Cold Truth

by Mariah Stewart

  She walked along the beach to the nearest jetty, where she sat in the company of her own ghosts until the sun came up. Then, knowing if she was to do her job she’d have to keep her own emotions in check, her memories at bay, she retraced her steps to the bungalow, her focus regained, her back straight with determination. She dressed for work, committed to bringing justice to Linda Roman, ready to begin the search for the man who had killed her.

  Four

  Two days later, at 5:32 in the morning, Cass sat at her desk, rereading the report she’d come in early to complete. She made a few more changes on the computer screen before hitting the Print button. While the pages spit out, she stood for a much-needed stretch, her hands clasped behind her head. She’d been seated for well over ninety minutes, and found her knees and rear in want of a change of position.

  The coffee in her cup was cold, and she needed the caffeine.

  The remains of the pot in the lunchroom being the color of tar, she opted to make new. She rinsed out the carafe and filled it from the water cooler. Thanks to the chief’s obsession with drinking water and with the impurities contained therein, he’d insisted on a cooler for the department. Cass figured if it was better to drink straight, it would make better coffee. She used it every chance she got.

  The old coffeemaker chugged and hissed as if in agony. The groaning ceased, and Cass started to pour a fresh cup, when she thought she heard a sound—a rustle? a shuffle?—from the hall. She peeked out the doorway and looked around, but there was no sign of anyone, no lights in any office other than her own.

  Must have been the coffeemaker, she thought, and she returned to the job at hand. She finished pouring, then picked through the plastic container of sweeteners in search of a pink packet amidst the blue and white ones. She found one, poured it and some creamer into her cup, and headed back to her office through the blissfully quiet hall.

  Cass really liked coming in early, when the night shift was still on the streets and the offices were, for the most part, empty. It was worth the loss of a few hours of sleep to have time to think without the background noises, the ringing phones, the chatter. Not that she’d had a full night’s sleep since they’d found Linda Roman’s body. Three or four hours a night had been all she’d managed.

  So far this morning she’d written up her reports on three of the seven interviews she’d completed since Linda Roman had been identified earlier in the week and was ready to put them into both the department file and her personal murder book. She’d never done this before—kept a murder book—but over the winter, she’d met a detective from Los Angeles who mentioned having used this as a means of logging in all the data gathered during an investigation. The orderliness had appealed to her, so on her way home the previous night, she’d stopped at a nearby shopping center and picked up a three-ring binder. Since arriving at the station, she’d photocopied the evidence list and the statements from the officers who had found the body. Later she would print off another set of the photos she’d taken at the crime scene and add those to the book.

  She grabbed her pile of reports from the printer as she passed it, then returned to her office and sat down to proofread before printing out a copy for the chief.

  All the interviews had been pretty much the same. There’d been no deviations. Everyone Cass had spoken with had assured her that Linda Roman had been well liked and admired by everyone who knew her. She’d been described as intelligent, fun-loving, caring, a wonderful mother, sister, friend. No one knew of any enemies, anyone who might wish her harm, anyone she’d had words with or who had cause to be angry with her. She’d graduated from the regional high school, gone on to Rider College, graduated, come back home, and married her high school sweetheart. She and her husband were hard workers, active in their church, and all in all appeared to be the all-American boy and girl, all grown up.

  It really pissed off Cass that someone had robbed them of their happily ever after.

  A sound from the hall caused her to glance up. A solemn-faced Craig Denver stood in the doorway of her small office.

  “You’re early today,” she said, knowing that the chief almost never arrived before eight. “Just in time, though, to take a look at these hot-off-the-press reports—which are pretty good, if I do say so myself. I’m printing out a set for you, and you can …”

  Something in his expression caused her to stop in the middle of the sentence.

  “What?” She tilted her head to one side.

  “We have another one,” he said, his words clipped and tense.

  “Another …” She stared at him blankly.

  He nodded. “Another body.”

  “Another body …” She pushed back from the desk. “Where?”

  “She was left in the alley behind the Daily Donuts on Twenty-eighth Street. Guys coming in this morning to empty the Dumpster found her lying near the fence.”

  “Okay,” she said more to herself than to Denver. “I’m on my way. I’ll call Jeff … I’ll call Tasha …”

  She opened her desk drawer and took out her digital camera and slipped it into her bag.

  “I called Jeff, he’ll meet you there. Wife wasn’t happy to hear my voice, didn’t want to wake him. Don’t know how he’s going to handle that, but he’s going to have to address it, and soon. This wasn’t the first time she gave me a problem when I called. In case you’re wondering, though, I called you first. Didn’t get an answer at your house or your cell, so I called him. In any case, we have two uniforms there already, they responded to the call. They’ll keep everyone away from the scene until you arrive.”

  “Are you coming?” She stood and hoisted her bag over her shoulder, then reached over her desk to unplug her cell phone from the charger and slipped it into her pocket.

  “I’ll meet you there.” He nodded, and she went past him.

  He stood in her office for a long minute before snapping off the light.

  Craig Denver hated this. Hated the fact that someone was coming into his town and killing his people. Hated what it reminded him of, hated the memories it brought back, hated the way the whole thing made him feel inside. He walked ten steps down the hall to his own office, and stepped inside. He was halfway to the desk when he saw the flat white envelope that lay on the floor midway between the desk and the door. He stared at it, trying to will it away.

  He knew what it was, and had a sinking feeling he knew what it would say.

  Opening the top drawer of the filing cabinet, he reached in and pulled out a pair of thin rubber gloves, which he slipped on. Just a precaution, though. He knew there’d be no prints on the envelope, nor on the single sheet of paper he’d find inside.

  He slid the paper out and held it up. It gave him no satisfaction to be right.

  Hey, Denver! Remember me?

  The body of the young woman had been left on the ground, uncannily positioned in much the same manner as Linda Roman had been. On her side, arms over her head, her long dark hair covering her face. It took all of Cass’s willpower not to turn her over, just to make sure it wasn’t Linda Roman.

  Snap out of it, she demanded when she realized she was simply staring at the body. Take a deep breath. Do your job.

  She put in a call to the station for some portable lights. Although the sun would soon be up, the cloud cover and mist would keep the scene too dark to gather much evidence.

  She dug the camera out of her bag, set it for flash, and began taking pictures of the body, of the scene, the alley, the fence. She found herself growing angry with the person who had taken this young woman’s life and left her lying naked on the cold black asphalt, with the morning drizzle running off her body.

  And probably washing away evidence.

  She was grateful to see Tasha walking toward her. The CSI lugged her black bag, which some joked weighed almost as much as Tasha herself, who barely hit the scales at one hundred pounds and was maybe five-two if she stood up really straight. With her dark blond hair cut short, she looked like a pixie. A tin
y pixie who had nerves of steel and a stomach of cast iron. Cass had never heard of Tasha backing away from anything, neither a crime scene nor an accident. It was said that even the most gruesome sights—those that made the big guys gag and cringe—barely made Tasha blink.

  “Well, shit, would you look at this,” Tasha said as she set down her evidence bag and opened it. “Two in one week?” She shook her head and looked up at Cass. “I’d say we have a problem here.”

  “I always admire the way you get right to the point, Tasha.” Cass crouched down and took another few shots of the body.

  “What’s the point in pussyfooting around.” Tasha pulled on her gloves. “You got two bodies in what … four days? Two victims who, at first glance, bear a strong resemblance to each other. Bodies positioned the same way—and look at that hair, the way it’s covering her face. I’d bet you a month’s salary that she’s been manually strangled and raped, just like the other one, but you’re too smart to take a bet like that, Burke.”

  Tasha bent down next to the body, and eased the hair from around the victim’s neck.

  “Oh, yeah. There they are.” She studied the bruises, all the while murmuring to the dead girl, “Ah, honey, what did he do to you?”

  Cass snapped a few more pictures.

  “Burke, did you get her fingers?” Tasha asked, and Cass nodded. “One of them looks to be broken.”

  “I’m pretty much finished with the body from this angle. I’m waiting for some lights so I can begin to look around the alley. I’d hate to kick evidence aside and miss something important.” Cass stood and straightened her back. “She’s all yours.”

  “Well, don’t go too far with that.” Tasha pointed to the camera. “As soon as I’m done on this side, I’m going to want to turn her over. You can give me a hand. Let me see what’s what under these fingernails …”

  Cass stood back and waited for Tasha to finish her ministrations. A car pulled into the driveway, its lights illuminating the scene. Jeff Spencer got out of the driver’s side and hurried up the walk.

  “Where have you been?” Cass asked.

  He shrugged, mumbling something unintelligible.

  “Jeff, we have another homicide here,” she pointed out the obvious, taking care not to raise her voice. “Second one this week. We need—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know what we need,” he muttered under his breath as he walked past her, toward the body.

  Cass stared at his back, then shook it off. Must have had a bad night, she thought, then turned to wave to the officers that pulled into the drive and started to unload the lights.

  “Yay. Lights. Up here.” She motioned them along. “Set them up right here …”

  The lights brought new visibility to the scene, and the area was carefully searched for anything that the killer might have brought with him or left behind. Several cigarette butts near a hole in the fence went into a small plastic evidence bag, as did a drink container from a local fast-food restaurant and a dirty white sock. Any or none could have a connection to the killer. Only lab analysis would tell, and that not for a few more days, if ever.

  “Huh …” Cass heard Tasha say softly.

  “What?” She turned to see the CSI kneeling behind the body, a pair of tweezers in her right hand. She appeared to be inspecting something on the back of the dead woman’s head. Whatever it was, it was invisible to Cass. “What did you find?”

  “Some fiber” was the reply. Tasha crooked a finger at Cass. “Take a shot of this for me before I remove it.”

  Cass leaned forward to line up the shot as she was directed. Tasha slipped the thread into a bag, which she sealed and marked. She looked at Cass and said, “I found some similar trace tangled in the hair of our first victim.”

  “The same type of fiber? Blanket? Carpet?”

  “Too long to be either. It’s long and thin.”

  “Rope, maybe? Something he might have used to tie them up with, subdue them?” Cass’s mind started to consider different possibilities.

  “Nooo,” Tasha said slowly. She held the bag up as if inspecting its contents. “I don’t think it’s rope, it’s not that substantial. It looks thinner, more delicate. I can’t wait to get back to the lab to check it out.”

  “Did you analyze the fiber you found on Linda Roman?”

  “Not yet. I was concentrating on the trace from under her fingernails, trying to find skin cells, something that would give me DNA. The fiber is still in the evidence box, but I think it just moved to the top of the list.”

  “You’ll let me know?”

  “Do I get a set of those prints?” Tasha nodded at the camera Cass held in her right hand.

  “I’ll run them off as soon as I get back to the office.”

  “Then you’ll be the first to know what the little fibers are.”

  “Chief, there are reporters from four television stations and nine newspapers in the lobby,” Phyllis announced through the intercom.

  “Yes, I know,” Denver replied. “I haven’t decided what I want to tell them.”

  “May I come in there for a moment?” Her voice sounded shaky.

  “Sure,” he said, somewhat taken aback. Normally sure and confident, it wasn’t like Phyl to be so hesitant.

  The intercom clicked off and seconds later the door between the chief’s office and his secretary opened. Phyl came into the room holding a can of Diet Pepsi in one hand and a chewed-up pencil in the other. She set the can on the chief’s desk, and twirled the pencil between her index and middle fingers.

  “What’s on your mind, Phyl?”

  “I just saw the pictures of this new one—this new murder victim—on Detective Burke’s desk. The body from this morning. I think I might know her. I think I might know who she is, Chief.”

  “You do?” He frowned. His detectives were still checking missing persons leads.

  “She does manicures at the Red Rose Salon down at Fifth and Marshall.”

  “You have a name?”

  “Lisa. I don’t know her last name. But I’m pretty sure her first name is Lisa.”

  “Did you tell this to Detective Burke?”

  “No. She was on the phone, and I was so startled, I just backed out of her office. It’s taken me a few minutes to collect my thoughts. I could be wrong.” Her eyes misted, and her hands, he realized, were shaking.

  He pushed the button for Cass’s extension. “Burke, I need you to come in here. Now.”

  Cass appeared in the doorway in less than a minute.

  “Is something wrong?” She studied his face. “Please tell me there hasn’t been another body …”

  “No. But Phyl thinks she knows who our lady of the morning is.”

  “I think she’s the manicurist at the Red Rose. Lisa something. I could be wrong, Detective. God, I hope I’m wrong. But I saw the pictures on your desk. I didn’t mean to, I just came in to bring you a phone message that had been put in the chief’s box by mistake. And the pictures were there, right on your desk …”

  “I’m so sorry you had to see them, Phyl. They weren’t pretty. And it must have been a shock, once you realized that you might recognize the woman.”

  “It was. It still is.” To steady herself, give her hands something to do, Phyl took a sip of Diet Pepsi. “I can call down there, to the Red Rose, if you want. I’ll see if she’s there …”

  “No, no. I’ll do that.” Cass glanced at the chief. “I’ll do that right now, and I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”

  “Do it.” Denver nodded. “Do it right away.”

  “I’m on it.” Cass disappeared through the doorway.

  “And then there are all those reporters. The sergeant on the front desk is getting a little rattled. Everyone wants to know what’s going on,” Phyl said as if to prod him.

  “I’ll come out and speak with them. Not much I can say, though.”

  He rubbed his chin and wished he had taken more time to shave this morning. He knew he’d be appearing on the six and e
leven o’clock news all across the state, with a serious five o’clock shadow.

  “Chief, Chief!”

  “Chief Denver, is it true there’s a serial killer in Bowers Inlet?”

  “Chief Denver! Chief Denver … !”

  The crowd of reporters pushed forward the minute Denver started down the hall toward the lobby. It was as if they had smelled him. They moved en masse, and he held up both hands to stop them in their tracks and quiet them.

  “Okay, let’s just settle down here,” he said, feeling like a first-grade teacher. “Everyone take six big steps back, please. Spread out a little, give yourselves some space, for crying out loud.”

  The crowd did as they were told, then raised their hands and waited to be called on.

  Yep, Denver thought. Just like grade school.

  “Okay, let me first say that, yes, there have been two murders this week here in Bowers Inlet. Both victims were women in their thirties—the second victim hasn’t been identified as yet, but appears to be of an age similar to Linda Roman, who as you all know was thirty-one.”

  “Were both women killed in the same manner?” someone called out.

  “I’ll need to see the medical examiner’s report on the second victim before I can answer that,” the chief replied.

  “I’ve heard that both women were very similar in physical appearance—young, pretty, with long dark hair.”

  “I can confirm that, yes.”

  “Is the killer typing his victims, then?” a dark-haired woman in the back asked, a tinge of apprehension in her voice.

  “I’d be looking for a red wig if I were you, Dana,” someone called across the room to her, and there was a scatter of nervous laughter.

  “We don’t know about that,” Denver said. “I wouldn’t make any assumptions just yet. For all we know, the killer had some connection to both women.”