Next Girl to Die

by Dea Poirier

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know of a murder ever on the island before Rachel. In the late eighties, though, a girl disappeared. One of the Vernon girls.”

  “She disappeared?” I wish that had been suspicious enough for it to be investigated. But there’s a long history of teens running away from this island. The last name sparks my memory. But I can’t remember where I’ve heard it before.

  “Everyone assumed she ran away,” she explains, but the look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe that.

  “But you don’t think so?”

  She tilts her head and looks at the coffee table between us. “She’s not someone I’d ever think would leave. She wasn’t the first, though. Girls have gone missing before, and it’s always been assumed they ran off,” she says. “Sometimes we knew it was true; we’d hear things about them from time to time, they’d talk to family members, someone would go visit them, those sorts of things. Other times we never heard about them again—that’s when it would make me wonder.”

  I grind my teeth together and clench my fists. In the old days, everyone assumed women from around the country were just running away. In reality, some of them were picked off by serial killers. Back then, apparently no one could fathom that anyone would murder all these women—or maybe no one cared. It boggles my mind now. Sometimes I wonder how anyone survived.

  “How many girls do you know of that went missing?”

  “Two. The other girl, that had to be in the eighties sometime,” she says, her face tight, words strained. “Before that, I didn’t pay much attention to it. In the seventies things were much different. People came and went a lot more. Some went to war; some moved out west.”

  If these girls who ran away weren’t actually runaways, that would change things significantly. This killer had to get a start somewhere. Was one of those girls it? Did their bodies end up somewhere else? Did someone make sure no one found out the truth? “These weren’t investigated at all?”

  She shakes her head. “No—well, not really. The sheriff looked into it, but he never found anything other than signs pointing to the girls leaving.” The details about Sheriff Dyer are all starting to click into place for me. He knew about the runaways, but the old ME, Barbara, also told him about the bodies of the Jane Does. He supposedly went to view the bodies but couldn’t identify them. He lied to Butch Carver when he told him that Chloe made it to California safe, that she was fine. Something tells me that Sheriff Dyer knew what was going on but didn’t want any of this linking back to Vinalhaven.

  Something in her eyes tells me that she might have a history with the sheriff. “What do you know about Sheriff Dyer?” I ask.

  “Jeb and I dated before I married your grandpa. He was older than me. I was a stupid girl,” she says and then clicks her tongue. “He was sheriff, and his brother, Edmond, was the mayor.”

  I cross my arms and shift on the couch. She’s never talked to me about this kind of stuff. “What happened?”

  “He wasn’t someone you could trust, and that’s all I’m going to say,” she says.

  There’s more to this story. I’m going to look into Edmond and Jebediah and see what I can find about them. Something tells me they might know where these girls really went. I know that Sheriff Dyer passed away, but I don’t know about his brother. “Is Edmond still alive?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Edmond had a heart attack and died a few years back after he left the island for good.”

  I purse my lips to keep my frustration from showing. Of course two of the three people who would really help me with this are dead.

  My phone vibrates, and Jason’s name flashes on the screen. I was hoping to hear from Noah to help break up the day.

  “Hey, Jason.”

  “Hey, I need you to meet me at Lane Park.”

  Lane Park is a small park on Lane Island. It’s a tiny island linked by a small bridge close to downtown. I sigh and hold up a hand to my grandma to excuse myself. “I’m in Calderwood Neck. What’s up?”

  “Jenna Arey called in a body. She and Cashton Carver were over there cutting class,” he says with an edge to his voice.

  “I’ll be there as soon as possible,” I say before hanging up the phone. “Grandma, I’ve got to go. Thank you for your help. I really wish I could stay,” I say as I stand up and give her a quick kiss on the cheek and a hug.

  “Don’t be a stranger.” She glides beside me to the door.

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  On my way to the car, I text Noah, See if you can find any info on Edmond and Jebediah Dyer. I’ll update you later.

  He texts back as I start the car. On it. See you tonight.

  After texting a thank-you back, I make my way past the houses my family has occupied for the last seven or so generations and head to Lane Park.

  I speed down the back roads toward Lane Island. Luckily, this time of day, there’s no one on the road, so I don’t have to worry about running into anyone. The park is toward the tip of the small island, close to the coast. It’s about half a mile from the high school, so kids end up skipping here if they don’t want to spend their afternoon in the cemetery. There are such thrilling options for teens in this town.

  Like most of the rest of the island, the park is ringed with pine trees. There’s a path that snakes through them in the back, a walking trail that sprinkles facts about the local wildlife on plaques. Along the right side, there’s a huge wooden play area that looks like a castle. It’s so old I’m pretty sure four generations have gotten splinters here. The wood is worn, cracked, like it might be made of the hulls of old ships.

  “Where is she?” I mumble to myself as I walk toward the tree line.

  Jason pulls up behind me and jogs up. He leads me to the body, which was dumped behind the stone structure housing the bathrooms that’s set back in the woods a bit. From where we are, the hiss of the ocean cuts through the trees. Birds perch on the tree branches around us, chirping and fluttering. If it weren’t for the body lying in front of us, it’d be beautiful.

  “He’s brought this one by boat too.” I glance toward the tree line. There’s a clear path cut through the trees from the beach; branches are broken, the underbrush disturbed. She wasn’t dragged here, though. Our perp is careful with these girls after he kills them. There isn’t so much as a leaf in this girl’s blonde hair.

  “Do you know her?” I ask him as we start roping off the scene.

  “Piper Curtis,” Jason says, wrapping crime scene tape around a tree.

  I’ve heard the name. But Piper was so young when I was last here—she must have been one. She’s laid down like the others, her long blonde braid draped over her shoulder. But this time, the killer didn’t bother to clean up the wound on her arm. There’s a strip of flesh cut from her wrist, and there’s red smeared nearly to her elbow.

  Jason photographs the body as I call in the ME and CSI teams. By the time I’ve got the scene roped off, we have several people lingering to see what’s going on. I get statements from the two teens who found the body, neither of whom saw anything helpful. About an hour later, the CSI and ME teams arrive.

  As I’m chatting with the CSI team, Jason waves me over. “Are we all set here? I’ve got to head home; the husband is sick.”

  “Of course, yes. Go. Tell him I hope he feels better.”

  He says thanks and starts to jog off but stops near the tree line. “Oh, Claire? Can you check out the tip line when you get back to the station? It rang a few times today, but none of us had a minute to grab it.”

  I nod. “Sure thing.” I know what it’s like to be so buried you barely have time to think about the tip line.

  Once everything is wrapped up at the scene and the ME team has taken the body back to Augusta, I head back to the station, but I’ve got to talk to Sergeant Michaels before I check the tip line for Jason.

  I knock at the edge of Sergeant Michaels’s door. He’s hunched over his desk, dark circles beneath his eyes. He glances up at me
, and I swear it’s like someone let all the air out of him. He looks defeated.

  “I can’t believe it,” he says as he shakes his head. Like maybe this whole murder thing was going to blow over, and everything would go back to the way it was. There’s no going back now.

  “I need to talk to you about it for a minute,” I say as I close his door and sit in the empty chair.

  He steeples his fingers and rests his chin on them.

  There’s something I’ve been thinking about for a couple of days. We’re not getting anywhere. The case is taking a turn, the kind of turn where the killer escalates. I can’t stand the idea of more girls dying because I can’t figure it out.

  “I think we might be in over our heads here,” I say, and I’m putting it mildly. I’m in so far over my head here that I’m drowning. “I think it’s time we consider calling in the FBI.”

  He furrows his brow. “If we call them in on this, they’re going to take the investigation from us. They don’t know anything about this town, our people. It’s hard enough to get things done as it is. No one is going to want to talk to the FBI.”

  “And what if we don’t and more girls die?” Though I try to hold steady, frustration reaches my words.

  “We’re going to figure this out before anyone else gets hurt.” I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince me or himself.

  “We need to at least do something, then. The patrols aren’t helping, obviously.” All they did was make him dump a body somewhere else, just as I suspected they would. “We need to institute a curfew for anyone under eighteen. They can’t be out after dark anymore.”

  He nods. “That’s a good idea.”

  “I think it’s time we reach out to the media too. We need to get the attention of some of these parents. They need to realize how serious this is. If these kids are out of bed, they’re at risk. They need to stay home.”

  “I’ll make a statement about it to the media and see if it does any good. But, Claire, if these kids want to sneak out, that’s what they’re going to do,” he warns. “They think it won’t happen to them.”

  I wish he weren’t right, but he is. But we can’t just sit back and do nothing while these girls die.

  After I finish up with Sergeant Michaels, I pull out my notebook and call the local dentist, Dr. Webster. While Sergeant Michaels and Vince notify the next of kin, I’m able to talk Dr. Webster into sending over the last dental records of the Vernon girls to the ME’s office so I can match those against the Jane Does. Once I’ve got that scratched off my list, I dig into the tip line. Three calls in, and I’m getting nowhere. After two calls tattling on neighbors for nothing at all illegal, the next call is from a woman who’s concerned someone downtown is acting suspicious. I delete them before the next message plays. For a moment, the line cracks, like tree branches being splintered. Far away, something rustles and groans. I straighten in my chair, and my heart pounds. Everything sounds so far off that it may as well be underwater. Excitement and fear mix inside me, making my stomach jump. I look at the screen. It’s the fourth voice mail, one much longer than the others. The call came in at three a.m.

  “I need to report . . .” a gravelly voice, splintered by static, cuts through on the other end of the line. “A body, in the—” The voice cuts out as a low moan echoes in the background. My heart pounds as I try to make out the sounds through the static on the line. “There’s a body in the bay,” he says, his voice finally coming through again. He groans, and something in the background grinds so loudly I pull the phone away from my ear. “In a crab crate.” There’s a final grunt and a splash.

  My stomach clenches, and adrenaline pours into my blood. Is that the killer?

  CHAPTER 21

  My hands tremble as I dart across the hall to Sergeant Michaels’s office. Though I take a deep breath to steady myself, it does absolutely nothing to calm the sense of dread rising inside me like the tide. In the few steps to his office, my mind speeds at a million miles an hour. He’s taunting us. He wants us to know he’s doing it. He wants to be chased.

  “We need to call the coast guard,” I say, and I’m amazed at how steady my voice comes out.

  “What?” he asks, his eyes wide.

  It takes me a minute to explain, to try and bundle up the information rolling around in my mind into a concise little package. I want him to listen to it, to tell me I’m wrong. I’d much rather there be any other explanation than this one. As Sergeant Michaels listens to the call, his face changes. His frown lines deepen; his eyes darken. It’s clear he isn’t coming to a different conclusion. Someone was killed on that call.

  “I’m going to call the coast guard now. Do you know how to drive a boat?” he asks.

  I cut him slack for talking to me like a mainlander. Here, you learn to drive a boat well before a car. “I do.”

  “Take the boat out, see if you find anything, and wait for the coast guard.”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.” Though it’s likely he cut the float for the trap—the big orange ball that floats on top of the water so the fishermen can find the trap. Then again, if he really wanted us to find it, he’d leave it. There are hundreds of traps in the bay; checking them will take all day.

  “I’ll text you when I hear from the coast guard. I’ll have them bring in a dive team.”

  I nod, grab the keys to the Vinalhaven PD boat, and head toward the marina. As I make my way down Main Street, I pass Frank, and he offers me a little wave.

  “Everything all right, Claire?” he asks.

  I nod. “Yep, everything is just fine,” I say, because I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t let anyone know there’s a girl in the water just off the island right now. I continue toward the marina, Frank’s eyes following me as I rush. Though I try to keep my face stoic and the rising panic inside me, I’m not sure I succeed.

  My stomach is in knots when my feet echo against the worn wood of the dock. Water sloshes against the posts beneath me. I hop into the small police boat and steer it away from the dock. Cold mist stings my cheeks as I force the throttle forward. There’s no way of knowing where the body was dropped. For now, I’ll have to log every buoy that marks a crate location. That’s the best way I can expedite this for the coast guard.

  After circling the island for over an hour, I’ve marked the location of every floating red ball I can find. Beneath the waves, maybe a hundred feet down, she waits for us to find her. I hope we can find her today. Water will slowly strip away any remaining forensic evidence. The faster we get the body out, the better our chances are of finding something.

  It takes hours for the team to arrive from Augusta, and around sunset, the dive team hauls the crate we’ve been looking for from the water. A woman is crumpled inside, in the fetal position. Her skin is pale, the color of a pearl. A dark-purple line blooms across her milky-white throat, making it obvious she was strangled, but there’s no flesh cut from any visible area of her body. The girl is young, blonde, just like the others, just like the last one found in the water. She can’t be older than sixteen, and I can tell from the reactions of the guys that she’s not from the island. Before now, it seemed to me that these had to be different killers—no matter how I tried, I couldn’t piece together the different MOs into a scenario where I felt confident it was the same killer. But now I’m questioning myself. Maybe he’s chosen two different MOs just to throw us off, to keep us from connecting the dots.

  All along, this killer has been saying to us, Look at me; look what I can do right beneath your nose. But this—calling us, telling us where the victim is—this screams to me that he’s escalating, that he’s reached what some of us call berserker mode. While this killer may have had a pattern that he stuck to in the past, something has changed that; something has shifted it. Either he’s panicking because he knows we’re getting close, or there’s another big change in his life. A divorce, a separation, a job loss—something that made him deviate.

  The pattern is alarming, and the rate at which this is a
ccelerating puts serious pressure on me. If we don’t solve this fast, I can’t even imagine how many girls will die.

  CHAPTER 22

  The silence of my office is shattered by my phone vibrating on my desk. It’s such a surprise I nearly jump out of my chair. I rub my eyes and stretch my neck. I’ve been hunched over a call log—trying to trace calls that came into the station today—so long my spine feels like it’s fused into the shape of a question mark.

  “Hey,” I say as soon as the call connects. My voice is rougher, deeper than usual.

  “You busy?” Noah asks. His voice is warm and as smooth as hot cocoa.

  “Always.”

  He chuckles. “I shouldn’t have even asked. I need to talk to you about the research you asked me to do on the old sheriff.”

  “What’d you find?”

  “Have you eaten?” he asks. “I can bring you some dinner while we go over this.”

  “Not since lunch,” I admit. I probably should have eaten a few hours ago, but I haven’t been able to tear myself away.

  “You in the mood for anything?”

  “Surprise me.”

  While I wait for Noah to get to the station, I stand and stretch my legs. I head to the small break room to grab a fresh cup of coffee and realize for the first time how dark it’s gotten outside.

  “Shit, how is it already eight?” I mumble while I pour the coffee.

  When the gravel crunches outside, I hop up and meet Noah at the door. He’s got a few bags in his hands, all from the Haven.

  “Did you buy one of everything?” I eye the bags.

  “You didn’t know what you wanted, and I couldn’t decide, either, so I got a few things.”

  I give him a kiss and relieve him of a bag. “You’re the best, you know that?”

  “I try.”

  We head into my office and set up all the bags on top of my desk. Inside, I find a few orders of french fries, a couple of sandwiches, a burger, a wrap, and a salad. My stomach churns with hunger as the scent of the food fills the room.