Stolen Daughters

by Carolyn Arnold

  “Now it’s your turn,” Amanda told her.

  “I’m Mia Vaughn, fire marshal in charge here.”

  She had a commanding presence. Her hair was pulled back tightly in a bun like she meant business, and her sharp facial features only added to that image. And she was probably good at her job, but they could be looking at a serial killer, and Amanda didn’t want to bring a new person up to speed. “Where’s Sullivan?”

  “Out sick, but don’t worry, I’ve got this under control. I know all about the fire on Bill Drive.”

  Amanda met the marshal’s gaze. “This one arson too?”

  “It has the markings of it, but I’ll need to conduct a full investigation to know for sure.”

  Amanda recalled Sullivan’s words that they consider the evidence without a preconceived notion of foul play. She looked closer at the realty sign and noticed the agent’s name was the same one they’d contacted after the Bill Drive fire. “Was the place lived in?” she asked Mia.

  “Not currently, no.”

  “Is the place owned by Woodbridge Bank, by chance?” Trent asked.

  Mia glanced at Trent. “It is and has been sitting on the market a couple of months.”

  Maybe they hadn’t been far off to assume their killer was someone associated with the bank and aware of vacated homes. It was listed with the same real estate agent. Maybe the estimator and inspector involved with 532 Bill Drive were also pulled in to work on this property—even possibly the contractor and County Services. She’d call Aiden Aikens as soon as possible. It was Sunday, so she might have to hunt him down at his house, but she’d do what was necessary.

  “Do we know what caused the fire?” Trent asked.

  “My investigation should reveal that.”

  Amanda glanced again at the remains of the structure and let her gaze trail to the neighboring houses. Unscathed, except for some siding that was marked with soot. But whatever had been used to set the blaze had certainly done its damage quickly. “What can you tell us about the victims?”

  “Not a lot at this point. I’ve called for an anthropologist.” Mia twisted her mouth, and Amanda witnessed the first fracture in the woman’s powerful demeanor. “There’s not much there. Just some bones.”

  As Amanda had thought, but she looked quizzically at Malone, who was quietly taking in their conversation. When he’d called to tell her about the fire, he’d really made it sound like two casualties had been confirmed. “Then how do we know the remains belong to two people, both female?”

  “Uh, we don’t really,” Malone said. “I was basing that on an eyewitness who came forward. He saw a man and two young women—as he described them—go up the driveway into the backyard.”

  Amanda battled with how to react—disappointed or encouraged. Someone else may have seen their killer, but they could have rushed in assuming the bones were the young women. “We’ll obviously want to speak to this man. Before we do—” she addressed Mia “—when was the fire?”

  “Neighbors said the explosion happened this morning at eight, and the fire was out at ten. It took a while to get the flames under control.”

  “An explosion?” The question scraped from her throat. “Are you suggesting a bomb?”

  Mia shook her head. “Not necessarily in the typical sense. There are plenty of household items that can cause an explosion. Most common I’d say would be a propane tank with a cracked valve. All it takes is a spark.”

  “That the case here?” Amanda asked.

  “Need time to investigate, Detective.”

  Amanda’s thoughts returned to the time of the explosion—after sunrise. Did it take a while for the fire to build? She’d ask Mia but figured her answer would be she still needed time to investigate. She turned to Malone. “Where can we find this eyewitness?”

  “In his house across the street with Officer Wyatt.” Malone nudged his head in that direction.

  Wyatt was the same officer who had interviewed Chris Ingram. Apparently, he knew whose doors to knock on. “Okay,” she said, taking a step away, but then she walked back and handed Mia her card. “You have one?”

  “I do, but…” Mia patted her hips, and it emphasized the bulky turnout gear. “I’ll be around for a long while yet. Just pop back after you’re done over there.”

  “Will do.” Amanda briefly met Malone’s gaze. “We’ve got more bodies. Tell me you’re reconsidering that media ban. I know I had my reservations about thinking we have a serial killer, but I don’t think we can ignore it anymore—not if two young women were killed in that house.” When she’d finished talking, Malone was just staring blankly at her. “Well?” she prompted.

  “I’m not considering the media ban.”

  “You still don’t think we’re looking at a serial killer?”

  “Oh, I never said that.” Malone ran a hand over his stomach. “But I think we need to do the opposite of a media ban.”

  “Now you’ve lost me.”

  “We’ve got four dead bodies now, potentially due to one man. Before victims continue to pile up, I want to open a tip line. It’s time to reach out for the public’s help. Someone might come forward.”

  “The ones who aren’t afraid of their tongues being cut out, I guess.”

  “Amanda, consider the full picture. More deaths could prompt a brave soul to speak up. Someone out there might have gotten a good look at our killer, and just like that, the pieces will fall together.”

  She considered Malone’s suggestion and weighed the options. When she’d wanted the ban, part of the reason was to deny the killer the attention he craved, and the other was she didn’t want fear to shut people up. But Malone’s viewpoint held some merit, too, and if it could help catch this bastard, she was for it. “It could work. Go ahead.”

  He smiled. “Glad you agree, though I didn’t need your permission.”

  “I know.” She rolled her eyes, teasingly, a flash of levity at a horrible crime scene.

  “Get to work.” He waved her off, but she didn’t move.

  “Just one thing… that real estate agent is the same person who was commissioned to sell five thirty-two Bill Drive. Trent and I cleared him for the first fire, but we should probably just get his alibi for this one too. Just in case there’s a hole to be found. Whoever our killer is, he knows these houses were sitting empty.”

  “I’ll get someone on it.”

  “Thanks.”

  She and Trent left Malone.

  As she crossed the street, each step became heavier as it sank in that someone was targeting the young women of her town—again. Had these latest victims been caught up in a sex-trafficking ring too? There’d be no tattoos to find on their bodies as they were nothing but bone, but maybe the eyewitness noticed the marking on the girls.

  She glanced over her shoulder at what remained of the house, finding it a tough balance between grief and pure rage.

  Thirty-Seven

  The scene in front of him and around him was spectacular. The police may be able to barricade civilian vehicle traffic, but it didn’t keep his audience away. He stood among a throng of people clustered on the sidewalk. They busied themselves chattering mindlessly—how they felt the explosion shake their houses, the rumors that it was set intentionally, that victims may be inside… All of it pleased him. They were, after all, talking about his work. This was his masterpiece, but far from his finale.

  Everything had turned out perfectly and even better than he had planned. He wasn’t a fire expert, but the internet was an endless resource. He’d looked up common household items that were highly flammable. Cotton balls coated with Vaseline were on the list. It was common among outdoorsy types to use for starting their campfires—who knew? The cotton sparked quickly while the petroleum in the jelly kept the fire burning longer, and it was waterproof. He’d paired it with a propane tank left on the property and opened its valve. Enough time for him to get out, and then it was kaboom! The place went up like a Roman candle, and it was a sight to see. And a
ll that without collateral damage.

  There’d also be no remains to cement an ID—not easily. Maybe some skilled anthropologist could piece together what was left and form an image, but that would take a very long time.

  There was a subtle stench that lingered in the air, that of sickly sweet barbecued pork, and he imagined it to be burnt human flesh.

  It had been easier to get the girls to the house than he’d played out in his mind beforehand. Sure, he had to help them into the van, but beyond that it would have just looked like three people taking a stroll after a night of drinking. It was unfortunate that the drugs had hit them a little harder than he’d anticipated, though, and they stumbled more than he would have liked. But overall, everything had gone smoothly. They were both stupid, naive, and gullible. All he had to do to convince them to go with him in the first place was say that he was taking them to a grand party. It had worked out gloriously that it was the one girl’s birthday, and she believed the celebration was for her. Their names had been Candy and Sugar, but nothing was sweet about either of them except for their deaths.

  After taking their lives, he returned to where he had parked a couple of blocks away and waited. The fire engines came, roaring their sirens, and he walked up like an innocent bystander and hadn’t left the area since. Why would he want to? The view here was incredible, and he had the right to savor his accomplishment. All these people were here because of him. He’d finally be getting the attention he deserved!

  He observed as more responders arrived, including some woman in a truck with a Prince William County seal on the door. She got out of the vehicle and carried herself with pride and determination. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and he imagined that it fell well past her shoulders when she let it down. In his mind, he gave her soft curls to offset her otherwise jagged facial features—a small turned-up nose and pointed chin.

  After the fire was extinguished, she’d suited up and gone inside what was left of the structure and moved around. When she reached the main area of the house where he’d put the girls, she’d signed the cross on her chest and looked out across the front yard. It felt like she was looking right at him, but it was probably all in his mind.

  As pleasant as it was to witness all this, his intuition warned him that it was time to leave. But how badly he wanted to bear full witness to the investigation, maybe even become involved somehow. That thought caused him to smile, but the expression died quickly when a man bumped his elbow on his way toward some woman holding the leash of a teacup poodle. Get a real dog, lady.

  When he’d turned his focus ahead again, he saw her. Detective Steele. Red hair, straight. Length to the top of her shoulders and parted to the right. She had a freckled face, but there was something about the way she carried herself that made her quite attractive. She was with a blond man, probably a couple years younger and immature; he had a little more bounce to his step, like working homicides excited him. Detective Steele by contrast had become hardened and all-business. She went toward the house, and the blond vixen in full turnout gear stopped her.

  There was a conversation, and an older man joined in. He was pretty sure that was Steele’s boss. Then there were gesturing arms and pointed fingers that seemed to indicate the house behind The Merciful. After they returned their attention to one another, he glanced over a shoulder casually as if he were just stretching his back or neck.

  There was a person in the front window looking out, but they were far enough back that a glare across the glass obscured them. He couldn’t make out if they were male or female, but he had a bad feeling they’d seen something.

  He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. Had these do-gooders not learned anything from what had happened to Fox?

  The detectives were crossing the street now, right toward him. His heart hammered. Maybe they hadn’t been pointing to the house, but rather at him. But he couldn’t let his paranoia trap him. He had to wait it out, if not just a little longer, to see where they were truly headed.

  They stepped up the curb, Detective Steele’s eyes skimming the crowd, though not in an obvious way. She seemed to look right over him—or through him—and kept going.

  He took a deeper breath and caught a whiff of her perfume—floral and subtle—even over the pungent odors caused from the fire. But he couldn’t let the detective’s pleasant aroma influence him. He had to remain objective. She’d worked the other cases, and now she was back, obviously following some sort of lead.

  Again, he looked at the house behind him. The figure in the window was gone, but the front door was cracking open, and the detectives were going inside.

  His entire body thrummed with a vibrating energy, and his breathing became ragged. His nostrils flared as he drew in more oxygen, but a lungful of smoky air had him coughing. He started down the sidewalk toward the van, hands in pockets to hide the fact they were formed into fists. He tried to talk himself into staying calm, but it wasn’t working. With each step, he fantasized about killing the detective and how wonderful it would feel. Maybe he should take her out. But killing a cop… Was he ready to go there, and wouldn’t that be far too risky? After all, he still had work to do, and he didn’t want anything standing in his way. They’d just intensify their efforts to find and stop him.

  He may just have to figure something else out to send a message to the detective. He wanted it to sting and be incredibly personal. He also wanted it to be ingenious, something she’d never see coming.

  Thirty-Eight

  Officer Wyatt introduced Amanda and Trent to the eyewitness, a man by the name of Justin Cooper, and left. Justin took them to his front sitting room, where he sat on a couch, and she and Trent on club chairs.

  “It was absolutely terrifying.” Justin said, rocking back and forth and rubbing his arms. He hadn’t stopped doing that since letting them inside. “How it just went up like that… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You were obviously already awake when it happened?” Amanda asked.

  “Yeah, I was sitting where he is.” He gestured at Trent sitting next to the window. “I was having a coffee and looking outside.”

  Justin had probably assumed it was going to be like every other lazy Sunday morning—until it literally went up in flames. “Tell us what you saw.”

  “I had just glanced away for a second. Then there was this loud boom and a blast of light. I could feel the heat inside my house.” Tears filled his eyes. “I didn’t know what I’d just seen. It’s like my mind couldn’t make sense of it.”

  “Understandable,” she empathized.

  “I kept thinking people are hurt, and I jumped to my feet.” His eyes widened at the recollection. “Then I remembered the place wasn’t lived in anymore. But there were those people I saw.” He rocked more fervently, the couch moaning some in protest.

  “Yes. Can you tell us about them? Also, when you saw them?” she asked.

  “Well, I saw them on the sidewalk going toward the house, then into the yard. I thought it was the real estate agent at first, but it didn’t make sense it would be him because of the hour, and the girls looked young.”

  “You mentioned the hour?” she pressed. “What time was it?”

  “It was around midnight.”

  Mia said the explosion had happened at eight that morning. If the victims were the girls that Justin saw, again the question came up: what had their killer been doing with the girls all that time? Or maybe he’d killed them rather quickly and then hung out with their bodies. Amanda really didn’t want to give any of it too much thought. “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You described them just now as girls,” Amanda said. “How old do you think they were?”

  “Teenagers, maybe early twenties.”

  “Anything else you can tell us about them?” Trent asked.

  “They were both blond. I could tell that when they went under the streetlights. Oh, their clothes were, uh, pretty tight and revealing.”

>   Yet still, Justin hadn’t seen anything suspicious about the fact a man was with them and headed toward an empty house.

  “The girls were stumbling like they were drunk. The man took turns righting each of them,” Justin volunteered. “They were laughing, though, like they were happy.”

  They were probably drugged. Just enough to make them compliant, but not incapacitated. A different dose of the same drug used on Fox? Or was the killer pulling from a medicine bag full of options? She hoped Jeffery could shed some light on that later today. She asked Justin, “Did you happen to notice if either of the girls had any tattoos?”

  “No. Sorry. It was rather dark.”

  She nodded. Even if it had been light out, there’s a good chance the tattoo would have been covered anyway. “What can you tell us about the man?”

  “Not a lot. He was nice-looking, I guess. I’d definitely say he was older than the girls.”

  “Approximate age, if you were to guess?” she prompted.

  “Late twenties, early thirties.”

  A little younger than the man that Chris Ingram had described, but age was so subjective. “What about hair color and build?”

  “Brown hair, average size.”

  Generic, like the portrait Chris Ingram had painted. “How was he dressed?”

  “All in black.”

  “Have you ever seen him or the girls in the neighborhood before?” Trent asked.

  Justin looked at Trent and shook his head.

  “So you saw them at midnight,” Trent began, circling back toward the start of the conversation, it would seem. “Why were you up then?”

  “Am I a suspect here?”

  “Not at all,” Amanda assured him. “But Trent’s question is still valid.”

  Justin grimaced, seemingly not soothed by her response. “I was getting ready for bed, if you must know. I have a habit of making sure my doors are all locked, and when I do, I look out the windows. It was when I was at the front door that I saw the three of them.”