by Dea Poirier
“Six. They’ve all been strangled. They’re all women between fourteen and twenty-one. Every one of them is blonde, same body type.” By the way he says it, eyes wide, voice thick, I know that he wholeheartedly believes this theory he’s concocted, that he’s trying desperately to make a connection there. If this is serial, we’ll need to draw airtight connections. But it doesn’t feel right to me. Leaving the bodies in a very public space, the way Rachel, Emma, and Madeline were, is very different than dropping a body in the bay. One screams, Look at what I’m doing; you all need to know I did this. The other says, No one will ever know what I did.
While I can see that Noah is drawing parallels because of physical similarities of the victims and proximity, serial killers typically stick to the same MO. They need a good reason to deviate from established patterns.
The idea that bodies have been washing up along the mainland makes me sick. But I’m not surprised no one has really looked into this. This happens often. Town lines, jurisdictions, precincts: they do nothing but divide us all up onto our own teams. Police departments from different towns don’t work together, and they sure as hell don’t want to work with the FBI. Everyone’s got their own fucking sandbox, and no one wants to share their toys. That’s why a lot of the time it takes way too long to track down serial killers. Technology is slowly improving things, but this is a problem with roots that go down miles.
There’s a knock at the door, and Noah hops up. A few minutes later, he returns with the pizzas and beer. He cracks open a beer, hands me one, and plops back on the couch.
“Where were we?” he asks as he takes a swig.
“You were trying to convince me that the other homicides must be related to the ones on the island,” I say as I grab a slice of pizza. As I bite into the crispy crust, the sauce and cheese flood my mouth; I forgot how much I missed this pizza. The pizza in Detroit just never hit the spot.
“Ah yes, because it is the same killer.” He grins and tips the mouth of his beer bottle toward me.
I shake my head. “These are two different killers, I guarantee you. People have a pattern, especially with killings. We long for a routine, even when it comes to this.” A killer is going to stick with what has worked in the past. It wouldn’t make sense for this killer to change now.
I studied more about serial killers in college than I care to admit. Roxie and I also had quite a few conversations about them; they fascinate me. There’s something that serial killers all have in common that isn’t present here—consistency. They kill in the same kind of way, over and over again. Methodical, habitual. There are very few exceptions. Bundy, Gacy, Dahmer—all the big names, they had patterns. My goal was to profile for the FBI; that’s a pipe dream, though. It’s way too difficult to get your foot in the door with the FBI. If I ever want to entertain the idea as a real possibility, I need at least a few more years’ experience in the trenches.
“If you’re wrong, you’re buying the beer next.”
“That’s morbid, but you’re on,” I say as I hold out my bottle, and he clinks his against it. “And besides, until one of those bodies washes up on the shore of this island, there’s nothing I can do about them. I have to worry about stopping the homicides here.” It won’t keep me from giving the other departments a heads-up, but they’re not going to listen to me. They don’t want me in their sandbox. Unknown dead women washing up on a shore is a problem, but I guarantee it’d be a bigger problem if the women were from their town. The death of a stranger is easier to let go of than that of someone you say hello to every morning.
He leans over and squeezes my knee. “You’ll catch ’em,” he says in a tone that would be more fitting for Go get ’em, slugger, but it still makes me smile. He glances at his laptop for a long moment before saying, “There’s something I found I want to show you.” He shifts his computer so it’s easier for me to see the screen. “Though most of my focus was on Rachel at first, after Madeline and Emma both died, I started looking into their lives to see what I could find.”
“And?” I interrupt, eager to know what he’s discovered.
“They posted a lot of images on social media that they ended up deleting.”
My heart pounds as I consider his words. They deleted them? Why? Is there any way to get them back?
“Luckily, when something is posted online, even if you delete it, it never really goes away completely. Based on what some of her friends said, during times they should have been volunteering at the hospital, they posted some interesting pictures.” He clicks to a folder on his computer.
A picture of Madeline and Emma posed with their arms around one another appears on the screen. They take up most of the image, but in the background I can see slivers of water. Were they on the beach?
“When was this taken?”
“Two weeks before Emma died. They were supposed to be at the hospital.” He scrolls to the right, showing me two more pictures from the same day. In each I see a bit more of the background, which reveals slivers of a boat behind them and water stretching toward a blurry shore.
“Whose boat is that?” I ask.
“I have no idea.” His brows knit together as he scrutinizes the images, like if he stares at them hard enough, they’ll reveal new details to him.
I can’t tell Noah what I already know, so instead I put on my best poker face. “Can you send me these pictures and whatever you’ve found on the other bodies?” I’ve been down at the docks a few times since I came back to the island, but it’s not like I spent much time looking at the boats. Even if I had, there’s not much showing in these pictures to match up. But all the same, knowing that the girls were on a boat when they should have been at the hospital—that tells me that someone else took them out, that someone else knew where they were. Now I just have to find out who that was.
He nods. “I’ll send you what I have.”
“Thank you. Look, I’ve got to get going. If you think of anything else, though, call me at the station,” I say.
“I will.”
As soon as I head out of the hotel, I call Sergeant Michaels and catch him up on the information that Noah gave me. The other deaths in the bay may not be related or in our jurisdiction, but they’re something we need to keep an eye on.
CHAPTER 11
A few days ago, I asked Sergeant Michaels for a copy of Rachel’s police report. It wasn’t until this afternoon that they were actually able to track down where the report was. There are a few places where old files are stored on the island since the station has very limited storage space. Dealing with this kind of shit is a whole new ball game for me. In Detroit, we had everything carefully cataloged in a database. To get Rachel’s file, I’ve got to go to the old tailor’s shop, which used to be in the center of town and has since been converted into storage, and dig through the files in the basement.
Stares follow me as I walk down Main Street and fish the keys out of my pocket. I pass the café, the post office, and a new restaurant before finally reaching the old storefront.
A hiss of stale, damp air hits me in the face when I push the door open. I imagine that the files must be pockmarked with mold. Low light filters in through the dust-caked curtains. Rolls of fabric are still piled on top of a counter that runs along the wall to my right. Sergeant Michaels warned me that the files were in the basement, so I head straight back toward the open door.
I flip on the lights, but all it does is illuminate the worn, wooden stairs in a dim, orange light. My mouth goes bone dry. I hate basements as it is, but the darkness waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs is a special brand of terror I haven’t experienced in a while. For years, Rachel tormented me anytime I had to go in the basement. And I’ve never been able to shake the fear that there’s someone waiting for me down there. I grip the banister and force myself down.
It’s just a basement.
I search the wall to my left for another light switch. My hand runs across the slimy walls, slick and cold, until my fingers hit
the switch. A single dim flickering bulb dangles in the middle of the room. I pull out my phone, hoping the flashlight will help. As I slide the light on, I realize I have no service in the basement.
Great. Just perfect.
The air thickens with each step I take. It smells moist, damp, like rain and rotting leaves. Somehow, it’s colder down here than it is outside. Dirt and mud are tracked on the floor, crisscrossing footprints all over the cement. In the center of the room, there’s an island of filing cabinets, with a few others scattered along the back, among the stacks of discarded desks.
I scan through the cabinets, looking for the number Sergeant Michaels wrote down for me. When I finally find the right cabinet, I pick through the tabs. Footsteps on the wood floor above me echo through the basement.
“I’m down here!” I call. Sergeant Michaels must have come over to make sure I found everything okay. “Don’t know why he couldn’t have just grabbed it for me in the first place,” I grumble.
The folder isn’t filed where it should be. And when I do finally find it, it’s much thinner than I’d expect. I glance inside and, flipping through the pages, immediately notice that there’s something missing. But the footsteps upstairs draw my attention. Liquid splashes against the floor above me. Confusion blurs my thoughts. Did he spill his coffee?
Every step upstairs, every splash, makes my heart pound harder. Overhead the footsteps creak against the floorboards. I head toward the door, pulling my gun from the holster as I walk, but halfway across the basement, the cold chill disappears, the thick mustiness swept away, replaced with the sharp scent of burning wood. Smoke oozes slowly through the beams above me. Someone set the upstairs on fire.
My mind races as flames lick the doorframe at the top of the stairs. I rush for the stairs anyway, knowing it’s my only way out. I have no idea how I’ll get past the fire, though. A cough scratches its way up my throat, and I cover my mouth with my sleeve. Smoke stings my eyes, and they water automatically, flooding my cheeks with tears. At the top of the stairs, a black outline stares down at me. The build is wide, stocky. I can feel his gaze searing my skin, but I can’t make out a single detail of the man. I grab the banister to steady myself against the dizziness as smoke invades my lungs. The figure shifts, and my hand tenses around the handle of my pistol. The door at the top of the stairs slams, and the grinding metal of a bolt crushes my hopes of escape.
Who the fuck would lock me down here?
I freeze, unsure of what to do. My body moves on its own as I realize I need to find another way out. Questions rage in the back of my mind, but I ignore them for now. Smoke pours in above me, and my throat constricts as another cough rips from my lungs. Fresh tears spring from my watering eyes as the fire assaults me. I frantically search along the edges of the basement, praying for my fingers to land on anything but the cold, smooth wall. There has to be another way out of here. The haze in the basement makes it hard to see more than a few feet in front of me. I try to think back to my training—how long will it take smoke inhalation to kill me? Two minutes? Five?
Panic roars through me, and my chest tightens. I might never make it out of this place. I might die on this goddamn island. Adrenaline pours into my bloodstream, and I force myself through the wall of haze surrounding me. My heart skips a beat when I find a tiny window, painted over with black, sitting at the back of the basement. In the empty shop above me, the fire crackles, red flickering through the slats in the wooden floor. I glance back; the flames are still ten feet from me, chewing through the floorboards from upstairs, but in a matter of seconds, they could flare close enough to block my path. Smoke crawls through the air, scratching my throat, irritating my lungs.
I yank on the window, but it’s screwed shut, their sorry excuse for security in this town. It wouldn’t keep someone from getting in; they could just knock the glass in. It will sure as hell keep me from getting out, though. For a moment I consider shattering the glass but realize that’ll just end with me bleeding out before getting the opportunity to burn to death.
As a fresh wave of smoke pours in from above, the fire roars so loudly my ears ache. The voice in the back of my mind fills me with terror: You’re going to die down here. Every breath I take is harder as the air floods with smoke. Sweat coats my skin as the fire above turns the basement into a sauna.
Embers rain down from above, hissing when they reach the cold metal filing cabinets in the center of the room. There’s no other way. I have to break the glass. I grab my gun, make sure the safety is on, and slam the handle into the window. My body is racked with coughs. Shards of glass skitter across the floor, showering around me. I gulp down a breath of fresh air before clearing the window. I thrust Rachel’s file out first, onto the ground. A ribbon of smoke chokes me, and I double over, gripping my side as I try to catch my breath.
I scramble, my hands shaking, and I thrust myself out onto the damp pavement of the alley behind the row of businesses. There’s a commotion on the street, the hiss of water against flames. They’re trying to put out the fire.
I lie on the damp, grimy pavement as I catch my breath. The air is crisp, clean. Smoke spirals above me into the cloudy sky. When I finally pull myself from the ground, my mind screams to go back to the station, but I need to take Rachel’s file home and hide it. Whoever tried to kill me didn’t want me to find it. What the hell is in this file that someone was willing to murder to keep it hidden?
With the folder tucked under my arm, I jog down the alley, the smell of rotting food in the dumpsters I pass the only thing cutting through the smoke. At the end of the alley, I head toward the street and peek around the building toward the fire. Three of our firemen stand in front of the shop, one aiming a hose while the other two help him wrestle with it. Some lookie-loos have gathered behind them, watching the whole thing. I grab my cell phone, call Sergeant Michaels, and have him send everyone out to search the streets. I’ve got to get Rachel’s file home.
Thankfully, everyone is so preoccupied with the scene that I can sneak across the street to my place. I tighten my grip on the folder and dash across the street. Just as I think I’m scot-free, one foot on the walkway, someone calls out “Hey!” behind me.
Noah stands in front of the huge Victorian that’s been turned into a B and B across the street from me. His eyes go wide when I turn around.
“Holy shit, what happened? Why are you covered in ash?”
“What are you doing here?” My hackles are raised. I don’t know who I can trust right now.
“I saw everyone on the street, the fire. I was trying to figure out what was going on.”
I turn and march toward the house. Noah’s footsteps follow along behind me. I pull my keys from my pocket, and just as I unlock the door, a tickle works its way up my throat again. A powerful cough rips from my lungs, and I double over. My hand moves to my side automatically as a sharp ache cuts through my lung.
As soon as I catch my breath, I turn on Noah. “Stop following me, Noah,” I growl as I close in on the porch.
“I just want to be sure that you’re okay.”
I whip around, staring daggers at him. “Why, so you can report on it?”
“I’m not going to print this. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I can take you to the hospital.”
Rage builds inside me like a wave. But as he appraises me, it defuses my anger. This isn’t his fault. He didn’t do this.
“If you print a word of this—”
“I know; you’ll end me,” he finishes.
Reality crashes down around me all at once. I could have died. My heart seizes, and my chest tightens. It’s so hard to breathe that I’d swear there were a million bricks piled on my lungs. I stand up straight, hoping it’ll make it easier to get a breath in, but it doesn’t. With trembling hands, I unlock the door, and Noah follows me inside.
“We should go to the hospital. How long were you in there?”
I shake my head. “I’m not going to the hospital.” There’s no w
ay in hell I’m wasting my time at a hospital. I must be getting close. Someone is trying to slow me down. But I’m not going to let them.
“Claire, please,” he begs as he follows me into the kitchen.
I stop and turn toward him, making sure to meet his gaze before I speak. “I’m not going to the hospital. I’m fine.” My words are slow and deliberate. Too bad it sounds like I’ve been screaming over a concert for hours.
“Your hands are shaking,” he says and takes a step closer. His proximity and the adrenaline still boiling in my blood create a mix that makes me light headed.
I take a steadying breath. “Seriously, I’m fine.” The words are almost a prayer, begging them to protect me from the panic still seizing every part of me.
“You’ve got soot on your face,” he says softly. “Are you sure you’re okay?” His words are gentle, careful, as if he’s afraid a harsh word will crumble my facade. Maybe right now it would.
I give him a tiny nod. “I need to go wash off these ashes,” I say.
“I’m glad you didn’t get hurt. If you need anything, anything at all, call me, okay?”
I nod. “I will.”
I see Noah out and head upstairs. Part of me knows I need to look at Rachel’s file again in more detail, but I can’t yet. My stomach clenches and twists at the thought. I’ll look at it later, once I’ve prepared myself. For now, I need to wash the ashes and the rest of this day off. After I strip off my sweat-soaked clothes, I climb into the shower. Though I desperately try to wash away the darkness of this afternoon, the stream of hot water does nothing to erase what I’m carrying around with me. After I clean myself up, I find three missed calls on my cell phone, all from the station.
I call Sergeant Michaels again, and his voice is panicked when he says, “Are you doing okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“What the hell happened?”
