by Tony Urban
Carolina nodded, wishing she didn’t have to put him through this, but it was part of the job. “The day Phyllis went missing, you were here, alone?”
“I was,” his eyes went to a super-sized flat-screen TV in the neighboring living room. “Duane Lytle, one of our pitchers, he’s been having some issues with his wind up and I was watching footage of him, trying to figure a way to help him work through it.”
“Did Phyllis say she was going anywhere or meeting anyone?”
“It was a Wednesday. She always goes to the Humane Society after school on Wednesdays to play with the cats, give them some attention. You know, break up the monotony of living in a cage.”
Carolina glanced at Hank. “Do we know if she made it to the shelter?”
Hank nodded. “Arrived on time, left around seven per the manager. That was the last anyone saw of her.”
At those words Geoff uttered a raspy, hitching sob that he choked down with a hard swallow.
“Did she call you or text you to say she was on her way home?” Carolina asked Geoff.
“No. But we’d had lunch together at the school and she asked me what I wanted for supper. I said Chinese so she said she’d swing by Fu Manchu’s after she was done with the cats.” He looked at her with haunted eyes. “She knew the Kung Pao was my favorite.”
“Did Phyllis ever have any problems with co-workers at the school or maybe someone at the animal shelter? Did anyone maybe have a crush on her or act a little too friendly?”
Geoff shook his head. “Not that I ever noticed or heard. Besides, she would have told me something like that and I’d have kicked their ass.”
Looking at his physique, Carolina had no doubt that was true. “How about outside of work? Anyone ever give her the creeps? Even something that might seem trivial could be important. Maybe a too-helpful bag boy at the grocery store or a gas station attendant who insisted on checking her oil even though she didn’t ask. That kind of thing?” she asked.
“No, nothing like that either. She got along fine with everyone.”
Hank drained the last coffee from his own cup and held it up. “Mind if I get a refill?” he asked Geoff.
“Sure, let me--”
“No, don’t bother yourself. I’ll get it,” Carolina said, standing up and shooting Hank a peeved look as she took the mug from him. She went to the counter, grabbed the pot, and filled it.
As she turned back, Hank spoke up. “Sugar, too, plenty of it.”
The nerve. She’d bounce him about that, but not now. She slid to the fridge, pausing as she grabbed the handle. The appliance was covered with small photographs, most of Phyllis and Geoff before her life was ended and his ruined.
Their smiling faces looked back at her. In most of the shots they were on the beach or in pools. Both looked so full of life, so vibrant. There were two images of them parasailing over the ocean, a few on the Las Vegas Strip, and one in the mountains, each straddling bicycles and wearing hideous, aerodynamic helmets.
Carolina peeled away a magnet of a Siamese - accompanied by the words, My Cat is Purrfect - to take a better look at the biking photo. The woods surrounding them looked similar to the backgrounds of the crime scene photos.
“Where was this taken?” she asked.
Geoff glanced at the picture and offered a wan smile, like he was remembering the moment they took that picture.
“That was in the Smoky Mountains. Two summers ago.”
“Did you two ever bike or camp around here?” she asked, pointedly not asking him if they’d ever spent time at the place where Phyllis’s shredded remains had been discovered.
Geoff shook his head. “No, the woods weren’t really her thing. She was afraid of ticks and Lyme disease. She just went on that one trip for me. That’s the kind of person she was. Doing things to keep other people happy.”
He started crying again, this time losing control. There was no further information to gather, and Carolina didn’t want to torture him any more than she already had. She handed Hank his sugar-free coffee with a tilt of the head that said, Let’s get out of here.
Chapter Eleven
“I don’t know what you expected. I told you I braced him,” Hank said, his tone smug.
“And I told you I needed to talk to him in person, not just review your notes, which are pretty half-assed by the way,” Carolina said as they left Geoff’s house.
“Well, did you garner any pertinent information I missed? Some smoking gun that soared right over my head?” Hank rolled his eyes as he dropped into the seat of his brown Ford Explorer, a Hopkins County Sheriff logo emblazoned in the side.
Carolina ignored Hank’s need to be right about everything. She was still trying to get a feel for the people that were murdered, the loved ones, and possibly the person responsible for all of this tragedy.
The sun was dropping in the horizon, but it was midsummer with long, seemingly unending light, and they had a good hour or more left before sunset. Still time for her to poke around and do some sight-seeing. She wanted to tell Hank to drop her back at her van and leave her alone, but she knew nothing about the geography of Millpine or Hopkins County and needed him to play tour guide.
“How far away is the place where the bodies were found?” she asked, settling into the passenger seat.
Hank’s brows knitted as he considered it. “It’s maybe a half hour away.”
She nodded. “Great, let’s go check it out.”
Hank paused, his hand on the ignition key. “It’s just the woods,” he said. “There’s nothing remarkable about it. And it’s in the damned middle of nowhere.”
She didn’t bother with a verbal response, only stared and waited.
Hank was right about one thing. It was in the middle of nowhere. He drove the Explorer as far as it would take them, then they abandoned the vehicle in exchange for walking.
They’d made it a mile or so into the nothingness of the southern Ohio wilderness and still hadn’t reached the crime scene. And as much as Carolina wanted to see it, she was regretting her timing.
Light faded rapidly around them and along with dusk came mosquitos and kamikaze gnats. The former buzzed about her ears, landed on her exposed skin, and sucked away at her lifeblood. The latter seemed obsessed with committing hari-kari in her eyes, and she must have burned two thousand calories trying to swat them away.
Hank lit up a cigar, puffing and sending up huge plumes of rancid smoke.
“Really?” she asked, although she wasn’t shocked the man claimed such an annoying habit.
He continued to walk and puff on the thick, brown gordito, giving her a sidelong glance. “Keeps the bugs away.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out another cigar, and extended it toward her.
“I’ll pass,” she said.
“Your loss.”
As their feet crunched atop of the dried pine needles that carpeted the forest floor, she couldn’t help but notice that Hank was right. Not only about the bugs, which all seemed to have abandoned him and redoubled their attacks on her, but about this place.
This spot, or at least the trek leading to it, was like any other forest she’d been in. The trees reached high into the sky as if grasping for stars. Their bark had no major identifying blood or marks on it. And decades’ worth of decaying detritus cloaked the ground. If there had been anything to find there, she suspected it had been carried away by animals that called this wild place home.
Chirping birds could be heard from time to time, mostly nuthatches, but she also noticed a few tanagers and a woodpecker. Every so often she caught squirrels and chipmunks scurrying through the vegetation. Once she heard a branch snap and thought she saw the bushy red tail of a fox. But there was nothing large enough to be a threat.
And definitely no killer watching them.
Finally, they reached a group of thorn bushes and Hank gestured toward it.
“Through there?” Carolina asked.
Hank nodded. “That’s the way the poachers came in.”
His words were muffled from refusing to remove the cigar from his mouth.
She pushed her way through, the thorns scrabbling at her flesh, scratching the welts created by the bloodsucking mosquitos. It actually felt good. Behind her, she heard Hank grunt. Apparently, he’d expected her to abort the mission. He was wrong and followed with an exasperated sigh.
As she escaped from the other end of the thicket, Carolina emerged into the clearing where the bodies had been discovered. Of course, now there were no dead women on the ground. There wasn’t even tape to identify it as a crime scene. She tried to pinpoint the exact spots where the women had lain, but the ground was so trampled down with footprints it was impossible.
She couldn’t even find leftover blood, and there should have been pints of it.
“Has it rained since the bodies were found?” she asked.
Hank nodded. “Had a couple good thunder boomers earlier in the week. Rain gauge showed over two inches. That time of year.”
If she stumbled upon the spot, not knowing anything about the case, she’d never suspect it was a killing ground.
“Did you assign anyone to watch the area after the bodies were removed?” she asked.
Hank wiped his nose with his mucous-saturated handkerchief. “We came out here when it was reported, worked the scene all through the night and morning. About mid-afternoon we were able to pack up and leave. There was nothing else to gain from being here.”
“The killer could have come back,” Carolina muttered, annoyed.
“You think we got a Ted Bundy on our hands? Think he came back here and had relations with the corpses? Jesus, McKay, you read too many crime novels.”
“It’s his dump site, Hank. He was obviously here at least four times, one for each woman. How do you know he didn’t have another queued up in his freezer or something, ready to go?”
Hank stood there speechless. His cigar hung from his bottom lip while he processed her words. Finally, he was able to muster up an answer. Though, it didn’t matter much anymore.
“I hadn’t considered that,” he said.
She continued to study the area, hoping, desperate to find something that might have been missed. At one point she was on her knees, overturning a pile of rotten leaf matter that had looked marginally askew. She searched the tree limbs above, hoping to find a snagged hair, the bark on trees for a scrap of fabric. Anything.
But there was nothing to be found. Annoyed, she decided to harp on Hank’s failure some more. “You should have had eyes on this place twenty-four seven.”
Any uncertainty the man felt vanished. “Would’ve been pointless. From the time Sid Kingsley arrested those two buffoons and saw what they saw, it wasn’t more than two hours passed before everyone in Hopkins knew what happened and where. The killer knew his little playground was off limits.”
“If that helps you sleep better at night,” she said. “It could’ve been our best chance to stop him before he kills someone else.”
Having given up on unearthing some a-ha clue, Carolina finally turned to Hank who, instead of studying the area, was studying her.
“What?” she asked.
“You know what makes you different from other detectives?” he asked and didn’t wait for an answer. “You think like the killers. It’s kind of creepy.”
She sneered. “You’re kind of creepy.”
Chapter Twelve
Hank pulled the Explorer into one of two parking spaces reserved for the county sheriff. In the other sat a nearly-new Lincoln Continental - Hank’s personal vehicle. After shutting down the engine, he glanced around the lot, looking for her ride.
“Which one’s yours?” he asked, mostly paying attention to a Toyota Rav4 and a Hyundai Tucson but giving passing consideration to a Ford Flex.
Carolina considered lying, but figured he’d catch on eventually. “The van’s mine.” She motioned to the street where it was still parked at the meter.
“That thing?” So much judgment in two words.
“Don’t be jealous.” She opened her door and stepped into the night, enjoying being away from Hank who reeked of smoke. She heard him follow, then the double beep of the Explorer’s alarm system activating.
“You heading back into the station?” she asked.
“Nah, Odie’s on call. He’s a night owl.”
An awkward pause passed. It was hard to fill the silence without discussing the case, and they’d done that all the way back from the forest. She was tired of rehashing the same minutia.
“What’s the cheapest motel around here?” she asked Hank, eager to make her exit.
“That would be the Budget Inn,” he answered.
“Oh, I saw that one on the way in. Big blue sign, right?”
He shook his head. “No. That’s the Triple A Budget Inn. The Budget Inn, without the A’s, is a bit further south. Just off three twenty-nine.”
“I see originality thrives in southern Ohio.”
Hank bared a mean smirk. “Both owned by rag heads. Surprised they don’t call ‘em ‘Allah something-or-other.’”
Gross, Carolina thought, but she wasn’t surprised by his casual racism. Offended, but not surprised. Hank Kolazarek was never going to win awards for being a good guy.
Then he shocked her by acting somewhat human. “You’re welcome to stay at my place if you want. I have three bedrooms and only use the one.”
It was a kind offer, but one that held no interest. “I’ll pass,” she said.
He shook his head as he unlocked his Lincoln. “Why do you gotta be like that all the time?”
“Like what?”
“A snobby bitch. You always were, even when you were greener than Leigh. That’s why no one liked you, you know.”
“No one liked me because I didn’t play the game. I wanted to solve crimes, not politic and kiss ass.”
“Exactly. Being a cop is about being part of a team. Getting along. Politics, as you call it, is an important part of it.” He put one leg in the Lincoln. “You have a great mind, but you could never understand that aspect of the job.” Then he dropped into the driver’s seat. “Damned shame.”
Carolina headed to her van. “Fuck off,” she called over her shoulder.
“Hey, McKay,” Hank shouted.
She didn’t want to turn around. After his insults and dredging up the past she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“Carolina!” he yelled.
“What?” she asked without stopping.
“Am I gonna see you in the morning?”
She considered it as she walked. She’d come all this way and wanted to get paid, but she couldn’t fathom spending days or weeks in this man’s presence.
On the other hand, could she really leave Hopkins County knowing a first-class psychopath was on the loose? One who would doubtlessly kill again?
“Breakfast is on the county,” Hank called.
“Fine,” Carolina said, now at her van.
She had climbed inside and was ready to hit the road, but as soon as she looked through the windshield, she saw the yellow slips under her wiper blade. “Oh, fuck me.”
She reached out the window, snatching the parking tickets. There were five of them, all issued at regular, ninety-minute intervals, each for thirty dollars. And all five bore the same signature. Leigh Benner.
Carolina crumpled them into a ball and threw them into the passenger-side footwell. She’d add Leigh to the list of people who needed a piece of her mind, but for now, she wanted to sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
She would have dozed in her van if she’d been more comfortable with the area, known the good parts of town. But Millpine didn’t even have a Walmart in which to park, and she had no intention of spending a restless night waiting for someone to break in.
The Budget Inn was a two-story motel, the kind where you could enter your room from the outside. Most people hated places like that, but she preferred them because it allowed her to avoid lobbies and other occupants. Ye
ah, avoiding people was always good.
After giving a middle-aged Indian woman her credit card and signing a paper saying she’d pay a fifty-dollar-per-day fee if there was evidence of pets or smoking in the room, Carolina found herself with a key to Room 110.
Her room was at the opposite end of the building from the office and far from the only light in the parking lot. She only had to travel four yards, but she hadn’t made it even halfway when she spotted a man approaching her from the depths of the shadows.
His behavior was the very definition of shady. The hoodie that shrouded his face, the hands in the pockets, the head on a swivel as he walked, surveying the area to make sure there were no witnesses. Others might suspect the worst, but Carolina had been around long enough to know what was up.
He stopped in front of her, a backpack in his hands, ready to deal. “What’s your pleasure, beautiful?”
She looked him up and down. He was in his early twenties, tatted up, piercings in his ears, nose, and eyebrows. His red hair was fashioned into a mohawk, maybe with gel, but from looking at him, she’d have put her money on his own natural grease.
“Picture yourself,” she said. “Then imagine the exact opposite.”
“You sassy, honey. I like my womens with attitude,” he cackled, tossing his head back in a poor imitation of being suave. “Call me Frijole,” said the man who was as white as Elmer’s Glue.
“How about I call the cops instead?” She pushed past him, within arm’s reach of her door. She considered passing it by and looping around so he couldn’t see where she was staying, but he seemed harmless. Aside from the temptation.
“You don’t gotta be like that, baby. I got what you need. Anything you want. I got demmies, X, toot, Crissy, cloud nine, Mexican brown, phennies, xannies. Hell, I even got medicinal-grade weed, tax free if you want it. No prescription required.”
She shook her head and swiped her keycard. The lock beeped and she swiveled the handle, pushing inward. She could feel his eyes on her, inspecting her. Either he was trying to get a read on her, or he was taking in a good look for the spank bank later that night.
