The caller ID said, “Bryce Parker,” who was a reporter for the Raleigh Herald. It had been nearly four months since she had last spoken to him. She let it ring two more times before deciding to answer.
“Hi, Rachel,” he said with the kind of overly courteous tone that suggested he was desperate for a quote. “How are you?”
“Good. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I was wondering if you’d had a chance to look at the report that SBI released today.”
“What? No I . . . I’m out of town right now, Bryce. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh . . . I assumed . . .” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Sorry, Rachel. I thought they were keeping you in the loop—”
“What report?” she asked, getting impatient.
“Lauren Bailey,” he said.
Rachel sat up in the bed, felt a black hole swallow her heart.
“The report on the internal investigation came out today,” he said. “I was hoping you might have a comment.”
She tried to answer, but the words stuck. She swallowed with a dry throat and said, “I don’t . . . I think I need to read it before . . .”
“Of course,” he said. “No worries. Hey, if you want, I can e-mail it to you.”
“Yeah . . . thanks.”
“I’ll send it now. And if you get a chance to read it tonight, I’d love to hear back from you.”
“Sure.”
“Great. You have a good night, Rachel.” Then he was gone.
She sat in the dark and tried to fend off the memory, but relentless images poured into view. A child, hardly a toddler, sitting on a floor in a soiled diaper. The deputy, sidearm gripped in his outstretched hands, trying to yell over the little boy’s piercing screams. Lauren Bailey waving a handgun too large for her stubby fingers.
Rachel held her weapon low and tried to calm things down. Tried to talk to Bailey, to reason with her for the sake of her son. Bailey was distraught and desperate. Sounded intoxicated. Almost incoherent. Her only clear words proclaimed her innocence. She didn’t want to go to jail. Didn’t think it was right. Didn’t think it was fair.
She turned to walk away, perhaps toward her kitchen. Maybe the hallway to her bedroom. But the deputy stepped forward and yelled his commands. Told her to stop, to drop her weapon, to get on the floor. Bailey turned and raised her hand, looking like she might have wanted to give him the finger, but there was a gun in that hand. The deputy hesitated, so Rachel opened up on her, putting eight rounds in her center mass, just like she’d been taught. And Bailey fell. The deputy ran up to secure the gun, then checked for vitals, then called for help. Rachel scooped up the child and headed for the door. She was outside talking in soothing tones as Bailey died on the floor.
Back in the Fontana Lodge, an e-mail alert sounded on Rachel’s phone. Parker had sent the report. She wasn’t ready to read it, so she set it on the nightstand and turned on the light and the TV. She propped two of the pillows against the headboard and sat up to flip through the channels, knowing that she would be lucky to get any sleep at all before morning came.
12
Gifford had the route memorized. He turned his Sierra pickup onto Everly Street and crossed the river. He cruised past the dark storefronts and climbed the hill leading away from the center of town. A half mile later, he saw the feed store on his right and took the next left. He drove slow, almost idling once the road turned to gravel. Then he found it. He flicked off the lights and veered to the right, following the tire-worn tracks by feeling as much as by moonlight. Once he was deep enough beyond the tree line, he killed the engine and stepped out.
He stood next to his truck and listened for a moment. Satisfied that he was alone, he clicked on his flashlight and started walking. After nearly five minutes headed mostly downhill, the path ended at the bottom of a valley. Directly ahead was a steep rise. He scaled it quickly, zigzagging between half-buried boulders. He used the trees to pull himself along, thankful that he was still agile enough to climb like he did as a teenager when his favorite pastime was exploring these wooded hills.
When he reached the ridge, he turned off the flashlight and kept still until his eyes adjusted to the light. Ahead to his right, he could see a gentle slope that led to a stream. Beyond that, a short incline to a wall of trees, vines, and shrubs. He descended carefully, testing the ground with his feet before committing his weight. A bad step on a rock or in a hole could take him out of the hunt, and he had too much to lose to let that happen.
He jumped over the water and jogged up the sandy embankment, feeling his confidence grow until he tripped on a root, cursed at himself, then continued more cautiously. At the top, he found a gap between a pair of trees that let him see the road. He ducked behind a sweetshrub and listened for approaching cars. A short sprint and he would be safely in the woods on the other side. He checked his watch, felt good about the time. Once he made it across, the house would only be a hundred yards away.
* * *
It was slow going through the dense forest. The tree canopy hid most of the moonlight. Gifford had to use the flashlight more than he had wanted, but it was starting to get late. When he finally reached the edge of the backyard, he only had a few minutes to get in position.
He watches one of those adult cartoon shows on Comedy Central every weeknight, Bishop had said. His wife will be in the bedroom watching HGTV. You won’t have to worry about her, if you do it right. As soon as the show is over, he’ll walk the dog in the backyard. It’s a Chihuahua. Nothing to be afraid of, but it’ll bark. Might bring the neighbors outside or the wife downstairs, so make sure to shut it up as soon as you get a chance.
Gifford slipped on his leather gloves and stepped into the open. He kept his eyes on the windows as he approached the back of the white two-story house. He moved to the corner and crouched down, putting his back against the wood siding.
You won’t need the bat this time. He keeps an old ax handle by the side door to the garage. He used to use it to chase away the neighbor’s bulldog. But don’t worry, that thing’s dead now.
The neighbor’s house had a single light on in the back, but he couldn’t see any movement. His heart raced, and he had to take a few deep breaths to slow it down. He found the ax handle leaning against the doorjamb, exactly where it was supposed to be. The old piece of gray wood felt good. His confidence swelled again with a weapon in his hand. He moved back to the corner and waited.
A few minutes later, he heard the back door open. Then there was a man’s voice urging a little dog outside to do its business. He called it “Beau.”
“Come on, Beau. Hurry up now, li’l man.”
Beau’s nails made light tick, tick, ticking sounds on the wooden steps. Then the back door closed and heavier footfalls descended. Gifford tightened his grip, peeked around the corner, and saw the man standing just a few paces away. He stepped out to make his move, and Beau saw him instantly.
“What’s the matter, li’l—”
The man caught sight of Gifford just before the ax handle hit its mark. The blow sent its victim reeling, but he was still conscious. Beau jumped forward like he might bite Gifford on the ankle, barking and growling and snarling. The man fell against the wall. He used one hand to steady himself and tried to raise the other for defense, but Gifford’s second swing was too fast, knocking him onto his back.
Beau caught the leg of Gifford’s jeans, trying to pull him away. Gifford shook him loose and took a swing at the tiny beast. But Beau saw it coming and dodged. He circled around, careful to keep his distance but threatening another bite and making too much noise. Gifford made another attempt and missed. Seeing his chance, Beau pounced, seizing Gifford’s jeans again and catching a bit of skin in his needle-sharp teeth.
Gifford winced and smacked his leg against the wall trying to knock Beau off. The little dog yelped and released his hold. He hit the ground and took off around the corner, crying and barking. Then Gifford heard the clicking of
a latch. He turned to see the man crawling into the doorway on his hands and knees, moaning and trying to find his voice to call for help. Gifford ran up the steps and slid past him into a carpeted den. He raised the ax handle over his head, then sent it down with a grunt. The wood cracked with the force of the blow, and the man was out cold. Gifford dropped his weapon, caught his breath, and listened for the wife.
He heard the TV going upstairs but nothing else. It was safe to finish. He went to the kitchen and searched the counters. There was no knife set. He started pulling drawers and found them on his third try. He chose the longer of two paring knives and went back to the den to complete his work.
If he’s on his back, go for the heart. If he’s on his stomach, go for the brain stem. Just like I taught you . . .
Gifford lowered himself to one knee and leaned over the man, whose hair was now soaked with blood. A red streak ran across his temple, down his cheek, and to his nose. Gifford knew better than to touch the man’s head and risk getting blood on his gloves, but he needed to keep it steady to do the job. He went to the kitchen again and found a hand towel. Came back and used it to hold the head still. He was about to make the thrust when he felt sweat building on his brow. He wiped it with his forearm to keep it from dripping. Then he placed the tip of the blade at the back of the man’s head. The place where the skull ended and the backbone began, just like Bishop had taught him. There was a soft spot there between the bones, and Gifford found it.
* * *
Gifford stepped outside, and Beau was there waiting, ears pinned back and teeth showing. He growled, then jumped forward and started barking. Gifford went down the steps, eager to shut him up, but Beau took off running, stopped about ten yards away, and started barking again.
Despite his frustration, Gifford admired the little dog, respected his bravery and loyalty. If he had been any bigger, he might have been able to put up a real fight. But that hadn’t stopped him from trying.
“Sorry, li’l man, but your best friend went and fucked with the wrong people.”
Gifford ran past him, crossed the yard, and disappeared into the woods.
13
Thursday
“We got another one,” Braddock said on the phone, and a few minutes later, he pulled up outside Rachel’s door.
She climbed into the Tahoe and checked the time on her phone. It was almost 12:45 AM. “What do we know?”
“Not much,” he said. “The call went to DCPD.”
It took her a second to realize that he was referring to the Dillard City Police Department. “Shit.”
“Yep.” Braddock tore out of the parking lot with the visor lights flashing red-and-blue strobes through the top of the windshield. “Ted called over there after our meeting, like you suggested. Talked to ’em about how to handle a crime scene. We’ll see if it did any good.”
“Do they have an investigative unit?”
“No. Just uniformed patrol.”
Which was good news.
* * *
The victim, a thirty-year-old man named Andy Coughlan, lived just inside the city limits, across the river. The drive didn’t take long. Braddock parked at the end of a line of patrol cars that stretched around the corner from the house. They got out and jogged the rest of the way. When they reached the end of the driveway, they found the Dillard City Police chief—a wiry man with glasses, a bald head, and a salt-and-pepper mustache—standing behind a barricade of yellow tape. Braddock had said his name was Rich Miller.
“I got four officers on foot searching the woods behind the house,” he said to Braddock. “Three sweeping the neighborhood. And Melvin’s got four of your units out here too. We’ve been talking to the neighbors. No one’s seen a damn thing. I talked to Ted about getting his cousin to send us a canine unit from Asheville. He says he’s working on it, but it’ll probably be too late to find a track by the time it gets here.”
Rachel counted two other DCPD officers and a sheriff’s deputy standing out front. A pair of EMTs were leaning against the side of an ambulance. She asked, “Who’s been inside?”
“Just me and”—Miller pointed at one of the EMTs, looked like he was struggling to recall his name—“the fella on the right. Need me to get him over here?”
“No,” she said. “We’ll talk to him in a little bit. Just you two?”
“Yeah, I got here first.” Miller nodded away from the house. “I live just two streets over that way. Never thought something like this would happen so close to home. Anyway, I was the first one here. I mean, Jen was here. That’s his wife. Andy’s wife . . .” Miller’s voice was shaky. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, taking a second to sort through his thoughts. “I got here, and Jen, the victim’s wife, met me out front. She was pretty hysterical. I told her to wait there, and I went inside. I found Andy laying facedown in the TV room, feet sticking out the back door. He’s got a”—he reached up and cupped the nape of his neck in his hand—“a damn knife in the back of his head. There’s also something . . . like an ax handle . . . laying on the floor next to him.”
“So just you?” she asked, trying to keep him focused. “None of the other officers?”
He shook his head.
“But the EMT. You said you took him inside. Just one of them?”
“Yeah. Just what’s-his-face on the right over there. Made sure the other one waited outside. That’s how Ted told me I should do it.”
“That’s right. You did good, Chief. But I need to ask you something else. Did you touch the victim?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I did. I touched his shoulder. I tapped on it like we learned in first-aid training. Tried talking to him. And then I checked for a pulse on his wrist, but once I got a good look at where that knife was, I knew he was gone.”
“Nothing you could do, Chief,” Braddock said.
“You all want me to take you inside? Show you the way we came in and out?”
“Let’s wait for Detective Fisher,” Rachel said.
* * *
Fisher walked up a few minutes later. Carly was right behind him carrying an evidence collection kit, her camera hanging from her neck. After Braddock relayed what Miller had told them, everyone stood in a circle, and Rachel realized they were waiting for her to take charge.
“All right,” she said. “The three of us will go inside. Danny will wait out here. Carly, do you have gloves for us?”
Carly gave them each a pair of individually packaged blue nitrile gloves. As they worked to get them on, Rachel continued to give instructions. “Chief Miller, if you’ll show us the way you went in and came out, Detective Fisher will be right behind you. Please make sure you point out anything you happened to touch along the way. Carly, you stay with Shane, and I’ll go last. Remember, nobody touches or moves anything without photographing it first.”
Miller led them in through the front door. The foyer sat between a dining room and a formal living room, neither of which appeared to get much use. There was a stairway on the right and an arched opening ahead. They moved forward into the kitchen, then turned and entered a small den where the body lay on the floor, just as Miller had described it. He walked around a tan, fabric-upholstered sofa and stopped a few feet from the victim.
“I stayed on this side of him when I checked his pulse,” he said. “And I went out the same way I came in.”
Fisher made several notes on a Steno pad, and Carly began taking photos.
“Anything else you can think of?” Rachel asked.
Miller shook his head.
“Okay, I’ll walk you out.”
She escorted him back to the front door and said, “You did a good job here tonight, Chief.”
“I don’t feel like I did much of anything.”
“You preserved the scene. Protected it from contamination.”
He stared at the ground for a moment and said, “I suppose.”
Rachel thought about everything Braddock had told her during the drive to the house. “Danny said you tal
ked to the victim’s wife. She found her husband just before midnight?”
“Around ten till,” he said. “She came downstairs to check on him. He was late coming to bed. He usually came up right after his show was over.”
“And when was the last time she saw him alive?”
“She said she left him to go upstairs at eleven.”
“I see.” Such a narrow window of opportunity, Rachel thought. “Where is she now?”
He nodded toward the neighbor’s house. “Next door.”
“Okay. Detective Fisher will want to talk to her. Does anyone else live here?”
“No. Just the two of ’em. And their dog.”
“They have a dog?”
“Yeah. A little Chihuahua, I think.”
“Where is it?”
He nodded again toward the neighbor’s house.
“Okay. Thanks again, Chief.” She turned to go inside.
“Miz Carver?”
She stopped and looked at him.
“We’re gonna catch this son of a bitch, aren’t we?”
There was a plea in his expression. She wanted more than anything to say yes.
When Rachel walked back into the den, Fisher was making a tiny sketch of the room on his pad. Carly was listening to a message on her phone. She hung up and said, “That was Bruce.”
Rachel gave her an inquiring look.
“The SBI crime scene specialist,” Carly said. “He’s on his way. Should be here in about an hour.”
“Not that it’ll make much of a difference,” Fisher said. “This guy . . . whoever the hell he is . . . he’s too damn good.” He looked at Rachel. “See how he finished the job?” Tapped his pen on the back of his head. “I’ve read about the military teaching their special ops guys to kill like that.”
Rachel nodded. “I’ve heard of that too.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me to find out he’s some kinda pro.”
“Maybe.” Rachel thought about both victims. The similarities and the differences. Both were white males in their early thirties. Both were hit on the head, knocked out, so they couldn’t put up a fight. Both were stabbed in a way that minimized the transfer of forensic evidence. There were rags at both scenes. The knives were left inside the wounds. But there had been no ax handle left at the first scene. And McGrath had been stabbed in the chest.
Among the Dead Page 6
