Deadly Deception

by Alexa Grace

  Frankie joined the huddle of men to see the body lying face down, her arms stretched above her head. The victim’s loose top was ripped in places, probably the result of a pursuit by the perp. She was small and didn't look much over five feet tall. There was a tattoo of a tiny heart on her ankle. A couple of her fingers were bloody with the fingernails missing indicating she put up a fight. There was a ring of dark abrasions with dark bruising circling each wrist suggesting the killer had tied her up to subdue her.

  Frankie joined Lane as he talked with a crime scene technician.

  "What did you find?" she asked.

  "The killer left tire tracks on that dirt lane we've got cordoned off on the other side of those trees. There were some pretty clear shoeprints that we're casting too. Already got the farmer's shoe impressions for comparison." He pulled a plastic bag out of his kit. "Oh, and she had a cell phone." He held up a zip-locked bag containing the phone. "I'll get it to you later after we've processed it for fingerprints."

  "Let me know when you've run her fingerprints through AFIS for identification."

  "No problem."

  Frankie turned to see the men lifting the girl's body, now in a black body bag, strapped onto a stretcher. She watched them as they headed toward the road trudging in the thicket of weeds and undergrowth next to the dirt path that was still cordoned off. The medical examiner trailed behind. She felt Lane's presence behind her instead of turning in his direction.

  "I'm going to the autopsy. Do you want me to drop you off at your house?"

  "Oh, hell no. Do you think I haven't attended an autopsy before? This isn’t my first time off the ranch!"

  It was one in the morning, but one wouldn't guess the time by the lighting and bustle of activity in the autopsy room, Frankie thought as she peered through the large glass window. Dr. Meade was scrubbing up next to a stainless steel sink. His assistant, Joan, was arranging surgical instruments on a white cloth lined tray.

  “The x-rays are done,” called a male assistant who wheeled in the body covered with a white sheet from Radiology where they'd taken extensive x-rays. Frankie knew this was protocol in gunshot wound cases. Bullets were unpredictable and often moved in unusual paths through the body, especially if they should strike bone. The x-rays would help the doctor identify the exact location of the bullet if it was still lodged within the body.

  Per protocol, the girl's clothing had been stripped from her body, carefully placed in brown paper bags and handed to a crime scene technician along with the body bag and the sheet that was wrapped around her body. Once in the lab, the items would be searched for trace evidence such as hairs, fibers, dirt, and any other materials.

  The paper bags had been removed from her hands which meant her nails had been scraped for trace evidence and her fingerprints had been taken.

  Frankie looked at the tiny body lying under a clean white sheet, her dark hair spilling over the stainless steel table. She looked so very pale and innocent that Frankie's heart squeezed. What kind of a monster would kill this girl? What threat could she possibly have offered?

  Lane joined her holding two paper cups filled with hot coffee. He handed one to her. She sipped the brew as they both moved into the autopsy room. Dr. Meade was ready to begin. He adjusted the tiny microphone clipped to his lab coat and began.

  "The deceased is a white female with a weight of one hundred pounds and height of sixty-three inches..."

  Three hours later, Frankie and Lane ran three blocks in the pouring rain to Michael Brandt's office. By the time they reached the building, their clothes were soaked through and the air conditioning chilled them. They dodged into the restrooms and soaked up what moisture they could with paper towels. Then they met in the hallway and took the stairs up to the meeting they’d been summoned to in the prosecutor's office.

  Joining Michael, the sheriff, and Dr. Meade, they sat at a round conference table.

  "Doc, what was the cause of death?" Michael asked as he watched the sheriff bring a full pot of coffee to the table along with some pastries.

  "A gunshot wound through the back. The bullet sliced through the aorta of her heart then it exited through her chest," said Dr. Meade.

  "The lab called me," said Lane. "They found the bullet lodged in the victim's loose blouse. They think it is a .38 hollow point like the one used to kill Mandy Morris. They're sending the bullets to ATF in Indianapolis for definitive identification. In addition, they're running her fingerprints for identification."

  "Another thing you need to know is that this girl had given birth within days of her murder," offered Dr. Meade.

  "Do you think this murder is connected to Mandy Morris’s?" Michael asked the question of the sheriff who gave Lane the nod to respond.

  "Yes, I do," said Lane. "Her body is dumped in the same place as Mandy Morris's and she was killed with a .38 hollow point bullet. She'd recently given birth, just like Mandy."

  "What about a motive?" Michael looked to Frankie for her input.

  "Once we get identification, we'll see if she’s associated with the Forever Home Adoption Agency. If she is, my bet is that she decided to keep her baby. If the baby had already been sold, as we suspect, that creates a big problem for Dr. Caine who owns the agency. We had to pay $50,000 up front and are expected to pay another $50,000 once the baby arrives. I imagine the dollar amount for this baby is the same. That's a lot of money. Like I said, this is a big problem for Caine and getting rid of the mother is one solution."

  "How close are you to getting into Dr. Caine's inner circle?"

  "We've identified a person who appears to be Dr. Caine's hired gun. His name is David Chambers, and he's a former Army Sniper. He's registered a Wesson Smith & Wesson Model 438 Bodyguard which can shoot .38 hollow point bullets. He drives a Lincoln Town Car that is registered under Caine's name. We’re looking forward to getting the results of the tire print analysis to see if we have a match." Frankie looked at Lane then continued. "I’m a volunteer for one of his charities, and he's having a dinner at his house this weekend for the volunteers. Lane and I hope to get more information then."

  The sheriff's cell phone sounded and he moved into the hallway to take the call. When he returned, a worried expression creased his face. "If you two are going back to Bloomington today, you better take off. The weather report predicts severe storms in this area."

  They were less than twenty minutes into their two-hour drive when the sky darkened. Moments later rain pelted the SUV windows and glossed the highway surface. Around them, vehicles slowed down. The ones that didn't learned first-hand how slippery the surface of the road had become.

  Frankie felt a wave of anxiety sweep over her and she bit her lower lip. She'd never been a big fan of thunderstorms. As a child, she'd typically hid under her bed. She was even less of a fan of driving through these kinds of conditions. Hail began beating against the vehicle as the thunder rumbled overhead.

  "Lane, do you think we should pull over?"

  "Not yet." He glanced at her. "Hey, are you okay?"

  "Sure." Her response was a lie because icy fear now gripped her heart as the thunder boomed louder and the hail pelted the car harder.

  Frankie glanced at Lane whose focus was on the road. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and increased the speed of the windshield wipers.

  Frankie turned the radio on and searched for a channel with a weather report. Each station was filled with more static than the last. Finally, she gave up and turned it off. They were in farmland now and the rain was so heavy she could barely see a couple of feet beyond her car window.

  She looked down to see Lane was now holding her hand with his fingers laced through hers in her lap.

  "Honey, at the next town we'll pull over at a restaurant or something."

  She met his gaze and nodded in agreement. Then she looked out the window. The wind seemed to have picked up because the raindrops assaulting the vehicle popped against the glass.

  Something pulled at her to look behind t
hem. She turned in her seat so she could look out the wide window at the back of the SUV. She saw her worst nightmare — a turning, twisting, spinning top of a dark monster spewing rain, dirt, and debris as it headed right for them. Tornado! She didn't know she had screamed until Lane grabbed her arm and jerked her around in her seat.

  Lane adjusted the rearview mirror to see the twister cutting a swath through the farmland behind them, leveling the farmhouse they’d passed just minutes ago. It was following the highway and was now directly in back of them pounding the miles between. He couldn't out drive it and there was nowhere to turn. He saw a farmhouse in the distance. If they could make it there, the house may have a basement or storm cellar.

  He looked in the rearview mirror again. The twister was closer. Its black funnel dangled crazily from a thick storm cloud, the narrow end whipping back and forth like a tail. It was getting too close. He had to do something.

  A sheet of metal came out of nowhere, slamming against the windshield, and holding on like it was super-glued to the glass. He slammed on the brakes too hard, making the car hydroplane until it hit a ditch and flipped on its side. The airbags deployed and Frankie was screaming. He yanked off his seat belt, slid toward the middle console, and pushed on the driver's side door with his feet as hard as he could but it wouldn't budge. He frantically searched the floor and found his large Maglite flashlight and struck the driver's side window again and again until it shattered. He used his coat to remove the most deadly of the glass still stuck to the frame then turned to Frankie. He unlocked her seatbelt. She looked dazed, maybe in shock, but he had no time to examine her. He dragged her out from under the airbag and out of her seat. He pulled her to him and hugged her hard, calling her name.

  "I need your help, Frankie. Focus. We have to climb out that window and find shelter. Do you hear me?"

  He shook her slightly and she moved, focusing her eyes on his face. He took that as a good sign and pushed her butt to help her climb through the window. Once she was through, he followed, landing on his arms on the hard pavement. He grabbed Frankie's arm and started running as quickly as the strong wind and hail would allow. Once they were a safe distance from car, he looked toward the farmhouse again. It was too far away. They wouldn't make it there in time. He looked back as a stretch of wire fencing, complete with the heavy wooden posts, swept across the highway just feet away from them.

  He thrust Frankie into a deep ditch at the side of the road and threw himself on top of her to protect her from the flying debris. She struggled beneath him until he shouted at her to hold still. Instead, she squirmed until she moved in a position to wrap her arms around his head to shield him from the flying projectiles that assailed them from every direction.

  A blinding bolt of lightning sliced the oak tree across the road from them as expertly as a surgeon. The amputated section of tree slammed to the ground, its upper branches atop Lane, ripping his shirt and raking deep scratches across his back. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out and gripped Frankie. He feared she would disappear in the swift wave of dirt and debris sandblasting their bodies.

  Lane heard the rush of water and realized the drainage ditch was filling, and if he didn't find another place for shelter, Frankie could drown. They had to reach the farmhouse. There was no other place to go. He pulled Frankie up and ran as he half-dragged her down the road. The savage wind and golf ball size-hail assaulted them as they ran. Power poles were snapped in two like match sticks, but they dared not stop to watch.

  They were on the gravel lane leading to the house when Frankie twisted her ankle and fell. He yanked her to her feet then scooped her up in his arms and kept running until he reached the back door. It was locked, so he kicked it in. He heard glass shattering inside and realized the powerful winds had blown out the front windows of the house. He set Frankie down.

  "Is your ankle broken?"

  "No, I can walk on it.”

  It was dark, but a bolt of lightning lit the room enough so he knew they were in a kitchen. There was a closed door at the end of the room and he prayed it led to a basement. He jerked the door open as another flash of lightning revealed a staircase. He pulled Frankie to him and held her arm as they both felt their way down the steps to a dim basement illuminated only by a row of small windows that faced the backyard.

  He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room and soon he could make out an old washing machine, dryer, and an ancient sofa. The rest of the basement was filled with boxes.

  "Is anyone here?" he called out, wondering where the people who lived here were.

  "Frankie, help me look for a lantern, candles, or a flashlight."

  They searched every inch of the basement, many places by touch because it was so dark. There was nothing. They'd have to rely on the small windows that lined the far wall for light. Frankie found a couple of blankets near the dryer.

  Another rumble of thunder let them know another storm was moving in. Lane raced to the area beneath the staircase and moved the boxes stored there. Frankie brought the blankets she'd found and laid them inside. She bent down and got inside, lining her body up against a cement blocked wall. Lane followed her and sat pressed against her. He felt the top of her head, looking for injuries.

  "What are you doing?"

  "You have a bump on your head the size of an egg." He ran his thumb lightly over the area then moved on until he covered her entire head.

  "It's okay. I hit my head when the SUV turned over. No biggie."

  "How many fingers am I holding up?"

  "Are you crazy, Lane? It's dark in here. How am I supposed to see your fingers?"

  Lane smiled and hugged her against him, feeling her body stiffen as a deafening clap of thunder roared through the house. The wind picked up and something hard hit the basement windows. His ears started popping so he yawned for some relief.

  Suddenly what sounded like a freight train roared toward the house. Another tornado! It had to be. Lane grabbed one of the blankets and threw it over the two of them. He hugged Frankie to his chest.

  Simultaneously, the three basement windows blew out, launching tiny fragments of glass like missiles. The blanket whipped about them as the wind tore through the basement and propelled objects about the room. A stuffed storage box slammed against Lane's back. The rest of the boxes tumbled like dominos, sending their contents airborne and deadly.

  The basement door at the top of the steps crashed down to the landing. A deafening explosion pierced their ears as the house collapsed above them sending splintered pieces of wood, glass, and metal hurtling down the stairs.

  An unholy pressure pulled at Lane and Frankie as if trying to separate them. Lane threw his arm over an exposed staircase beam and held on tight, at the same time crushing Frankie to his chest as flying pieces of debris peppered them. He refused to let her go.

  As suddenly as it arrived, the storm left, leaving behind a clear, sunlit sky exposed through the gaping window frames. Lane let go of the wooden beam to cradle Frankie on the floor.

  "Frankie, are you okay?"

  When she didn't answer him, he panicked and began rocking her back and forth. "You've got to be okay, honey," he whispered. "I can't lose you. I love you too much. Please be okay."

  Lane carried Frankie over to the sunlit section of the basement, stepping over debris as he went. Laying her on the floor, he lifted her wrist to check her pulse. Blood tricked down her forehead from a cut near her hairline and bruises were forming on her cheekbones and neck. He then checked for broken bones and found none. Putting his ear to her mouth, he could hear her soft breathing. He pulled her up to a sitting position and shook her slightly.

  He held her until she opened her eyes to look at him. "This is a good example of why I'm not a big fan of storms."

  Later, a State Trooper picked them up as they walked alongside the highway and gave them a ride home. They entered their house in Bloomington.

  "Take off your jacket. I want to see your injuries." Lane was
already pulling at her jacket when she stopped him.

  "I'm okay."

  "Take it off, Frankie. I'm not kidding." She pulled the jacket off as he turned her around. There was a scattering of bruises, cuts, and scratches on her back trailing down her spine. "Damn it. You should've let that trooper take you to the hospital."

  "I don't need a hospital. I need a bath."

  Without saying a word, he scooped her up in his arms and took her up the stairs to her room. He set her down on the bed as he ran hot water in the garden tub in her bathroom.

  She was too exhausted to protest. When she heard him turn the water off, she crept to the bathroom, her muscles so sore it was hard to walk. When she entered the bathroom, he pulled at her tank top.

  "Lane, I can take my own clothes off. Now get out of here."