Snowblind Justice

by Cindi Myers

  He took the jacket, then turned toward her Jeep, frowning. “You drove up here by yourself?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t be out driving by yourself,” he said. “Alex Woodruff targets women who are in their cars alone.”

  “I’m not going to stop if he tries to flag me down,” she said. “I’m not stupid.”

  “He knows that,” Brodie said. “He would use some subterfuge. He’s done it before.”

  “Brodie’s right,” Travis said. “From now on, when you have to come to town, take someone else with you. And don’t pull over for anyone—no matter what.”

  She stared at them, fear tightening her throat and making it hard to breathe. Of course she knew there was a killer preying on women. But it was hard to believe she was really in danger. That was probably what those other women had thought, too. She nodded. “All right,” she said. “I won’t go out alone, and I’ll be careful.”

  Brodie followed her to the Jeep and waited while she climbed in. “I know you think Travis and I are overreacting,” he said. “But until this man is caught, you’re not going to be truly safe.”

  “I know.” She didn’t like knowing it, but there was no use denying facts. For whatever reason, Alex Woodruff was targeting women who were alone—women in her age group. “I do take this very seriously,” she said. Having a brother who was sheriff and another brother who was a deputy didn’t make her immune from the danger.

  Chapter Five

  Emily couldn’t shake a sense of guilt over Denise’s death. She could have refused her friend’s offer to bring the student surveys to her. She could have at least warned Denise to be careful, and made sure she knew about the serial killer who had been targeting women in the area. But she couldn’t change the past, and guilt wouldn’t bring Denise back to her. All Emily could do was to try to help Travis and his officers find Alex and stop him before he killed again.

  With this in mind, she called the professor who had taught several of the undergrad psychology courses she had taken at the university. “It’s always wonderful to hear from a former student,” Professor Brandt said, after Emily had introduced herself. “Even if you did forsake psychology for economics.”

  “I still have one foot in the psychology camp,” she said. “And I use things you taught me almost every day.”

  Professor Brandt laughed. “You must want a big favor indeed if you’re ladling out flattery like that,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m calling about an undergrad, a psychology major who participated in some research I’m conducting,” she said. “I need to get in touch with him, but I’m not having any luck. I’m wondering if you know how to reach him. His name is Alex Woodruff.”

  “Yes, I have had Alex in several classes,” the professor said. “He was enrolled in my experimental psychology course this semester, but my understanding is that he never reported for classes.”

  “Do you know why?” she asked. “Has he been in touch with you?”

  “No. There are always a number of students who drop out each semester for various reasons.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be? Did he mention moving or anything like that?”

  “No. But then, I doubt he would have confided in me. He wasn’t the type to seek out faculty for conversation.”

  “What type was he?” Emily asked. “What were your impressions of him?”

  “He was intelligent, good-looking. A bit arrogant. The type of student who doesn’t have to work very hard or put forth much effort to get good grades. If I had to describe him in one word, I’d say he was superficial.”

  “Superficial?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”

  “He was chameleonlike, adjusting himself to his circumstances. He could play the part of the studious scholar or the popular jock, but I always had the impression they were all just roles for him. Watching him was like watching an actor in a play. I never had a sense that he ever really revealed anything about himself.”

  “Yes, I saw that, too,” Emily said, a chill shuddering up her spine. When she had met Alex, he had played the role of the eager research participant, an average student earning a little pocket change, no different from the majority of other students who filled out her questionnaires. But chances were his fantasies of murdering women had been well formed by then. The literature she had read about serial killers pointed to their compulsions building from a young age.

  “I do remember one time the subject of future professions came up in class, and Alex said he wanted to go into law enforcement. He specifically mentioned becoming a profiler.”

  Another shudder went through her. “Did that strike you as odd?” she asked.

  “Not really. Television has made the profession glamorous. I always point out to students that they’ll need experience in some other branch of psychology before they can make the leap to criminal profiling.”

  “Did Alex have any particular friends at the university?” she asked. “A girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know,” the professor said. “Why your interest in Alex? If you’re unable to follow up with him, you can always discard his responses from your research.”

  “It seems odd to me that such a promising student would suddenly drop out of school,” she said, grappling for some plausible explanation for her interest. “I know it’s none of my business, but someone must know something. I guess I hate leaving a mystery unsolved.”

  “Now you’ve got me curious,” he said. “I tell you what—I’ll ask around a little and see what I can find out. Is this a good number for you?”

  “Yes. I’m staying with my parents for my brother’s wedding this weekend. I appreciate anything you can find out.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon, then.”

  She ended the call and stared out the window at the snow-covered landscape. What role was Alex playing today? Was he safe and warm in the home of an unsuspecting friend, or hunkered down in a cave or a remote cabin, preparing to kill again? Why hadn’t she—or the other people who knew him—seen in him the capacity to murder? Was it because he hid that side of himself so well—or because as humans they shied away from admitting the possibility that such evil lay in someone who was, after all, so very much like themselves?

  * * *

  BRODIE HAD NEVER thought of Emily as a serious person. He had a fixed image of her as young, fun and carefree. But maybe that was only because they had been like that when they had been a couple five years before. Time and the job had made him more somber, and he could see that in her also. He stood in the doorway of the sunroom that evening, studying her as she sat on a love seat across the room: legs curled under her, head bent over a thick textbook, dark hair in a knot on top of her head, brows drawn together in concentration. Travis’s words to him earlier still stung—had she really been so hurt by their breakup? It had been what she wanted, wasn’t it—to be rid of a man she couldn’t see herself with permanently?

  She looked up from the book and noticed him. “How long have you been standing there?” she asked.

  “Not long.” He moved into the room and held out the stack of file folders he had tucked under his arm. “I retrieved these from Denise Switcher’s car. I think they’re the files you said she was bringing to you.” The box the files had been packed in had been spattered with blood, so he had removed them. No need to remind Emily of the violent way her friend had died.

  She hesitated, then reached up to take the folders. “Thank you.”

  When he didn’t leave, but stood in front of her, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans, she motioned to the love seat across from her. “Do you want to sit down?”

  He sat. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” She pulled a pencil from the back of her head and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. He’d always wondered how women did tha
t—styled their hair with a pencil or a chopstick or whatever was handy.

  “It’s hard, losing a friend to murder,” he said.

  She nodded. “It’s worse knowing someone you knew killed her.” She shifted, planting her feet on the floor. “Did you have something to eat? I think Rainey kept back some dinner for you and Travis.”

  “I’ll get it in a minute.”

  He let the silence stretch. It was a good technique for getting people to open up. He used it in interrogating suspects—though he wasn’t interrogating Emily, and he didn’t suspect her of anything more than being uncomfortable around him. He’d like to change that.

  “I talked to one of Alex’s professors,” she said after a moment. She glanced at him through a veil of dark lashes—a look that might have been coy but wasn’t. “I wasn’t sure if I should let on that he’s a murder suspect, so I pretended I was doing follow-up for the research he participated in for our department. I told the professor I hadn’t been able to get hold of him—which isn’t a lie. He confirmed that Alex didn’t return to classes this semester.”

  “We already knew that. Did you find out anything else?”

  “I’m getting to that.”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  She sat up straighter, prepared to give a report. He imagined her in the classroom, making a presentation. She was probably a good teacher—well-spoken and direct. Pleasant to listen to, which probably wasn’t a requirement, but he was sure it helped. He liked listening to her, and he liked sitting across from her like this, breathing in the faint floral scent of her soap and enjoying the way the light of the lamp beside her illuminated her skin. “Alex is studying psychology,” she said. “So I asked the professor what kind of person he thought Alex was. He said he was superficial.”

  Brodie considered the word. An unusual choice. “What do you think he meant?”

  “He said Alex struck him as someone playing a part. He knew how to act like a serious student or a popular friend, but the professor always had the sense that beneath the surface, there wasn’t much there. Or maybe, that there was something darker there that Alex didn’t want to show to anyone else.”

  “Did you ask the professor if he thought Alex was a sociopath?”

  “No. And I don’t think he’d make that kind of diagnosis on the basis of their relationship. It wouldn’t be professional.”

  “I’m no psychologist, but I’d say a man who kills eight women in cold blood doesn’t have normal emotions or reactions.”

  “I wouldn’t disagree.” She met his gaze and he felt the zing of attraction. However else they had both changed in the past five years, they hadn’t lost this sense of physical connection. He had always believed the physical side of a relationship was the most superficial, based on hormones and basic drives. With Emily, even this felt different.

  “Did the professor say anything else?” he asked, determined to keep things loose and professional. He had meant what he said to Travis about coming here to do a job, not to resume a relationship with Emily. After all, she had made it clear when she had refused his proposal that she didn’t see him as the kind of man she wanted to spend her life with.

  “Only that Alex was very intelligent, made good grades when he applied himself and had expressed an interest in going into law enforcement work,” she said. “Specifically, he mentioned he wanted to be a criminal profiler.”

  Another surprise. “That’s interesting. And a little unnerving. I hate to think law enforcement would be attractive to someone like that.”

  “I don’t know—if you wanted to commit crimes, doing it as a cop, where you would be privy to all the information about the investigation, would allow you to stay one step ahead of the people looking for you. You might even be able to guide them to look in the wrong direction.”

  “Now I’m a little unnerved that you’ve put so much thought into this.” He tried for a teasing tone, letting her know he wasn’t serious.

  “You asked me to get inside Alex’s head.” She shifted position on the sofa. “Though I have to admit, it’s not the most comfortable place to be.”

  “Do you have any ideas where he might be hiding out, or what his next move might be?” Brodie asked.

  “I’m a researcher, not a clairvoyant,” she said. “But I am working on it. The case feels really personal now, with Denise’s death. I mean, I knew a lot of the women he’s killed, but this hits a little close to home.”

  He nodded, but said nothing, debating whether he should mention his concerns about a connection to her.

  She must have sensed his hesitation. She leaned toward him, her gaze searching. “What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to alarm you.”

  “I’m already alarmed.”

  He blew out a breath. Maybe if he shared his theories, she’d help blow them out of the water. “I’m wondering if you might be on Alex’s radar as a possible target,” he said. “If, in fact, you’re what brought him to Eagle Mountain to begin with.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Maybe he fixated on you.”

  “He’s killed eight other women and hasn’t even threatened me.”

  “Maybe he’s biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity.”

  She didn’t look frightened—only skeptical. “And the other women were what—practice?”

  “The first one might have been. Then he discovered he liked killing. Or maybe he’s done this before, someplace else.”

  “I’m sure Travis has already thought of that,” she said. “I don’t think he found any like crimes.”

  “You’re right. And Alex is young. His first murder may very well have been Kelly Farrow.”

  “I think it’s just a coincidence that he ended up here,” she said. “He came here to ice climb with his friend, they got stranded by the snow and he killed Kelly—maybe he’d always had a sick fantasy about killing a woman and he thought doing so in this out-of-the-way place, with a small sheriff’s department, would be easier.”

  Brodie nodded. “And once he started, he felt compelled to continue.”

  “From what I’ve read, that’s how it works with many serial killers—they’re fulfilling an elaborate, engrossing fantasy.”

  Brodie hoped she wasn’t part of that fantasy, but decided not to share that with her. He didn’t want to frighten her—only make her more aware of possible danger. “I told Travis I’d asked you to help with the case,” he said.

  “What did he say about that?”

  “He reluctantly agreed to let you help, but I don’t think he was too happy about getting his little sister involved.” Or about any possible involvement between Brodie and Emily.

  “He and Gage both tend to be overprotective. I’ve learned to humor them and do what I want, anyway.”

  “They have a right to be concerned. I hope you took what we said this afternoon—about not going anywhere alone—seriously.”

  “I did.”

  “It applies to all the women here at the ranch, and all the women you know.”

  “We do talk about this, you know? I don’t know any woman who goes anywhere by herself without being alert to her surroundings.”

  “When you live in a peaceful place like Eagle Mountain, I can see how it would be easy to get complacent.”

  “But I don’t live in Eagle Mountain,” she said. “I live in Fort Collins. And I have two brothers who are cops. I know more than I want to about how dangerous it can be out there.”

  “Point taken,” he said. And maybe it was time to shift the conversation to something more mundane and less stressful. “How do you like living in the big city? It’s a lot different from life here on the ranch.”

  “I love it,” she said. “I really enjoy my work, and I like all the opportunities and conveniences of a bigger city.”

 
Footsteps approached and they both turned toward the door as Travis entered. He stopped short. “Brodie, what are you doing here?”

  “I dropped off the files from Denise Switcher’s car,” Brodie said. “The ones she was bringing to Emily.”

  “I could have brought them,” Travis said. He was studying Brodie as if he was a perp he suspected of a crime.

  “I’m sure Brodie didn’t want to bother you with such a little errand,” Emily said. She turned to Brodie. “Thanks again for bringing them to me.”

  “It’s been a long day,” Travis said. “I’m sure Brodie wants to get to his cabin.”

  Brodie resisted the urge to needle Travis by protesting that he wasn’t tired in the least and had been enjoying his visit with Emily. But the sheriff looked in no mood for teasing. For whatever reason, Travis still harbored hard feelings about Brodie and Emily’s breakup. At times, the sheriff seemed more upset with Brodie than Emily did. Brodie stood. “Travis is right,” he said. “And I’ve kept you long enough.”

  “I enjoyed your visit,” Emily said. Brodie wondered if she was saying so to goad her overprotective brother, but she sounded as if she meant it.

  “Yeah, we’ll have to do it again sometime.” He didn’t miss the dark look Travis sent him, but sauntered past the sheriff, head up. Brodie hadn’t come here intending to renew his relationship with Emily. But if that did end up happening, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  As long as the sheriff didn’t decide to run him out of town first.

  Chapter Six

  Reviewing the student surveys would have to wait until after Wednesday’s barbecue and bonfire, the latest in a series of events at the ranch that Emily was hosting in an attempt to entertain friends and family trapped in town by the weather. Wednesday morning found Emily in the kitchen with Bette and Rainey, reviewing the menu for the evening. “Good plain food to help warm folks up in the cold,” Rainey declared after describing the chili she would make and the kabobs Bette would assemble. “The kind of food I’ve been making all my life.”