My heart fluttered a little faster with each door that I opened. They were all empty, but two of them had metal bedframes with handcuffs and chains attached to them. We moved on, but there was no sign of the fourth victim, and I left a couple of officers behind while the rest of us spread out to search outside. When forensics arrived, they took pictures of all the rooms and gathered as much evidence as possible. The bedrooms with metal beds had women’s clothes hung neatly in the closets, and one of the techs told me that there were two freezers in the garage that had possible human blood in them. I cringed at the thought of what Wyatt had done to those women.
Once forensics had done their work, I re-entered the home and investigated more fully, taking an hour to assemble some notes. I then left to head back to the station, but stopped at Starbucks for my morning coffee. I usually get a venti with two shots of espresso, but this morning I asked for three shots. I knew that I was going to be in for a long day, and with little sleep, I needed as much kick as possible. A few sips into the coffee, I started to feel a surge of energy kick in. At my desk, I logged into our database to see if there was anything on Carter Wyatt, but I was disappointed. The last time we’d dealt with him was a traffic ticket six years prior for going eight miles per hour over the speed limit. Criminals like Carter Wyatt were the scariest kind, because they blended into society and walked among everyone else without being noticed. If he had been pulled over a week ago for speeding, his name would have been run and nothing would have come up. He would have been given a warning or a ticket, and the officer would never have known Wyatt had killed three people and kidnapped at least two more.
My desk phone rang, and I saw that it was Jessica Roles from the forensics department.
“Hey, Jess,” I said.
“Hey, August. I’ve got Carter Wyatt’s laptop opened up, and I found something that you may find interesting.”
“Interesting enough for me to walk down?”
“I think so. One of the other techs said you mentioned something about ‘between the trees’?”
That definitely perked my interest.
“Okay, be there in a second.”
I walked down to the forensics department and found Jessica at her desk with an open laptop. Her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she was reading something on the screen.
“Whatcha got?” I asked.
“So, look at this…” she said, and I leaned forward and looked at the screen. “This is Wyatt’s Yahoo account. I sifted through his emails over the past few months and found this.”
She pulled up an email and then opened the attachment.
“Is this a poem?” I asked.
“They’re lyrics.” Jessica minimized the attachment and showed me the email again, pointing to the recipient’s name and then the subject line. “‘Between the Trees’ is the name of a rock band.”
“What? No. Seriously?”
Jessica pulled up the attachment again to print it. I grabbed it from the printer and read the first few lines.
“Jesus,” I said. “These are lyrics.”
“Yeah, Between the Trees is based out of Orlando, Florida. There’s five other emails with lyrics to different songs.”
“So the guy’s a songwriter? What the hell does any of this have to do with victim four?”
“Not sure,” Jessica replied.
She printed the five other songs and gave them to me. I thanked her for the help and headed back to my desk, where I read through the songs. Wyatt had known I’d think the victim was buried somewhere on his property, so while his clue might still apply, his intention clearly wasn’t for me to find her. But a rock band?
I read through the songs once, and then again a second time. On the third reading, things began to stick out. I noticed that the word ‘secret’ appeared in three of the five songs, always followed by ‘urn’ within three words.
Where is Wyatt’s twisted mind trying to lead me?
Chapter Five
I toyed with the words ‘secret’ and ‘urn’, trying to see if any wordplay or deeper pattern jumped out at me. I wrote down ‘secret urn’, wondering if the idea even made sense, then I turned the words around and wrote down ‘urn secret’. I toyed with ‘secrets of the urn’, but it sounded like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. Over and over again, I reviewed the lyrics. Maybe I was focusing on the wrong words; maybe there wasn’t anything to ‘secret’ and ‘urn’, but something was there. I picked up the receiver of my desk phone and called for Carter Wyatt to be brought back to the interrogation room. Five minutes later, I sat in front of him again. He wore the same devilish grin, which I now found both annoying and unnerving.
I pushed the songs across the table and wrapped my arms together, leaning on my elbows.
“‘Between the trees’ isn’t a reference to physical trees,” I said, and Wyatt nodded, his grin widening.
“I must say that I’m impressed, Detective Miller.”
“Where’s the fourth victim?”
“You know,” Wyatt said, “it strikes me that you never asked her name.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“What’s her name?” I snarled.
“Sophia Page.”
“Where’s Sophia Page?”
Wyatt raised his pointer finger and waved it back and forth.
“Not so fast, Detective Miller. I just gave you a gift, and you haven’t given me anything.”
I ignored him and looked down at the songs. My eyes immediately fell on the words ‘secret’ and ‘urn’ again, and I knew that they meant something to Wyatt.
“What’s the secret with the urn?” I asked.
Wyatt’s eyes widened, and he sat back in his seat. He momentarily looked away from me, opening his mouth as if he was going to say something. He sat back for a few seconds, but then seemed to regroup.
“Detective Miller, you really do impress me,” he said, the grin returning. “And I’m not easily impressed.”
“Thanks,” I said, shaking off the compliment. “So where’s Sophia Page?”
“Again, you haven’t given me anything.”
“Okay,” I said, “how about this? Your best shot at trial is going to be an insanity plea, except juries really hate when that happens. They see it as escaping justice. So what I’ll give you is the chance to sell the story that you were some poor, deranged man who didn’t want to hurt anyone and helped us save his victims as soon as we caught him. The kind of guy who really does need help. Or, you can keep being stubborn, and I will personally give my account of a deranged sicko who deliberately and knowingly let a girl die.”
“That’s a fine offer,” he replied, “but it’s not what I want.”
“You can’t have what you want.”
We stared at each other for what felt like minutes, though only a few seconds passed. He cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat.
“Were you a victim, Detective Miller?”
I held his stare and firmly said, “No.”
He didn’t immediately respond, but continued looking at me.
“But someone close to you was. Your mother?”
“No.”
Wyatt smiled.
“A sister, then?”
“I gave you your answer. Where’s Sophia Page?”
He didn’t respond.
“What’s the secret with the urn?”
He stayed quiet.
“Whose ashes are in the urn?”
He didn’t respond again, and I was getting ready to ask another question when he said, “My princesses.”
“Princesses? Your daughters?”
“I never had kids, Detective.”
“Wife?”
“Strike two. Never been married.”
I curled my lips, wondering if I was on the right path. What did an urn and a secret have to do with Sophia Page? His reaction had told me there was something there, and I was sure it related to Sophia. A sinking feeling filled my gut. Sometimes, serial killers think of their victims
as their property; it was possible the ashes were Sophia’s.
“Sophia Page?” I asked.
“Strike three, Detective. Now, it’s definitely someone close to you; tell me who’s the victim.”
I stood from my chair and left the room, frustrated again.
Chapter Six
My blood felt like it was about to boil over. I paced back and forth in front of the interrogation room, trying to keep from going back inside and slamming the butt of my gun into Wyatt’s eye. Who does he think he is? I knew that I shouldn’t have shown my frustration; now he had ammo that he could use against me.
I went back to my desk and saw an email from Jessica Roles. The email had an attachment, with Jessica’s message saying that pictures of Carter Wyatt’s house were included. I opened the attachment and started sifting through the pictures. There were images of Wyatt’s living room, kitchen, hallway, bedrooms, garage and outside property. I clicked on the images one by one, and after I’d looked at all of them, I looked at them again. When I clicked on one of the living room pictures, my hand hovered over the mouse, and I stared at the screen for a few seconds, surprised by what I’d missed the first time. Sitting right there, atop a vast entertainment center, was what looked like an urn. I zoomed in on the object to make it more visible. It was silver and black and looked to be about a foot in height.
I immediately turned off the computer, grabbed the songs and darted out of the precinct. When I arrived at Carter Wyatt’s home, I headed for the living room. As I stood at its edge, I felt like I was looking through the photograph at the urn. It was in the exact spot, but looked a little bigger than the picture. I hurried to it, picked it up and looked at it as if I’d found the lost Ark. If Wyatt hadn’t reacted as he had when I mentioned the urn, I’d have been a fool to be so awe-struck, but deep down, I knew it could be the key to saving Sophia.
I shook the urn slightly, not sure what to expect, as I’d never held one before. It was heavy, but still lighter than I’d imagined. Is it disrespectful to shake an urn? As it shook, I heard something rattle inside. I opened the lid and was surprised that I didn’t see ashes, but a key. I turned over the urn and allowed the key to fall into my hand. Why does he have an urn with no ashes? I quickly sat at the kitchen table and pulled out the songs. I read through each one again and could have kicked myself for not paying attention to the word “‘key’ that was used in each song. But does it mean anything? Perhaps. I took out a pen from my jacket and wrote down ‘urn, secret, key’. Three random words from songs written to a group called Between the Trees. Wyatt had given me the first clue, but he hadn’t thought I’d find the rest. Was the key meant to be the urn’s secret? No, it didn’t feel right. The words were woven into the songs, and I couldn’t imagine Wyatt setting himself the extra task without good reason. Somehow, the urn held a secret that the key could open.
I phoned the station, asking that Carter Wyatt be brought back to the interrogation room. When I saw him again, I knew that he was going to try and test me. On the drive back, I calmed my nerves and temper.
“Three times is a bit much for me, Detective.” His devilish grin cracked through his thin lips. “I didn’t realize that you were that kind of a woman.”
“I found the key in the urn,” I said, ignoring the comment, and was glad to see his eyes widen. “Where’s Sophia Page?”
He clapped his hands, his cuffs jangling along with the gesture.
“Wow… All I can say is ‘wow’. I’m really impressed. Never in a million years would I have thought that you would find my secret. Maybe I shouldn’t have given you the nugget.”
“No more bullshit. Where’s Sophia?”
“Okay, okay, I admit that even I’m tired of the back and forth.” He paused for a moment and stared into my eyes. “Someone close to you was a victim. Who was it?”
“Stop it!”
“You can stop it any time you want.”
“Look, goddammit, do the right thing. Tell me where she is.”
“I want to, I truly do, but I’ve given you a lot, and you haven’t given me anything.”
In my head, I heard a ticking that sounded like the countdown to an explosion.
“Tell me where she is.”
“You first.”
“Where is she?”
“Who was—”
“My sister, goddammit!” I stood from my seat with my right fist cocked and clenched. “Does that satisfy your perverted mind?”
Wyatt flinched but then gathered himself and sat back in his seat.
“Yes, it does.”
I lowered my fist and leaned closer.
“Where is she?”
He cleared his throat. “Sophia and the key were in the same place.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I said.”
My mind flashed to the urn and the key, and I thought about the words that I’d pulled from the songs.
“Are you telling me that Sophia’s dead? Is that the secret? Does the urn represent death?”
“Okaaayyy, you have a vivid imagination. Even I couldn’t have made that kind of a connection.”
“Is she dead?”
For the first time in three interrogations, Wyatt became serious.
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
“Are you going to tell me where she is?”
“I already did.”
We stared into each other’s eyes, and in that moment I knew that he wasn’t going to give me any more information. I turned from the table and left the interrogation room for the third and final time that day.
Chapter Seven
An epiphany came over me as I stood outside the interrogation room: the key inside the urn was a spare. A backup. What better place to hide something than inside an urn that even the police wouldn’t think to check? So, I thought, if the key is a spare, it’s probably kept near whatever it opens. We must have missed something in the house.
When Wyatt had been arrested, we’d taken his belongings. It was easy to find them filed away, and I drew his keyring from the plastic bag. There were five keys; if my epiphany was correct and the key inside the urn was a spare, then there was a good chance he’d have the same key on his keyring. I checked the urn key against the keys on the ring and found an exact match.
“Bingo.”
I jumped in my car and headed for Wyatt’s home. During my drive, I thought about how the search team had searched the property thoroughly but come up empty. They were professionals, they’d have looked in every obvious place, and even been creative with possibilities, so there had to be something special about the space I was looking for. When I arrived at Wyatt’s home, I took a moment to rule out everything that seemed possible. It was hard, but I kept reminding myself to trust my colleagues. Wyatt’s cleverness had worked so far, but now I knew that he’d set a trap for our assumptions, and I could turn it back on him. Everywhere that seemed feasible, I dismissed, until I had a shortlist of impossibilities. Methodically, I began pushing walls to see if there were any secret doors. I found the attic and carefully touched every surface possible for any hidden entrances. I walked into every closet, probed every cupboard that wasn’t quite big enough for a body, but there weren’t any secret hiding spots.
Then I went back to the living room and pulled every book and object from the entertainment center, looking for a secret switch or lever. Nothing happened. I stepped back and looked around the house. I’d touched every surface imaginable but wasn’t able to find where the urn key could go. Did I fool myself? Wyatt had said that the urn and Sophia were in the same place. Is this another of his games?
Exasperated, I exhaled and looked up at the ceiling, which caused a light to turn on in my head. I immediately looked down to the floor. The floors throughout the house were covered with hardwood, but in the living room I stood on a large, beige area rug. My eyes widened and my heartbeat accelerated. I pushed aside a wooden coffee table and then pulled back the area rug. There,
built into the middle of the floor, was a wooden door. I couldn’t believe it. I pulled out the key and looked at it for a moment, and then knelt down and put it in the lock. I took in a breath, turned the key and immediately heard a click. Given that the house didn’t have a basement, I wouldn’t have thought that there was any kind of underground space below.
I pulled on the iron handle, and the door opened with surprising ease. The space below was dark, so I pulled out my phone and tapped on the flashlight app, shining the resultant light into the darkness. The space was about five feet deep, and the ground was covered with dirt. I lowered myself down and shined the flashlight around the circumference of the space. My heart nearly stopped when I saw a large dirt mound about six feet away from me.
“Sophia,” I whispered.
I rushed to the mound and started digging with my hands. I was desperate, like a dog trying to unearth a bone, until I finally felt the flesh of a human being. I paused and gasped; I think, unconsciously, I was surprised that a body was actually there. I quickly shook off the shock and continued digging until I was able to feel Sophia’s face. I brought up my phone and shined it on her skin; her lips were nearly blue, and her skin was pale white.
“Sophia?”
I shined the light across the mound and started digging again. Sweat fell from my face and onto Sophia’s. Once I cleared the dirt from her shoulders, I found her arms and tried pulling her from the mound. I’d never had to lift a lifeless body, but it was harder than I’d imagined. My muscles ached and my legs were instantly tired from being used as leverage. I couldn’t stand to my full height due to the low ceiling, so I hunched over, grunted and pulled until Sophia’s body was free from the dirt.
The Elephant Bowl Page 7
