by Mary Burton
“Yes,” he said. “As far as we know, this is the second victim killed this way.”
“Two bodies in a little over a month. That’s a short cooling-off period between kills,” Ann said.
During the time between murders—the cooling-off period—the killer relived the crime, which energized whatever emotional payoff he enjoyed during the act. When remembering no longer satisfied his cravings, the search for a new victim began.
“Think we have a serial killer?” Bryce asked.
“Four weeks is a quick turnaround,” Joan said.
“The interval between murders can last years or decades,” Ann said.
“Or in this case, the guy burned through his memories in four weeks,” Bryce said.
“It’s not the fastest pace, but you’re right—it’s a short turnaround,” Ann said. “Can I get a better look at the body?”
“It’s rough,” he warned.
“No doubt.” Ann’s lips thinned. “But unless you two want to simply discuss the theory of serial killers, which I can do for hours, I’ll need to see this guy’s handiwork. Do you have gloves?”
Bryce handed her a spare pair and watched her long fingers slide into the gloves as if she were dressing for a night at the opera. Brave face, but the extra seconds she took knitting her fingers together suggested shaky nerves behind the bravado. He had done as much when he had stared down the length of a rodeo bull or marched into a narrow canyon in Korangal Valley. The real test did not commence until you saddled up and it was go time.
Bryce took the lead, moving at a slower pace, giving Ann time to retreat as the scents strengthened and the buzz of black flies grew louder. Out in this weather, the sun and critters would turn this body to dust in a matter of days.
She edged close to the yellow caution tape and studied the body, which lay on its back, its charred skull angled toward the western, pale-blue sky. “Was the other body positioned to the west?”
“Yes. On the side, arms tucked close to the body, legs closed.”
“Legs are closed in this case, but there doesn’t appear to be any clothing. Were there signs of sexual assault on the first victim?” Ann asked.
“No signs of sexual assault, but she was also stripped naked.”
“Also stabbed and then incinerated?”
“Affirmative.”
“May I get closer?” Ann asked.
He lifted the tape, and she ducked under it. Her jaw tightened, but she kept moving until she was feet away from the remains. As she stared at the scorched figure, the silence that followed stretched to breaking. Finally, she moved toward the head.
There was no lingering this time as she instinctively drew in a deep breath and stepped back. “Does fire destroy the face like this?”
“It can do a lot of damage,” Joan said evenly. “But we think the killer removed the face with a scalpel, like he did with the other one. There’s an outline along the hairline, cheek, and jawline. Again, the medical examiner will have to make the call.”
In the last two hours, Bryce had distanced himself from the images of the mutilated body. It was not intentional but a survival mechanism learned on the battlefield. During the mission, the dead ceased to be human and were reclassified as evidence. Later the images would return, reinvigorated and magnified, like all the other ghosts.
“I’d like to be present when the autopsy is conducted,” Ann said.
Joan glanced toward Bryce, brow raised, but she said nothing.
“Sure,” Bryce said.
“Was the first body found close to Interstate 90?” Ann asked.
“Relatively,” he said.
“Close to bike or hiking paths?”
“Yes, but it was the fire that alerted locals and then the cops.”
“There are plenty of places in Montana to bury a body so that it’s never found,” Ann said.
“Why draw attention to the remains?” Bryce asked.
“He wants his work discovered.” Inhaling a steadying breath, Ann studied the face closely. “But the fires and the facial mutilations are connected. The killer is erasing the victim’s identity.”
“Look what I’ve done,” Joan said. “Now guess who I did it to?”
“Maybe,” Ann said. “Have you identified the first victim?”
“No,” Bryce said. “This killer might want our attention, but he also doesn’t want to get caught. I think stripping the bodies is a precautionary move. As destructive as fire could be, buttons, rivets, buckles often survive and later give clues about the victim.”
“The first victim’s face was not found, and so far, neither has this one’s. Is it a trophy?” Joan asked.
“Trophies are common with serial killers,” Ann said. “Whatever they take from the victims helps them relive the crime during that cooling-off period I mentioned. Often there’s a sexual element. As the crime is mentally reenacted, the killer can masturbate.”
“But remember, no signs of sexual assault on the first victim,” Bryce said.
“Sexual stimulation comes in many forms,” Ann said. “Sometimes the act of witnessing the victim’s pain gets the killer excited. They can’t achieve sexual gratification without another’s suffering. Penetration isn’t always required.”
“That’s why I’ve got you here,” Bryce said. “You understand this kind of thinking.”
She looked up at him. “I’ve studied it, comprehend it on an academic level, but I don’t claim to understand this type of killer. If anyone says they do, they’re lying.” Defensiveness stiffened her tone.
“You still know more than me,” Bryce said. “I’ve never had cases like these two.”
“Do you have any theories about the Helena victim?” Ann asked.
“I’ve discussed it with the lead detectives at length. Our assumptions that the first kill was domestic don’t fit anymore. Though we could still be dealing with cartels or human traffickers,” Bryce said.
“I suppose this could be a message to rival gangs. Violence is often used in those organizations to control not just the victim but the survivors. But this kind of killing takes planning. The victim has to be selected, the materials gathered, and the site chosen,” Ann said. “This killer is organized, and he’s not stupid.”
“You think the victims were chosen in advance?” he asked.
“Yes I do,” Ann said. “He likely was stalking or grooming them for days or weeks. Are there any missing-person reports that match the first victim’s approximate age and race?”
“No. We reached out to police in Wyoming and Idaho,” Bryce said. “There were a couple that were possibilities, but the women have since been located.”
“Will he do it again?” Joan asked.
“If I had to guess, I’d say yes,” Ann said.
“Jesus,” Bryce muttered.
“May I read the files from the first case?” Ann asked.
Bryce was pleased to see she was not running to the safety of her university office.
“I’ll hand deliver them to you myself,” Bryce said. “Name the place.”
“I rented a house in town and will be there the next couple of days nonstop getting it set up before the school year starts. Tomorrow, Nate is going camping with his cousin, my brother, and Joan. That means four days of silence, so I’ll have time to work.”
Joan chuckled. “My first camping trip.”
Ann smiled. “I’d trade places with you, if I could.”
Bryce understood how solitude could coax the past and its demons out of the shadows. “I’ll drop them off this afternoon.”
“We should have the body out of here in under an hour,” Joan said. “Likely the autopsy will be tomorrow. I wish I could be there. Maybe I could join Gideon and the boys later in the day.”
“No, you go. It’ll be good for you all. I’ll attend,” Ann said.
“You been to an autopsy before?” Bryce asked.
“First time for everything, Sergeant McCabe,” Ann said.
Challen
ge hummed under her words, and he preferred her throwing punches instead of retreating.
“I remember my first,” Bryce said.
She arched a brow. “If you’re suggesting it won’t be easy, you’re correct, Sergeant McCabe. But don’t worry about me. I don’t bolt.”
A grin tugged at the edges of his lips. “I wasn’t suggesting you would.”
“Yes, you were. But it’s a justified worry. I’m untested.”
“You’ll hang tough,” Joan said.
He sensed Ann was not as sure of herself as she pretended to be. “Exactly.”
While Joan stayed with the remains, Bryce walked Ann down the hill. As they passed the tire tracks, she paused and studied them. They were covered in footprints.
“Most of the footprints belong to the deputy who came in on foot. The tire tracks were made by the killer, likely after Monday night’s rain.”
“Can you figure out what kind of vehicle he drives?” Ann asked.
“Might be able to.”
They continued over the now sun-dried grass poking up from the soft dirt. Her long legs matched his strides easily.
“Thanks again, Doc,” he said. “I’ll see you later today.”
She stripped off her gloves and shoved them in her pocket before she removed her hat, revealing a fine sheen of sweat banding her forehead. Blond hair twisted into a low knot. “Let’s hope I can help.”
Ann started her car and opened the window, breathing in fresh mountain air before she drove away from the crime scene. Scents of singed flesh lingered in her nasal passages and clung to her skin. Images of the mutilated body were branded into her memory.
A glance in her rearview mirror caught Bryce McCabe watching her drive away. His grim expression had suggested that he fully expected her to rethink her involvement in the case and decline to help. That was not going to happen, but he did not know that. Yet.
Known for his direct, if not abrupt, style, Bryce McCabe had been on tenterhooks around her, as if he were juggling a dozen fragile eggs. His underestimation irritated her, but of course he really was not so different from everyone else in Missoula. Since her husband’s death in the fire he had set, those who knew her, as well as strangers, tiptoed around her. Most did not know what to say. They wanted to be kind, but they were also curious about Clarke. How are you feeling? Did you know what Clarke was doing? Tell us all the dirty little secrets. Bryce had never once brought up Clarke when she’d visited his office, and that was a point in his column.
Lecturing a classroom of police officers was far different from fieldwork. Regardless of the personal demons a case like this might summon, she was here to stay.
And most surprising, now that the initial shock was wearing off, she realized she was fascinated by this crime.
As she turned onto the highway, her thoughts drifted to the body and possible theories. This killer had a distinct message and mission and a specific victim in mind. Murder was not enough for him. He was bent on eradicating their identities on all levels.
She gripped the steering wheel tighter as she slowed for a stop sign at a T intersection. She flashed to the blackened skull’s slack jaw welded into an unending silent scream. “Help me!”
Ann trusted that the killer was paying close attention to this investigation. He had deliberately drawn attention to his work, suggesting he craved the fame and notoriety. There had been a media blackout on the first murder; however, a second killing would establish a trend and set off alarm bells in the press. The killer wanted his bodies found.
Had the killer already posted pictures hinting to his crimes? Uploading direct images or videos could trigger warnings with viewers and inquiries from law enforcement, but partial photos of the body or vistas around the crime scene could go unidentified for a long time.
If her university students had taught her anything, it was that everyone now lived in the fame-hungry world of social media. Nothing, including a meal, a drink, or a communal gathering, really happened unless it was documented online.
I’m right here. Can’t you see me? Find me.
A truck whistled by her car in the adjacent lane, snapping her mind back into focus. She turned on her blinker and headed toward the interstate.
With three hours until Nate was finished with camp, she had a bit of time to work on setting up the new house she had rented on Turner Street. The basic pieces of furniture had arrived, but all the little things, including dishes, glasses, sheets, bookshelves, even her bed frame, needed buying.
She was living in chaos, and as tempted as she was to return to her parents’ ranch house, to do so would be admitting they were right—and that she was not ready to live alone.
“Let us protect you and Nate. You’re safer out here on the ranch,” her father had said.
But her mother and father had put their lives on hold last year, and she refused to let them continue. Two weeks ago, when her brother and she had gratefully sent them off on another motor home adventure, she had moved back into town.
As she pressed the accelerator, her last words to her parents rattled in her head: “I’ve been through the worst. I’ll be fine.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Missoula, Montana
Wednesday, August 18
3:45 p.m.
After an hour spent racing through the box store, Ann had managed to buy sheets and a comforter decorated with stars and planets for Nate’s bedroom, glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars for his ceiling, and two high-wattage bedside lights for reading. Also in the cart were plain white towels, bath mats, shower curtains, and a blue-and-white quilt marked 50 percent off. She did not have the energy to choose glasses and plates, so she bought long sleeves of durable paper plates and cups. It had been easy to make basic decisions last year, but now they felt insurmountable.
Analytically, she recognized her behavior as classic avoidance based on a fear of the future. If she were counseling an individual like herself, she would have praised them for the small steps they had accomplished. But she was not a patient, and she was stronger than any stupid anxiety that, honest to God, could not have been worse than it was last year.
As the clerk rang up her order, she noted the young man kept glancing at her as if he recognized her. She injected her steady gaze with challenge until he stopped sneaking looks. When her total rang up, she suppressed a grimace. Until she sold the house on Beech Street, finances were going to be tight.
The shopping cart’s wheels rattled as she pushed her purchases across the parking lot and loaded them in her trunk. At the university, she parked outside the building where Nate was attending a computer camp. She still had a minute to spare.
She savored the warmth of the sun on her face as she watched the side of the gym door, waiting for it to open and the kids to be released.
Her phone rang. She did not recognize the number. Wondering if it might be from the police department, she took a risk and answered. “This is Dr. Bailey.”
“Dr. Bailey? Ann Bailey?” The springs of a chair squeaked as if the caller were shifting forward.
“That is correct.”
“This is Paul Thompson. I’m working on a story about Elijah Weston.”
“How did you get this number?” she asked.
“I’m good at what I do.”
His arrogance scraped her nerves. “Good for you. Don’t call me again.”
“I want to talk. You name the time and the place. I have a few questions.”
Ann hung up and then blocked the number. Her hands were trembling as she thought about Elijah Weston. She had known him in college, slept with him twice, and then, when he was charged with arson, she had testified against him.
Elijah had been out of prison a year, and not a week went by that she did not spot him at least once. He rarely approached her, but his mere presence was a message: “I haven’t forgotten. And you won’t, either.”
The gym door burst open, and the ten kids, ranging in age from ten to thirteen, strolled outside. Some carried t
heir backpacks, others dragged them, all with a tired but contented expression suggesting it had been a good day.
She did not see Nate immediately, and whenever he dallied, adrenaline rushed her body and her relaxed status switched to a full-blown red alert.
Her heart was fast-tracking to fifth gear when she saw her son making his way out of the building. He was sporting his new wire-rimmed glasses and a short haircut that was identical to his cousin Kyle’s and uncle Gideon’s. The combined effect made him look older than the ten-year-old boy standing in front of her.
He spotted her, raised his hand, and tossed her a halfway smile. Not the full-on grin he had a year ago, but not the dismissive smirk of a teenager.
Ann waved back and watched as the other boys hurried to their rides. A couple of twelve-year-olds, Roger and Ben, rushed up to speak to Nate, and her boy actually grinned. Then the boys looked toward Roger’s mother, who shook her head no. There were some exchanged words between the trio, and then Nate nodded, adjusted his backpack, and headed toward Ann’s car.
Her heart twisted. He opened the back door and tossed in his backpack.
“How did it go today?” she asked a little too brightly.
“Fine.” He clicked his seat belt.
“Did you make your solar system presentation?” she asked.
“Yes.” He pushed up his glasses and looked out the window.
“Want to get ice cream?”
“No. Did you get my fishing lures from the house?”
“I did. They’re in the back.”
He glanced over the seat at the bags of newly purchased items. “What about my globe from the house?”
“No, did you want it?”
“Yes. I told you that.”
“I don’t remember. Sorry.”
“You didn’t get it?” he challenged.
“I’ll go by tomorrow.”
“Why can’t we go now?” He shifted his gaze, his eyes ripe with a dare.
“What’s the rush?” she asked.
“What’s the big deal?”
“What’s with the attitude, kid?”
His shrug was not as surly as his defiance. “I told you—I wanted to see the house, Mom, but you went by without me. I’m not a baby.”
