Before She Dies

by Mary Burton

  “Wow. Okay. Thirty years.”

  Rokov read the file. “Mariah Wells did die. The medical examiner also reported severe bruising around her face and neck, and the report claims she had sex hours before dying.”

  “Nasty way for a girl to die.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did Grady end up with baby Sooner?”

  “He swore to Charlotte that he’d put Sooner up for adoption, but he never did.”

  “And that makes him evil why?”

  Rokov sat back in his chair. “Because Charlotte said he was jealous of Mariah’s dates. That they fought a lot. And he’s reminding me more and more of a lover rather than a father.”

  “Lover to Mariah?” She wrinkled her face in disgust. “He’d have to been about forty to her sixteen when Sooner was conceived.”

  “Not the first time an older man took advantage of a young girl.”

  “So he knocks up his stepdaughter and then flies into a jealous rage when she dates another boy and kills her. It’s not out of the realm of possibilities. A DNA test would confirm Sooner’s paternity.”

  “That will take weeks. And it doesn’t explain how he could be linked to the current murders.” Rokov flipped through the pages of the medical examiner’s report. He clicked through the details: defensive wounds on her hands, tissue fibers under her fingernails, bruises on her arms. And then he found a detail that made him sit a little straighter. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “The killer wrote on her body with a pen.”

  “What did he write?”

  “Witch.”

  “Shit.”

  “The letters are faded, but the word is unmistakable.” He tapped his finger on the desk. “Let me see the current missing persons reports.”

  “We have an ID on the victim,” Rokov said. He stood in Deacon Garrison’s office door not a half-hour after he’d spoken with Sinclair about Mariah. He held a missing person file in his hand.

  Garrison motioned for Rokov to come into his office and have a seat. “Tell me.”

  “Her name is Dr. Maya Jones. She’s a history teacher at the local community college. She missed all her classes on Monday and Tuesday and so her boss went by her apartment to check on her. She wasn’t home and newspapers had piled in front of her door. Her colleague got worried and called the cops.”

  “You’re positive.”

  “Fingerprints match.”

  “Did she have any connection to Diane Young?”

  “The carnival stub. But neither woman was seen at the carnival. Young made her living in astrology and tarot. Dr. Jones researched witches.”

  “Our killer has a thing about the occult.”

  “Specifically women.” He shifted his stance. “We also have a cold case. A Mariah Wells. She grew up in the carnival and was drowned eighteen years ago. The coroner noted that the killer wrote on her chest. The murder was never solved.” Rokov pulled out the picture and handed it to Garrison.”

  “Witch. But no tattoos. He used a marker.”

  “Maybe she was his first kill.”

  Garrison sat back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Any hits on ViCap?”

  “None yet. I’m trying to track down Grady Tate, the owner of the carnival. I want to talk to him, and I want a list of the towns he’s visited in the last eighteen years. Lots of small jurisdictions that might not put a murder in the system.”

  “Assuming the bodies were even found.”

  “The responding officers in the Mariah Wells case noted that her body had been moved after she was murdered.”

  “Was she positioned like our victims?”

  “No. In fact, her face was covered with a handkerchief.”

  “The killer showing signs of remorse?”

  Rokov pulled out a photo of the crime scene. “I think so. Her hands are crossed over her chest. It’s almost like we are dealing with two different people.”

  Garrison studied the picture. “Or our killer is simply evolving. He’s just gotten better, more efficient, and less remorseful.”

  “Saying she was his first. What was it about her that made him snap and cross over into the world of killers? He had not fully developed his system when he killed her.”

  “And because she was his first, maybe the killing was more emotional than he’d expected.”

  “Maybe.”

  “He’s certainly gotten over his guilt.”

  “What’s next?”

  “I’m headed over to the community college to speak to Maya’s department chair. See if she had any stalkers or trouble makers.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Rokov arrived at the community college’s campus, parked, and made his way into the third industrial brick building and down a polished hallway to the last office on the left. The sign outside read: Max Boxwood, Ph.D., Department of History.

  He knocked. “Dr. Boxwood?”

  A tall trim man lifted his red-rimmed eyes from a German newspaper. Thick dark hair swept over his turtleneck collar, giving him a boyish look despite crow’s feet that suggested he’d passed forty. “Yes.”

  “Detective Rokov. Alexandria Police. Thank you for waiting for me.”

  Dr. Boxwood folded his paper and rose. “Of course. Anything I can do to help. We’re all really torn up about Maya. No one can believe it.” He motioned for Rokov to sit in the chair by his desk.

  The office was small but neatly organized. The wall behind Boxwood’s metal desk and the one to the right were filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed full of books. Neat stacks of periodicals covered the floor behind his chair. The desktop was clean, cluttered only with a closed laptop and a coffee cup.

  Rokov took his seat and pulled a slim notebook and pen from his breast pocket. “You knew Dr. Maya Jones well?”

  Boxwood nodded. “We worked together the last few years. And I’ll tell you before anyone else does. We were sleeping together. But it wasn’t like we had a relationship. It was just sex. What’s it called? Friends with benefits?”

  Rokov hated the term because Charlotte had used it. Hell, he couldn’t even say they were friends, or if there’d be more benefits. “It wasn’t serious between you two?”

  “No. In fact, I’m engaged to marry another woman.”

  His irritation grew. “And Maya was okay with that?”

  “Sure. She knew the ground rules.”

  Rokov sat back in his chair. “When’s the last time you slept with Maya?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “And you two parted on good terms?”

  Boxwood’s brows rose. “Of course. We were friends.”

  “Your fiancée know about Maya?”

  “Hey, it’s not how it sounds.” An edge had crept into Boxwood’s voice.

  “How does it sound?”

  “Like I’m betraying my fiancée. I’m not. I love her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

  “So your fiancée doesn’t know about Dr. Jones.”

  “Helen? No.”

  “You sure?”

  Boxwood frowned. “Helen would never hurt Maya.”

  “She might not see the benefits as inconsequential as you do.”

  Boxwood shook his head. “Helen does not know about Maya. So she cannot be a suspect.” He cleared his voice. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “As long as it doesn’t get in the way of the investigation.”

  “Look, I’m trying to be open with you.”

  “And I appreciate that. But my guess is that you are open because your relationship was so secret.”

  “Not in the department.”

  “And no one would have leaked your affair to Helen?”

  “No. Why would they?”

  “Maybe you pissed someone off. It doesn’t take much with some people.”

  “Everyone likes me here. I am respected and valued.”

  “Right.” He noted Helen’s name in his book. “Was Dr. Jones seeing anyone else?
”

  He seemed grateful for the shift in conversation. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know.”

  “I’d like a list of her students.”

  “I’ll get you a printout.”

  “She have problems with her students?”

  “Not that I know of. And if she did, she didn’t tell me.”

  “She have any favorite hangouts?”

  “She was crazy for the Just Java coffee shop. Went there almost daily.”

  Just Java was the coffee shop near The Wharf. He wrote the name in his book and circled it. If her killer had been stalking her, someone could have noticed him. “Her field of expertise was the Salem witch trials?”

  “It was. She’d been working on a book and even got herself written up in the papers last year at just about this time. The reporter was writing a piece on the history of witches, and he interviewed Maya. The article ran right before Halloween.”

  So Maya had not been toiling away privately. Her work had gone public, which unfortunately expanded the field of suspects. “Do you have a copy of the article?”

  “I’ll take you to her office. It’s framed and on her wall.” Boxwood grabbed a set of keys from his desk and led Rokov three doors down the gray hallway. He opened the door and clicked on the light.

  This office was thirty percent smaller than Boxwood’s, and it contained double the books, paper stacks, and magazines. A poster of Salem, Massachusetts, decorated one wall. On the other wall was a poster of Bewitched next to The Wizard of Oz. Behind her desk was the framed article of her featured in the Post. The large article took up most of the Events page and featured Dr. Jones holding a broomstick and wearing a hat.

  “She was fascinated about society’s view of witches,” Boxwood said.

  “Looks like the author is making fun of her.”

  “She agreed to the getup because she knew it would catch readers’ attention.”

  “And it did?”

  “Her class enrollment for the spring semester rose twenty percent.”

  He leaned in and read a quote. “‘I am fascinated by the fact that society is so afraid of witches, who for the most part were simply strong women with strong opinions.’”

  “Maya spent most of this past summer in Salem digging through archives. She’d chosen one woman who was hung during the trials and was trying to re-create the woman’s life.”

  Rokov glanced at the stacks of papers on her desk. “Did she receive any threats?”

  “If she did, she never said a word to me or anyone else.”

  “Did she ever mention Diane Young?”

  He flinched. “The other woman killed. No. She didn’t know her.”

  “Did she visit the carnival?”

  “She didn’t usually go in for that kind of thing, but a student left tickets on her desk so she went.”

  “Which student?”

  “She never could figure it out.” He pushed trembling fingers through his hair. “Christ, who would do something like this?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  Tears welled in Boxwood’s eyes, and his voice cracked when he spoke. “She didn’t deserve this.”

  “No one does.”

  Rokov and Sinclair arrived at Just Java a little after four thirty. Most of the round tables were full with patrons holding coffee cups, and the place buzzed with conversations punctuated by the hiss of cappuccino machines. As it had before, it smelled of cinnamon and coffee.

  The detectives moved to the front cash register and showed the young cashier their badges. The kid doled out change to a customer and wiped his hands on his green apron. “You guys back again?”

  “Afraid so.” Rokov pulled out the DMV photo of Maya Jones. “Has she been in the shop lately?”

  The kid shrugged. “That’s Dr. Jones. Haven’t seen her in a few days. She’s a regular. She in trouble or something?”

  “No,” Rokov said.

  “She wasn’t the woman killed at The Wharf.”

  “No. Did you serve her?”

  “I did. She always gets the skinny latte with extra foam and a cookie on Fridays. Nice lady.”

  “Did she meet anyone here?” Sinclair said.

  “Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. But ask Katrina. She’s our waitress, and she gets around the room. I’m stuck behind the metal dragon.” He patted the cash register and smiled.

  “Is she here?” Rokov said.

  “Yeah. On the floor.” He pointed to a tall slim woman with long dark hair.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  The detectives cut through the crowd and approached the waitress. She balanced a tray full of dirty dishes as she approached.

  “Katrina.” Rokov pulled out his badge.

  “That’s right.” She blew long, dark bangs out of her eyes. “What do you need?”

  “We’re looking for this woman.” Again he showed Dr. Jones’s picture.

  “Maya. She’s cool.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  Dark eyes grew wary. “Last Friday.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. It was cookie day. She always gets cookies on Fridays. And she always tips well on Fridays.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “She came in alone, but then moved to the table of a man.”

  Rokov tucked Dr. Jones’s picture back in his breast pocket. “Did you recognize the man?”

  “He’d been in a couple of times. Kept to himself. Always tipped exactly fifteen percent.”

  “Did he approach her?” Sinclair said.

  “I don’t know. But they seemed to be talking about a book. Maya loves to read. She moved to his table, and they chatted happily. I know she’s been dating a louse, so it was nice to see her meet someone else.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Katrina frowned. “Medium height. Light-colored hair. Mustache. Baggy sweatshirt. Acted like he was in his fifties, but he gave off a younger vibe.”

  “Good memory,” Sinclair said. “Folks don’t usually remember so well.”

  “I remember how people tip. I’m kind of a savant that way. But I don’t usually remember people.”

  “Why was he different?” Rokov said.

  “He bled on the table.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Not when he was here with Maya but about a week before. He came back and wiped up something on the table and then left. I checked behind him and saw drops of blood on the floor near his chair.”

  “Did he appear injured?”

  “No bandages or anything. But it was definitely blood I cleaned up. I threw the wash cloth right in the trash.”

  “Would you be willing to meet with a sketch artist and help him work up a picture?”

  “Sure. Who is this guy?”

  “We’re trying to find that out.”

  “Did something happen to Maya?”

  “I can’t say right now.”

  She shoved out a breath. “Shit. You’d have told me she was fine if she was.”

  They asked Katrina a few more questions before releasing her back to work. Outside Rokov rested his hands on his hips. “He came back because he knew he was bleeding.”

  “Why was he bleeding?”

  “I wish the hell that I knew.”

  “Too bad she threw the rag out.”

  “Yeah.” He glanced down the street at The Wharf.

  “He dumps one victim down the block and kidnaps another from here. He knows this area. It’s his hunting ground.”

  “So what now?”

  “We beat the pavement and canvas the shops and ask about Dr. Maya Jones and mystery man.”

  When Charlotte shut down her computer, it was past eight. Bone tired, she had a throbbing headache. She glanced at her calendar. Each day was packed with appointments and notes. She flipped the page to November and noted the first week of the new month was just as slammed as October. She didn’t see white space—breathing space a
s she liked to call it—until mid-November. Longingly she glanced at the Saturdays in November. The first few weeks would be spent putting her new place in order, and of course, Thanksgiving was open as always. For the last few years she’d worked on the holiday but perhaps this year she’d invite Sooner over for a meal. Home-cooked took on a whole and not so positive meaning when linked to her, but she’d see that the girl had a decent meal.

  The front bell rang, startling her. She glanced at the monitor behind her desk. Rokov stood by the door, his hands casually in his pocket. Casual. That was probably the worst word anyone used to describe him. He possessed an intensity that carried over from his work into the bedroom.

  She closed her eyes and imagined the look on his face the last time he’d pushed into her. He’d been staring at her, gauging her reaction, even trying to read her mind. They’d both promised the sex was just sex. No attachments. No commitments. But she’d sensed in that moment he was starting to have feelings for her. That’s why in the parking lot she’d told him no more meetings.

  No sex. No touches. No contact.

  And yet he was here now.

  Sighing, she rose, smoothed her skirt, and walked to the front door. She flipped the locks and opened the door. “Detective. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  His expression was unreadable even as his gaze lingered on her. “Have you seen Grady?”

  “No, I haven’t.” The edge of disappointment did surprise her. Of course he’d come about work.

  “What about Sooner?”

  “I saw her last night.” She stepped aside and motioned for him to enter. She closed and locked the door behind him. “She’s opening a shop on Washington Street. She’s leaving the carnival.”

  “Does Grady know?”

  “He does, and he’s not happy about her leaving.” She sighed.

  “What kind of relationship did he have with Mariah?”

  The shift tipped her off balance for a moment. “I’ve told you. He was her stepfather.”

  “Was there more to it?”

  “More?” Her face paled. “You mean sexually?”

  “Yes.”

  Her stomach felt hollow. “He couldn’t have done that.”

  “Why not? She was lovely.”

  “He was thirty years her senior.”