by Mary Burton
“That can be arranged.”
He pulled into the parking lot of the regional forensic building, and after both were out of the car, he escorted her inside. He showed his badge to the officer on duty, and when the door buzzed open, he followed her into the small back offices. They were met by a midsize man dressed in a Montana Highway Patrol uniform. He had a round belly, muscled legs, and a thick mustache.
“Bryce,” the man said, extending his hand.
“Matt, good to see you.” He nodded toward Ann. “Matt Towzer, meet Dr. Ann Bailey. She’s consulting on the case.”
“Doctor of psychology, I hope,” Towzer said. “Whoever murdered Dana Riley has some odd views about murder.”
“Forensic psychology,” Ann said. “And you’re right about the killer. He’s not typical.”
“Last murder I worked was a barroom fight. Man knifed another. Two drunks fighting over a woman. But this case, hell, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The curled, blackened images of the Helena victim, or rather Dana Riley, pushed to the front of Ann’s memory. The cuts around her face had been jagged and halting, an indication that the killer had not yet perfected his ritual.
“What can you tell us about her?” she asked Towzer.
“Bryce called me when he received the victim’s identity last night. I was in Helena, so I made the rounds of the local bars and restaurants. I showed her mug shot around for about an hour, and as luck would have it, a local bartender at the Red Horse recognized her picture. The guy’s name is Tate Andrews, and he said Dana worked there for about a month. She was popular with the customers, and then one day she did not show up for work. He said that thing happens all the time with seasonal workers. I told him more cops might be stopping by.”
“You said you also located Dana Riley’s truck?” Bryce asked.
“Once I had her name, I did a vehicle search and came up with the VIN for the Ford truck. I visited the two tow lots in Helena and spotted the truck. The VIN matched.”
“Good work,” Bryce said.
“Lucky I found it when I did,” Towzer said. “It was scheduled to go on the auction block in a couple of weeks.”
“Have you searched the vehicle yet?” Bryce asked.
“No. The vehicle just arrived here about an hour ago on a flatbed. The technicians are getting ready to work on the truck now.”
The trio took the stairs down to the basement level, where the vehicle bay was located. Impatience and excitement surged as Ann thought about searching the truck for evidence. More than ever, she wanted to catch this killer.
“Dr. Bailey, you know better than me,” Towzer said when they exited the elevator. “Why would a person do this to another? I have seen people mess up each other, but it’s generally in the heat of emotion. Whoever did this was cold and deliberate.”
“There are some people who feel no remorse,” Ann said. “It’s basically a faulty wiring system in their brains. And there are some who feel guilt, but simply can’t stop themselves. Their violence is a compulsion.”
“What’s driving this guy?” Towzer asked.
“I’m not really sure,” she said.
“Holy hell,” Towzer said.
“Now that we know the victim’s name,” Bryce said, “it’s a matter of backtracking her steps and figuring out when she might have hooked up with this person.”
The three made their way down a hallway to the loading bay, where they got their first look at Dana Riley’s Ford truck. The vehicle had Maryland plates, a rusted bumper, and worn tires that would not have made it through a Montana winter.
A forensic tech was photographing the truck, while another had opened the cab and was laying out the vehicle’s contents on a blue tarp. Included in the growing collection of items were a suitcase, gas cans, jugs of water, food wrappers, and a worn black leather purse.
Odd to see all the woman’s belongings on display. Whatever secrets Dana Riley had carried with her would soon be laid bare.
Ann walked over to the purse. Its braided shoulder strap was tattered near the silver hook that attached it to the pouch. “Has anyone gone through this?”
“Not yet,” the tech said. “I can do it now if you’d like.”
“That would be great, thank you,” Ann said.
The technician switched on a light table and removed the items in the bag one by one. The contents were standard. Red lipstick, drugstore brand. A comb and small brush. Tissues. Dozens of crumpled receipts. Gum.
“What about a wallet?” Ann asked.
“No sign of one,” the technician said.
Was the wallet another trophy? Or had the killer taken it to slow the identification process? That supported the theory that the victims could be connected.
The technician reached in the side pocket, removed a Polaroid picture of Dana Riley, and carefully laid it on the table.
“A Polaroid picture,” Ann said.
Bryce studied the image of the smiling woman’s face. “This was taken at the crime scene.”
“Are you sure?” Ann asked.
“Very. I’ve walked it several times.”
It was jarring to see the dead woman’s smiling face and bright eyes looking directly into the camera. Her skin had a rosy glow, and her full lips bore the red lipstick. Silver earrings dangled, and her long light-brown hair was swept up into a ponytail. The print’s background captured an obscured sunset marred with haphazard scratches.
“What’s with the marks on the image?” Bryce asked.
“Some Polaroid artists do that to create an effect,” Ann said. All the marks angled toward Dana’s face, hinting at the knife wounds that would soon take her life.
Ann was convinced more than ever that the image she had found near the Anaconda site was of Tuesday’s victim.
“Be sure to dust that for prints, ASAP,” Bryce said.
The technician acknowledged him with a nod and bagged the picture.
The collection of receipts proved Dana had indeed stopped for gas multiple times between Maryland and Montana. There was also a receipt from Nashville dated two weeks after Sarah Cameron died. Dana had been within driving distance of Knoxville around the time Sarah had vanished. All the receipts were signed D. Riley.
Ann reopened the social media app on her phone. She typed D. Riley. She pulled up a profile picture featuring a woman who matched the mug shot. “Here she is.”
Bryce leaned toward her and studied the image. “Damn.”
She scrolled back through D. Riley’s account, finding pictures that detailed the story of someone who was going on a trip. The journey appeared to begin in June in Maryland with the image of a suitcase in the bed of this truck. The caption read: WESTWARD HO!
The next pictures were selfies taken on Lower Broadway, the music district of Nashville, and then more images marking Dana’s path through Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, and Wyoming. The images were not particularly remarkable, but they all featured her smiling face.
“The posts continue into early July with Dana,” Ann said. “But after the day her body was found, the pictures continued but were of random shots of food, flowers, and road signs.”
Bryce studied the images. “That land’s west of Helena. I’ve driven across this state enough to know most of it by heart.” He pointed to the last shots. “Those images were taken right outside of Missoula.”
“You think this Dana Riley was traveling with her killer all the way from Maryland?” Towzer asked.
“Maybe,” Ann said. She scrolled back through the pictures, retracing the soon-to-be-dead Dana back through time. The pictures would have to be analyzed in detail, but at first glance she saw nothing indicating the identity of Dana’s traveling partner.
“As soon as I have her Social Security number, I’ll search her credit history and get a warrant for her financial transactions,” Bryce said.
It was a trail of digital bread crumbs, but it was at least a path they could follow.
“Helpful to
know if Dana had family or friends back in Maryland,” Ann said. “I’d like to talk to them.”
“That is already in the works,” Bryce said.
“Good.”
She approached the vehicle and peered into the dirt-streaked window. The forensic tech was clearing the vehicle’s interior, but it still contained discarded clothes, fast-food wrappers, an unopened box of Twinkies, and a couple cases of beer.
“There has to be someone living who can speak for Dana,” Ann said.
“Going to the bar will mean a two-hour trip to Helena,” Bryce said.
“That’ll be worth it,” Ann said. “Drop me at my house, and I’ll drive up there.”
“You can ride with me.”
“Then you have to double back.”
“Not a problem,” he said.
The two thanked Towzer and the technicians, then left the forensic center. They climbed into Bryce’s vehicle. He switched on the radio and started driving.
As Bryce drove, Ann glanced out her window, watching Missoula buildings be replaced by the jutting rocky landscape along I-90. “Are we going to pass your ranch? You said you’re between Helena and Missoula.”
“When we get on Route 12, we’ll be close to the turnoff.”
“I never get tired of seeing this land,” she said. “There was a time when I dreamed of living anywhere but here. Now, I can’t imagine anywhere else.”
“I’ve seen a lot of the world,” he said. “I can say it doesn’t get any better than Montana.”
“Spoken like a true cowboy.”
Bryce easily found the barn-style building that housed the Red Horse when they arrived in Helena.
Out of the car, Ann checked her watch. “It’s eleven thirty.”
“Best time to talk to a bar owner. They’re usually the one on-site, and the music isn’t blasting, so you can hear yourself think.”
“You’ve been here before?” Ann asked.
“A few times.”
They crossed the sidewalk, Bryce opened the front door, and, removing his hat, he followed behind her.
The bar was still, the jukebox silent, and the barstools, leather booths, and floorboards were soaked with the lingering scents of whiskey and cigarettes. She had not been in a bar since college and had forgotten the thrill of walking into a place alive with music and people. After Nate was born, she had been too busy caring for him and going to school. Late nights at the bar with the other graduate students required time she did not have. And now, the last thing she wanted was to show up in a bar filled with university students.
“Hello,” Bryce said as he rapped his knuckles on the bar.
Glasses clinked in the back room, and a young woman holding a tray of tumblers appeared. She had on shorts and a snug tank top, and she sported a tattooed sleeve on her right arm. “We don’t open for another six hours.”
Bryce held up his badge. “Looking for Tate Andrews. I have questions about Dana Riley.”
“Tate said the police came by last night. Tate won’t be in until three. But I know Dana. I’m Stella Andrews, Tate’s sister.”
“What do you know about her?” Bryce asked.
“She arrived at the beginning of the tourist season and said she’d work for tips. Normally, we don’t do that, but it had been a long, cold winter, folks were coming out in droves, and we were slammed. We needed the help.”
“What was she like?” Ann asked.
“Friendly and got along well with the customers. Worked hard enough. Made good tips, but the pretty ones usually do.”
“Did she talk about herself at all?” Ann asked.
“Not really. Gave me the impression she was going to be here awhile. She liked it. But most folks do in the summer. It’s the winters that chase them off.”
“Was she traveling with anyone?” Bryce asked.
“Not that I know of,” Stella said. “She kept to herself. Worked long shifts, and I don’t know where she went when she wasn’t working. Likely slept in her truck, which seasonal workers do.”
“Did she ever mention Sarah Cameron?” Ann asked.
“I don’t remember who she talked about,” Stella said.
“Do you have any video footage from around that time?” Bryce asked.
“No, sir. Long gone,” she said.
“What brought her here?” Ann asked.
A half smile tugged her lips. “She said it was a man who was just out of prison. I never pressed for details. I stay out of my employees’ lives.”
Bryce handed her one of his cards. He asked her to call him if she thought of anything else. They stepped outside.
“Is that what police work is like? Bits of information that don’t appear to connect?” Ann asked.
“Basically. If I’m lucky I join enough pieces to get a picture.”
Elijah did not wake until after eight and was surprised he had slept so late. He was also relieved to discover Maura was gone. Once his lust had been satisfied, her hold on him had dissolved. One thing to have sex with a woman in his bed, but another to wake up to her. He was reserving those personal moments for Ann.
He rose and turned on the shower’s hot spray. He stripped the sheets from his bed, dumped them in the washing machine along with a liberal amount of soap, and turned it on. Returning to the steamed air of the bathroom, he stepped inside the stall and allowed the water to wash over him. He lathered his entire body, scrubbing until scents and persistent memories swirled down the drain.
He dried off quickly and, wrapping a towel around his waist, approached the clouded mirror. Carefully, he wiped away the fog and stared at his expression. He summoned a smile, hoping it would soften the coldness, but found it conjured Joker-like images. He lathered his face with shaving gel and carefully placed the razor at his throat. Pulling the blade in a straight line, he slowly removed the stubble and then rinsed away the excess cream.
Again, he looked into the mirror and opened his mouth wide, like an opera singer prepping for a solo. He smiled a second and then a third time. Neither attempt felt sufficient. And if he was going to blend in, he would have to develop a pleasant, easy expression.
He closed his eyes. Very quickly, his thoughts settled on Ann. When he pictured her, she was always smiling. Her long hair was around her shoulders. And she smelled of the right balance of perfume and woman.
When he opened his eyes, his gaze had softened, and his lips naturally curled into a passable smile.
As with everything in his life, all roads led back to Ann.
PAUL THOMPSON’S CRIME FILES
Dana Riley is a self-described gypsy. She has been on the go since she could walk and likes moving frequently. In recent years, home has been in a small coastal town in Maryland, the foothills of North Carolina, and in Music City—Nashville, Tennessee—where we sit today. We are in a honky-tonk on Lower Broadway. It is a warm May day, the sun is shining, and Dana admits that these are the days she lives for.
“You want to know why I wrote Elijah?” In the thirty minutes we have been chatting over cold beers, she has already established a charmingly direct style.
“I do.”
“Saw him in the paper several years ago. The story was something about him being a genius and a success story of the prison system. But I was taken that instant. His eyes leaped off the page. I had a few too many beers, so I jotted him a note and told him so. I have written ‘fan’ letters to men in prison before, but you never know what to expect.”
“Why do you write men in prison?”
“They are lonely. And I feel bad for any animal, even a mean one, when they are caged. I cannot think of a worse thing.”
“You only wrote him a few letters, right?”
“Three while I was in Maryland. I had just gotten out of jail, and I knew I understood what he was going through.” She takes a sip of beer and swipes away foam coating her upper lip.
“Now that he is out of prison, what do you think about Elijah?” I ask.
“I think about him a
lot,” she says softly. “I’m glad he got money from the state.”
“Are you worried about your safety now that he’s out of prison?”
“I’m not afraid of him, but others should be,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“He knows who took what from him, and he wants it back.”
“Anyone in particular he’s going after?”
She sips her beer. “Dr. Ann Bailey.”
“What is it about her?”
“She knew him in college, if you know what I mean, and she got knocked up about that same time. Have you ever compared a picture of her kid to Elijah?”
“No.”
“If you’ve seen a picture of her boy, it ain’t a stretch to wonder, ‘Who is the daddy?’”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Missoula, Montana
Saturday, August 21
4:15 p.m.
Bryce pulled into Ann’s driveway. “I appreciate the help. I should have Dana Riley’s credit card transactions by tomorrow.”
“Call me when you get them. I’m wondering if the killer used her card like he did Sarah’s.”
“If he did, that increases the chances that there will be a surveillance camera that captured his image.” His wrist rested on top of the steering wheel. “You’ll be the first I call when I know anything.”
“Terrific.” A part of her wanted to linger and say something more to him. She was attracted to him but was not sure how to articulate it. Direct, coy, or subtle hints? Most women her age knew the ins and outs of romance. Her dating experience had stalled her senior year of college, and her two sexual experiences with Elijah had resulted in pregnancy. She wanted to explain some of this to Bryce, but even her out-of-practice self knew it amounted to information overload.
She reached for the door handle. “Have a good day.”
His gaze lingered on her. “You do the same.”
She got out of the car. Bryce waited until she pushed open the front door before he backed out of the driveway and drove off.
Frustration simmered inside her. “For God’s sake, Ann. You can observe an autopsy, but you can’t have a normal conversation with one man.”
