by Dea Poirier
“Was Emma Carver pregnant?”
She shakes her head. “No. There were no signs of pregnancy.”
“Is there anything else that sticks out to you?”
She flips through the paperwork again. “Like Emma, we found fibers in her lungs, indicating her face was likely covered while she was strangled.”
I swallow hard. The physical similarities between these girls are alarming. This serial killer, if that’s what we have, preys on teenage girls who are small, popular, blonde. But more than the physical similarities, the details of the murders—flesh cut from the body, strangled, face covered while being strangled—stick out to me as if a neon light is flashing serial killer in front of my eyes.
“Did she have any drugs in her system?”
She shakes her head. “No drugs or alcohol in her hair follicles or urine. Seems like she was a pretty good girl, and she wasn’t drugged into submission. I can’t tell you how many girls this age we get in here filled with oxy, heroin, you name it. We had a thirteen-year-old OD two weeks ago,” she says and hangs her head for a moment. Even when you see death every day, that’s not something you ever want to see. “Fentanyl,” she adds, pursing her lips. Even by Detroit standards, thirteen is really young. It wasn’t that often I heard about something like that.
I never expected that Maine would be a hotbed of teenage overdoses, but then again, when there’s nothing else to do, that’s a common path for teenagers to take.
“You’re sure there was no Adderall in her system?” I ask. If Madeline was making her own trips to the docks, I have a feeling she had a vice of her own. Since she and Emma were stealing Adderall, my assumption is she liked it as well.
“I didn’t look for Adderall. I can check, but it’ll take several weeks to get back.”
I leave with few answers, two heavy folders, and a bad feeling I just can’t shake. Questions boil in the back of my mind. Madeline and Emma both had the tattoos cut from their backs, and Rachel had flesh cut from her ankle, where she also had a tattoo. It can’t be possible that this is really Rachel’s killer, can it? As I drive, I go over the evidence again and again in my mind. There are too many similarities for it to be a coincidence, but maybe I just don’t want to believe it could be Rachel’s killer, because that would raise the stakes way too high for me. If my emotions get too tangled in this investigation, it could cloud my judgment.
After driving back to the port, I roll onto the ferry, most of the day already burned away. Halfway through my return ferry trip, I get a call from Ryder’s parents letting me know he’ll stop by tomorrow at four to answer my questions. I add it to my calendar and start mentally preparing what I want to ask him. When the ferry docks in the marina, I drive off and back toward Main Street.
My wheels crunch as I maneuver into the station parking lot. When I exit the car, I see Mayor Clark across the street from me outside the café. I raise my hand to wave at him, but he just glowers. I shrug it off and head inside. As I walk toward my office, it catches my eye that the sergeant’s door is closed. It’s never closed. Inside there’s a droning of voices. I can make out the sergeant’s voice just fine; the other, not so much. It sounds familiar—I’d almost swear it was Noah.
I leave my office door open and try to focus on reviewing interviews while I wait for their meeting to end. Just as I slide from my seat to grab a cup of coffee, the door pops open, and Noah strolls out. I expect him to head out of the station, so I’m surprised when they both cross the hall into my office. I plop back in my chair.
“Claire, I wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to bring on Noah in an unofficial capacity to help with your investigation into Rachel’s murder.” The sergeant’s rough smile tells me I’m supposed to be pleased about this information.
I open my mouth to protest, to say how unprofessional and just plain stupid it is, but he holds his hand up as if he knows exactly what I’m going to say.
“He has a degree in criminal justice, Claire, and he’s done investigations like this before. Let’s give him a chance. After all, I want you to be able to focus on Madeline and Emma.” There’s a gleam in his eye, something that tells me this may not have been his idea.
I hate when he frames things like that, in a way I can’t argue with. There’s nothing I can do other than bite my tongue, since Noah is still here.
“He’s also agreed that while he’s working with us on this, not a word of it will make it into print. And neither will any pictures.”
My eyes widen. Did Sergeant Michaels bring him in here for that? Was he hoping to keep all this out of print until the investigations are wrapped up? Maybe my complaints about Noah being halfway up my ass actually did some good.
“Thank you,” I say to Sergeant Michaels as he heads back to his office.
Once he’s out of earshot, Noah says, “I’m really glad he asked me to come in. I think this will work out really well for everyone. I’ve got a lot to show you.”
“This better not be some ploy, Noah.”
“I’m going to prove to you that I’m in this to help, even if it kills me.”
It might kill us both.
I knock gently on the doorframe of Sergeant Michaels’s office as soon as Noah leaves. I need to catch him up on what happened at the ME’s office. “You got a minute?” I ask when he looks up at me.
He offers a slow nod and motions for me to take a seat.
“Why are you really doing this?”
He leans back and crosses his arms. “If we don’t do this, he’s going to publish the crime scene photos. He’s going to publish articles saying we’re not taking this investigation seriously, and after what you already told me he’s found, I think he can help with Rachel’s case so that you can focus on Madeline and Emma.”
Anger flares inside me, and I clench my jaw against it. This is a prime example of why I hate journalists.
When I say nothing, he continues, “We’ll work with him, we’ll close this case, and we’ll move on knowing we did everything we could. We’re not doing anything wrong. How was Dr. White?” he asks, his voice thick.
“She seems fine,” I say, not sure what information he’s after. No part of me wants to drop the issue with Noah, but I have a case to focus on.
“She and I go way back,” he says with a grin. “If I had played my cards right . . .” He shakes his head. The ME has to be a good ten years older than the sergeant. I’m not sure when or how they met the first time, but honestly, I don’t give a shit.
I offer him a tight smile and hand him a folder. “I brought you a copy of the initial autopsy.”
He hesitates and rubs his eyes. This is wearing him down. It might be too much for him. The second I start to take the folder back, he finally snatches it from me.
“What’d she have to say?” he asks as he stacks the folder on the pile nearest to him.
I go over everything the ME said, which isn’t much. “I think we have a serial killer.”
He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want you to be right about that. But I think you may be.” He slams his fist on the desk, and everything rattles. “We’ve got to find who’s doing this.”
I understand his frustration, but the truth of it is there aren’t any places this kind of thing doesn’t happen. This is the world we live in. Monsters kill girls; the rest of us suffer and wonder why. No matter how many answers we get, it will never be enough. “We’ll find them. I know we will.” We just don’t have much to go on yet. It could be anyone.
“We’ll keep digging,” I say, not sure who I’m trying to convince. Rachel’s murder has been unsolved for fifteen years. Who am I to say we’re going to do any better with these other deaths? But if we don’t, so many lives hang in the balance. We can’t let more girls die. And we can’t afford for this guy to slip away again for another fifteen years.
He nods. “You doing all right with all this?” he asks. He narrows his eyes at me, like he’s inspecting me for battle damage
.
I offer a curt nod in response and push up from the chair. Though I appreciate his concern, I don’t talk about my problems to coworkers.
CHAPTER 13
Sergeant Michaels knocks on my door the next day and hovers just outside. The creases around his mouth look deeper today, like he hasn’t smiled in a while. Though he’s normally got his shirt starched and ironed to perfection, the wrinkles are starting to show today. I’ve been here less than a month, but I swear he’s aged already.
“Do you have a minute?” he asks in his low, rocky baritone.
“Of course,” I say.
“I want you to meet with Noah today to go over everything we know about Rachel so far. Don’t clue him in to anything about the current investigations—I don’t trust him with that—but he needs to be caught up if he’s going to help.”
There’s still a lot I don’t have, but if he wants me to talk to Noah, I will. As long as it keeps this out of the news. I nod. “I’ll call him a little later.”
“Thank you. I sent his contact information to your email.”
After Sergeant Michaels returns to his office, I open the email and dial. He answers on the third ring, a little breathless, like he ran for the phone. “This is Noah,” he says.
“Noah, it’s Detective Calderwood.”
“Oh, hi,” he says, his voice high. Obviously my call has caught him off guard.
“I was hoping you could come by the station today so we could discuss Rachel’s case,” I explain. Having this discussion with him makes me uneasy. I’ve never worked with someone outside law enforcement like this on a cold case. More importantly, I wouldn’t make the choice to involve a reporter. But if Sergeant Michaels wants me to do this, I really don’t have much choice.
“Yeah. I’m just finishing something up. I could be there in an hour?”
“That’s fine,” I say.
We end the call, and I gather my notes, readying myself as best I can for the unpleasant conversation I know is coming. Around an hour later, Mindy calls for my permission to send Noah back. He opens the door tentatively, like he’s afraid I’ve changed my mind about him being here, but I wave him in with whatever smile I can manage given the circumstances. Though Noah said he had something to finish up, instead it looks to me like he spent an hour getting ready. His button-up shirt is freshly ironed; I can practically see the steam still rising from it. The ice-blue shirt is tucked into khakis that hang a little loosely on him. Noah perpetually dresses like someone who has never endured a real winter. He never has on a thick jacket, gloves, anything.
“Is it okay if I sit?” he asks as he motions toward the chair.
I nod and can’t help but wonder if I’ve gotten a different Noah to show up to this meeting than the one I’ve encountered before. He’s not the same brash, in-your-face asshole as he was the first time he came in here. Though it still makes me fume that he showed up at my crime scene with a camera, this version of Noah I can stand. For now, anyway.
For a moment we sit in silence, and then I open Rachel’s folder in front of me with the notes I’ve written on a legal pad on the right side. Though I’ve practically memorized what I want to say—and with any other case I’d be fine—with Rachel, I can’t be sure of myself.
I want to remain stoic and unfeeling as I look over the details of the case again, but it’s like a vise is tightening around my heart.
“Are you okay?” Noah asks, leaning toward my desk.
“Fine,” I say and clear my throat. Stick to the details, just like any other case. I swallow hard, but my saliva may as well be made of nails. “The autopsy in the file is incomplete, leading me to believe pages were taken. I haven’t been able to chase down the state records to find their copy with everything going on here. What we do know about her homicide is the following: she was strangled and dropped in Grimes Park, and flesh was cut from her body where a tattoo had been.”
“I’ll see if I can find any details of the autopsy on my own. And what was the tattoo of?” he asks as he takes notes on the details. His brows are furrowed, shadowing his blue eyes.
“A cross.”
“Was flesh removed from the other victims?” he asks with a raised brow. The detail clearly doesn’t shock him, but he still looks uneasy.
“I can’t tell you that, Noah,” I say, my voice firm. I want it to be clear that I will not waver on this.
He looks at me, his brows furrowed like he’s going to argue, but after a beat he thinks better of it.
The next detail swims in my mind and forms a lump in my throat as sharp as a shard of glass. “Rachel was also pregnant.”
“Do you know who the father was?”
“I do.” I’m not about to volunteer the information.
“Would you share that with me?” he asks gently.
All I can think about is what a betrayal that would be. Rachel would never have wanted me to tell anyone. And I know Jacob didn’t do this to her. Well, that’s what I want to believe.
“You don’t have to tell me. I just want as much of the picture as possible,” he says when I say nothing.
“I need some time to think about it. I want your help. I want you to have the information, but it feels like I’m betraying her.”
He nods. “It’s fine, really. Do you mind if I ask you some other questions about her?”
My stomach flip-flops. “Questions like . . . ?”
“Just things about Rachel, so I can get a better understanding of her. I think it helps to know more about the person I’m investigating, helps me think like them.”
“As long as I can tell you that I’m not comfortable answering certain questions, and you won’t pressure me to answer them,” I say, hoping my words make it clear that my demands are nonnegotiable.
For a moment he pauses, then says, “Deal,” somewhat reluctantly. He flips the page of his notebook over and readies his pen. “How old were you when Rachel died?”
“It was a couple days before my sixteenth birthday,” I say. Two days exactly. That’s part of the reason I hate birthdays. The other part—somehow all my birthdays ended up being about her. Every bad thing in my life centers on birthdays now. They’re cursed.
“And she was . . .” he starts.
“Seventeen.” She hadn’t even graduated high school.
I expected better questions out of this guy, but I recognize the line of questioning. It’s the same way I’d start out if I were trying to get a read on someone in an interview. It’s surprising, the things you can learn from a person’s answers to very basic questions.
“Was there anyone at the time she didn’t get along with? Anyone you could imagine doing this to her?”
I look down at my desk and cover the pictures of Rachel’s strangled body with my notes. My thoughts bottle up inside me, begging to come out. “Noah, there’s no one on this island that I could imagine doing that to my sister. She was popular. Everyone liked—no—loved her,” I say, and there’s an edge to my voice. No matter how hard I try to shake it, it only gets sharper. In that way, she was so like the other victims.
“When did you find out that Rachel was dead?”
“It was first thing in the morning. There was a lot of talking, commotion, in the living room. It was directly beneath my bedroom. It woke me up. When I went downstairs, I saw the cops, my parents crying. That’s the moment I knew,” I explain, staring at the paper in front of me. But I’m not seeing it; I’m reliving that moment and the detached numbness that settled over me. They didn’t have to say a word to me. No one ever officially told me she died. They shuffled me through grief counseling, to church every week to pray for her. But the moment Rachel died, so did my faith. I couldn’t believe in a God that took her from us. My parents became hollow shells afterward; they were just decoration. They sat around me; they were always there—but no one was ever home.
“What can you tell me about her that most people didn’t know?” he asks, and the lump creeps back into my throat.
“I don’t know, general stuff. What did she want to be when she grew up? Where did she want to go to school?”
“You can get this info from anyone else on this island.” I expected he’d ask me stuff with a little more substance. Is he trying to take it easy on me?
“I can get some of the answers from the other people on this island; you’re right about that. But I want to know what she told you, what you saw. The versions of ourselves that our siblings see are much different than the versions the people on the street see.”
I guess I can see his point. “She wanted to go to a college in Maine. She loved it here. She changed her mind a lot, though. Senior year, she wavered between computer engineer and programmer,” I say. It was weird: senior year I joked that she had become a supernerd. Before that, she’d wanted to be a chef, and before that, a fashion designer.
“Really?”
“Yep, she loved computers. She wanted to be the next Bill Gates.” It’s too bad she couldn’t see how far they’ve come. Rachel would have lost her shit over an iPhone.
“What was the last thing you two said to one another?”
His question is like a punch to the gut. I grab a pen from my desk and dig my nails into it, just for something to do with my hands. I have to catch my breath. That’s not something I ever want to have to remember. But the words are still there, burning in the back of my mind. A tear rolls down my cheek. I don’t realize until it turns ice cold.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Noah says as he closes his notebook.
I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. It’s just harder than I thought it would be,” I say as I wipe the tears on my sleeve. “I haven’t talked about it to anyone since it happened. The last people I really talked to about Rachel were the police.” Even with my shrinks during grief counseling, I barely talked, and I definitely didn’t give them all the details.
His eyes go wide, and he leans toward my desk. “Anyone?”
