This was a sticky situation.
The warrant was tightly written. Limited to Delilah’s case, we were only authorized to confiscate certain things: the flashlight and any blue dresses that would fit a girl. White hair ribbons, tan sandals and white socks. We needed a convincing reason to legally take anything else into evidence.
On my knees, I inspected the chains, looking for any signs of skin or blood. I saw nothing except dirt and rust.
“What’s up?” Max asked when he walked into the shed.
“No one’s seen any signs of Delilah, I gather?” I had to ask, even though I knew he would have told me.
“No, nothing indicating she’s been here,” he said. “Did you find something?”
“Call the CSI folks in here. We’re going to take these chains and have them tested. The horse leads, too,” I said, staring up at him. “One or the other might match the binding marks on the girl in the field. The lab may be able to find DNA.”
Max frowned. “Every ranch in the county has chains in the barn. They’re used for towing and hauling. Everyone with a horse has leads.”
“I know, but—”
“Unless you see evidence that these particular chains were used in the commission of a crime, they aren’t covered by the warrant,” Max said softly, almost as if apologizing. “You know that, Clara. If you take them and they aren’t covered by the warrant, it’ll be an illegal seizure.”
“I know the law, but—”
“Then follow it,” Max said, an undercurrent of irritation in his voice.
I stared at him. “Max, we’re going to regret this. Once we leave, Evan can throw the chains in a vat and clean them. We need to take these now.”
“No,” he said. “We’re going to stick to the rules. I don’t want to do anything we’ll regret later.”
I stood, simmering. Three feet away from him, I frowned and said, “While I appreciate that you don’t want to stray outside the law, the overriding goal here is finding my sister while she’s still alive.”
Max’s expression softened, but he said, “Clara, taking the chains isn’t an option. We can’t. Evan may end up tied to a murder. I won’t let you jeopardize our case.”
I knew he was right, but it didn’t matter. I wanted those chains in evidence. Max stood in the way. I swallowed my anger and followed him out of the shed back to the house.
After the CSI unit finished up, Max handed Evan a list of what we’d taken, while I glanced back at the shed and again regretted leaving behind what might be valuable evidence.
“You’re gonna take good care of that stuff. Those clothes belong to my daughters,” Evan said, as he signed the inventory. “When you find out I have nothing to do with any of this, I’ll expect everything back in good shape.”
“We’re getting the flashlight processed ASAP. Fingerprints. DNA,” I said. “We’ll be getting in touch. Until then, a squad will watch your house. Consider yourself under surveillance.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.” Evan’s eyes drilled into me. “I want to be available to hear you explain to the judge that you lied to get in my house. Something about a sick sister?”
Max looked over at me, not pleased.
“I didn’t lie on the warrant,” I said. “Everything is factual. Evan, don’t leave the county. We’ll be in touch.”
Thirty-Seven
Max had been in more than his share of uncomfortable situations, but the drive back to the sheriff’s office ranked high on the list. The inside of the car felt like a pressure cooker cranked up to high.
“Are you going to explain to me how you really got into Evan Barstow’s house? What’s this about a sick sister?” he asked.
Beside him, Clara shifted in the passenger seat and stared out the window. Her voice flat, she said, “I did what I had to do.”
“If you lied, this could come back and bite us,” he pointed out yet again.
She glanced over at him and scowled, peeved, he felt sure. “I told you I didn’t lie on the search warrant’s affidavit,” she said.
“But if you lied to Evan’s wife, that could open the door for a defense attorney to challenge the evidence we found in the search, including the flashlight,” he countered.
At that, Clara’s brow wrinkled, and he had the feeling she chose her next words carefully: “Max, you need to stop worrying about your career and start worrying about finding my sister.”
Max sucked in a full helping of air and felt his blood pressure rise. He knew the case was personal for Clara. He admitted that she had reason to question his motives. He hadn’t backed her up when he should have. But whether Clara understood or not, he’d put any concern about his career aside. All he cared about was doing the right thing for the case.
He wanted to find Delilah just like Clara did. And he understood that with each tick of the clock, the danger the girl was in intensified. But what Clara failed to consider were the realities of the situation. It had been four days since Delilah was taken. In stranger abductions, nearly three quarters of children ultimately murdered died within the first three hours.
As much as Max hoped to bring the girl home alive, he knew he more likely faced the arrest and eventual trial of a murderer. Any shortcuts Clara took, any stepping over the line, could result in letting the monster responsible walk out of a courtroom a free man. She had to understand that her actions could have consequences. “Clara, I don’t know how things are done in Texas, but Utah judges frown on law enforcement lying to get inside houses.”
For a moment, she kept silent, perhaps considering how to respond. “I told you, I didn’t lie on the warrant. Yes, I told Evan’s wife I was lost and I had to call my sick sister,” Clara confessed. “But what you’re not considering, although I’ve mentioned it before, is that at the time I wasn’t a Utah cop.”
On one hand, Clara made a good point. She wasn’t acting as a law enforcement officer at the time. But that didn’t guarantee that a judge wouldn’t rule against them in a courtroom. And when she’d wanted to take the chains although they were outside the warrant? Then, Clara wore a Smith County deputy’s badge.
I have to find a way to get through to her, Max thought.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I am. But we have to be careful,” he said, reasoning that they needed to talk it through. He wanted them to be in agreement, work together, instead of at odds. “We both know the consequences of not following the letter of the law. If we’d taken those chains, we might have permanently poisoned the well. Every piece of evidence we found at Evan’s house could be ruled inadmissible.”
“So you pointed out.” Clara squinted over at Max. “I was willing to take that chance to speed this investigation up. I would do anything necessary to rescue Delilah before she ends up like that girl in the field.”
“Don’t you think I want that, too?” Max protested, attempting to hide a burning indignation. “I know how it is to feel helpless. Brooke was hurt in the accident, bad. And I… didn’t handle it well. I let her down. She’s still trying to get better, and I can’t get fired. I can’t do that to her. Not again.”
The car’s interior went silent, and Clara turned away.
Thirty-Eight
After her bath, the man gave Delilah a clean dress and a sandwich, the first solid food she’d eaten in days. It tasted dry, the bread crumbly and old, but she dared not complain and consumed it in seconds. Once she finished, he led her back to the upstairs room.
“I need you to do something for me,” he said.
Delilah gazed up at him. “What?”
He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a note card and a pen and handed them to her. “Write down what I tell you.”
While unsure, she didn’t want to upset the man. Delilah braced the note card against the wall, the pen poised over it.
“Write this: I ran away, and I won’t be coming home. Don’t look for me. Then sign your name.”
Stunned, Delilah dropped her arms and blinked at the man. “W
hy do you want me to write that?”
“Because I want you to. Why is none of your business.” He glared at her so hard the nerves underneath her skin crawled. “Don’t make me regret taking off your chains. I can put them back on. I can do whatever I want to you, whenever I want to do it.”
Delilah stared at the man. Unsure what he intended to do with the note, she didn’t like it. She didn’t want to write it. She didn’t want anyone to stop searching for her.
“You do what I told you. Write that note.” The man moved close and stared down at her, his eyes targeted on hers. “If you don’t, you will be sorry.”
Delilah thought back to her terror in the bathtub. When he trapped her underwater, the world grew hazy, and she knew he could kill her. Certain she had no alternative, her hands trembled as she printed what he’d dictated in big capital letters. At the end, she scrawled her name in cursive, the way her teachers taught her at the cinder block school in town.
“That’s a good girl,” he said, when she handed it to him.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“Nothing you have to worry about.” He looked pleased as he ran his hand along the side of her face, lingering on her smooth, young skin. “It won’t be long now.”
“What won’t?” she asked, trying not to let him see that she had to fight the urge to pull away from his touch.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and left. She heard the door lock click behind him. He came back a few minutes later and gave her a bottle of water. Then she heard faint noises from outside. She stood at the window, trying to see out. All she could make out in the thin, jagged slit of light between the board and the window frame were slices of green leaves on a tree and what looked like the mountainside in the near distance. A short time later, she thought she heard someone leave on a horse.
With the man, she assumed, gone, Delilah examined the room. The handcuffs and chains had left bruises on her wrists and ankles, but it felt good to walk about. First, she inspected the door: thick wood panels that fitted tightly. For an old house, the place looked well constructed. She planted one foot against the wall as a brace and grabbed the handle, trying to jerk it open. She pulled and pulled but it wouldn’t budge. She scratched her fingertips and tore her nails attempting to pry the board off the window. Dozens of long screws held it tight. Next time he let her out, she decided she needed to find something to use as a tool. She wondered if a butter knife would work on the screws. Maybe she could find something to use to pick the door lock.
Despite being confined to the room, not knowing how she would ever get away, Delilah did feel better. The polished cotton dress she wore dragged on the floor when she walked, but it was clean. It looked homemade, as hers had been, and she wondered who had worn it before her.
“Jayme, it has pink and white flowers, little tulips. Is it yours?” she called out, describing the dress.
“No,” the girl downstairs answered. “It must have belonged to one of the other girls.”
“The dead ones?” Delilah gulped at the thought.
Jayme didn’t answer at first, and then just mumbled, “I guess so.”
Thinking about the two girls who’d disappeared, Delilah’s mood darkened. “I don’t think we can escape.” Her voice cracked, and she wished she had something to dry her cheeks. She didn’t know when she’d get another clean dress, and she didn’t want to dirty the one she wore. But her tears came so fast, she finally gave in and used the hem to mop her eyes. Considering all she knew, Delilah confessed, “I think we’re going to die here, like he says.”
She wished Jayme would tell her not to worry, that they’d be okay, but she heard only one sound from downstairs, a muffled weeping.
Thirty-Nine
The conference room resembled a shop that only sold blue dresses. We had them hanging all around us, carefully covered by long evidence bags. Some had white collars and sashes, small flowers, others plaid, solid shades of blue, and gingham. The CSI unit had seized everything they thought presented any possibility. On our way back to the sheriff’s department, I’d called Naomi and asked her to bring Mother, Sariah, and Lily to look through the dresses. She said she didn’t know if Mother would come, but she agreed to try.
While I waited, I thought back to Evan Barstow’s shed, the horse lead and the chains. I wondered yet again if we’d left the real evidence, the important evidence, on the ranch. I understood Max’s reasoning, but my frustration made my stomach churn and my nerves bristle. Although it had been only hours since the body was found, it felt as if everything moved in slow motion.
Needing to stay busy, I laid out photos of the girl in the field’s dress. Some focused on the once-white collar. Others zeroed in on the small flowers that formed the stripes. Those taken a bit farther away showed the fabric’s original light green color. Ivory buttons ran down the front, the thread that anchored each one cured the color of milky coffee.
“What are you looking for?” The sheriff stood over my gruesome photo gallery. “You think the answer’s in one of those?”
“I’m hoping so.”
“Clara, you’ve studied those photos,” Max said as he walked in. “They aren’t changing.”
“I know,” I said. “It just seems like there should be a clue here.”
Max’s phone dinged. “An email. Doc Wiley’s sending more photos.”
“I’ll have one of the clerks print them,” Sheriff Holmes offered, as he turned to leave. “Maybe this batch will have what you need, Detective Jefferies.”
The new images didn’t feature the dress. Instead, Doc had photographed a small gold ring in the shape of a flower he removed from the dead girl’s right hand. Once we had prints, I lined them up on the table with the others. “That looks like the rings my father gave each of us girls for our sixteenth birthdays,” I said to Max. A ball of anxiety lodged in my chest as I inspected the ring more closely. “But that can’t be. We know this isn’t Delilah.”
“How similar is it?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. I have mine in a box in my apartment. I haven’t looked at it in years. But this certainly reminds me of it.” Holding a photo of the ring in my hands, scrutinizing how the band swirled into the flower, I wondered if we could be wrong. Was there any way that the dead girl could be Delilah? But that was ridiculous. Nothing matched. This girl was taller, her hair a different color, Doc pegged her as older, and she’d been dead for months.
Max picked up a few of the photos and took a closer look. “Clara, I don’t think this is an unusual design for a ring.”
“You’re right, I’m sure. It can’t be Delilah. We know that,” I said, as I pushed the photos together into a stack. “Plus, she’s only twelve. Father, my mothers, wouldn’t have given her a sweet sixteen ring yet.”
“I’ll email some photos of the clothing and the ring out to the media,” Max suggested. “The Amber Alert’s been out a little more than an hour now. The TV stations are carrying the story about the girl in the field. This could help ID her.”
“Sure,” I said. “Good idea.”
We’d already sent the two flashlights to the lab to be compared. The one from Evan Barstow’s house would also be dusted for fingerprints and tested for DNA. I sat in a chair and looked at photos of them again, lined them up, side by side. They had to be identical. And if they were, Evan had to be our guy. He had to have Delilah. But if not at the house, then where? Preoccupied with the photos, I didn’t hear them until they shuffled into the room.
“Mother, you came,” I said, as she marched in the door with her two sister-wives and Lily.
“Only because Sariah asked me to.” The stoop I’d noticed before looked more pronounced, as if she carried the weight of the family on her back. Her face hung wearily. I sensed she had all her remaining energy focused on retaining control.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said. Mother didn’t respond.
Sariah handed me two paper bags. The first held Delilah’s hairbrush and
some of her dirty clothes. Inside the second, I found a doll—a pudgy toddler with curly blond hair and blue glass eyes that flapped open and shut. In places, the doll’s vinyl skin had discolored and worn thin from years of cuddling.
“Delilah’s doll?” I asked.
Sariah nodded. “Her favorite.”
I gave everything to Max to send to the lab to try to pull DNA.
“All these dresses,” Naomi said. “They’re from Evan Barstow’s house?”
“Yes, take your time and look through,” I said. “I need to know if any of these could be the one Delilah had on that night.”
“We won’t find Delilah’s dress,” Mother predicted, and I saw the anger in the downturn of her lips. “The Barstows are good men, sons of the prophet.”
It was useless to argue with her, so I retired to the hallway where I had a view back into the room through a floor-to-ceiling window. Mother, Sariah, Naomi and Lily circulated one by one through the dresses. We had fourteen, various sizes, all the traditional, long prairie style. A crime scene officer held up each one as my mothers and Lily inspected it. When they reached the last dress, a solid blue that had flowers embroidered across the bodice, I returned to the room.
“Do any of them look like Delilah’s dress?”
“None of these are Delilah’s,” Mother said. “I told you it wouldn’t be here.”
Sariah appeared relieved. “Clara, that could be good, couldn’t it? That might mean he doesn’t have her.”
“Maybe, or not. We don’t know,” I said. “We’re going to just have to keep on investigating and figure it out.”
The Fallen Girls: An absolutely unputdownable and gripping crime thriller (Detective Clara Jefferies Book 1) Page 22
