Secrets

by Dana Lyons

When they arrived, crime scene tape was up and the coroner’s wagon already parked out front. Before entering, they put on paper booties and rubber gloves. The apartment was small but neat and very feminine. Dreya immediately noticed no visible signs of their killer, except for the dead girl.

  It’s like he’s invisible. How did he get in?

  As she got further in the door, the smell of chloroform burned her nose. She glanced at Simon. He was sniffing the air; a spike of anxiety rose from him as he detected the drug. Remembering what happened when he was chloroformed on Draco Station, she soothed him. You’re okay.

  He rubbed the back of his neck and came to stand next to her. Quinn walked ahead through the kitchen area; to their right, Rhys was in the bedroom, leaning over the body on the bed.

  “Haley Summers. Female, Caucasian, early thirties,” the coroner stated. “Death sometime between 3 and 7 A.M. COD, likely this brutal strangulation that broke her neck. I’ll do tests back at the lab.”

  “Sexual assault?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Both eyes?”

  “One missing. She was killed in the chair and then placed in bed.”

  Dreya picked up several packets of specimen swabs and put them in her pocket. Off to the side, she told Rhys, Quinn, and Simon, “We’re going to stay until everyone else is gone.”

  While they waited, she sat on the floor and stared at the chair. She stared at the front door. She stared at the bed. While she couldn’t read the scene like she could a human face, she was visualizing the action that destroyed a life.

  The victim was removed along with all pertinent clothing and bedding, even the chair. But Dreya could see how this went down—she just wanted confirmation. When the last technician left, she drew the blinds and told Quinn and Simon, “I want you two to transition and sniff this place down.”

  Eager, they stripped and changed into wolf and cougar. Like a busted bank of billiard balls, they shot in different directions. Several times they crossed paths and twice, both ended up at the front door. Simon inspected a place on the floor near the bedroom.

  Quinn yipped at the door. Open, I want to smell the lock.

  She opened the door enough for him to carry out the task.

  I have to smell outside.

  “How far?” She scanned the area, and saw no activity. The hour was late and all the curious excitement had passed. No one wanted to come out and look at the place where a young woman was murdered.

  Don’t know how far. He put his nose to the ground and took two steps before he stopped and backed up. Abruptly, he went back in. She closed the door and locked it. Simon and Quinn transitioned to human and dressed.

  “The lock smelled of plastic,” Quinn said. “A particular high-grade medium I ran into on a case in Europe before I went into Interpol. It’s used in 3D printing, available on Amazon.”

  “Our guy set his bag of tools here,” Simon said. “There’s a musty smell, like from a basement.”

  She took samples from the lock and the floor. “That’s not much, tell me you have something else.”

  “New shoes,” they answered together.

  “That’s the trail I was following out the door,” Quinn said. “But our killer took his shoes off outside the door and put on the new shoes, bringing nothing of his walking history into the house. When he left, he took his new shoes off and put on his other shoes.”

  “Huh. Meaning all the subsequent traffic wiped out his trace,” she said.

  “Yep.”

  “He’s organized, but we knew that. So far, he’s left behind no fibers, no prints, no DNA. Uniforms canvassed the area and no one saw anything. He’s like a ghost.”

  Their rigid faces reminded her she was in the line of fire for this killer. “Let’s see what these samples produce. Tell me there’s going to be a trail on a 3D printer and this plastic.”

  Quinn grimaced and shook his head. “Don’t count on it. You can buy a printer and the spool of plastic on eBay, Craigslist, Amazon, anywhere.”

  Silence settled.

  “He’s too smart to buy new,” she mused. “Which means he bought secondhand.”

  “I’ll start with the usual seller sites,” Simon offered. “We can run a check on 3D printers sold in the last six months. As common as 3D printers are becoming, I think they’re rare enough to give us a small pool to look through.”

  Dreya glanced about the apartment where an innocent was murdered. “How can you take a life and not leave anything behind?”

  “He definitely left something behind,” Simon said. “Death.”

  * * *

  The next morning at the office, a few results were in from the lab on their samples. “Filament plastic,” Dreya said with frustration. “Available everywhere.”

  She let her mind dance free with the actions supported by their scant evidence. “So somewhere out there is a person who maybe sold a 3D printer to our guy, maybe talked to him face to face, maybe saw his vehicle, maybe has a fingerprint left behind. It’s thin, real thin, but I’ve worked with less.”

  Simon shot to his feet. “I’m on it. Andy in IT can help with this.”

  “I’ll go with Simon,” Quinn said. “Rhys, you’re on detail.”

  She sat on the edge of her desk in a very crowded office. The board haunted her, teasing her with something she couldn’t see. Rhys stood, mocking her in his good-natured way, arms crossed, staring at the board. “Trying out your x-ray vision?”

  She snorted with laughter. “Ha! More like I’m lucky to see what’s right in front me.”

  “He’s smart, but they all make a mistake. We’ll get this guy.”

  “Hmmm. That reminds me, I haven’t checked my profile today.” She pulled out her phone and checked the app. She peered into the little images of their faces, wondering … are you the one? “No messages; a dozen or so views.”

  “It’s been less than twenty-four hours. Don’t be in such a hurry to attract the attention of a serial killer with an eyeball fetish.”

  She put the phone away, shutting down the gnawing desire to swipe through another parade of faces. “I want to stop this guy, put a bullet in his heart, and go find a new home. Here’s Simon and Quinn. Maybe they have good news.”

  “We have a 3D printer that was for sale locally,” Simon announced.

  “Good. About time we got a lead on this case. When?”

  “Back in January, over in Virginia. A Mr. Johnson.” He waved a slip of paper at her. “Come on, I have an address.”

  Rhys drove, managing to get to Virginia in the shortest possible time without breaking any laws. “How do you do that?” she asked. “You always beat my projections of travel time.”

  “Just a man on a mission,” he said, parking in a handicap space. Before them was a modest apartment building. Dreya glanced around; they were in view of public transportation. Suddenly her thin lead felt even thinner. They got out, and she pointed to the bus stop fifty feet away.

  “Yep,” Rhys said.

  They knocked at Mr. Johnson’s door.

  “Yes?” A balding man late forties answered, slim build, thick glasses; a techno-nerd.

  “Mr. Johnson, I’m Special Agent Dreya Love. We have some questions for you?”

  His eyes grew big, and he pulled his chin in. “Oh. What about?”

  “May we come in?”

  He stepped back and motioned them in. Amidst the mild clutter were several monitor screens set up to one computer; all displayed a shifting page of code. “What’s this all about. I do nothing illegal here.”

  Rhys, Quinn, and Simon managed to spread out through the small apartment. She read Mr. Johnson as she spoke. “In January, you put a 3D printer up for sale. Did you sell it?”

  “Oh. Well, it was mine to sell.” He puffed up with indignation. “Nothing illegal there.”

  “Not saying you did anything illegal, Mr. Johnson. But I am asking, who did you sell the printer to?”

  “Some guy answered my ad and came and bought
the thing; it was just a small printer. He gave me cash and walked out the door with it in a bag.”

  “How did he contact you?”

  “Well, must have been through the seller site, so, an email.”

  She kept from rolling her eyes. Their killer’s method of contact was another hindrance. “Can you describe this man?” Even though she doubted a description was going to emerge at this point, she held her breath and leaned towards him.

  “Well, he’s about my height, medium build, plain in the face.”

  “Could you describe him for a sketch artist? Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Well, the guy was here for fifteen minutes five months ago. I don’t remember what he looked like.”

  “Do you have a name for him?”

  “He said he was Arthur. No last name required.”

  “What time was this transaction? Morning, afternoon?”

  “He made an appointment for a specific time, actually. He said he would be here at 1:40.”

  “Making him leaving at about 1:55?”

  “Well, yes, that sounds right.”

  “Did he happen to touch anything while he was here?” She prayed with little hope.

  Johnson shrugged one shoulder. “It was January. He wore gloves. I remember seeing them when he handed me the money. Why? What did he do? Did I let a criminal in my home?”

  “Hair color?”

  He glared at her. “He wore one of those knit hats.”

  Dreya pursed her lips together. Zip. Nada. Zilch.

  “You’re sure he kept his gloves on the whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he arrive?” Rhys asked. “Did you see him drive a car?”

  “Well, I didn’t see how he came, but when he left, he went out to the bus stop.”

  “Of course he did,” Dreya muttered.

  “Can you think of anything memorable about this man?”

  Johnson exhaled and rubbed his chin. “Well, he just had one of those plain faces you don’t remember.” He drifted into memory. “Yeah, he was real plain. But I do remember he wore new shoes.”

  “And how did you know this?”

  “The smell. I worked in a cheap shoe store one summer. The smell of all that fake leather—I’ll never forget it. He had on new shoes. Cheap ones.”

  “Anything else you remember? A scar, a tattoo, his clothing?”

  He shook his head no. “Well, he seemed in a hurry, like he had a bus to catch. You should talk to the bus drivers.”

  At the bus station, they located the manager on duty. “Mr. Watkins?” Dreya flashed her credentials. “We’d like to speak to a couple of your bus drivers?”

  “Which ones?”

  “The ones who drove buses on Sunday, January 20, arriving at this stop at 1:35 P.M. and leaving that same stop at 2:00 P.M.” She passed him the address.

  He turned to his keyboard. With the sound of his fingers taping in the background, what little hope she had of learning anything quickly withered. He passed them a piece of paper with two names. “They’re both here getting ready to pull out.”

  “Tell them to stop in their tracks,” she said. “If they attempt to leave, I’ll shoot out their tires.” She tore the paper in half and gave one of the names to Quinn. “Take Simon. Go.”

  She and Rhys found their driver, and he wasn’t happy about being held late. She flashed her badge and he opened the bus door to let them in. “Lady, I don’t care if you’re the FBI. I got a route to keep and folks are going to bitch at me all day if I’m running late.”

  “I’ll write you a note,” she said, pushing her jacket back to expose her weapon--a subtle reminder of the business at hand. “On January 20, a man got on your bus and exited at the Hamlin St stop on Rhode Island Ave at 1:35 P.M. It was a cold day, he had on a hat, gloves and coat, and carried a pair of shoes that he may have put on while on your bus.” She swallowed, trying to not sound ridiculous and knew she failed. “Does any of this sound familiar to you?”

  He stared at her blankly for a time, his forehead creased. “You’re kidding, right? You expect me to remember someone like that from January? Lady, that happens on my bus every day. You got a photograph?”

  “No photograph.”

  He snorted and opened the door to the bus. “I got a route to make.”

  “Have a good day. Sorry to keep you.” She and Rhys walked off the bus and met Quinn and Simon in the lobby. Seeing the expression on their faces, she didn’t bother to ask if they had any luck with their driver.

  Zip. Nada. Zilch.

  5

  It was a long day at work for Martin. He arrived bleary eyed from being up all night, as well as being distressed over the night’s events with Haley. He struggled to shake off his disappointment.

  “What’s the matter, Martin,” Gregory asked. “You look like you lost your best friend. You feel okay?”

  Being in no mood to talk, he nodded to Gregory, but ignored his chatter. In addition to his regular workload, he had to remove all the equipment he used to get into Haley’s laptop. He took his route packet and drove off. The day passed by in a blur, and he met the end of his shift with relief.

  At home, he kicked off his shoes and threw his lunch bucket at the sink. He heard glass break and knew he’d busted his thermos. “Don’t care,” he mumbled and wandered into his office. Tonight, even more than usual, he felt alone in the big house. He needed a friend. He missed Haley.

  He opened his main computer and went to the AlleyOop dating site. When he attempted to log in to Ian Zane, he discovered the profile was removed. “Hmm.” He’d been using Zane for a long time and was surprised it lasted as long as it did. “One of his friends must have found him. No problem. Where there’s one, there’s another.”

  A quick perusal of his fake identities and he chose one. “Elliot North.” He uploaded the information from his file and within twenty minutes was back on AlleyOop with a new name and a handsome, virile face.

  Elliot was one of his favorite identities—he enjoyed looking at this man’s face, then closing his eyes and becoming that man in his mind, basking in the appreciative glances of women all day. He even liked Elliot’s Mustang muscle car. He began surfing the carousel.

  The faces flipped by, boring him, disappointing him, giving him no potential prospects for the one. He left AlleyOop and cruised over to Bow&Quiver. Unfortunately, Heath Ericson was not attracting any blondes of the appropriate kind.

  Fishing4Love looked promising at first, but after an hour and hundreds of faces, he gave up. Haley’s failure left him feeling empty, and sad--a far cry from the love and contentment he needed.

  A tear rolled down his cheek. “I didn’t want to kill her, I wanted her to love me,” he sobbed softly. He looked away, finding no comfort in the large barren house. With a sigh, he went back to AlleyOop. His nose ran. He wiped it on his shirt sleeve.

  I can do this.

  A face caught his attention. “Well, what have we here? Lucky One?” He zoomed in; she was beautiful, more beautiful than his mother. A closer inspection on her eyes, and a tingle of excitement snaked through his belly.

  “She could be the one.”

  Impatient to find out, he opened a laptop connected to his ghost network, and logged into AlleyOop. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he put code into a message and sent it to break through AlleyOop’s firewall.

  He sat back and waited for the code to do its job. Soon, Lucky One’s profile photo filled the screen on his main computer. Her smile was promising, but her eyes fascinated him.

  The backside behind her profile on AlleyOop opened to give him her name. “Michelle Love,” he said. “Okay Michelle, let’s see what there is to know about you.”

  There was nothing on Facebook. No other social media, no twitter. “Hmm. What a mystery you are, Michelle. Do you have a secret?”

  Her face continued to attract him. She was far more beautiful than Haley, or Tanya, or any of those who came before. For h
im, those others no longer existed. Perhaps finally, he had found the one to say the words.

  He set a search program for Michelle Love on his laptop and sat back, waiting. His finger tapped on the desk, his eyes closed, and he exhaled harshly as his mother’s face intruded in his memory. Her death had destroyed his hope of hearing another important question answered. Even this long after the fact, he still wanted to know.

  Mother, why didn’t you love me?

  The day she died, his life was even sorrier than the day he was born. He rarely visited her at the little house he bought for her in Virginia, for he despised the sound of her sucking her teeth, despised the way she always looked for something to criticize.

  Always looking, yet never able to see. Other than my faults, I remain invisible.

  “Martin,” she pleaded that day. “Please come over. I’m lonely.”

  A burst of laughter erupted, and he looked at the phone with incredulous surprise. “Really, Mother?” He wanted to shout, “You had your chance to love me,” but ground his jaws to hold back his rage.

  “Don’t be mean, Martin.” She whined, a sound he hated even more than her sucking teeth. “Of course not, Mother. I’ll be by after dinner.”

  When he arrived, she was pale. “Are you all right?” he asked. He watched her as they walked to her easy chair. She trembled, and her hands were quite cool.

  “I feel a little light-headed.” She turned to sit, clutched his hand, moaned, and collapsed into the chair, choking.

  For a moment, he was stunned. A battle waged in his heart. Part of him wanted her dead. Another part, the little boy Martin, still needed her to tell him she loved him.

  “No,” he cried. She stopped choking, went rigid, and slumped to the floor. Her dead eyes stared up at him, her final act in this life being to cheat him for all eternity of the words he wished to hear.

  “You bitch!” he screamed and kicked her dead body in the ribs. “Dammit.”

  He stalked off before he savaged her remains, holding his head with his hands. “No no no no no,” he moaned. “Now I will never know.”

  The denial life had dealt him was too much. “Not once did she ever tell me she loved me.” Tears burned in his eyes, his stomach felt like that day in the tree before he fell; he leaned over and retched onto the floor. A hot flood of tears followed as he crouched on his hands and knees over his vomit.