Math and death. Odd bedfellows. It reminded Darsh of all the bullet trajectory and windage calculations he used to do in his head on those rooftops in Baghdad.
“Liver temp suggests they both died between eight and nine last night. It’s a guess, but it’s an educated guess,” the ME finished.
So the killer had spent some time in the house after he’d killed the girls. Cleaning up? Destroying DNA? Arranging the bodies? Finding letters? Having fun.
“Any idea which girl died first?” Erin asked.
Dr. Grice pulled a thoughtful face. “They both have similar body types. Mandy’s temp was almost identical to Cassie’s, but Mandy was fully dressed whereas Cassie was nude.” The guy scrunched his face as if thinking hurt his brain. “Theoretically, Mandy would cool more slowly than Cassie. If I had to pick who died first, I’d say Mandy for the reasons I stated, but there’s only an hour or so in it.”
“So it’s likely the UNSUB entered the house, killed Mandy, then attacked Cassie—”
“The music bothers me in this timeline. He recorded that message from Cassie and then walked through and shut off the music?”
Erin frowned, her hands resting on her hips. “Okay, so as soon as Tanya leaves for the party, he lets himself in, kills Mandy using her music to hide the noise of the struggle from Cassie. Then, still using the music to disguise his actions, he attacks Cassie, ties her up, makes her record the 911 message, and then goes and turns off the music? Why would he bother turning it off?”
Darsh put himself in the place of the killer. He’d already killed one girl and had the other under his control but wanted to play with her… “To make sure no one walked in on him unaware. So he could concentrate on what he wanted to do to Cassie and not get caught.”
Erin’s lips pinched. “What’s to stop Cassie screaming for help?”
“I found traces of rubber in her teeth,” Dr. Grice put in.
“Ball gag?” Darsh asked.
“Probably,” the ME agreed.
The skin between Erin’s eyebrows tugged downward.
“Which he also took with him after he raped and killed her. So why not take the rope?” asked Darsh.
“He staged the scenes exactly as he wanted us to find them. Taking what he wanted from Cassie’s room,” Erin stated.
The letters from Drew Hawke. The magazine. The sheet.
“So he’s careful, meticulous, and ruthless,” Erin said. “Suggesting the rope wasn’t an accident. It was a message. A clue? A taunt?”
Darsh didn’t remind her that rope had been left behind after last year’s rapes. He didn’t need to. “Anything else, Dr. Grice?”
“Nope. I’ve taken multiple tissue samples and sent everything where it needs to go. These ladies can be released for burial unless someone requests a second autopsy.”
They thanked the ME, said goodbye, and came to an abrupt halt in the reception area outside the autopsy suite. Five people sat in waiting room chairs. Three men and two women.
“Parents?” Darsh muttered under his breath.
Erin gave him an abrupt nod and approached the group. She introduced herself and him.
“The Medical Examiner has just finished the autopsies—”
“When can we see our children?”
“I’m not sure—”
“Who did this to my daughter?” A man with steel gray hair stepped close to Erin. “The same person who raped those girls last year?” The man’s upper lip curled, and Darsh understood he was hurting, but Darsh wanted him out of Erin’s personal space. Why did everyone treat her as an acceptable target? “People said you were going after Drew Hawke because you hated football players. After the trial I was inclined to believe you were right about him, but not anymore, not after this.”
Erin straightened her spine as if bracing for more verbal blows.
Darsh intervened. “We are very sorry for your loss, sir. But we can’t discuss details of an ongoing investigation.”
He felt Erin withdraw from him, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Let her be ripped apart by anyone who wanted to take a shot? He’d been sent to assess her work and if she’d fucked up, he was going to expose her to her bosses. But it didn’t mean he’d let anyone treat her like crap in the meantime.
The man drew in a jagged breath to say more, but a woman touched his arm. “Let it go, George. I want to grieve for my baby, not fight with the police who are only trying to do their jobs. Not today.”
The guy sat down and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders, but his gaze didn’t lose the hostility. Darsh understood the grief process, but it didn’t help them solve crime.
“You have my sincerest condolences.” Erin handed each person her card, and he had to admire her tenacity. “Please call me if you can think of anything or anybody who might have wanted to hurt your daughters. A victims’ advocate will be in touch soon as will the FPPD if we have any news we can share. The ME will be out to talk to you shortly.” She strode out the front door of the municipal building in the small town of Massena and headed straight to her truck. She’d insisted on driving, because they had to be back in under an hour for another team meeting and snow was forecast.
She seemed distracted. He thought she was thinking about the accusations the father had made, but her next words proved she was thinking about the case. “The fact the UNSUB took Drew’s letters to Cassie. What does that mean?” She turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.
“It suggests a fascination or keen interest with Drew Hawke. I don’t think Cassie was a random choice.”
“What if I did get the wrong guy?” she said suddenly. “What if it is my fault these girls died?”
“The only person to blame for their deaths is the asshole who killed them.”
She gave him a look that said “bullshit.” “That’s a fine pep-talk, but we both know it doesn’t fly in the real world.”
“Did you do anything wrong? Did you suppress evidence or ignore a lead?”
She shook her head.
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.” Which wasn’t entirely true, and they both knew it.
She huffed out an unconvinced laugh as she pulled out of the lot. “What if Jason Brady killed his best friend’s girlfriend in an effort to get Hawke out of prison?” She swore. “If I go after Brady it’s going to look like I do have a vendetta against the football team.”
Brady as a suspect had crossed Darsh’s mind, too. It was a viable option. They needed to verify his alibi for last night. “As long as you have cause to investigate him, no one can blame you for the fact he’s a Ravens player.”
She scoffed. “Are you kidding me? I get blamed every time the team steps on the field.”
“So why stay in a town that hates you?” The sun was low in the sky and starting to sink toward the horizon. Neither of them had slept the night before, and they were both exhausted. Maybe she’d give him a straight answer for once. “Why stay where you don’t fit in?” He’d grown up with that sense of never belonging. If anyone understood not fitting in, it was him.
Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I don’t like running away.”
“That’s not what I heard.” It was a gambit, but one that hit its mark. A ripple of light played over her cheek as her jaw flexed. She kept her eyes aimed straight ahead.
“Why’d you leave the NYPD?” he pushed, wanting the truth.
“None of your damn business.”
“What’s the big deal, Erin? Got something to hide?”
The skin around her mouth whitened. “You mean is Jason Brady telling the truth? Did my husband really blow his brains out because of me?” There was a hardness in her eyes when she glanced at him. “Yeah. He did. And, yes, that’s why I left the NYPD. Satisfied?”
If someone kicked him in the face, he couldn’t feel much worse. “Tell me again it had nothing to do with the fact you and I slept together.”
“What do you need to hear, Darsh? That it’s no
t your fault? Trust me, it wasn’t your fault. You are absolved of all guilt.”
It wasn’t guilt he was feeling. It was something much more complicated—and that hadn’t been a “no” dammit. He needed to find out exactly what happened in Erin’s past and hoped to hell the fact they’d had sex hadn’t contributed to her husband’s death. He had enough ghosts to deal with.
“You’re supposed to be the analyst.” Her words were like shards of glass slicing his skin. “How about you contribute something relevant to this investigation rather than probing ancient history that has nothing to do with the case?”
Ouch.
She was right. He was ready to start looking at the old cases now, see if there was any linkage between crimes. But he’d seen enough of the town now to know that regardless of whether or not she’d got the right guy, or done everything by the book, public opinion would crucify her. And he was the one who was supposed to provide the wood and nails for the cross.
Chapter Seven
Erin glanced at the ever-increasing crowd of reporters as she strode toward the police station. The media was gathering for the statement the chief planned to make after their team meeting later. She wanted to tell them all to piss off and let her do her job. Probably why she wasn’t in charge of public relations. Heads paused and lifted like raptors scenting blood on the wind. Coats flapped as they jockeyed for position.
A murder of crows. The collective noun had never sounded more appropriate.
A couple of cameras flashed, and she gritted her teeth. She pushed through the front door and didn’t bother holding it for Agent Singh. He could fend for himself. He wasn’t IA, but the way he was interrogating her about her past, he sure as hell felt like it.
“Did you know your husband was going to draw his weapon?”
“Did you know he was dangerous?”
“Did he try to kill you before he turned the weapon on himself?”
Anger moved through her as it always did as the barrage of questions they’d shouted at her three years ago pelted her memory. Anger, shame and sorrow—for all the things she couldn’t change. She shook it off. There was no time for pointless recollections. This killer was slipping away from them, and Darsh was paying more attention to her history than to catching the guy.
She checked her watch and headed to the booking desk and leaned on it.
“Rodriguez,” she shouted to the desk sergeant who was talking to a couple of officers off to the side. “Brady still here?”
Arnie Rodriguez walked over to the counter. He was a twenty-year veteran just serving out his time until retirement. He leaned his arm across the polished wooden surface and smiled down at her. “Why, yes, he is, Detective Donovan. His lawyer’s been in twice, along with the team coach who said the kid needed to get to practice. I explained—very patiently if you ask me—I needed to wait to see if the arresting officer was going to press assault charges. You decided yet?”
Football was worth a lot of money to this college town, and she’d already cost the university its star quarterback. But just because they felt entitled didn’t mean they got to threaten police officers. However, she didn’t want to escalate the tension in the town, nor did she wish to give Brady ammunition for a harassment charge. She did, however, want to question the guy about his movements last night. “I’m still thinking about it. Get him into an interview room for me, will you?”
“Sure thing, Erin.”
“Thanks, Arnie.” She wove through the bullpen to the back of the room where she shared twin desks with Harry Compton. They had a corner partitioned off. It meant they could put up suspect photos, timelines, and theories out of sight of the general population.
The veteran detective was hunched over a laptop and printing out Facebook posts. That had to hurt. She slipped out of her parka and hung it over the back of the hard plastic chair under her desk. Darsh Singh would be gone soon, and she’d get back her comfy office chair. Sooner the better.
“Got anything?” she asked.
Harry wasn’t the touchy feely type. But he was a good cop.
“Apart from Bressinger’s bordering-on-obsessive hatred of you?” His features twisted, and he stretched his spine as if relieving pressure there. He was only a couple of years from retirement, but the last year had been the busiest of his career. “Not much. If anyone challenged Cassie on the fact Drew might have been guilty she blocked them and deleted the comment. Problem solved.”
“I wish I could block people from my life so easily,” Erin muttered.
“Me, too.” He pulled more sheets out of the printer. “There are a few names I’ll follow up with, but I’m not seeing any drama beyond bitterness against the police for arresting her honey.” Harry smiled, which was a rarity. “Mandy Wochikowski was much less active on Facebook, although she made a lot of social commentary posts on Twitter. And there were a few flirtatious exchanges with an anonymous user with the handle “@DarkMatter” who claims to be a Blackcombe student. I’m going to try and identify him, but don’t hold your breath.”
Only Harry could say things like “flirtatious” and “Darkmatter” and make it sound as exciting as stale bread.
“What about cell phone calls?”
“Still waiting on the warrant for the phone company.”
Seriously? “We need that warrant.”
“Yeah.” Harry looked unimpressed. “Tell it to the DA.”
The district attorney’s office was probably trying to cover their asses should the Hawke conviction go sideways.
She should probably just paint a bullseye on her forehead and stand still so they could all take a shot at her, but the killer wasn’t standing still, so neither was she. Erin bit down on her frustration. “I’ll talk to Strassen, see if he can put some pressure on them. I’m going to interview Jason Brady. See what his alibi is for last night before I release him.”
“Not pressing charges? I hear he went after you.”
“I handled it.” She shrugged. “It depends what he says during interview.” Any other time, he’d be up on charges.
“Need any help?” Harry pushed back from his desk.
She grunted softly. “I appreciate the offer, but the FBI wanted in on this.” She’d let Darsh see her weakness earlier when talking about her husband’s suicide, now she had to pretend it didn’t matter.
Harry looked unimpressed. “Let me know if you want a real cop in there. I can make time.”
“Will do.” She walked down to the cleaning supply closet and knocked on the door.
A muffled voice said, “Come in.”
She found the fed completely surrounded by boxes.
“If there’s a fire around here, you’re toast.” She forced a smile. He’d been pushing for information she had no intention of sharing, but she’d have been curious in his shoes, too.
Darsh laughed, and the sound was sexy as hell. “I don’t think I can get out of here without a crowbar,” he admitted.
The sheer volume of the information crammed into such a tiny room was overwhelming. She knew it all inside out, but that didn’t matter. He’d want to see it for himself.
She had a murder to investigate. If he decided the cases were linked then it would become her problem. “You said you wanted to sit in on the interview with Jason Brady or are you too busy?”
Dark eyes snapped to hers. “Yes, but I’d like to interview him alone.”
“Er, no.” Damn. So much for the olive branch. The guy had smacked her on the head with it. She backed away and started walking.
“Erin. Wait!”
She ignored him, but he caught her in the bullpen.
“He’s not going to talk to you. He’s not going to give you anything except grief.”
Darsh got in front of her, and she had to put on the brakes or crash straight into him.
“What’s more important?” he asked quietly. A hundred ears flapped in their direction. “Slapping him down to size, or figuring out if he had anything to do with last night’s mu
rders?”
She drew in a furious breath, taking a half-step back, and crossed her arms over her chest. “You know the answer to that.”
“Which is why it makes more sense for me to go in there alone.” He leaned close to her ear. “Look, despite what you might think of me, we’re on the same team. We want the same thing—to catch Cassie and Mandy’s killer.”
Her teeth hurt as they ground together. He was right, but she wasn’t happy about what it said regarding her ability to get the job done.
“Fine, but don’t fuck it up.” She checked her watch. “You have twenty minutes before our team meeting. I’m going to watch from the window.” Erin pivoted around the guy and headed for the observation room. She wasn’t about to let her ego get in the way of finding the truth—not that she had much of an ego left anymore. All she had was the determination to get the job done and memories of better days.
* * *
Darsh needed to get moving but instead, he found himself watching Erin Donovan walk into the viewing room with her chin held high. How could anyone not admire a cop who not only single-handedly took down a two-hundred-thirty-pound gorilla, but also knew the right time to back away—and actually did it?
Now they had to either charge the kid or cut him loose, and charging him for anything less than murder-in-the-first was a waste of time. Forget the fact the creep had physically threatened and assaulted a female cop. The public only cared about catching this killer, and didn’t have patience for side shows or distractions. Erin Donovan appeared to be fair game in this town. He didn’t like that anymore than he liked assholes who put their hands on women.
The ring of a phone jerked him out of his trance. The lingering smell of death clung to him like smoke, but there hadn’t been time to shower or change after the morgue. He grabbed a blank legal pad and pen off a nearby desk and headed inside. Brady was slouched over the table, but sat up when Darsh came in. His eyes were bloodshot, face haggard. The smell of metabolized alcohol oozed from the guy’s pores.
Cold Hearted (Cold Justice Book 6) Page 9
