A color image filled the computer screen. At first the only thing pictured was an outdoor hot tub with steam rising from the surface of the water. In the background were scraggly palm trees.
“Another fine art-house film from California,” Creed commented.
A curvaceous brunette wrapped in a towel walked onto the wooden deck surrounding the tub, her back to the camera. She dropped the towel and stepped naked into the water. Turning around, she faced the camera. The cameraman closed in for a tighter shot, eliminating the background and showing the woman lowering herself into the water up to her breasts.
“Those aren’t real, you know,” said Bernadette.
“How do you know?”
“They’re as round and overinflated as a couple of party balloons,” she said. “If you took a pin, you could probably pop them.”
A nude man stepped into the tub with the woman. He had a big gut and was hairy everywhere except for the top of his head.
“Now that’s disgusting,” said Creed.
Bernadette said, “The male leads all look like that, don’t they?”
“How should I know?”
The furry fat man stood behind the woman, planted his hands on her shoulders, and dunked her straight down into the water. At first the only activity under the water was the woman’s long hair floating over her head. Then she threw her hands up and waved them frantically, breaking the surface with her splashes.
“Not yet, baby,” the man croaked to the woman struggling under his grip. He pushed harder and forced her down deeper.
“This is scary,” said Bernadette.
Fat Man finally released the woman, and she popped up gasping for air, only to have the man dunk her again.
The video stopped abruptly.
“What happened?” asked Bernadette.
“That was a clip to tease you,” said Creed. “You want more, you have to pay.”
“I’ll pass.”
Creed punched on another clip. “This one is for the Houdini fans.”
The video showed a nude woman bound in rope and hanging upside down above a tall, clear tank filled with water. Slowly, she was lowered into the tank. After showing a full body shot while the woman fought against the bonds, the camera closed in on her face to highlight the air bubbles escaping from her nostrils. Finally, she was lifted out of the tank, dripping and coughing and gasping for air.
“That’s about all I can stomach for the day,” said Creed, exiting the site.
Bernadette took her hand down from his chair. “How did you find this?”
“I went to a couple of general porn sites and clicked on specific fetishes.”
“That would be—what … water sports?”
He laughed dryly and swiveled his chair around to face her. “No, I tried that phrase and discovered an entirely different fetish. Water sports has to do with—”
She raised her palm. “Is it relevant to what we’re investigating?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I don’t want to know.”
He tipped his head back toward his computer screen. “These videos were listed under the heading of ‘water bondage.’ In addition to watching people trying to drown each other …”
“Do women also dunk men?”
“I’ve seen no evidence of that. Men do it to women, or females do it to each other while men watch.”
“Lovely.”
“In addition to that sick stuff, you can also view women wrestling in swimming pools. Women with their hands tied behind their backs and their faces held down in buckets of water. Women strapped into these medieval-looking torture chairs and repeatedly dunked backward into big tanks.”
“Did you find any local links to this sort of thing? Clubs around town? Web sites we can trace to someone in the Twin Cities?”
“Not yet,” he said. “That will require a little more digging. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a break before I go another round with this smut.”
She wheeled over a chair and sat down across from him. “Am I right about this, Ruben? Are these drownings about sex?”
“Sex and violence. Violent sex.”
“What if I’m wrong? What if these were—I don’t know, something else? Robbery attempts gone sour or … I don’t know.” She looked at the yellow wall. “Maybe some of them were suicides. These women were screwed up.”
“No,” he said firmly. “You’re on the right track, Bernadette. After watching those disturbing videos, I’m certain we’re after someone who gets sexual satisfaction by drowning women.”
“Watching the videos is one thing, but taking it all the way and really drowning someone … I don’t get it. I don’t get how someone would get his rocks off by doing something like that.”
“Could be it started out as a game.”
“A game?”
“Playacting. Fake drownings, like in the videos. To really get off, he graduated to the real deal.”
“I guess that works. It’s just that this water fetish thing is so—I don’t know … I’ve never heard of it before.”
Creed nodded at the computer screen. “This might be new, but horrifically violent sex offenders are not. Some of them blame the porn.”
“Ted Bundy.”
“Yup. Maybe we need to talk to some shrinks,” said Creed. “Develop a profile of the sort of gentleman who would get his jollies by drowning women.”
“Sounds like something for the folks in BSU,” she said, referring to the Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI Academy in Quantico.
“We don’t need those big shots,” Creed snapped. “We can do it ourselves, Bernadette.”
She smiled, pleased that they were finally on a first-name basis. “Touché. Did someone try for a spot in BSU and get turned down?”
“I never bothered applying; I figured I wasn’t … different enough.”
“You’re different enough now.” She checked her wristwatch.
“Waiting for a call?”
“Garcia.” She wanted that scarf off him, and it looked like she wasn’t going to get it until Thursday.
“He didn’t show last night?”
“No. He got tied up, and he’s running around today.” She went back to the wall of yellow scraps. “There’s got to be someone we missed. Someone they all trusted.”
Creed looked at his screen again. “Someone who was into some really sick stuff.”
Chapter 9
“BRACE YOURSELF,” SHE said, cracking open her apartment door and flipping on a ceiling light.
He ran his eyes over the messy room. “I suppose it doesn’t help if your roommates are sloppy.”
“I live alone.”
“Open mouth. Insert foot.”
She sighed. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You sound tired,” he said.
“Long day.” She took off her vest and tossed it and her purse onto a chair. “Can I get you something?”
He took off his coat and draped it over the back of the chair. “Sit. I’ll get you something.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Sit. I mean it.”
She kicked away some empty Chinese takeout cartons, picked a cat off the sofa, and lowered herself onto the cushions. “The kitchen is bad.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Be afraid. Be very afraid.”
“I’m going to use your bathroom first.”
“Down the hall,” she said, pointing.
She bent to pull off her boots. Heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door pop open.
“How about I pour you a glass of wine?” he asked as he headed to the kitchen. “Do you have any?”
She chewed her bottom lip. “I really shouldn’t, but I guess a little would be all right.”
“After all,” he said, “it is a special occasion.”
“You’re right. If you can find it, go for it.” Because of her meds, she didn’t react well to alcohol. She became dizzy and drowsy. She didn’t want to think about her illness tonight, however, and told herself a single glass couldn’t hurt. She heard him opening and closing drawers and hollered, “Corkscrew’s in the drawer to the right of the sink!”