Forget Me Not

A gripping serial-killer thriller with a shocking twist

Kierney Scott

For Gina Calanni, the Jess to my Lindsay.

And for Alistair, the best decision I've ever made. 

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Cross Your Heart

A Letter from Kierney

Also by Kierney Scott

Acknowledgements

Prologue

God, he loved a good hunt. Obviously, the kill was better. But a kill was over too quickly. No matter what he did to prolong it there was a finite amount a person could take before they gave up. That’s always what happened in the end. People just gave up. It was such a shame because there was always so much more he wanted to do, but eventually they stopped fighting for the next breath.

There was an art to it, getting as much use out of someone without wasting a kill. If he got greedy or miscalculated, he would miss the moment and they would just drift into the slumber of death. That was a wasted kill. Nothing worse. There was hardly any point if he didn’t get to see the terror fade into a glossy-eyed acceptance. The point where the eyes went vacant, that was the best.

But like an orgasm, that part only lasts a few seconds, if you’re lucky, so you have to enjoy the buildup. That’s what the hunt was: the buildup to the climax of a kill.

He glanced at the time on his phone. Almost. She was due here at seven thirty-seven. That was as good a time as any for the game to begin. Shame she wasn’t going to enjoy playing, though to be honest it would ruin his enjoyment if she did.

The hardest part was right at the start, the moment right before the prey fell into the snare. If there was one thing he had learned from the hunt: people have an incredible capacity for self-preservation. He both loved and hated that fact. There was no guarantee that every hunt would end with a prize but that made the win all the sweeter.

Sadly, he was his own biggest stumbling block. But he was getting better. Women were experts at reading people, all the subtle micro expressions that gave away character and motivation. If they were scared, even a little, he lost. Luckily, he had now almost mastered the facsimile of genuine emotion.

He pulled down the visor above the driver’s seat and examined his reflection in the mirror. He grinned. It was too wide, which meant too eager. That would send up warning flares. He corrected and relaxed his muscles into a softer expression but not too far where it would become a smirk. There was a sweet spot where it was a reassuring smile. He practiced again, going from a passive expression into a smile. It took a few times to get it right. There, that was it. He held it until his cheeks ached to build the muscle memory. Perfect.

Headlights shone down the dark country lane as her car curved around the bend. Right on schedule.

Exhilaration shot through him. He didn’t need to fake that emotion. Even though she wasn’t his perfect prey, she would do nicely for now. Perfection was out there waiting for him, and she didn’t even know it. Soon. Soon he would have her, but first he would have some fun with this one. “Show time,” he said aloud, smiling a genuine smile to himself.

One

Louisiana

FBI Special Agent Jessica Bishop slapped the back of her neck as a mosquito landed just above her collar. She examined the dead insect and streak of blood on her finger. Even before she had the chance to wipe away the remains, buzzing hummed in her ear as another mosquito zeroed in on her.

“Bug spray?” her guide offered, reaching into the deep pockets of his overalls. When he spoke, only the brown stumps of his bottom teeth were visible. His top lip was covered by a coarse auburn moustache that tapered into a straggly beard. At least the hair concealed the part of his chest not covered by the faded denim. He wasn’t wearing a shirt under his overalls, and one of the suspenders had not been fastened so the long piece of material trailed down his back. Jess didn’t know if it was a fashion choice or if the garment had seen better days, but when her guide moved, the outline of his rotund belly hung pendulously over his stained briefs.

Jess smiled as she accepted the green canister. She had already liberally doused herself in the stuff but it wasn’t working. Every insect in the bayou was feasting on her exposed flesh. “When did you discover the body?”

The man had already been interviewed by Louisiana State Police and tentatively ruled out as a suspect, but Jess never ruled out anyone on the word of someone else. “Ezra is crazy as a box of frogs but harmless” was not an alibi in her book. If experience had taught her anything, it was that evil lurked in the most unlikely places: the seemingly devoted mother who drowned her children in the bath because her new boyfriend didn’t want kids, or the pious clergyman who raped boys in the rectory. Evil was everywhere.

Ezra took a red bandanna from his back pocket and mopped his brow. Jess looked away so as not to focus on the myriad of crusted stains on the square.

“Wasn’t as much me finding it as Cooter bringing her to my door. Well, not all of her, just a leg. Cooter had fair chewed it. Either that or the gators. I reckon that’s what he was going for, cutting her up and feeding her to the gators. Makes sense to me, get rid of all the evidence. I suppose that’s what I’d do.”

Jess looked up from her pad, into Ezra’s steel-gray eyes. His face was weathered from the sun but he looked younger than she initially suspected. Though deep lines fanned out around his eyes, his cheeks had not lost the fullness of youth and there was no hint of jowls competing with his double chin. “I suppose as far as counter-forensics go, feeding your victim to an alligator seems like a decent method, and the water might wash away some trace,” she admitted. Jess gave the man in front of her a hard look. “But not all. There is always something left. Some clue, some trace, a witness, a trail. There is no perfect crime. Sometimes people think they have gotten away with it but they always make a mistake. And then we catch them.”

Her impromptu speech was more for herself than Ezra. She willed her words to be true; it was the only way her life made sense. Sometimes the universe appeared disorganized and chaotic but it played fair. Like a giant karmic jigsaw that had been scattered across all four corners of the globe, all the pieces were there to be found. Her job was to find them all and piece it back together. There was no magic to it, just simple hard work. Her process was iterative, boring even, far removed from the glamour of her TV counterparts, but she usually got there in the end.

She looked away, across the expanse of open water. The bayou was strangely alluring, like a world set apart, remote and rugged. The setting sun illuminated the murky film of pond scum. Algae glowed bright chartreuse with iridescent flashes, like slimy ham found at the back of the fridge, days past its prime.

Spanish moss hung like thick, fibrous drapes over the bare branches of oaks. It was beautiful and haunting the way the plant took over its host, merging with then dominating the tree until they both faded into each other, becoming one.

Ezra extended his hand to her, offering help into the airboat. Jess didn’t need help but she took his hand anyway to be polite. Ezra took his place in front of the massive, encaged propellers that rose up ten feet. Airboats looked like giant electric fans stuck on tin fishing boats, but they got the job done.

Jess smiled when Ezra handed her ear protectors; she knew from experience she would need them. Last time she’d been on an airboat was when she was working a strangler case in Florida. Her ears rang for the rest of the day.

“What time did the divers get here?” Jess shouted over the roar of the engine.

“Round about lunch time. Still ain’t found the body. Pulled out an arm. Still looking for the rest of her. I reckon she can’t have been in there long else the gators would have finished her off.”

Jess didn’t bother nodding before she turned. Mist pelted her cheeks and arms as Ezra sped through the thick reeds. The bayou was funny, neither lake nor land but a swampy purgatory that straddled the line between the two.

This was the third body found in as many months, each dismembered, limbs and head severed clean from the torso. None of the heads had been recovered, which indicated they had been disposed of in another location or the killer was keeping them as a macabre trophy. Her gut told her it was the latter.

Water sprayed up as Ezra navigated through the reeds. Small droplets ran together to create a slick sheen on her arms. The sky darkened as they entered deeper into the bayou. Less and less sun penetrated the thick overgrowth, leaving the swamp in a perpetual cycle of twilight and complete darkness.

Ezra pulled up beside a worn jetty. The warped planks were held together by frayed rope. Her current partner, Alex Chan, and three uniformed troopers stood on the small platform.

Chan had caught an earlier flight in from DC, where Bishop and Chan were based. Even in the Louisiana heat, Chan managed to look put together. He was just shy of six feet, though he would tell you he was six foot one. His black hair swept over his brow with precision. Jess had never seen it out of place. Nor had she ever seen him with a crease in his suit or a scuff on his shoes. And she never would. He took Type A to pathological levels but as far as partners went, Chan was good. He worked hard, kept sexism to a bare minimum, let Jess choose the radio station, and apart from the time he had asked her out, there was no awkward tension between them.

Jess nodded her hello to Chan. She had been partnered with him for almost two years, but in her mind he was still her “new” partner or her “current” partner, like a placeholder while she waited for her real partner to return, which was ridiculous because Jamison Briggs was long gone. That bridge was burned; and they both still had the scorch marks to prove it.

“Hey,” Chan said, holding up his hand in a stagnant wave.

“Hey.” Jess dismissed the usual niceties like asking Chan how his flight was. He hadn’t crashed so she would assume it was fine. She wasn’t a big fan of small talk because it gave people the opportunity to ask personal questions. Her words were saved for coaxing confessions or social-engineering reluctant witnesses. Luckily, twenty-two months paired with Chan bought her some grace. He no longer expected her to chat for the sake of it and he knew never to ask her anything more probing than where they should grab lunch. That wasn’t to say they didn’t have banter, just that none of it was coming from her. Chan could have good banter with a corpse.

“That is Officer Tibor.” Chan motioned to the officer standing at the end of the jetty with a Colt M4 Carbine trained on the murky water. The rifle had been configured with a scope and night vision. The assault weapon was usually reserved for SWAT teams, but in this instance it was to protect the diver from alligators.

Jess didn’t dare introduce herself and distract the sniper from his task. The water’s surface was deceptively still but in an instant a gator could destroy the illusion of tranquility.

“And these are Officers Gates and Munro.” Chan indicated to the troopers beside him. Both men looked near retirement. The department had sent senior investigators to oversee what the FBI was doing. Local police were only there as a formality. The FBI had jurisdiction but Jess always played nice. There were never any pissing contests on her watch. This particular crime scene may be in Louisiana but it was linked to a serial killer operating across state lines; that made it federal jurisdiction. Despite what the media would have people believe, most local law enforcement was grateful for the FBI’s help. They were all here for the same reason: to catch a killer. In the rare instances of tension, Jess could always handle it. She knew how to read people. Every person was a mystery but every expression, every throwaway utterance was a clue to who they were and what they were really thinking.

The one who had been introduced as Gates eyed her up. His gaze narrowed into a hard stare. Her heart stopped for a painful moment when she thought she saw a flash of recognition in his pale stare. Please don’t recognize me, she silently prayed. Even now, nearly thirty years later, her gut clenched when she met new people, especially law enforcement. It was stupid. The odds of someone recognizing her now were slim but every time the panic was real.

She ignored the clawing fear in her gut and stepped forward. If anyone recognized her, she knew how to deny and deflect. She had done it before. “Gentlemen. I’m Special Agent Jessica Bishop.” Jess shook hands with both men before she reached into her breast pocket and produced two business cards. “I want to thank you in advance for your help. There is no way we could handle this without local law enforcement. Please don’t hesitate to call. You know this area. You guys are the experts here.” Jess chose her words carefully: “help” not “cooperation”. You ask unruly children to cooperate; you ask peers or superiors for help. She had spent her entire childhood around law enforcement agents; she knew how they worked.

The tension in the pair visibly lessened, scowls turned into flat emotionless stares. They were no doubt trying to decide what to make of her. Physically, Jess was as non-threatening as they come. She stood barely five foot two and, with the exception of her disproportionately large chest, she was small. She always wore her long, curly brown hair in a ponytail but when she did take it down, she looked younger than her thirty-four years.

Gates eyed her up again. If he did recognize her, he had the good grace not to mention it, but his expression did not warm. In his mind they were supposed to have an adversarial relationship. That was how he had expected things to play out. But not today. Jess had turned that assumption on its head with a few well-chosen words and a timid smile. She often wondered if people knew how easily they were manipulated.

Munro was looking at her like a bunny he had saved from a snare but Gates was still suspicious. He was the holdout. She didn’t need him on side but it would make things easier if he was. Cases were hard enough to work without ego and politics throwing up roadblocks.

Be vulnerable. Jess moved forward, pretending to trip. Officer Gates reached out his hand to catch her. It was instinct. Jess knew people and how to use it against them. When he moved closer, she could smell the stench of cigarettes and stale coffee that clung to him. “Sorry,” she murmured, making herself sound just this side of pathetic. “I’m just not used to this heat. I don’t know how y’all manage.” Her voice dripped saccharin sweetness.

Gates visibly softened as he helped right her. Job done. Jess smiled to herself. Some days the master’s degree in psychology paid for itself.

Jess turned to Ezra. The platform swayed under his weight as he stepped onto the jetty. This time when she reached out to keep from falling, it was genuine.

“Is this your house?” Jess asked Ezra. Nestled against the immersed trunks of cypress trees stood a one-room shack. The corrugated roof had oxidized to a powdery burnt red. The slabs that held the dwelling together were weathered and warped, which left large gaps. In some places they were large enough to fit a fist.

“Yes, ma’am.”

A Bluetick hound ran down the jetty to Ezra and pushed his nose against Ezra’s hand, begging to be pet.

“Cooter?” Jess guessed.

The dog looked up when he heard his name.

Jess reached down and stroked his head. She loved dogs. If she spent more time at home, she would have one. “So, you’re the one who found our victim for us. Thanks for that, buddy.” She scratched him behind the ears. Some woman’s body had been reduced to a dog’s chew toy but that wasn’t his fault. There was no malice or intent with dogs. They didn’t hurt people for the thrill of it. That’s why she liked them.

“He doesn’t take to most people.” Ezra nodded at the dog who was now rubbing up against Jess’s legs, eager for attention.

Jess gave him another scratch behind the ears before she stood. “Would you mind if I use your restroom?” She didn’t have a warrant so Ezra was under no obligation to let Jess into his house. But this was the Deep South: even swamp dwellers had the manners to let a woman use the toilet.

Ezra hesitated for a fraction longer than he should have. He could be hiding something or maybe he was just ashamed of the state Jess would find his shack.

“Yeah, yeah go on,” Ezra eventually said.

The smell of mildew hit Jess before she had even fully opened the door. The room was dark. There was no electricity in the small dwelling and the only window was overgrown with moss.

Jess turned on the flashlight on her phone. The shack was raised from the swamp by concrete blocks. The iridescent glow of water reflected through the gaps in the floorboards. Lucky Louisiana was warm because the house had no insulation and the only source of heat was a small wood-burning stove that doubled as the oven. A cast iron pot sat proudly on top, tomato sauce crusted on the lid.

There was a toilet in the corner. The cistern was not attached, nor was there any plumbing to it. Presumably the toilet itself was merely decorative to cover what it really was: a hole in the floor to shit in. Waste went straight out into the bayou, a worrying thought if the swamp was providing Ezra’s drinking water too.

Jess turned her attention to the rusted iron bed. The sheets had come off the corner to reveal a stained mattress. Jess glanced through the window to make sure Ezra was not looking in before she pulled the sheet back further to examine the mattress fully. Faded yellow and brown marks covered the entirety but they were not fresh and more importantly none of them looked like blood splatter. They looked like Ezra had pissed the bed more than a few times, but this wasn’t the crime scene.

“Bishop!” Chan shouted from outside. “Bishop, we have the torso.”

Jess stood up straight. A bolt of electricity ran the length of her spine. A torso. That’s why they had made the trip to Louisiana. The sad truth was the bureau’s time would have been wasted if they had found the head attached. Every murder case was upsetting on a cognitive level. Jess knew the victim was always important to someone, but she just didn’t have the capacity to care about every nameless victim. It would destroy her if she did. Jess saved her energy for the victim, the case in front of her. To that person, Jess gave her all.

She turned off the flashlight on her phone and joined everyone on the jetty. An open white autopsy bag lay at Munro’s feet. In it was the torso and two of the dismembered limbs, including the one the dog had made a meal of. That was probably all they were going to find. The skin still had some areas of pink, and the flesh had not separated from the bone. She hadn’t been in the water long. In this heat it would not have taken long for a corpse to turn into nothing more than rotting chunks in the soup that was the bayou.

Jess noted the large breasts of the victim. They stood too proud. Usually when women lie down, their breasts fall to the side, but the victim’s didn’t. Jess leaned in closer. The skin was mottled and streaked with purple and blue but across both breasts was the jagged line of a scar where there should have been an areola and nipple.

“Do you see that?” she asked Chan, pointing to the chest.

“Yeah, they look fake.”

“Yeah, but look closer. She’s had reconstructive surgery. If she had just had elective breast enlargement she would have a scar here.” Jess pointed to her own armpit. “Or just under her breast. Sometimes there will be an anchor-shaped scar around the areola and down if a breast lift was performed at the same time. But no surgeon would remove the nipples unless it was a mastectomy.” Jess’s heart picked up speed. This could be their first solid lead. Until now they didn’t have the identity of any of the victims. DNA had been taken so it could be compared to known missing persons but so far nothing had come up.

Munro glanced nervously from the torso to the horizon. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other like he was getting ready to dive off the jetty and swim as far away as he could. His face was like stone but under the hardened façade he was struggling with the proximity to a mutilated corpse. He really didn’t want to be here right now but unfortunately the only way back was by airboat, and pride and/or duty would keep him from asking to leave even though every moment was torture. Jess wished he knew it was not weakness to admit it was too much to bear.

Despite being able to read people, Jess couldn’t predict a person’s reaction to a dead body. She suspected nobody could. She had seen hardened officers vomit while others wiped away tears they tried to pretend weren’t falling. Some silently prayed over bodies, others cracked jokes. For most it was just a stunned silence but no matter how a person reacted, Jess didn’t judge them. There was nothing worse than seeing death firsthand; it was like being violently assaulted by your own mortality. Whatever a person needed to do to deal with it was okay by her.

Jess knew people thought she was cavalier about death, but she wasn’t. Nothing could be further from the truth, but she was hardened now. No corpse would ever impact her the way her first one did.

Sometimes she felt like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. She wouldn’t let herself because it felt like a violation of the victims. Tears were for the ones that knew them and loved them. She didn’t have the right to cry.

Jess cleared her throat and brought her focus back to the case at hand. “This woman is a breast cancer survivor. Was a survivor,” Jess corrected herself. “We’ll be able to get a number off the implants from the medical examiner.”

“What number?” Gates asked.

“All breast implants have a manufacturer’s number on them. All medical devices like defibrillators and pacemakers and of course implants are required to have a serial number. The surgeon notes the number on the patient’s records and a copy is given to the manufacturer. It’s for safety and research purposes so if it ever becomes clear there is a defect in a product it can be recalled, but it also makes it possible to identify murder victims. I’m assuming the implants are either Mentor or Allergan because those are the biggest suppliers in North America. One of them will be able to tell us who our Jane Doe is.”

“How do you know so much about breast implants?” Gates’ mouth curled into a smile as he glanced down at Jess’s chest, his tone too jovial for a crime scene, and his stare lingered far too long. He didn’t even bother to try to hide it.

Her cheeks burned as annoyance crept over her. She was used to men openly ogling her in bars. She expected it there but not at work. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything Chan stepped in between them, anger written clearly on his sharp features.

“Special Agent Bishop knows a lot about most things. She’s shit smart, that’s why she’s here.”

Jess couldn’t help but shake her head at the irony of Chan defending her honor. He had no problem objectifying women, and he had been known to say things to Jess that other people would think bordered on harassment, but the moment anyone else crossed that line with her he was all over them.

She really didn’t need Chan or anyone defending her. Despite what he thought, Chan wasn’t doing her any favors. She was more than capable of holding her own. She could handle this. If Jess wanted to, she could tear Gates down with a few words. There were so many ways to subtly shame and chastise but she didn’t do it because this case, this victim, was more important than point-scoring. If nothing else, she was pragmatic. In the grand scheme of things, Gates didn’t matter to her. She would forget his face as soon as she got on the plane back to DC. She would happily ignore the bullshit because nothing was as important as solving a case and getting justice for the victims. That said, she would break the fingers of any man who dared touch her without her consent, but they could look all they wanted because while they were being jackasses, she would be getting the job done.

Gates glared at Chan. The older man’s mouth pursed like he had a whole lot to say on the matter, but he had just enough sense to keep his thoughts to himself. He stared down at the algae-covered planks for a moment and then his head snapped up again to look at Chan. Gates held out his finger, poised to attack.

“It’s hot. We should get this body back to the morgue.” Munro jumped in. The comment was as much about brokering peace as it was about the case.

Jess stepped forward. “Yeah it is. I’m not feeling all that great. I should have brought water. I really don’t know how y’all do it down here in the heat.” She smiled, a sign that she was willing to ignore any previous indiscretions.

“Yes, ma’am, it is indeed hot. Best for everyone we get this finished up sooner rather than later,” Munro said.

After a long moment, Gates begrudgingly nodded his agreement.

Jess’s shoulders eased with the small gesture.

Chan turned his attention back to Jess. “What about the excision sites? Are they the same as the other victims?”

Jess glanced past him. Chan must have examined the torso before she got back outside if he knew there were excision sites on this body too. She stepped past him. When she knelt down, water sloshed through the gaps in the planks, saturating her pant leg. She examined the sites where sections of skin had been surgically removed. “I can see three. No four, each the size of a silver dollar. Maybe slightly bigger.” The first torso they had discovered had made Jess stop dead in her tracks. She had seen cut marks coupled with decapitation before, but that was a long time ago. Panic had seized her as she noted the striking similarities between that case and the torso killer. In this case there were critical differences, particularly with victim selection, but her mind only saw the similarities.

This wasn’t the same killer. Any connections she saw were because it’s human nature to see patterns where none exist. The phenomenon was so widespread, psychologists even had a name for it: apophenia.

“Could he have cut out the skin to cover teeth marks?” Chan asked.

Jess shook her head. “No, he would have to cut out more flesh to remove bite marks.” Jess demonstrated by opening her mouth as if she were going to take a bite out of an apple or, in this case, human flesh. She had seen firsthand the area that would need to be excised to cut out bite marks, and these were too small.

Chan sniggered. Jess could read his mind. He wanted to say something lewd but refrained because he had only just slapped down Gates for being inappropriate.

The diver propped his elbows on the edge of the wooden planks, goggles pushed up on his forehead. The weight of his oxygen tank pulled him back. “I’m going back under to look for the head.”

Jess nodded. “Just keep looking until the light fades, but then I’m going to call it.” Even with a sharp shooter it wasn’t safe to have a man in the water. They weren’t going to find a head. They were only looking so they could say they had tried. Jess didn’t want a diver in gator-infested water any longer than absolutely necessary. They were lucky they had found one of the arms. The victim might have scratched her killer—so much good evidence could be found under a victim’s nails.

She glanced down and examined the remains again. There were crude cut marks on the limbs where they had been disarticulated. She had seen the same on the other victims. Jess needed the medical examiner to confirm but she suspected it was done postmortem, as in the other two cases.

“It’s for transport,” Jess mumbled.

“Excuse me?” Munro asked.

“She does that. She talks to herself when she works.”

Jess looked up. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” Chan nodded. “I never told you because it’s the only decent conversation I get out of you.” The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

Jess stood up. “Sorry,” she said, addressing Munro directly. “I was saying that cutting off the limbs isn’t part of the ritual. The killer doesn’t get anything out of it. He’s doing it to make it easier to dump.”

“How can you say that?” Gates eyed her dubiously, the coolness from before beginning to creep back in. “Seems to me you can’t tell anything except you got yourself half a body. Anything beyond that is just conjecture.”

The tension had not dissipated; it had merely gone from boiling to a simmer, ready to start again at any moment. But Gates would not focus the rage on Chan, who had already bested him; instead, Gates would go after her. In small, seemingly innocuous ways, he would question her competence, her very right to be here.

Classic kick-the-dog mentality. She knew the type well. He saw her as the weakest so he was going to take out his aggression on her. He wanted her to get defensive or petty, give him something to justify his hostility, so she pretended not to notice his demeanor. “Look at the cut marks at the hips. See all the tiny nicks and tears? Now look at her neck—that cut is clean, almost surgical. He didn’t just want the head off, he wanted it to look good too.”

Gates’ eyes narrowed. “Are you thinking he keeps the heads? Like a trophy? What is he doing with them?”

Jessica stood again. “Yes. I think he is keeping them. I wouldn’t want to speculate on why he chooses the head as a trophy. I don’t think we will know that until we catch him.”