  "You need me in here?"

           "Go outside for your nicotine fix, Chuck," said the detective as he snapped a close up to get the head wounds in situ.

          So, how did you kill them like this and keep them under control?  Were there two of you, or did you take them one at a time.

          He shot the body from several angles, and then the blood spatter pattern.

          Overkill.  Higher than a kite?

          He looked at the body again.

           "Oh Mandy, what a price you paid," he said softly.

          Cops inevitably get to know a lot of prostitutes.  Unlike most of his colleagues, he saw them as victims of life.  Maybe Mandy Easton chose the demeaning lifestyle because of the drugs, or maybe it was the other way around.  Occasional violence was part of what she bought into when she chose the life.

          You should have known better, right?  But you didn't deserve this.

           Moving down her barely recognizable face, he photographed the bruising on her upper arms and chest.

          So much subdermal blood?  He beat you quite a while before he killed you.  What did he want you to do, tell him where Peppy kept his stuff?  Or was he just an extremely sick trick?

          As he went back into the other room, he kicked something and sending it rolling across the floor toward Pearson's body.  He bent down without touching it, recognizing at once that it was the bronze ball nut from atop the lampshade.  With mounting excitement, he inserted a pen into the screw hole and took it to the light to dust it.

           "Bingo!" he said aloud.

          The ridge details of a partial were sharp.  If the prints were in the system they had their perp.

 

Mark Twain National Forest, Hawthorn County.

          Paget didn't know exactly where he was, which worried him because he might not be able to find the place again.  Having come to end of the logging trail, he sat with the motor running, staring at the trees and thick undergrowth ahead.  He drove past the end of trail, riding over saplings and loose rocks until he judged he could go no further without running the risk of either damaging the car, or getting it high centered.  After some fifty feet down the hill, he stopped.

          He flipped open the blanket and fixed his eyes on the hollow between of her throat.  Pulling the lolling head forward, he reached behind to unclasp her necklace, the only thing he hadn't left behind.  He pushed her head back and held the necklace before her staring eyes.

           "I'll just keep this to remember you by, Pale Babe," he said as he pocketed the jewelry and got out. 

          When he opened the door, the body tumbled sideways, held half in the car by the seat belt.  He reached in and released the catch, letting the body spill headfirst tumble from the car.  After untangling her foot from the seat belt, he tugged the blanket away from the body for a last look. 

          He lingered, unwilling, now that the time had come, to end it.  He stood over her as he replayed the end in his mind, and then knelt to arrange her, trying several poses until he was satisfied.

67.

                  "Finally got what you deserve," he said.

          Paget hid the body in a thicket, arranging it in a suitable position in case he had a chance to come back.  Back at the car he examined the seat.  It was clean, but she had stained the blanket he had bought after killing her.  Transporting her in the trunk would have been safer, but he had wanted her up front.  Folding it quickly, he hurled it into the underbrush where it caught on a bush hanging like a flag.  Cursing, he waded through the brush after it.  Refolding it, he placed it flat on the ground and anchored it with a rock.

          On the way back to the highway, he thought about the roofies he had wasted on the girl.  He should have forced her to take some with alcohol.  Having her unconscious would have ruined it, but at least he would know what to expect from the stuff.  Being around Joshua was like listening to one of those TV preachers twenty-four seven.

          Maybe I can use the stuff to shut the old faggot up before he drives my crazy.

           "It would be like a mute button," he said, laughing aloud at his own joke.

          On the way back he daydreamed other scenarios for using Peppy's stash on the old man.

          Maybe I can make him more entertaining. He considered it humorously at first, and then more seriously. Why not?  There's no reason why not.

          He felt good.  He'd be in control. "Non-traditional use though," he said to himself with mock gravity.  "The purists would be offended that I'm using it for a purpose not intended."

          He laughed. "I'll experiment.  He'll be my lab rat."

 

Little Rock FBI Field Office, May 21

          Tanner's job should have been over.  Paget had clearly committed both sets of homicides, and it should be easy to apprehend him if he continued his recklessness.  Even with a manhunt on, he had returned to his hometown to score drugs.  His behavior was consistent with that of a stressed perp.  Post offense behavior often involved increased consumption of alcohol or drugs to relieve the tension. 

          The Fayetteville photos were instructive.  Whether he could use them to predict anything helpful to the state authorities was another matter.  The Fayetteville people believed their homicides resulted from a simple drug deal gone wrong.  Like the Marked Tree homicides it appeared to have evolved from a lesser crime.  His Arkansas colleagues wanted him to predict what Paget would do next, and where he might go next.  Tanner only wished he had the ability.

          Something about the two crimes bothered him.  Despite being similar in appearance and only slightly older than the Riepe girl, the Fayetteville woman had been treated far differently.  The violence had been prolonged in both cases, but this time the elements of fantasy were totally absent despite the fact that Paget had plenty of time.  The signature aspects seemed to be devolving, which just didn't happen.  Sadists like Paget refined their torture.

          Phencyclidine?  A PCP rage could account for the uncontrolled violence.  He scanned Paget's history again.

68.

                  No history of drug arrests, but Pearson was a pusher.

          He remembered that Peppy Pearson had been suspected as the source for the once again popular drug.  The tox report showed only alcohol and pot in the systems of the Fayetteville victims.  And then there was the single pill found in the apartment.  It had been identified as a member of the benzodiazapine family, flunitrazepam---rohypnol.  The usual source for the date-rape drug was Mexico.

          Nothing unusual about a drug-dealing pimp supplying something like that.

          In combination with alcohol roofies acted like the legendary Mickey Finn, producing up to a couple of hours of total or partial unconsciousness along with amnesia.

Tanner frowned, considering the possibility that Paget had a supply of the stuff.  It didn't fit.  Sexual sadists needed conscious victims.

          Pot, PCP, Roofies, Meth---what difference does it make.  He went for a score and something went wrong.

          Tanner got up to stretch.  It was already eight o'clock, but he had nothing to go home to anymore.

           "I don't blame you, Marge," he said aloud.

          He turned back to the work that really was his life now, like his ex-wife had charged before leaving him.  Even Paget's mayhem was more comfortable to think about than that. 

          Flunitrazepam was an anxiolytic.  A macho guy like Paget would want his victims conscious, but the drug might help him gain control and isolate them.  Then again, he might not have taken the roofies.  Even if he did, he might have just taken them because they were part of the stash.

          Okay.  So Fayetteville is home.  You feel comfortable there.  Now you've got transportation, and probably both a supply of drugs and money from your latest victims.

           "But you've got both post offense anxiety and good sense, but you're not through."

          It was only a gut feeling.  If Paget was beginning to come apart, more violence in the Fayetteville area was a good bet, especially if he got heavily into the drugs.

           "Or maybe your good sense will get the better of you and you'll run," he said, thumping a mug shot of Paget.

           "But where can you go?"