by Alex Ander
Feeling her body temperature rising, Cruz twisted the fan knob to the left and moved the heat selector closer to the blue section. She squirmed in her seat and arched her back, trying to relieve pressure points. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ashford had the picture inches away from his face, squinting. The only thing missing was a Sherlock Holmes hat and magnifying glass. She touched her cheek with the back of her cold hand. The coolness felt good. The reflection in the rear view mirror showed her crimson face.
“It’s like when you’re trying to remember a song or an actor’s name. It’s right there on the tip—”
Cruz cut him off, making no effort to mask her annoyance. “I’m sure there’s other information in that folder you could be reading, instead of drooling over that picture. Honestly, you’re acting like some horny teenager, who got a hold of a Victoria’s Secret catalog.”
Ashford rotated his upper body toward his partner and leaned against the door. His mouth agape and his eyes reduced to slits, he stared at her. What the hell is your problem? He re-phrased the question when he uttered it aloud. “What’s your problem, Cruz?” He held up his index finger. “First, you bark at me in Jameson’s office and now you rip me a new one over,” he lifted the photo in his hand, “looking at a hot girl.” He shook his head. “What did I do? If you got something to say to me, spit it out. We’ve known each other long enough that I think we can be straight and say what’s on our minds.” He held his hands up. “What’s got you so pi—”
“It’s not you,” interrupted Cruz, her voice dropping an octave. “It’s me.”
Ashford’s shoulders relaxed. More questions formed in his mind. “All right, what did you do that’s got you so upset?”
Cruz shook her head, took the print from him and held it up to his face. “No, I meant it’s me.” She waved the image back and forth. “This…is me. I’m the one you’ve been staring at for the last hour.” She dropped the photograph into his lap and grasped the steering wheel with both hands, her knuckles turning white.
Ashford flipped over the print. Studying it, his next words leapt from his mouth. “You’re Miss Texas?” The woman in the picture had a sash across her body with the words ‘Miss Texas’ on the sash.
Staring straight ahead, Cruz nodded.
He held the photo between them. His eyes moving left and right, he saw the resemblance.
She filled in the blanks for him. “That was taken eleven years ago at the Miss America Pageant. It was a publicity shot. I was eighteen at the time.”
“Whoa, wait a minute.” Ashford made a ‘T’ with his hands. “I have to call timeout here.” He pointed at her. “You’re telling me you were Miss Texas.” He jabbed his finger at the image of Cruz, specifically, the word ‘winner.’ “And, you went on to win the Miss America Pageant at the age of eighteen. Wow. I can’t believe I’m sitting next to a beauty queen. This is unbelievable. Why didn’t you ever tell me? We’re partners. That’s something I should know, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t win. I placed second at the pageant. And, I didn’t tell you about it for the same reason I don’t tell anyone about it. When people find out, they have the same reaction you just had.” Cruz rolled her head. “Wow, she’s a beauty queen. Their minds shut off and that’s all they can see. I’ve lived with the narrow-mindedness for ten years. I’m sick of it. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t necessarily want to talk about those days of my life.” Silence consumed the interior of the Charger for nearly a minute.
“I’m sorry, Cruz,” Ashford said, backpedalling. “I had no idea.”
Hearing the sullen tone in his voice, she felt terrible for yelling at him. It was not his fault. He had no way of knowing she was the woman in the picture, or about the life challenges associated with having participated in talent contests.
“I can’t imagine what you’ve had to endure.” He held up his right index finger. “You’ve served your country in the military.” The middle finger was extended. “You made sergeant for the Dalhart Police Department.” The ring finger was added. “You apprehended a Mexican drug trafficker, got the attention of the FBI and went on to become a top notch FBI agent.”
Cruz tilted her head and frowned. What kind of apology is this?
Ashford rattled off several additional accolades, including her bringing to justice a member of congress involved in a sex scandal. All digits on his right hand were extended. The last three fingers on his left hand pointed upward, while he pinched the photo with the first two. “I’m running out of fingers here, Cruz.”
She faced him, but kept her eyes on the road. “You’re not very good at apologies. You know that, right?”
He ignored the question. “Add to your list of accomplishments a Miss Texas title and runner-up in the biggest talent contest in the country and…” he sighed and motioned toward her. “Your shoulders must be sore from carrying around the burden of all that success. I really am sorry. I can see you’ve had a tough life.”
She glanced at him to verify the sarcasm in his voice.
“I guess all that’s missing in your life is fortune.” He held her gaze. “That is, unless you’re going to tell me you had a wealthy uncle and he left you a boatload of money.”
Cruz raised her eyebrows. “Are you finished?”
“No, not yet,” he countered. “You’ve accomplished more in ten years than most people do in a lifetime. You’re smart, kindhearted and a damn good FBI agent. If people can’t see those qualities in you,” he shrugged and raised his voice, “to hell with them. They’re not worth your time. Your past is your past. It’s a part of who you are. Embrace it and be proud of what you’ve done.”
Cruz navigated the Charger into the far right lane, preparing to take the exit for Interstate 70, the Dwight D. Eisenhower Highway, south of Frederick, Maryland. Once they were past the hectic traffic of the interchange, she rolled her head toward Ashford. “Thank you. That means a lot to me. It really does.” She watched him flash a smile and nod.
A few miles down the highway, Ashford picked up the photo. “I just realized why I didn’t recognize you.”
Hearing his tone, Cruz braced for an off-color joke.
He stroked his chin before wagging his finger at the image. “You’re not wearing your Glock.”
Her jaw muscles relaxed and she checked the side mirror.
Ashford grinned and added, “Although…there’s not a whole lot of fabric there to hold up a gun.”
She whipped her head toward him, the redness returning to her cheeks. Lines formed on her forehead.
Noticing the feigned anger, Ashford could not resist dumping fuel onto the fire. “I suppose you could’ve slipped the muzzle,” he motioned with his right hand, “under the side ties of your G-string bikini.”
“That’s it.” Cruz yanked the photo from his hand and held it up. “No more looking at this. In fact, you’re to forget you ever saw it. Are we clear?” She tucked the image under her leg.
Ashford’s chest rocked up and down. After several moments, he brought his hilarity to a snicker. “Sorry, Cruz, it’s too late. That image’s been burned into my brain.” Chuckling, he added, “When my head hits the pillow and I close my eyes, tonight…” His voice trailed off and he pointed toward her thigh, the one concealing the photo. When she cocked her head toward him and rolled her eyes, his amusement returned in full force.
Cruz looked at the clock on the dashboard—11:27. They would be arriving at their destination, Huntingdon, Pennsylvania, in about two hours.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Chapter 6: Huntingdon
1:31 p.m.
Sheriff’s Office
Huntingdon, Pennsylvania
Sheriff Corbin Decker took a big bite of his grilled ham and cheese sandwich before returning his attention to the case file in front of him. Two bites later, he washed down the food with a couple gulps from a twenty-ounce bottle of pop. Reaching for the sandwich, he heard a knock on the office door. He peered through the window and motion
ed for the man, standing on the other side of the glass, to enter. “Come in.” Decker took another bite of his sandwich and grabbed a napkin.
Special Agent Cruz stepped into the sheriff’s office, followed by Curtis Ashford, who closed the door behind him. She presented her FBI credentials. “Sheriff Decker,” she motioned toward Ashford, “this is Special Agent Curtis Ashford and I’m—”
“Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz,” said Decker, nodding his head and wiping his mouth with the napkin. “I was wondering if I would be getting a visit from you.” After shaking her hand, he gestured toward the chair facing his desk. “Please have a seat.” Pointing toward the corner near the door, he added, “There’s another chair for you Agent…”
“Ashford…Curtis Ashford,” said Cruz’s partner, shaking the sheriff’s hand.
“Of course, please draw up a chair.” Decker sat and moved his food aside. “You’ll have to excuse me. Some days I have to squeeze in a bite whenever I get the time.”
Cruz smiled. “I know what you mean. I’m sure with all that’s happened around here, it’s been a hectic day.”
The sheriff agreed. “One of the reasons I decided to settle in this town and run for sheriff was because,” he half laughed and emphasized his next words, “murders don’t happen in small towns. Now, at fifty-nine,” he lifted the soft drink bottle into the air, “I’m thrust back into the action.”
Cruz studied the man, while he took a swig from the bottle. He was heavyset with broad shoulders, sporting a full head of graying hair. His thick and neatly trimmed mustache was dark. His uniform seemed to fit him, despite the extra pounds he had no doubt added since being elected sheriff. Desk jobs had a tendency to create ‘spare tires’ on even the fittest of people. She watched him remove a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on with one hand, while picking up a sheet of paper with the other hand.
“I’m sure I know, but just so we’re on the same page, would you mind telling me why you’re here?”
Cruz shifted in her chair. “Director Jameson sent us to see if we could be of assistance in your investigation into the dead body that was found earlier today.”
Decker looked over the top of his eyeglasses. “How is Phillip?”
“He’s doing well.”
“We go back a few years…” He grinned and added, “…before he became a,” Decker tilted his head back and forth, “big-time lawman.”
Realizing Sheriff Decker and Director Jameson were friends, and that Decker’s words contained no malice, Cruz smiled. She appreciated the man’s laid-back personality and welcoming demeanor. The word ‘refreshing’ came to her mind.
“We met about fifteen years ago. He was a Special Agent back then, looking into a case I was working in another state. He’s a good man. That’s why I contacted him about this.” He looked down at the file. “Well, that and I recognized you in the photo. I must admit I didn’t expect a visit from you, however. I appreciate you making the trip.”
She glanced at Ashford. “Thank you, Sheriff Decker. If we can be of assistance, please let us know. That’s what we’re here for.”
“Where would you like to start? Have you had a chance to go over the information I sent your boss?”
“We have, but I was hoping you’d fill in the gaps, personally.”
Decker nodded. “Of course…The body was found in a parked vehicle at a mini mall on Fourth Street, near the William Penn Highway.”
Cruz interrupted. “Do you know who the vehicle is registered to?”
“It was reported stolen this morning by the owners, David and Jenny Parker. I sent a deputy to the house and their story checks out.”
Cruz nodded. “Who found the body?”
Decker glanced at the paperwork. “It was an employee of the gas station in the same mall. He was on his way to work, saw the car and thought something was wrong. Only the poor fellow’s definition of wrong was that the person inside the vehicle might need assistance.”
“Have you questioned him?” Cruz turned toward Ashford and made a writing motion.
“We have and he’s not a suspect. We have an estimated time of death and the kid has a solid alibi. No, he was just in the wrong place and happened to be the first person to see the grizzly sight.” Decker went back to his notes. “Authorities were called a little after sunrise and the first deputy was on-scene ten minutes later to secure the area. I arrived an hour after that and came upon the circus. People were milling around, trying to get a better look at the carnage.”
Ashford wrote something on the small notepad in his hand. “Yeah, there’s nothing like starting your day with a shopping trip and a dead body.”
Before Decker could comment, Cruz leaned forward. “Are there any security cameras that might have picked up the vehicle and the person who—”
Decker shook his head and Cruz stopped. “There are two cameras facing the crime scene, but it’s too dark to see anything. The two nearest lights in the parking lot were not working—bulbs were burned out. The stolen car was parked between them.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“There were plenty of those.” Decker removed his eyeglasses and put the end of one bow between his lips, forcing him to speak through clenched teeth. “Problem is they all matched those of the owner and his wife. And, as I said, they have a good alibi.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyeglasses coming to rest on his chest. One question had been on his mind all day. “Agent DelaCruz, do you have any idea why your picture was with the body?” He grabbed the photo and pointed toward it. “And, what’s with the drawing of the crown and the words ‘winner’ scribbled on it?”
“Believe me, Sheriff, I wish I knew.” Cruz had been racking her brain over the same question, since the meeting in Jameson’s office. One answer had repeatedly surfaced in her mind, but she kept dismissing the notion, not wanting to go down that road so soon. She stared at Sheriff Decker. The look in his eyes told her he had been contemplating a similar conclusion. I guess it’s time to float my theory. She used the armrests to push her body further back against the chair. “It may be too early to say this, but my gut tells me you have the makings of a serial killer on your hands, Sheriff.” She reviewed the details in her head. “Most murders don’t end with the body in this condition…with pictures attached to it. Those elements have some kind of meaning to the killer.”
Sheriff Decker rocked forward in his chair and threw his eyeglasses on the table before grabbing the pop bottle. “I was afraid you were going to say that.” He took a drink and returned the bottle to the desk. After swallowing the liquid, he sighed. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
Cruz sat erect. “Sheriff, I’d like to take a look at the body. Is there any chance of that happening?”
Decker studied his watch. “The M.E. is going to have his report to me later today.” After a few moments, he picked up the phone. “Let me see what I can do.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Chapter 7: Victim
“The victim is a white female around forty years of age. There were no other wounds on the body. The cause of death was…” Dr. Thomas Drake, Huntingdon County Medical Examiner, paused and held out his hand toward the headless body of a woman, lying on the examination table. “Well, you can see for yourself the cause of death.”
Special Agent Cruz made the sign of the cross, touching the fingertips of her right hand to her forehead, chest and left and right shoulder. In her mind, she said a prayer for the deceased. This was not the first dead body she had seen; however, seeing the lifeless remains of crime victims always affected her. At times like these, she questioned her decision to go into law enforcement. As soon as the thought entered her mind, she ushered it out. She was meant to be in this profession. It was not easy, but no occupation was.
Dr. Drake, a scrawny and scraggly man in his late thirties, had unkempt light-colored hair. His eyes were narrow slits that rested above a pointed nose and small mouth. His calm and quiet
manner seemed befitting of a man in his position. “Fortunately, I can say that she most likely did not suffer. Although I can’t verify it, I would have to assume she was struck on the head prior to it being separated from her body. The blow alone may have been enough to cause her death. Either way, I don’t believe she felt much pain.” Whether he knew it or not, Dr. Drake’s voice had a soothing effect.
Cruz made a slow lap around the table, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Stopping at the middle of the table, she examined the wrist. The hands of the body had been lopped off as well. Why would someone cut off the hands?
Ashford seemed to read her thoughts. “Whoever did this, must not have wanted the identity of the victim to be known.” He made a chopping motion with his hand. “Take off the hands and the head and no one can use the fingerprints, face or dental records for identification purposes.”
Cruz noticed a small tattoo of a skull on the left shoulder of the body. Instead of crossbones beneath it, there were two straight lines forming an ‘X.’ Using the camera on her phone, she snapped a picture of the tattoo. She could not place it, but she recognized the image from somewhere. She stowed her cell phone and nodded at Dr. Drake. “I’ve seen enough.” She faced Sheriff Decker. “If you don’t mind, Sheriff…” Behind her, Dr. Drake zipped shut the black bag that held the body. “Can you take me to the crime scene?”
… … … … … … … … … …
After surveying the parking lot where the body was discovered, Cruz and Ashford spent the next few hours with Sheriff Decker, reading and re-reading reports from deputies, Dr. Drake’s autopsy report and individual statements from the man who found the body, and the couple who had their car stolen. Cruz had Ashford send everything to the information analysts at the FBI. At this point, they had no leads to follow.
“Any luck?” Decker had entered the office and was rounding his desk.
Cruz closed the file folder she was perusing and tossed it across his desk. She realized she had been slouching in her chair, resting her crossed ankles on the edge of his desk. She dropped them to the floor and stood. Pointing toward the desk, she said, “Sorry about that.”
