A Killer's Daughter Read online

  “… called our guys to process the scene… turned up on bayside. Right next to the tiki bar. Some kid found them near the kayaks. Can you imagine?”

  She could. Vividly.

  “Anyway, it’s got the lab buzzing. And we can’t determine where they entered the water. The Coast Guard is helping investigators to figure that, but I can’t zero in on the time of death any closer than five hours, and the tides change every four, so…” Juliette frowned. “You okay?”

  Nadine resisted the urge to ask if the victims were tied together at the wrist with a length of cording. Did the female have long hair, dark eyes and a slim build? Nadine’s face heated.

  “You okay?”

  “Okay?” she repeated, giving herself processing time and landing on a redirection. “It looks like I won’t beat the rain.” She motioned to the first large droplets splattering sidewalks in the courtyard.

  Juliette peeked out of one arched opening to stare at the approaching storm.

  Stabbing deaths. She had a special horror of those. Nadine crossed her arms over her middle, flashing a defensive posture because Juliette was suddenly a threat. The urge to run nearly overwhelmed her. These deaths were all too familiar.

  “Lead detective wants a profiler for this one,” Juliette said, still looking skyward.

  “Did you suggest me?” Nadine heard her voice squeak as she strained to maintain control of the terrified creature writhing inside of her.

  “No,” Juliette assured. She waved her hands and made eye contact now.

  “I’m not a profiler.”

  “But you could be,” she said.

  “I help after arrests. That’s what forensic psychologists do, help the police after they catch the bad guys. Work with suspects, inmates. Assessment of mental state, interviews, sentencing recommendations.” She glanced up to see Juliette looking at her as if she’d stepped off the deep end. Nadine realized she was babbling and reined herself in. “What I’m saying is, they need a criminal psychologist. They’re the ones who assist law enforcement on capturing criminals.”

  “There’s crossover, no?”

  There was.

  Nadine shook her head. “Besides. We have a criminal psychologist on staff already. They’ll assign him.”

  “I heard them mention you.”

  “Who did?”

  “Detective Wernli recommended you to the new Homicide cop, Detective Demko.” Juliette squeezed her hands together in front of her heart and fluttered her eyes. “Total hunk, btw.”

  Nadine was still in denial mode.

  “He won’t want me. They need someone to do predictive work. That’s not me.” Nadine was still jabbering, talking too fast and too loud.

  “But this is a chance to assist in a major case. Double homicide, a wild one.”

  “I… I just don’t think that kind of work is for me.”

  Juliette’s tone turned conciliatory. “I wanted to give you a heads-up is all. Know you hate surprises, so… that’s it.”

  Nadine forced her gaze to meet Juliette’s and saw nothing but concern.

  “I appreciate that.” With a nod of farewell, she headed down the steps and into the courtyard, hurrying toward the street.

  “Want a lift?”

  Nadine deployed her umbrella for protection from the rain and Juliette’s shouted question.

  “I’m fine.” This she called back without turning.

  She wasn’t fine.

  Nadine splashed through rapidly forming puddles. Juliette could be wrong about the profiler request. Nadine was newest on staff. They wouldn’t trust her with something this important. Plus, she was certain they would assign their criminal psychologist to this one.

  Nadine hurried from the courthouse through the downpour, sloshing through the swelling puddles in the crosswalk that soaked her shoes. She arrived at the lobby of her building, two blocks away, panting with exertion and alarm. Safely inside the innocuous three-story cinder-block office complex, she let the tremors come. Years and years of therapy had made her into a functioning adult. But she wasn’t equipped for this.

  It was several minutes before she took the elevator to the third floor and the Forensic Psychology Services office, where she worked.

  Inside, their new assistant called a greeting from behind the high receptionist counter. The young woman gave her a timid doe-eyed blink and shy smile. This was Tina Ruz’s first job out of college, and she was fresh and innocent as a baby bunny. Nadine felt sorry for her because she recognized what the world did to helpless creatures.

  “Dr. Crean wants to see you,” said Tina.

  “Now?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  The sense of dread returned, but Nadine merely nodded and hustled to her office to drop off her things and set her umbrella open to dry.

  On the job here as a forensic psychologist for only three months, Nadine was anxious to make an impression. She wanted to do well here, but her self-protective instincts outweighed ambition. Always. And right now, her instincts were buzzing like a hornet’s nest.

  As she headed from her office down the corridor to the corner office of Dr. Margery Crean, she prayed this had nothing to do with the death investigation she’d discussed with Juliette. Her boss might wish to speak to her about anything, and not necessarily the recent slayings. She ignored the distant shrill of a siren in her mind, but her sweating palms were less easily overlooked.

  Why did her thoughts go immediately to assignment to an active investigation? There were worse things.

  As she walked through the outer office, she wondered again if she should have disclosed her past to her employer. If she’d told them, would they have hired her?

  Keeping secrets was as exhausting as keeping everyone at a distance. But experience had shown her that being alone was preferable to being ostracized.

  Nadine paused in the outer office, and resting a hand flat on her chest, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The self-calming exercise took only a moment. Afterward, she glanced down at herself. Yes, she was wearing a navy-blue suit, white blouse and low practical heels on small narrow feet. She checked the simple gold hoops in her ears and ran her hand over her hair pulled back at her nape. She straightened her shoulders, knowing that the panicky little girl within was invisible to all but herself.

  Nadine walked with calm assurance toward Crean’s office. She looked the part of the professional she tried to be and, if necessary, she could utilize very effective masking techniques.

  Before she studied psychology, she had become a social chameleon. She didn’t stand out. She blended in groups. Mimicked reactions. Copied expressions. Nothing too special. Nothing too odd. Hiding among normal people, like her mother had done for so long. The good ones, the successful ones, always did.

  Crean’s door was open, and as Nadine raised her hand to knock, the director of clinical services waved her in.

  “Close the door,” she said, glancing back to the computer monitor as Nadine complied. Crean’s office phone blinked. “Excuse me.” She lifted the handset.

  Nadine admired Crean but didn’t trust her, or anyone really. All Nadine’s therapists said she saw every authority figure as a potential threat. A habit formed in childhood. She raised a hand to her cheek, certain she could still feel the sting that followed each slap.

  Nadine dropped her hand and lifted her chin, forcing a placid expression, eyes on her boss. Likely, Crean knew as many tricks as she did, or she might be exactly what she seemed. She found that unlikely because no one was.

  And figuring people out was Nadine’s A game.

  All she could ascertain pointed to a woman who was scary ordinary. But nobody went into this field because they were whole and happy. Two kinds of individuals settled into the profession of psychology, the broken and the ones who like to drive a pin through a living fly to watch it wiggle.

  Which was Crean?

  Her director was married to an outwardly normal guy who owned a landscaping business an
d bred dogs. They had one daughter away at college. Children didn’t mean anything. Her mom had two kids. Reproduction was easy. Mothering was harder.

  Crean played golf. She canoed. She was a member of the library board, and she volunteered at the no-kill shelter. Zero social media presence, at least with her professional name, except LinkedIn, which didn’t count. Normal home, normal kid, normal life. Didn’t add up.

  Nadine settled in one of two chairs that faced the desk. Crean’s brown eyes flicked to hers, still talking to someone about schedules. Her gaze danced away, giving Nadine a chance to take a good look at her supervisor.

  Dr. Margery Crean was in her early forties, with intelligent brown eyes that centered a face that had fought many battles. Her fine, chin-length blonde hair brushed the collar of her crisp white blouse. Wispy bangs hid some of the deep lines in her forehead, changing the focus to her broad nose.

  As Crean spoke on the phone, Nadine glanced at the shelves of books behind her, noting many familiar psychology texts. A single bookend was a cast plaster of an old hag draped in a cloak, clutching a pair of shears—the type used on sheep—on her lap. On the other side of the neat row of textbooks and diagnostic manuals sat a green ceramic canister holding several pairs of scissors with brightly colored handles. Nadine narrowed her eyes on the seemingly benign display.

  On the adjoining wall, blinds designed to block the harsh eastern sunlight covered the window. Beside this was a framed print of a painting of two Roman lovers resting on marble steps while Cupid draped them in a garland of flowers. It pointed to Crean being a romantic, until you looked at the green-veiled woman in the image, holding wicked-looking shears above the pair.

  Nadine had asked about the print. Crean told her the original was on display at the Ringling Museum of Art, and Nadine had later found the painting hanging in the modern wing. She learned that the shrouded figure was Atropos, oldest of the three Fates, and the one responsible for choosing each mortal’s manner of death. While her sisters spun and measured the length of a human-life thread, she severed it.

  Nadine glanced at the canister of scissors again, their presence taking a more sinister turn.

  As she studied the painting, she tried to determine which of the entwined life-threads Atropos was about to sever. The blade of the shears looked familiar, like the carpet knife belonging to her mother.

  She flicked her attention back to Crean. She respected her boss and her work with convicted felons. Crean was an expert on serial killers, published prodigiously, and Nadine had read every article of Crean’s she could get her hands on.

  Crean’s academic knowledge of serial killers impressed, but it didn’t compare to Nadine’s personal knowledge.

  At her mother’s shout, Nadine spun around on the vinyl kitchen chair, the cracked spot scraping against her leg. Her mother stood in the trailer, completely naked. Water dripped from her wet hair, the droplets tinged pink.

  “Dee-Dee! Get the trash to the curb.”

  Nadine hesitated, math homework forgotten, the gnawed pencil still gripped in her fingers. She rubbed the surface, feeling the indentures from her teeth marks. She had turned eight a week ago, but still hated going outside at night. There were big dogs and coyotes and the light above the trailer door didn’t work, so it was dark and creepy. Nadine bit her lower lip, hunching.

  “Do you hear me, girl! Now!”

  She scrambled off her chair and gripped the seatback, her fingers sticky from the jelly crackers her brother, Arlo, had given her for supper.

  “What are you yelling about?” Arlo appeared from the hallway, followed by the scent of the pot he’d been smoking. Six years her senior and already in eighth grade, he was a good student, when he could be bothered to go to school.

  He caught sight of their mother and pulled up short.

  “Jesus, Ma. Put some clothes on.”

  “In a minute.” She turned to Nadine. “Go on.”

  “Go where?” her brother asked.

  When Nadine looked to Arlo, her mother lost it.

  “What are you lookin’ at him fer? Trash is your job. Not his.”

  “I’m scared of the dark.”

  Her mother threw her head back and laughed. She was in one of her happy-time moods. Nadine watched her breasts jiggle. Arlo stormed back down the hall.

  When she stopped laughing and lifted an open hand toward her only daughter, Nadine scuttled past her and out into the carport, running a few steps and then turning back. The door slammed shut behind her, removing the square of light.

  Nadine trembled. Something scuttled under the trailer. A stray cat? She hoped so, because the raccoons and possums had big teeth.

  She inched toward the trash cans, guided by the light from Arlo’s window. There beside the can was a dark garbage bag, exactly like last week. She lifted it and it thumped against her legs. The content was squishy and warm. There was a bad smell, too. She turned her head as she opened the lid. Piles of trash filled the bin. The stench made her eyes water. Why did her mother keep throwing away her clothes?

  Why was the water on her face pink?

  The beam of a flashlight illuminated the carport. The beam came from Arlo’s window and it lit her path all the way back to the door. When she turned the latch, she saw her mother now stood at the sink wearing a sports bra and shorts.

  “You have a look inside that bag?” she said, cigarette clenched between her lips.

  Nadine shook her head. She was never looking in those bags.

  “Nadine?” Crean was now off the phone.

  Nadine gave herself a mental shake, pushing back her memories. In time, she’d learned exactly what had made those bags squishy, the blood-soaked clothing of Arleen and her latest victims. Even back then, she’d suspected, but been too terrified to look. She’d learned the contents of the final bag years later at her mother’s trial. Trash day and murder day were so often the same that Nadine still shook when she saw a garbage truck.

  “Thank you for stopping in.”

  She forced a smile, wondering if Crean saw the resemblance between her and one specific woman among her research subjects now on death row.

  Nadine tried for a chipper tone. “What’s up?”

  Did Crean note the similarity in their hazel-green eyes? Did she know that Nadine was the daughter of a killer?

  Two

  Worst nightmare

  Crean tented her fingers before her and pinned Nadine with a speculative gaze. “Our police department has asked me to supply a profiler.”

  The frown came before she could stop it. Micro-twitches, the body’s autonomic response that was too quick to control, but not too fast to draw notice by an expert observer. Nadine blinked and forced her brows up into an expression of surprise.

  “A profiler?” Alarm bells sounded in her head, cymbals to accompany the percussive rhythm of her heartbeat.

  “For the death investigation on the bay. I’m sure you saw the news,” she said. “It’s a double homicide.”

  Nadine’s mother’s first victims were Gail DeNato and Charlie Rogers, a double homicide. They were found on Deadman’s Bend on the St. Johns River in Central Florida. She recalled the poster of the victims and the two inset images. She had not been meant to see this exhibit in court, but she had, and remembered the inset of rope connecting the corpses. She’d later asked Mr. Robins, the district attorney, why they were tied together, but he wouldn’t tell her.

  Her brow grew damp. Was the cold traveling over her skin due to the air-conditioning or fear?

  “Nadine?” Crean’s voice held a note of alarm.

  “Isn’t it early for a profiler?”

  “Police have requested one.”

  Nadine wondered if the tremors attacking her body were visible to her boss.

  “Would you like a recommendation?” she asked, hopeful that she might still get out of this.

  “I don’t need one. You are my first choice.”

  Immediately Nadine began devising a polite refusal.
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  “I have no experience profiling.”

  “Then it will be good experience. Could lead to new opportunities.”

  “Maybe.” She frowned at the weak reply.

  Nadine didn’t mind criminals. She did mind the dead. Dead people were dangerous. Murder victims were the most dangerous of all. They would haunt her, adding to the specters she already carried. Each life her mother took condemned her, apparitions of blame, constant reminders of the cost of her silence.

  Nadine might look like the rest of them—ordinary. But ordinary differed from normal. Appearances of normality did not always indicate a person was so, and Nadine had learned to mask atypical behaviors long ago. Her greatest fear was that what made her different was that, deep down, she and Arleen were the same. Panic over becoming like her mother kept her in a constant state of self-evaluation for any hint of a monster living within herself.

  “You’ll have help with your current workload. I’m already reassigning some of your cases.”

  Before you even spoke to me. The fear crashed in like a collapsing wave.

  Trapped.

  Nadine was the worst possible choice for this position, and she couldn’t tell Crean why. Not if she wanted to keep her secrets.

  A person doesn’t go hiding who she is, and what she might become, for more than a decade, only to pop out of the weeds and yell, “Surprise! I have all the predilections of a serial killer.”

  Now here she was, assigned to a double-homicide investigation. To become someone who works with the dead to find monsters. But she saw monsters in everyone, including herself. Especially herself.

  Crean let the pause stretch between them.

  “I have the least experience of anyone in our office.”

  “You have all you need,” she assured.

  “Our criminal psychologist would be a smarter choice,” said Nadine.

  “Yes, true, if we had one, but we don’t.” Crean rose from her seat, signaling the end of the discussion.

  “What about Gilmore Ross?”