The Trinity Murders Read online

  Books by Jeff Dvorak:

  The Trinity Murders

  Sun, Surf, Suicide

  The

  Trinity

  Murders

  Jeff Dvorak

  1

  He would consider her a waif, if that word existed in his vocabulary. Instead, he just thought of her as light. She was definitely the lightest he had ever carried through the woods in all the years he had spent carrying girls through the woods.

  He usually liked them with a little more meat on their bones, a little more substance, but there was something about this one. Her eyes spoke to him and he was immediately taken by her. He knew the different things her eyes would tell him during their time together and he wasn't disappointed.

  The heat finally broke but it was still a balmy 85 degrees as a trickle of sweat started to gravitate down his cheek. The girl was light enough that he was able to grab a handkerchief out of his back pocket and dab his brow.

  The moon bathed the mountainside in a silvery glow and the trees cast long shadows down the slope. As he continued his journey he alternated between visible and invisible as he passed each shadow. Dark, light, dark, light. He found the light interesting, but the dark was where he really thrived.

  Every dump site he chose was well planned and he knew exactly where he was going. Even without the full moon he'd be able to pick his way through the trees and brush, but he charted the next full moon, so it wasn’t luck that he had chosen this night. In the route he chose, the part of the forest he was in and the time of night, a soul would have to be really unfortunate to come across him, but he was prepared for that too, if it came to that.

  Survival was planning. Every detail, every contingency and as many variables as possible. You didn't do what he did for as long as he had done it, without getting caught, unless you knew what you were doing. He knew what he was doing.

  He carried a fake ID, with a back story that would satisfy a basic search, a pair of gloves, a hunting knife, which was within legal limits, and of course the girl. His truck was registered to that same fake ID and as long as he was not caught with the girl, he would not be detained for very long. He was also confident that his fingerprints were not in any government database. If they were taken now, they would be associated with this fake ID and he would just have to create a new one.

  Because of this, his mind was clear. He’d been through this enough times that he could clear his disposal checklist in his sleep. Taking a three-hour nap in the afternoon while her body lay lifeless on the floor no more than five feet away, he was both alert and sharp as he made good time up the mountain.

  Reaching the dump site, he dropped the body to the hard ground as if he were hauling sacks of flour. In the thick, humid air the sound given was nothing more than a muffled thump. Part of his planning was to dig the grave site ahead of time and that is what he had done here. The last thing he wanted was to be caught digging a hole with a dead body a short distance away.

  A cheap brown tarp available at any hardware store covered the hole with rocks holding it down at each corner. With his feet he kicked away all the rocks and yanked on the tarp like a magician showing there was no body underneath. There was no body under this tarp either, but that would soon change.

  Not wanting to take anything back down the hill with him, the tarp would be buried too. He quickly and efficiently rolled the body in the tarp and dropped into the hole without the slightest bit of ceremony. Most of his enjoyment ended when he saw the light go out of their eyes for the final time. From that moment, his actions were directed towards concealment in an effort to make sure he retained his freedom so he could continue hunting.

  He turned and counted three trees to the north. That tree was where he had tied a shovel just above eyesight. The shovel and rope would be buried too. At 6’3” his line of sight was higher than most so it didn’t take him any extra work to tie the shovel out of sight. Getting it down was just as easy.

  Returning to the grave, he quickly replaced the dirt he had removed the previous evening, doing the last bit by hand as the shovel had already been discarded. Once done he stood back and surveyed his work.

  “Thanks for the good times, Mandy.”

  Pleased with the results, he removed his gloves and stuck them in his back pocket. From the dump site he went in the opposite direction he had come from and found the hiking trail not more than a few hundred yards east. His trek through the mountainside was a mile and a half from where he left his car. Traveling by marked trail would be three miles. He spent the next hour making a leisurely pace down the mountain.

  2

  The sound of the lawn mower buzzed like a fly in his ear. In the murky dark of morning, he looked at the clock on the nightstand and the red numbers said 7:04. It was way too early to be out mowing the lawn. Since he was now awake, he used this opportunity to practice his skills. Even though he was on leave, his skills of perception would always come in handy.

  He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the sound. It was coming from three houses down, the Mitchells’. He was mowing the lawn from east to west and from the house down towards the street in rows. If he ran into Mr. Mitchell he would confirm his theory but he was sure he was right. He fluffed up his pillow and rolled over, hoping he could will himself into a couple more hours of sleep.

  His effort at sleep lasted no more than five minutes as he glanced over at the phone vibrating on the nightstand. He was about to let it go to voicemail, thinking it was family or friends who had heard the bad news, when curiosity or boredom got the better of him and he reached over through the semidark of early morning and picked up the phone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Topper McMullen?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This is Sergeant Trufant with the Dallas PD. I have a string of murders going back three years which I believe are connected and I was hoping you could fly down here and take a look at what I’ve got.” Sergeant Trufant wasn’t one for mincing words and with what Topper had been through in the past week, he figured it better to get straight to the point.

  Topper closed his eyes and dropped his head back to his pillow. “Sergeant, I’m not with the FBI right now.” Topper winced a little as it was the first time he had spoken those words out loud.

  “Word travels fast son; I’m aware of your current situation but, FBI or not, you’re still the best profiler in the country and I could really use your help.”

  “Why are you coming to me instead of my old team?” Another question which made Topper wince with discomfort.

  “Well, that’s just it; the thread connecting these murders is thin but I know in my gut there’s something there. You know what the FBI caseload is like. I’ve taken this to them a few times over the years but it’s just not enough for them to prioritize it. Like I said though, you’re the best there is. If anybody can find a link between these murders and find the killer, it’s you.”

  “Don’t go sweet talking me now sergeant. How many murders are we talking about?”

  “Thirty-two in the past three years across Louisiana, Texas and Oklahoma. If I’m right, and I know I am, we’ve got a very bad man on our hands and you could be doing me and the state of Texas a great service.”

  Topper shut his eyes tighter. Letting out a deep sigh, he left Sergeant Trufant hanging on the other end of the line while he ran scenarios through his head. His initial thought had been to head to a beach in the South Pacific with his surfboard. After coming to his senses, his next thought was to head back down to Atlanta and join the police force, as was his plan before the FBI came calling. What he settled on was sleep for a few days, but his interest was beginning to pique. “How long since the last murder?”

  “Twenty-four hours sinc
e the last body was found. ME puts time of death a week before that. Based on the previous thirty-one victims, we’ve got a leg up on this one. No other body was found before two months from the murder. That’s one reason he’s been able to stay ahead of the law, but with this one, if we act fast, I think we might have a chance to catch him.”

  “Victim profile?”

  “Runaways. Girls, ages fourteen to seventeen. There are signs of sexual abuse. In most cases there’s no missing person’s report so there’s no way to tell how long he keeps a girl. There’s not even anyway to tell where these girls are being abducted from, and since they’re runaways, the trail goes cold quick and the investigation goes nowhere. Hell, most of these girls are Jane Does.”

  There wasn’t much of a link to go on but Topper had always believed that there were plenty of serial killers around the country that never got caught. The smart ones, who did what they did for their own reasons, never got caught. The sloppy ones and the ones who wanted recognition were the low-hanging fruit that were easier to grab. Topper was wondering if maybe this was one of the smart ones. “And you’re sure these murders are connected?”

  “I know it, Topper. If you could give me a couple days. Just come look through the evidence and if you don’t see what I see then that’ll be that and I’ll move on, but I feel I owe it to these girls to dig a little deeper. I’m not asking you to come down here for free. I can offer you a consulting fee and if these cases do get solved, then there’ll be a bonus on top of that. My guess is you’ve been sitting there since Saturday trying to figure out what to do next. Helping me out will at least cover the next few days.”

  Sitting there listening to Trufant plead his case, Topper started to get that rush of adrenaline he got every time his boss would say “wheels up in twenty” and there was really only one choice he had. “Sergeant, I’ll be on the next flight.”

  Topper was already starting to miss some of the luxuries he had as an agent. At the start of a new case he would be given a nice neat file of everything they knew up to that point. He grabbed his phone and called Detective Trufant back.

  “Detective, I need ...”

  “It’s already been sent to your e-mail. I hear all you fancy agents have tablets now; you can review it on the flight.”

  “How do you know my … never mind.” He hung up and set the phone back down on the nightstand.

  He pulled back the covers and swung his feet over the end of the bed. Sitting up, he let his chin dip down to his chest and he just breathed deeply for awhile, eyes closed in mock meditation. He wasn’t thinking about walking away from the FBI, he wasn’t thinking about Trufant’s offer. What he was thinking about was Sarah. She hadn’t heard from him since he walked away so she popped by for a visit the previous evening. Topper hadn’t been able to face her. They had been together for the better part of a year and, with what happened, he couldn’t bear seeing her.

  They talked until the hands had gone well past twelve and all that was left were pumpkins. Sometimes when a situation is so traumatic, the only thing you feel you can do is cut ties with the people currently in your life. The sadness and despair Topper felt fully consumed him and he didn’t feel he deserved anybody’s love or sympathy. He knew Sarah would understand and be there for him but he didn’t feel he could accept her love when he was filled with so much despair.

  He knew it was selfish but in the end he told her he needed to be alone. Not for the day, not for a week but for the foreseeable future. He let her know how much he loved her but that he wasn’t capable of expressing that love when he didn’t love himself. He said it wasn’t fair to her.

  There were tears, mostly Sarah’s because Topper was empty. Although she knew it was dangerous, Sarah had begun thinking about weddings. She knew marrying an agent probably wasn’t the best decision and they had never even spoken of that future, but she loved him so deeply, she knew that’s where they were headed. She told Topper she would wait, but not forever, and she would wait. Topper was the kind of man you built a life with and she wanted that life. In the end, she walked out that door knowing what she wanted with no clue how to get it, but she felt in her heart that this wasn’t the end.

  As a profiler, Topper knew that Sarah had begun thinking about marriage. Naturally, that made him start thinking too and he even stopped at a jewelry store on a whim. As the door closed behind her and he heard her steps recede from the door, it was the furthest thing from his mind. It was also the most prominent and he hoped he could get his head right before he lost her forever.

  He thought about swinging his feet back under the covers but he was never one to let grass grow under his feet. If his choice of action was inaction, he may never recover. He knew he had to get on that plane to Dallas and fight through it. It was the only hope he had. He stood up, ready to face the next chapter.

  He was unsure of what to bring and was pleased by his earlier level of apathy. His FBI “go bag” was still sitting by the front door. Each agent had a standard go bag. The few reasons behind the bag were speed when they needed to move out quickly and compact so agents weren’t found bringing all sorts of unnecessary things on an assignment. Although no two go bags were identical, they all had items that were found in each bag. Three changes of clothes, an extra pair of heavy-duty boots or shoes, two notebooks and a red, blue and black pen. Each bag also had a standard toiletry kit but each agent packed that as they saw fit. Topper also liked to carry a couple FBI logo t-shirts and hats. He pulled those out of his bag and left them sitting by the door.

  Double checking his bag, Topper thought about his dad. The Sunday night before high school began he and his dad were playing chess. Over the chess board is where Topper and his father did most of their bonding. Topper lost his father to cancer six years earlier and he wished he could lean on him now. One thing that made Topper a good agent was not his ability to see the future but his ability to see how the future would play out based on current facts. Although he prayed everyday that his father would beat his cancer, he knew the odds were long and he started to prepare himself for what he thought was an inevitable loss.

  He started remembering every chess game they had ever played and began writing them down in a journal. Over the span of fifteen years, ranging from the ages six to twenty-one, he was able to document over 300 memories. Each one offering life lessons that served him to this day. Topper felt that everything he needed to know was in that journal and someday he hopped to pass that down to a son of his own.

  Not a day went by when the memory of his father didn’t pass his mind but that wasn’t why Topper was remembering him now. As he continued to prepare, he felt an anxiety he had not felt since that Sunday night before the start of high school. Soon after high school began, he became Topper and anxious moments were a thing of the past.

  He missed what the team represented. There was power in numbers and he never realized how much he came to count on his team members. Being able to bounce ideas off each other and know that they had his back was a comfort he didn’t even realize he was taking for granted. He realized he was having one of those anxious moments like before the first day of high school when he didn’t know anybody and he was going forward alone.

  As he sat on his bed putting on his shoes, he thought back to that night playing chess with his father and the lessons he learned. That night his father impressed on him to be open to new situations and to walk through those doors with confidence and a smile. New situations would only give him chances to learn something new. That was how he entered high school that day and it was some of the best advice he ever received. He would enter Texas in the same way.

  Topper didn’t need to refer to his journal to remember every word his father said. He could recall them at will and over the past six years his father’s wisdom had helped him as much as if he were still alive.

  In the house Topper grew up in, the chess board was always set up, ready for a game. He was away at school when his father passed. He tried to get home in time
to say goodbye but he was three hours late. Once his feet were able to move again, he went to his parents’ house and he took the white king from the chess board. He went out to the garage and grabbed his father’s power drill and drilled a hole through the king.

  He kept the journal locked in a safe but as Topper made his way for the front door, he grabbed the king off a hook and put it around his neck.

  3

  He had a few hours to burn before he needed to be at the airport so he took a walk to the park around the corner. In most respects it was like any other park. There was a large field with a backstop at one end and a diamond to play baseball. There were two goals for soccer and enough room to play football.

  The six basketball hoops were always in use and it was the premier spot for a pick-up game. What drew Topper to the park, though, were the fourteen chess boards. Fourteen pillar tables made out of cement. Seven rows of two, a squat block of cement on each side of the board and benches around for people to watch, wait for a game or just relax. Instead of having the boards painted on like most parks of its kind, these boards were etched into the stone. You could find all manner of games at any time. Novices there to have fun and get better. Serious competitors who took pride in their games. Games played for money, games played for pride.

  Sometimes Topper played, but most of the time he watched. Although the park boasted fourteen chess boards, only thirteen could be used by anyone. The fourteenth board belonged to George and Harold. George and Harold had been playing chess there for close to seventy years. They met in high school and had been playing ever since. About twenty years earlier, the residents of the area and regular chess players spoke with the parks department and got them to etch Harold’s name on one side of the board and George’s name on the other. From that moment it became their board. If they weren’t there and people were waiting for a game, the board remained empty and that’s how it would always be. They were Topper’s favorite and Topper was the only person they ever let play on that board. Once in awhile, one of the guys would rotate out and let Topper rotate in. They loved knowing a real FBI profiler and he loved being taken back to the games with his father.