by Burton, Mary
“Who’s doing the scratching?” And when she only looked at him, he cocked a brow. “You know, don’t you?”
She closed her eyes. Weird. And weirder. “I’ve been dreaming about Cindy Shaw. She’s been asking me for my help.”
“How long has Cindy been communicating with you?”
“The scratching sounds became more persistent the day Tobi Turner’s body was found. Cindy’s name finally came up Sunday night while I was researching the Turner case. Once I read her name, it’s like a floodgate opened and my brain wouldn’t let her go.”
“That’s why you’ve been asking around about her.”
“Yes. I keep hoping I’ll hear that she’s fine and good and that my brain just has a crazy way of processing information.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? What does that mean?”
“Every time you dream, I want to know about it.”
“Why?”
“So I can help you figure this out. Who knows? Your subconscious might be on to something.”
She scratched the side of her head. “I feel like I’m on the bus to crazy town.”
A smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “We all have shit, Macy.”
For whatever reason, that made her laugh, something she’d not done for a long time. “Jesus, Nevada. I don’t get you.”
“I’m pretty simple. You have an issue that’s troubling you, and I want to help.”
“Why would you want to get messed up with my semideranged self?”
He brushed his finger along her jawline. “I have no idea.”
Again she laughed. “No, seriously. Why?”
“Because I don’t think you’re crazy. You suffered a brain injury, and because you’re so damn tough, you came back from it. Maybe your neurons do process differently now, but that doesn’t mean they’re not effective.”
“You make it sound reasonable.”
He tugged her forward and kissed her on the lips. She felt herself melting. This time when they made love, it was a slower and steadier pace. She allowed him to explore her body more, and she rediscovered his.
She felt at peace, almost floating, when she lay curled in his arms, and she hoped the outside world would let her be for just a little while longer.
Nevada’s phone rang.
He groaned and, turning toward his nightstand, reached for the cell. “Sheriff Nevada.”
As a muffled voice on the other end of the line spoke, his expression hardened. Both knew their reprieve was over. She moved to get out of the bed and dress, but he sat straighter and wrapped long, rough fingers around her wrist.
“Yes, I’ll notify Agent Crow, and we’ll be right there,” he said.
When he ended the call, she asked, “What?”
“A dead body was found on the side of Route 12. The woman has been strangled.”
She thought about the house where Debbie lived. One-story house. Located off the beaten path. Items missing from her house.
It fit the profile of the rapist who’d crossed over into murder. Debbie had been located but not her roommate. “Send Bennett over to Debbie’s house to find out where her roommate is now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wednesday, November 20, 6:30 a.m.
When Macy and Nevada rolled up on the scene, emergency lights from local and state cop cars lit up the night sky. Bands of morning sun nudged against the darkness as they slowly warmed the frigid air.
Macy burrowed her hands in her coat pockets, hoping forensic arrived soon to cover the body with a tent and protect it from the heat and any possible news helicopters filming from above.
She focused on the flap of the crime scene tape encircling the body of a woman who lay a couple of feet from a turnaround. The victim, wearing only an oversize T-shirt, was left on her back with legs and arms bound by red ropes. Her long dark hair splayed out behind her as if it were staged.
After removing latex gloves from her backpack, Macy slowly worked her fingers into them as she moved toward the victim. She’d never gotten used to moments like this.
She crossed the graveled road to the tape, ducked under it, and gingerly knelt by the body. Her leg moaned in protest, but she used her discomfort as a reminder that she was alive.
Nevada came up beside her, his ball cap hiding his expression as he, too, cataloged the scene’s details.
Macy keyed in on the woman’s neck, ringed in black-and-blue bruises in various stages of healing and discoloration. The killer had used his hands to strangle the victim multiple times, over what Macy estimated were several days.
The victim’s wrists and ankles were discolored with bruises, likely caused by restraints during the assault.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Choking someone to death was a very personal form of murder. Using a gun or even a motor vehicle were both profoundly effective forms of killing, but neither required the touch and eye contact of strangulation.
Macy leaned forward, studying the body’s position. The manner of death, a body’s final positioning, also said something about the killer. Killers in a rushed panic left remains in a dumpster or field, a shallow grave, or even a hay chute.
More methodical killers took the time to display their bodies. In the case she’d worked in Denver, the murdered sex workers had been left naked and spread eagle with their right breast removed. The killer had wanted to humiliate them.
“What do you think?” Nevada asked.
As tempting as it was to link this case to Tobi’s, she paused. “Locked-in thinking has sidelined too many investigations.”
“I want your assessment.”
At the risk of repeating last night’s mistake, she stuck with her gut. “It’s the guy we’re looking for.” A quiet breeze fluttered through the ends of the victim’s long hair.
“Why leave her body out here?” Nevada asked. “He hid Tobi’s body.”
“Best guess, Tobi was his first kill. Tobi was intoxicated, he lured her to the hayloft, and something went wrong. Maybe she was inebriated. He wasn’t getting the jolt of fear he hoped from his rape victims, so he graduated to strangulation. God knows how long it went on.”
Nevada studied the woman’s pale features. “She looks like Tobi.”
“I know. Any word from Bennett on the roommate?”
“Not yet.” His gaze skimmed the area around them. “Why leave her out for us? There’s enough open land around here to ensure a body wouldn’t be found for weeks, months, or even years.”
“You know the answer to that,” she said. “He saw the press conference, and he wants you to know he’s here and still a force to be reckoned with.”
Macy rose, wincing a little as her right knee groaned. She walked around the body, searching for something that would make her better understand this killer. “How he is perceived matters to him. He values his reputation.”
“I see a monster,” Nevada said.
“No argument here. But the nuances matter to him,” Macy said. “If it’s the same killer, he’s matured in the last fifteen years. He’s craving a greater challenge. When stalking didn’t satisfy him, he raped. And when that wasn’t enough, he killed. I’ll bet money he’s killed in other jurisdictions.”
“In the moments when he has his victim all to himself, he’s everything to her,” he said, almost to himself.
“And when he takes life, he sees himself as a winner. And when he gets away with a crime, he wins yet again.”
“Leaving this body here is going to make it easier for us to catch him.”
“He’s upped the stakes of the game,” Macy said. “He keeps raising the stakes. I’m almost certain he’s gotten away with other rapes or murders. And now he craves a greater challenge to prove he deserves the win.” She shook her head as the insects buzzed around her.
Boots crunched on the gravel behind her as Bennett walked up. She stared at the body, unable to take her eyes off of it.
“What is it?” Macy asked.
“I went b
y to check on Debbie Roberson. She was packing to spend the night at her parents’ house. But her roommate, Beth Watson, was still not at home, so I asked Debbie for a picture. I snapped copies with my phone.” She turned her phone around to reveal the stern, unsmiling face of a young woman in her late teens. Macy glanced at the body.
It matched the image on the deputy’s phone.
“He wasn’t watching Debbie, but Beth,” Nevada said.
“He could have been stalking them both, but Debbie went out of town unexpectedly,” Macy said.
“Leaving Beth behind,” Bennett said.
As they studied the body and the area immediately around it, the sun rose just as the state’s forensic van crested the road and parked in front of the sheriff’s vehicle. Two technicians exited. Both were dressed in dark-blue slacks and gray shirts with the Commonwealth of Virginia emblem over the right breast pocket.
Nevada ducked back under the yellow tape and strode toward them. He introduced himself, and the three spoke briefly before the technicians began to unload their equipment.
Bennett stared at the body, her face an ashen color.
“You’ve worked death investigations before, correct?” Macy asked.
“Car accidents, a meth lab explosion, and a convenience store robbery. Nothing as evil as this.”
Macy stared at the rolling hills around them, covered in a fresh carpet of fall leaves. “Easy to think it can’t come to a remote and beautiful place like this. But it’s always here. In fact, it never left.”
“Do you think he’s gotten wiser regarding DNA?” Bennett asked.
“DNA is what tied his rape cases to Tobi Turner’s murder. It’s his signature. If it truly is the same guy, and he left Beth Watson out here to be found, he’s left DNA on the body to be found. He wants us to know it’s him.”
A rumble of noise washed over the growing crowd, and Bennett turned and immediately muttered a curse only Macy could hear. “Greene is here.”
“It’s the biggest case this part of the state has seen in years. You should have expected it.”
Greene wore khakis, a white shirt, a windbreaker, and a white Stetson. He could have passed for law enforcement, and she guessed that was exactly the kind of look he wanted to project.
“Has he always worn the hat?” Macy asked.
“Nope. That’s a new look,” Bennett said.
“Riding in to the rescue?” Macy asked.
Bennett glowered. “I’m sure he sees it that way.”
Macy had juggled her share of local politics. The actors might vary, but the basic dynamics were the same. Everyone thought their way was the best. Everyone wanted to look their best. Including the perpetrators.
And honestly, Macy wasn’t so different than the former sheriff. She wanted to solve this case herself. She wanted the win in her column.
Bennett glared at Greene. “There was a time I really believed in that guy. I still want to. But when I think about those kits under the carpet, I question everything I knew about him.”
“And he lost because of what he did. But for now, don’t alienate Greene,” Macy said. “He knows this county better than anyone. One day soon he might come in handy.”
Hank Greene approached Nevada. The old sheriff was grinning as he extended his hand. Nevada gripped the old man’s hand, but didn’t smile as Greene leaned in slightly and spoke. Nevada released his hold and shook his head.
“Nevada has dealt with dozens of men like Greene before,” Macy said. “If Greene thinks he’s going to do an end run around Nevada, he’s sadly mistaken.”
The news crew moved toward Nevada, who made a brief statement before excusing himself. As he strode back toward them, Greene tugged off his white Stetson and held it over his chest, like a humble public servant. The boom light snapped on, a reporter’s microphone was thrust in his direction, and the questions started flying.
Greene was at ease and serious all at once. He turned toward the crime scene, seemingly explaining his take on the scene. His views might or might not have been right, but that didn’t really matter if the sound bites for the morning news were good. Perception was everything.
“Why didn’t you talk longer to the press, Sheriff?” Bennett asked.
“Talking to the reporters feeds into this killer’s ego. It’s news blackout until we have DNA. We control the narrative.”
“They’ll want a statement,” the deputy persisted.
“Let the reporters, the public, and the killer wait.”
Nevada surveyed the crowd and then brought his focus back around to Macy. “Do you think he’s watching?”
“Killers often return to the scene of their crimes to witness the carnage.”
“Agreed,” Nevada said. “Deputy Bennett, pick two deputies and make sure their dashcam and vest cameras are on and rolling. I want film of who’s here.”
“Will do,” she said.
Hank Greene approached the crime scene tape and, out of habit or arrogance, appeared ready to duck under it. Nevada stopped him.
Greene frowned briefly and then recovered with a smile. “Special Agent Crow, good to see you again.”
Macy nodded. “Couldn’t stay away, I see.”
He grinned. “I’ve been sheriff of this county for almost thirty years. You know if you don’t get hard leads in the first forty-eight hours, the investigation can drag on for months or years.”
“Like the Turner case?” Macy asked.
His smile dimmed, but before he could answer, a helicopter’s blades cut through the air above them. She looked up to see a television station logo. The story would be statewide, possibly national, by midmorning, putting her successes or failures on a bigger stage.
Energy tingled through him as he watched the telecast of the gathering crowd along the street where he’d dropped Beth’s body.
He’d left clues at other murder scenes, expecting the cops to pick up on him. But so far, no one had linked his crimes. However, it seemed Macy Crow was sharper than most, and she was fitting together some of the pieces.
He smiled as he replayed the broadcast. He’d expected attention, but this kind of notoriety was more than he had ever dared to hope for. This crime wouldn’t be forgotten anytime soon.
He should have relaxed and bathed in the prickle of excitement, but already he wondered how he would up the stakes. Go big or go home.
As he’d watched Macy and Brooke, he’d known killing one of them would bring down heaven and earth on this town. Each was strong and would put up one hell of a fight. Taking one of them might be his undoing, but the challenge was too tempting to resist.
The only question was, which one?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Wednesday, November 20, noon
Not everyone stayed to watch the crime scene being processed, but Macy did. Most onlookers left, and news crews returned to their television stations to file their reports. Greene sat in his warm vehicle enjoying hot coffee while Nevada remained leaning against his vehicle watching. Always watching.
The evidence-collection process wasn’t like it was on television. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t exciting. It was a tedious, slow process, and it took weeks—if not months—to analyze it all. Smoking guns were rare.
Plaster of paris was poured into several footprints and tire tracks found near the body. Later, the technicians would begin the monotonous process of eliminating the footprints left by law enforcement and analyzing the ones that possibly belonged to the killer.
The victim’s hands were covered in paper bags to protect any DNA that might have been trapped under her fingernails. Her temperature was taken, and her bruises and cuts were documented on a sketch pad and with a digital camera.
As the technicians gathered their bits of information, Macy took meticulous notes on all the evidence found, having faith that the random pieces she collected would join together into the composition of a killer.
Her phone chimed with a text and she glanced down. It was from Special Agent
Zoe Spencer. The agent indicated she was at the station house, and Ellis Carter had arrived. Rebecca Kennedy had never shown, and despite repeated calls, they’d not made contact.
I’ll have a sketch in a couple of hours, Spencer texted.
Perfect, Macy texted back. See you then.
It was close to one when the ambulance arrived to take the body to the medical examiner’s office in Roanoke. Hank Greene climbed out of his vehicle, and the news reporters slid on their jackets and checked their appearance as the cameramen turned their lights on.
Cameras rolled as attendants lifted the body into a bag, laid it on a gurney that was wheeled to the waiting van. At least the woman no longer lay on the side of the cold, exposed road.
Bennett approached Macy. “Nevada has asked me to follow the van to the medical examiner’s office. With all this attention, he wants me to personally make sure there is no problem with the chain of custody. Autopsy likely won’t be until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Understood. When you get back to town, I would like to meet with Bruce Shaw again. I want to talk to him about Beth Watson and also get that buccal swab.”
“I can take care of both.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you when you get back to the station.”
As the van and Bennett’s car pulled out, the other vehicles followed in a procession down the narrow road out toward the main highway.
Nevada moved toward Macy as she walked to his car. Each step hurt, and she was anxious to pop a few ibuprofen.
Her phone dinged with a text from Spencer. We’re finished.
On my way, she texted back before saying to Nevada, “Agent Spencer and Ellis are finished. I’d like to talk to them both while the sketch is still fresh in both their minds.”
“Let’s go.”
Without a word, the two rode back to the station. He parked in the back, and they entered through the rear.
“Seeing as you’re her cousin and clearly worried about her, let me go first?” Macy asked.
His expression was a blend of annoyance and gratitude. “Take good care of her.”
“Of course.”
She stopped by the break room, downed a couple of ibuprofen, and chased them with water. She knocked on the door.
