“How would they know that you would be working this homicide?” he asked.
“I just spoke with her only yesterday and gave her my card. Maybe she kept it on her? It’s like he’s telling us he’s the one in control, that this was the way it should have been,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Amanda escaped from him once, so maybe he set this all up to re-enact what should have happened if she hadn’t.”
“Posing? A recreation?”
“Something like that. It’s like he’s letting us know that he corrected a mistake, one he won’t let happen again. Interesting.”
Detective Hamilton turned his gaze to the body and seemed to be lost in thought—could he not see what she saw?
“What was the weather like early this morning? Was there any heavy mist or rain?” she asked.
“I don’t think so, it was like it is now. Overcast and cool.”
“So why is her hair so wet?” She leaned forward and smelled Amanda’s hair. It had a strange chemical smell, almost like rotten eggs. Like the smell that they use for propane so that you can detect gas leaks. “Her hair smells like sulfur.”
Katie stood up and began to survey the area. The body was far away from anywhere where a car could easily park without being seen. Looking around her and following the most probable path, she jogged up a small hill where a car would have been able to park and dump a body early in the morning.
“What’s up?” Hamilton shouted up to her.
“Why aren’t there any drag marks leading to the body? The grass is flattened where someone walked, but no identifying shoe or tire marks.” She slowly walked back toward the body studying the ground. “I think the killer must have carried her to this spot. I think the location is strategic for him. I don’t know why—yet. But with the extra weight, why no footprints? Unless they wore something to cover their shoes.”
“Like crime scene or hospital booties?”
“Yeah. Our killer is cautious and mindful of what he’s doing. Everything is so neat. It’s calculated, know what I mean?” she said.
“Very impressive analysis for a rookie detective. No offense.”
Katie laughed; it helped to relieve some of her tension. “None taken, Detective. We need to cover the body in case this wind kicks up any harder so that we won’t lose any potential evidence. I would also increase the search area by fifty percent.”
Detective Hamilton made a couple more notes and snapped his notebook shut. Katie took one last look at Amanda, glad that her eyes were closed, and not staring at her as if to say, “why didn’t you help me?”
Fourteen
Thursday 1415 hours
“Hi,” said Katie to the sheriff’s assistant. “He wanted to see me.”
She replied with a smile, “Go right in, they’re waiting for you.”
Katie continued toward the partially closed office door where she heard several men’s voices. She opened the door and saw her uncle, Detective Hamilton, and Deputy McGaven standing together. They turned at the interruption.
“Hi, everyone,” she managed.
“Please come in and close the door,” the sheriff said. “Take a seat.”
Everyone followed suit and sat down. No one spoke, waiting for the sheriff to make his point.
“Okay, we’re all busy so I promise this will be short and sweet,” he said with a crisp authority to his voice. “I’ve given this a lot of thought and I think this is the best and most efficient way to proceed.”
Katie felt reassured that both Hamilton and McGaven appeared to be just as much in the dark as she was about the meeting.
“Amanda Payton was originally a kidnapping cold-case being investigated by Detective Scott,” the sheriff began.
Hamilton and Katie nodded in agreement.
“So what I would like to do is to have Katie take lead on her homicide.” He paused. “And I would like for Hamilton to take over lead on the serial burglary and assault cases that are pending.”
Everyone remained quiet—each digesting what the sheriff had just told them.
Detective Hamilton shifted his weight in his seat, but he remained silent.
“But I have no problem with—” Katie started to say.
“I know you don’t want to step on anyone’s toes,” the sheriff quickly countered. “I really want Detective Hamilton to oversee these other cases, and the Payton homicide needs someone’s full attention. It’s no secret that we’ve lost a lead detective recently due to misconduct during the missing girls’ case, and the budget isn’t getting any closer to allowing for me to hire or promote the two additional detectives we so desperately need.”
Katie sat quietly; she wasn’t sure if she agreed with her uncle’s decision.
“So why am I here?” asked McGaven, cutting the tension in the room.
The sheriff laughed. “I haven’t forgotten you, McGaven. I would like for you to partner with Detective Scott on this case. There’s plenty of work for the both of you and you seem to work well together. I’ve spoken to both your patrol sergeant and the watch commander, so they can make the appropriate scheduling modifications in your temporary absence. You’ll need to complete the special assignment you had been working on first, but that shouldn’t take more than a day or so.”
Katie smiled. She knew that he would be the best partner for her and was glad that her uncle had appointed him to her case. McGaven had been assigned to work with her in her first case for Pine Valley PD. It had been a rocky start, but they both managed to work things out.
McGaven looked shocked, then a slight smile broke out on his face.
“Unless of course you want to remain on patrol,” said the sheriff, now also smiling.
“I would love the opportunity to work this case. Thank you for thinking of me, sir.”
“Okay, we’re all in agreement here?” the sheriff said. “No problems?”
“Do we even have a choice?” said Hamilton. It was clear he was annoyed by a rookie detective taking over a homicide, but there was little Katie could do about it.
“Good. Let’s not waste any more time,” the sheriff said. “You’re all dismissed.”
Katie was heading for the door, her mind rolling, when Hamilton stopped her. “I suppose you’ll want all of the information I have forwarded to your office downstairs,” he said with sarcasm in his voice.
“Thank you,” she said, pretending not to have noticed his tone. He was going to need a little time to cool off, she understood that.
McGaven jogged up beside her and it was easy to see that he was eager to get started. “So,” he said. “I get to work down in the depths of the forensic basement?”
“How many detectives get to do that?” she asked.
“It’s kind of like law enforcement’s version of the bat cave.”
“C’mon, Robin, we’ve got a lot of work to do. So hurry up and finish your current assignment,” Katie reminded him.
“Hey, wouldn’t it make more sense if you were Robin and I was…”
“Don’t press your luck.”
Fifteen
Thursday 1530 hours
As promised, everything in the Amanda Payton homicide file was delivered to Katie by one of the administrative assistants. Obviously, Detective Hamilton wasn’t in the mood to offer any personal insight about the case. She couldn’t blame him for feeling put out.
Katie opened the brown folder and scanned everything collected in the few hours since leaving the crime scene. Hamilton had already begun to run a background on Amanda and he’d compiled a list of people he wanted to interview. There was also a printed copy of Amanda’s original police report regarding her kidnapping. It was clear to Katie that the detective knew how to run a homicide investigation and he was quick to get started, knowing that the first three days were the most important. After that, physical evidence becomes non-existent and people’s memories become fuzzy, or they just don’t want to cooperate with police.
Takin
g out her notebook, Katie jotted down the people to talk to along with their contact information: Emily Day (Amanda’s best friend/co-worker), Dr. Jamison (boss at First Memorial Hospital), Marco Ellis (ex-boyfriend), Dr. Smith (psychiatric hospital), Abigail Sorenson and Lisa Lambert (friends/co-workers). There was no mention of immediate family; no parents, no siblings, no next of kin that the detective was going to contact. But a hastily scribbled name, Bradley Olson, was added in as a cousin out of state in Connecticut, and Melissa Roe, another cousin in Idaho, who Katie remembered Amanda mentioning that she was going to be staying with; an aunt was contacted but she was traveling abroad and was unavailable. Otherwise, Amanda didn’t have any other immediate family.
Katie finished reading the file and found sticky notes indicating that they were still waiting on forensic results and the autopsy report. One particular note piqued her interest, an evidence number: PAY321. There was no further explanation and she didn’t want to call Detective Hamilton for help just yet. She leaned back in her chair realizing that she needed to combine all the information she had gathered from the cold case with the homicide file to make sure that she didn’t miss anything. Nothing was going to fall through the cracks on this case—not on her watch.
Katie tapped her pen against the side of her jaw; she stood up and added a few notes to her profile of the perpetrator on the board:
TRUTH? What does this mean to the perp? Why did Amanda repeat this?
Other definitions of TRUTH: fact, certainty, honesty, loyalty, devotion. Opposite: dishonesty lies, deception.
Katie contemplated the entire list. She wanted to have a confident direction before McGaven joined her, then she would divide the duties between them to cover more ground.
First, she needed to check out the evidence locker. She slipped the sticky note with the identifying number into her pocket.
Katie left the forensic section and hurried down the long dim hallway leading into the property and evidence unit. It was an area that she hadn’t had a chance to visit yet.
She reached the door to a caged office with two desks and a wall full of filing cabinets leading into a large storage area. It looked more like a bunker than an office or storage facility. There was no one there.
“Hello?” she called out.
Silence.
She tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. Walking inside, she stood at the entrance and said again, “Hello? It’s Detective Scott.”
Looking around, she saw two neat piles of reports along with a thick clipboard filled with identifying numbers. Everything appeared neat and organized, which was a good sign. Even the trash can had been recently emptied.
Katie pulled the small piece of paper out of her pocket—PAY321—and decided to search for it herself. The clipboard had similar identifying numbers, each with three letters followed by three to four numbers.
She wasn’t sure of the protocol, but didn’t think that pulling an evidence container would cause any problem, so she entered the storage room: a huge area with specially made shelving units that went up two stories. Boxes and large plastic containers with lids sat on the shelves.
Katie wandered down two rows until she figured out which section matched the number she was looking for. Moving a ladder attached to the ceiling, she climbed up to the fourth shelf and found a box identifying as PAY321. She hauled it down and took it to a narrow metal table at the end of the row.
Flipping over the lid, Katie peered inside. There were two plastic evidence bags, each with a garment of clothing inside and an evidence receipt taped on top detailing the chain of custody. They were Amanda’s tank top and panties, which had been sent from the South Street Psychiatric Hospital where she had been taken after the night of her alleged escape. She rummaged through the rest of the box finding several forms signed by Detective Petersen who had checked the box stating, “not to process.” He had claimed that the victim retracted her original complaint. There was a note indicating if more evidence came to light, including witnesses, then the items would be processed.
Katie let out a breath, put the clothes back inside the box and closed the lid. The first thing she needed to do was get the garments tested and to visit the South Street Psychiatric Hospital.
Katie left a note on the desk for the evidence and property manager identifying herself and stating that she had taken the box to her office to have forensics test the evidence.
“Hi,” said a stocky man in his thirties. “What can I do for you?”
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Detective Scott and I was just leaving you a detailed note.”
He looked at the box and eyed the identifying number.
“I’m sorry if I’ve broken protocol. I’m working cold cases and I got caught up in some new evidence that needs to be tested right away.”
The property manager stared at her for a moment. She thought he might take the box from her. Instead, he smiled. “Don’t worry about it. It’s totally understandable. But, please don’t make it a habit. I’m responsible for all the evidence.”
“Of course. What’s your name?”
“Bob.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, heading out the door.
He nodded as he took a seat at his desk, carefully writing down the information on the clipboard.
Sixteen
Thursday 1550 hours
He reveled in crowds, taking in each individual identity—everyone had a story to tell, a truth they were hiding in the way they dressed, a secret look, even a particular smell. Most people paid little or no attention to him. He had always been overlooked. That worked well in his favor and let him go about his work in peace.
He opened the lower cupboard in his small bathroom and pulled out every type of cleaning solution he could find—from hand soap to heavy-duty disinfectants. Each smell brought back vivid memories that he didn’t want to forget. At last he found what he was looking for: a jasmine pump soap. It had always been his favorite scent, reminding him of a much different time in his life.
Turning on the hot tap in the sink, he waited until steam rose and the temperature was as hot as it could go before putting his hands under the water.
Scalding.
Red hot.
Burning his already-weathered hands, he marveled at how red his fingers became. Almost unbearable, but that was the way he liked it. He wanted to wipe away everything.
He pressed the hand soap dispenser three times for a generous lather. Washing his hands for nearly a minute, he slowly rinsed them under the hot water.
Taking a paper towel, he dabbed his skin dry, wanting to keep the integrity of the scent alive.
He smelled his palms, taking in a deep breath and savoring the scent.
He put the soap away, lingering a bit, before he turned off the light and left the room.
Seventeen
Friday 0930 hours
The South Street Psychiatric Hospital resembled more of a jail than a medical facility for the mentally ill. The large building with two separate wings was painted an odd beige color that made it look like something half finished with only a primer coating.
After parking, Katie adjusted her badge and the gun hidden underneath her suit jacket to look as composed and experienced as possible. She didn’t have a purse, so she put her small field notebook in her pocket along with a pen. Locking the vehicle, she headed towards the bleak main entrance; everything was monochrome, even the dry, pale grass blended in with the lack of color from the building.
Katie pushed through one of the glass doors and found herself in front of a reception booth manned by a young woman with a stern face. There was a small glass area with a round hole in the middle to communicate through.
“Hi, can I help you?” she asked without a smile.
“Hi, I’m Detective Katie Scott from the sheriff’s department. I spoke with you on the phone earlier. I wanted to talk to the person who admits all patients brought in by the police for seventy-two-hour psychiatric watch.”
/> The receptionist didn’t even look up as she slipped a visitor badge and one sheet of paper through a space at the bottom of the window. “Please put your name, badge number and department here, and date and sign the release form here.”
Katie quickly scribbled her consent to relieve the hospital from any liability if she got hurt, maimed, or killed during her visit.
“Please check any firearms and personal items, cell phone, keys, any personal items in there.” She gestured to a small room with several lockers.
“Thank you,” said Katie as she clipped her visitor badge to her jacket. “What’s the name of the person I’m meeting?”
“Dr. Trent Smith, he’s the supervising physician on duty.” The woman turned away and began sorting through paperwork.
“Thank you,” Katie said and moved to the special room where she relinquished her gun, keys, notepad, pen, and cell phone. Making sure the metal box was locked, she retrieved the key, depositing it into her pant pocket.
It suddenly struck Katie that she was entering into a dangerous, unknown place. She pushed the thought away from her mind as she waited for the heavy security door to unlock. A small camera lens was above her head and she knew someone monitored her carefully, no doubt, at that exact moment.
Katie watched as a heavy-set security guard opened a series of doors for her. “Please wait,” he said as he re-locked the door behind her, making it clear she couldn’t escape without assistance. Taking the lead, he turned to her. “Dr. Smith’s office is this way.”
Her Last Whisper: An absolutely unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Katie Scott Book 2) Page 7
