Girl, Alone (An Ella Dark FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

by Blake Pierce

  Ella saw that Julia Reynolds’s hometown was Lake Charles, Louisiana. She performed a quick search and found that Lake Charles was some hundred miles away from where her body was discovered. She scanned the police report further, landing on something that caught her attention.

  Julia Reynolds had been hitchhiking on the day of her disappearance.

  A teenage girl. Hitchhiking. Dismemberment.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Ella said out loud, making a brand new connection. She looked up and saw a handful of officers ogling her. She dropped her eyes back to the page, but was lost in her head. She piled up case file one and turned to the second.

  The second victim’s name was Winnie Barker, an eighty-one-year-old woman who was killed only two days after the first victim. The police report said that she was stabbed in her bed as she slept, with stab wounds to her chest and abdomen and a severe laceration across her throat.

  She skimmed the police report for any minute details. Two things jumped out at her. The first was that numerous items had been stolen from Winnie’s home, something that the killer hadn’t done with either of the other murders.

  But more alarmingly was that the victim had been discovered with a small lipstick mark on her leg.

  To others, this might be inconsequential. There could have been a number of reasons how such a mark arrived in that place.

  But Ella knew better. This mark was no accident.

  The wheels began to turn. Yes, these victims couldn’t be any more different. Victimology was inconsistent, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a pattern to be found. The M.O. changed with each murder, but was it possible that this unsub’s modus operandi was that he changed it each time?

  The more she thought about it, the more everything fell into place. Ripley was wrong. This was a serial case, but the perpetrator was a serial killer playing the part of other serial killers.

  Julia Reynolds. Hitchhiking across the country but was strangled, dismembered, and discarded in the woods. This was a copycat of Edmund Kemper’s murders, the Coed Killer who murdered ten people in California.

  Winnie Barker. Stabbed repeatedly, throat slashed, and burgled as she lay in bed. This was a copycat of Richard Ramirez’s murders, the Night Stalker who terrorized Los Angeles and San Francisco in the eighties. During one of his murders, he drew a pentagram in lipstick on his victim’s leg.

  The evidence was all right there. And now it was Ed Gein. He wasn’t copycatting one serial killer, he was copycatting all of them.

  “Everything okay?” a voice asked. “Heard you talking to herself. This stuff will send you insane if you let it.”

  The boyish officer again. Ella pulled out her earplugs. “Just thinking out loud.”

  “Anything we can help with? We are the experts on this stuff, you know?” He perched himself on the edge of Ella’s desk.

  Heavy footsteps sounded behind them. Another voice interrupted.

  “Peddle your shit somewhere else, Rick Astley. Miss Dark is more than capable of collecting her own thoughts, thank you.”

  Ella turned around to see Ripley waiting for her. The officer hopped off the table and held his hands up in mock surrender. He walked into the break room, slamming the door with more force than was necessary.

  “You might have embarrassed him,” Ella said. Suddenly, her short outburst from earlier didn’t seem so bad.

  “I couldn’t give a monkey’s. You’ll meet plenty of guys like that, so get used to it. Same goes for that gaggle of limp-dicked oldies in the corner.”

  Some of them looked up. Ella tried not to laugh. “Anyway, forget them. We’ve got a suspect to question. Get your shit together and let’s go.”

  “On it,” said Ella as she picked up her bag.

  “Did you find anything?” Ripley asked.

  “Yes. You’re not going to believe this.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ella sat in the passenger seat while Ripley drove. Despite her tough demeanor, Ripley operated the same way a grandma might drive her grandkids to soccer practice on a Sunday afternoon. Slow, obedient, and dared not rush a red light. Sheriff Harris had commandeered a vehicle for them to use to avoid relying on cabs.

  “Trust me, as an agent, you don’t want to ever get caught fucking around on the road. We’re supposed to set an example. Besides, nothing says frigid old bitch like trying to own the road.”

  Ella wasn’t much listening. “Edmund Kemper. Richard Ramirez. Both victims match the M.O.s of them to a tee. We’re dealing with a copycat, I’m sure of it.”

  The midday traffic was picking up, although in this town, even rush hour would be a leisurely experience compared to the horrors of D.C.

  “Winnie Barker, the second victim, even had a pentagram drawn on her leg. That was one of Ramirez’s hallmarks. How can that be just a coincidence?”

  Ella turned to Ripley for some kind of confirmation. Anything. Ripley pursed her lips and squinted her eyes as she navigated the roads. “Don’t you think?”

  “It’s a great connection, Dark, and it’s a link I’d never have made myself, but it’s a stretch.”

  “It’s a stretch? How?”

  “What I see when I look at those pictures is a blotchy red mark on an old woman’s leg. I don’t see a pentagram. We don’t even know for sure that it was the unsub who put the mark there. It could be anything. Not to mention that it might not even be a lipstick mark. It could have been marker pen or some kind of abnormality from the excessive blood loss. We can’t just jump to conclusions.”

  Ella was taken aback. She drummed her fingers on the Honda’s dashboard. An awkward silence hung between them. She had a sudden urge to turn the radio on but resisted. She mulled over Ripley’s comments.

  “But why would she have a blotch on her ankle? Someone must have put it there. An old woman like her would have had difficulty reaching down there. She was in her eighties.”

  “You want to know what I think it is? I think it was a carny mark.”

  “A what?” Ella asked, not wanting to sound amateurish but her curiosity getting the better of her.

  “Winnie Barker was burgled, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bands of criminals sometimes literally mark potential victims with recognizable symbols. It goes back to the days of dishonest carnival workers who’d mark gullible people with chalk so other carnies would know to target them. This is the modern equivalent. I’ve seen it a lot.”

  Ella thought on it. She’d heard of similar things in the past, without a doubt. As she considered the possibility, her theory began to slowly float away from her grasp. She decided to claw it back a little.

  “But burglaries don’t usually end with homicide,” she said.

  “Very true, but plenty of burglaries have ended in homicide. The perp could have gotten carried away, or may have had a personal vendetta against the victim. Winnie may have caught him in the act and he didn’t want to leave a witness. Until we know more, we can’t say anything for sure.

  “Edis sent me out here because I notice patterns,” Ella said, finally. “If not for me, the Greenville Strangler would still be out there. To predict the future, look at the past.” Ella decided she wasn’t going to let this go.

  “You know how many hitchhikers get killed? Lots. You know how many people get stabbed? Even more. Even if it wasn’t a carny mark left on Winnie’s leg, I’ve seen unsubs leave star marks, circles, and all kinds of crude drawings at crime scenes.”

  Ripley had a point, Ella admitted to herself.

  “Your Ed Gein theory struck a chord with me, that much I’ll admit. But you’re just grasping at straws here. You’re trying to find patterns where there aren’t any. That’s what conspiracy theorists do, not professional detectives.”

  “Do you think it’s just a coincidence that three murders in the same week have links to infamous serial slayings, then?” Ella asked calmly.

  Ripley turned a stiff corner onto a trailer park site and entered onto a rocky dirt
path. They came to an abrupt stop where a row of trailers either side of them began. Ripley leaned forward and surveyed the area.

  “Looks like we’ve reached the slums,” she said. “And to answer your question, yes. If you look closely at any murder, you’ll see some kind of pattern to a famous crime or serial killer. Stabbings, gunshots, strangulation, sawing off dicks—everything that can possibly happen has happened at some point in history. It doesn’t mean it’s a connection, it just means it’s happened before. Likening these murders to events which happened decades ago doesn’t help us find the culprit.”

  Ella bit her lip to stop her from retorting without thinking her response through. Ripley had a point, and given her track record, she certainly did her job well. But Ella couldn’t shake a niggling suspicion that Ripley had other reasons to dispute her findings.

  “And the Ed Gein link?” Ella asked. “You don’t think that’s a copycat?”

  “It may have been inspired by. But outside of movies and podcasts and all that other sensationalized stuff, the truth is that copycats are rarer than rocking horse shit. In my thirty years, I’ve only ever come across one copycat killer.”

  Ella racked her brain for the killer in question. A few copycat killers came to mind, but none which were investigated by the FBI. “Who was it?” she asked.

  “That’s not important right now,” Ripley said. She jumped out of the car and shut the door with vigor. Ella followed. “Now, is your head in the game? Or are you going to be thinking of these theories while we’re interrogating this guy?”

  “I’m ready,” said Ella.

  “Good, now let’s go. It’s trailer number thirteen.”

  They walked past two overturned trash cans. On the side of one trailer, someone had spray-painted PEOPLE LIVE HERE. The entire row of cabins opposite number 13 were completely blacked out. No lights from any windows. However, two doors down, number 17 was playing annoyingly loud music. It looked to Ella like they were having a party, despite it having only just turned evening.

  Ripley banged on number 13’s door. It reverberated with a clanging sound. “Mr. Cornette? We’re with the FBI. Open up, please.”

  Ella heard a shuffling sound inside, then a sudden thud. The walls were so thin that she could probably kick through them, she thought.

  “What?” a voice shouted back. It was rough, muffled. “What you want?”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake. He’s hammered,” said Ripley.

  “How do you know?” Ella asked.

  Ripley turned to her. “He’s speaking from his throat and not his diaphragm. Instant sign that alcohol is in the system. Not to mention those empty cans in his trash.”

  “Oh. Good spot.”

  “Mr. Cornette, if you don’t open up, I’m afraid we’re going to have to break this door down and take you under arrest. Something tells me that wouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “I’m comin’,” the man shouted. The lock clicked and the door swung open. “Yes?”

  Something told Ella that once upon a time, Rick Cornette was a good-looking man. A luscious head of hair, a lean frame, gleaming eyes. Now, however, that was all gone. Rick had small patches of gray hair dotted around his worn-out face. Emaciated frame, like he hadn’t eaten for months. Yellow skin, breath so bad it could strip paint. He was a sixty-year-old man who should still be forty-five.

  “I’m Special Agent Ripley and this is my partner, Ella Dark. We understand that you’re the ex-husband of Ms. Christine Hartwell, correct?”

  “Here’s me thinking you were the hookers I ordered.”

  Ella and Ripley said nothing.

  “Fine. Come in. Don’t be long.”

  Rick’s trailer only had a single chair, pointed directly at a TV blaring Fox News. His kitchen area was overloaded with unwashed plates. One of his cupboards had no door. Ella spotted a number of prescription pills inside.

  Rick slumped back into his chair and faced away from Ripley and Ella. They walked around to face him. Ripley turned off the TV at the plug.

  “Whoa, what do you think you’re doing?” Rick shouted. He picked up a half-empty bottle of whiskey from beside his chair and jumped to his feet. Ella flinched, thinking for a second that Rick was going to hurl the bottle at them.

  Ripley threw the plug down on the floor with force. “Friend, we might not be the prostitutes you expected, but I’ll definitely put something up your ass if you don’t cooperate here.”

  There was a stunned silence by both Ella and Rick. Ella expected some kind of masculine retaliation, but amazingly, none came. Instead, Rick dropped back into his seat.

  Then he started crying. Head in his hands.

  Ripley and Ella swapped glances. Ella assumed it was the booze talking.

  “I loved her, you know. I still loved her. Our marriage was perfect. It shouldn’t have ended. When she took my shop, that was the end for me.”

  “We’re sorry to hear that, Mr. Cornette, but if you could answer some questions we’ll leave you to your business. Where were you yesterday evening between five and seven p.m.?”

  Rick shot up, wiping the few tears which had collected under his eyes. “I was here. Why?”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “No.”

  Ella and Ripley exchanged a look. “Fair enough. Mr. Cornette, is it true that your relationship with Christine included some physical abuse?”

  Rick moved over to his kitchen area and fetched a half-finished bottle of brandy. He laid it on the kitchen counter then perched himself over the sink. He stared at his reflection in the small window opposite.

  “Yeah, our relationship had its ups and downs, but that doesn’t mean I killed her.”

  “We’re not saying it did,” offered Ripley, “but given the circumstances of her death, we feel it’s necessary to rule you out.”

  “Circumstances? What?”

  “Is it correct you’re a hunter, Mr. Cornette?” Ripley asked.

  “I was. Not anymore.”

  The agents waited for Rick to elaborate. He didn’t. He ran the tap, splashed water on his face, and returned to the living area.

  “Can we ask when you last saw Ms. Hartwell?” Ripley said.

  “Hartwell.” Rick laughed. “Wouldn’t even keep my name.”

  “Isn’t that what usually happens when people get divorced?” Ella said, trying to ease the burden of Ripley carrying the conversation. She saw Rick’s pity for himself turn to frustration.

  “She was seeing someone else, you know? While we were together.” Rick took a gulp of the brandy. “Everyone took her side. Scumbags.”

  “That’s not the picture her brother painted,” said Ripley. Ella saw something change, felt the atmosphere change. Rick clenched his teeth, gripped his bottle hard around the neck. He turned away from the agents and launched his whiskey bottle across the room, where it collided with the kitchen window. It cracked down the middle, then the bottle crashed into the pile of dishes. The clang was almost deafening. He reached down and grabbed the whiskey bottle already lying empty beside his chair. “You stupid lady cops come in here, thinking you know me, accusing me of all sorts of shit. I told you, I loved the bitch. I wouldn’t kill her.”

  Ella tried to calm him down. “That’s all well and good, but we—”

  “Shut your mouth,” Rick interrupted. He stumbled over to a wall, cracked his head against it. “Is that not enough? That I loved her? Don’t you believe me?”

  There was a heavy pause from everyone in the room. Ella could still hear the irritating drum-and-bass from two trailers down.

  “No,” said Ella.

  And before she or Ripley could say anything else, Rick lunged across the room in the blink of an eye. The last thing Ella saw was Rick’s stained vest, his brown teeth, his enflamed eyeballs, inches away from her face.

  And she froze.

  ***

  She’d always been told that no training could prepare someone for the real thing. People always said that experience was t
he best teacher, although the test always came before the lesson.

  But as Rick’s hand, still clutching a glass bottle, filled her vision, a surge of adrenaline shook her from head to toe. Better yet, it was a familiar feeling. Visions of her martial arts sparring classes rushed back. She recognized the pressure points by instinct—wrist, groin, temples, eyes.

  Ella quickly strafed to her left as Rick hurtled toward her. She reached out, grabbed his wrist, and then thrust her knee straight into his stomach. The bottle flew from Rick’s hand and clattered against the TV as he keeled over. With a fleeting moment to capitalize, Ella mentally marked out two to three centimeters above her attacker’s eyes. Still with one hand wrapped around his wrist, she drove the palm of her other hand directly into Rick’s temple. His head trembled violently, sending his brain ricocheting around his skull and incapacitating him for around five seconds.

  Rick dropped to his knees as he lifted up his arm to shield his head. At that moment, Ella hooked both of his arms around to his back and then pressed her knee into his spine. Rick’s body fell limp in her arms as she pushed his face into the cheap blue rug on his living room floor.

  Ella looked up at Ripley, who was staring wide-eyed at the scene in front of her. “Help a rookie out and throw me those handcuffs?” Ella said.

  Ripley did exactly that. Ella caught the handcuffs and snapped them on Rick with flawless technique. Rick began to writhe as the pain from Ella’s strikes subsided, but she held his face down so his cries were muffled.

  “God damn,” said Ripley.

  Ella eased off. Rick wasn’t going anywhere. He rolled onto his back and spat up a thick stream of phlegm.

  “Yeah. Twenty years of martial arts classes finally paid off,” Ella said. She jumped to her feet. Up until now, she’d never seen Ripley at a loss for words. “What? You never heard of Bujinkan?” Ella asked.

  Ella saw a look on of something that resembled astonishment on Ripley’s face.”