Dead girl identified as missing MSU co-ed
Special Report by Elijah Banks
Miranda’s hands grasped the newspaper so tightly she couldn’t read the words, but the photographs were unmistakable.
Reproduced beneath the headline was a photograph of the shack where Rebecca had been held captive; next to it, Rebecca’s school picture, the same one that had been reproduced on flyers and distributed all over town.
“Goddamn him!”
She was about to toss the paper aside when something familiar below the fold caught her eye.
Her meager breakfast rose in her throat. She swallowed and whispered, “The bastard.”
Under the fold was another picture. Of her. Leaning against the tree outside the shack, her face stark white even against the grainy gray of newsprint. The caption: Miranda Moore, Director of Gallatin County Search and Rescue and the only survivor of the Bozeman Butcher, assists the FBI in locating the dilapidated cabin.
“I’m sorry.”
She jumped at the voice. “Quinn.”
He’d come down the path from the Lodge, but she’d been so focused on the newspaper she hadn’t heard him.
“I would have spared you if I could.”
She shook her head, tilted her chin up. “I’m fine,” she insisted, though seeing the photograph had unnerved her.
“You give Elijah Banks power when you get upset at his theatrics.”
“I’m not upset.” She was lying. By the look on Quinn’s face, he knew it.
“All right, I am upset, but I’ll get over it.” She paused, looked at him closely. “Why are you here?”
“I talked to Olivia this morning.”
“And?”
“She’ll be in Helena tonight.”
“Really? Maybe she can come down here. It’s not a long drive. I’d love to see her.”
“You have her cell number, call her.”
“I will.” She made a mental note to call Olivia tomorrow morning.
“I’m heading to the University,” Quinn said, “but I wanted to tell you about Olivia. If there’s anything in the evidence . . .”
“She’ll find it,” Miranda finished his thought.
“Right.” He walked up the steps to the edge of the porch where Miranda stood. Her heart skipped a beat as he stood as close to her as possible without touching.
“Miranda, we need to talk. About last night, about Quantico.”
She swallowed, wanting so much to forgive and forget, but unable to put aside the lump of betrayal in her soul. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
He stared into her eyes so long she glanced down.
“Miranda,” he whispered. Then he kissed her.
Long, hard, and fast, then he stepped back. The kiss left her breathless. She couldn’t speak.
“We will talk,” he said firmly. “Be careful today.”
He didn’t wait for her answer, but left the same way he’d come.
Having a federal badge opened some doors and closed others. The new Privacy Act required that Quinn get a warrant before the University would give him the information he wanted. It took him all morning to have one drawn up.
By the time he got back to the college, it was after lunch. Fortunately, MSU’s dean had already asked his secretary to pull the necessary records. They were boxed up and ready for him to take.
Four boxes. One hundred eighty-nine men.
By the time he arrived back at the Sheriff’s Department, he had some ideas how to narrow the list. He just needed people.
Nick gave him deputies Booker and Janssen. The selected files reflected students who’d listed Montana or nearby Idaho or Wyoming as their residence prior to attending the University. The killer had an intimate knowledge of the area, so it reasoned that he would have lived in or near Gallatin County.
Quinn assigned the deputies the task of going through the names and removing anyone who was married, had moved out of the country, or was deceased.
He stared at the murder board in Nick’s office and tried to think like the killer.
Why did he rape? Control. Anger.
Why did he need control? Because he didn’t have control over his own life, especially as a juvenile. Had he been in foster care? Orphaned? Sexually abused? Were both parents in the picture? Had one of them physically abused him as a child?
Overwhelmingly, serial killers were sexually and physically abused as prepubescent children. That common trait had been used by defense attorneys to thwart the death penalty or cast blame on someone other than the killer for their horrible crimes.
The sad truth was that many children were abused—sexually, physically, emotionally. But most didn’t grow up to become serial killers. While Quinn felt compassion for the abused children the killers had been, he held no such feelings for them as adults.
The Butcher took sick pleasure in torturing his victims before killing them. But there were two distinct trademarks that made him different from most other sadistic killers. If only Quinn could understand the Butcher’s reasoning, he could get deeper into his mind and maybe closer to a suspect. It was a difficult task: serial killers were logical in their own calculation, but understanding that logic was virtually impossible if you didn’t have all the pieces.
Several crucial pieces were still missing.
The Butcher’s first distinctive trademark was his victims’ imprisonment. That was about control. He both hurt them and cared for them—if you could call feeding them bread and water “caring.” He said only a few words to them, and those were delivered with disinterest. The women were possessions, objects to do with whatever he pleased. Their screams neither excited him nor bothered him; they were irrelevant. Just holding them captive excited him.
The second—and perhaps unique—trademark was releasing the women for the hunt. There was always the chance they would escape. He seemed to revel in the game, giving them time to run before pursuing them. Not a lot of time, though. And the women were injured and demoralized in the process.
Not only did Quinn wonder why the Butcher hadn’t gone after Miranda, he was surprised the Butcher continued to release and hunt his other victims after her escape.
Maybe he didn’t give them as much time before starting the hunt. Maybe he kept them weaker. Or maybe he thought Miranda was an anomaly, and he had to repeatedly prove to himself he could still hunt successfully, that he was capable of complete dominance and control. Maybe he kept Miranda alive as a reminder of his one failure.
Quinn shook his head. He was starting to think in circles. He had no idea why the killer hadn’t gone after Miranda. If he were a sadistic rapist who got off on hunting women for sport, he sure wouldn’t let one get away. It seemed out of character somehow, and that bothered Quinn.
At five he headed out to meet with Olivia at the airport, leaving the two deputies to weed out suspects from the University list. By the time he returned in the morning, he expected to have a short list.
His instincts told him the Butcher would be on it.
Miranda found herself looking for Quinn that evening as she sat in the Lodge dining hall picking at a late supper her dad had prepared for her. She didn’t want him to worry, but she wasn’t hungry.
However, she had a strange craving for pecan pie.
She told her dad to go ahead and relax in his rooms, she’d take care of her dishes and close down the kitchen. She needed something to do to keep her mind off the Butcher.
Even if staying up was simply an excuse to see Quinn when he came in.
As she finished wiping down the counters, she heard voices in the lobby. Quinn. She rushed out, surprised to see Nick talking to Gray.
“Nick. Is something wrong?”
“No,” he said. “I was in the area and decided to stop by.”
“I’ll make some coffee,” she said.
“You don’t have to. Frankly, I’ve had enough caffeine. Share a drink with me?”
Drinking with Nick was the last thing she want
ed to do. Not because she didn’t like his company—she did—but because it felt strange to sit alone with one ex-boyfriend while the other—Quinn—could walk in at any moment. She hadn’t really thought about her intimate relationships with the two men until now, and it unnerved her.
But Nick was a friend first, so she smiled. “Sure. Gray? You want to join us?”
He shook his head. “I’m beat. I need to be up early to greet some seniors coming in from Los Angeles. They’ll be here a few days.”
Gray bid them good night and left.
Miranda led Nick into the bar, motioning toward a bar stool while she used the pass-through to grab his favorite beer. She opened one for herself.
“Thanks.”
“Cheers.” She tipped her bottle at him, then took a long swallow.
She’d always enjoyed hanging out with Nick. They’d been friends before they were lovers. She hoped they still were, even though their friendship seemed a bit strained. She’d been satisfied with their relationship when Nick had asked her to move in with him. She’d said no. He’d walked away.
She’d been satisfied being friends and lovers. Nick wanted more.
Like what she’d had with Quinn.
Still, she’d had a warm friendship, a good working relationship, with Nick. Why had she been so adamant against moving in with him?
Simply put, she didn’t love him. When he suggested it would be better if they kept their relationship out of the bedroom, Miranda had agreed. In hindsight, she wondered if he’d been expecting a protest.
The breakup had been a relief in the end.
“How are you getting along with Quinn?”
Miranda was surprised at his question. “Fine,” she said automatically.
He raised an eyebrow.
She felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny. She almost felt as if she had to explain. “Seriously, he’s doing his job and I’m doing mine and there’s nothing more to it.”
She was rambling. Why did she have to defend her working relationship with Quinn? Maybe it was because for years she’d complained to Nick about how Quinn had stolen her career, how he’d foiled her plans.
She never told him how much it hurt.
“He’s got a couple of my men going through University records,” Nick said. “They were still in my office when I called in thirty minutes ago.”
“He told me he was reviewing the records from Penny’s years at Bozeman. But there were hundreds of potential suspects then. I don’t know how they can be whittled down if we don’t have something more to go on.”
“Quinn feels certain this guy is still single and leads a solitary life.”
“By the way, where is Quinn?” She tried to sound disinterested, but didn’t think she pulled it off.
“Helena. Picking up your friend from the airport, the lab technician.”
“Olivia?” She’d almost forgotten Quinn had asked her to help.
Nick nodded and sipped his beer. “He’ll be back late tonight or in the morning.” He paused. “I wish you and Quinn the best of luck.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
Nick sighed, started peeling the label off his beer bottle. “You’re obviously still in love with him. You’ve always been in love with him.”
“That’s not true.” Was she protesting too much? She tried to explain. “You know how it was back then. But with everything that happened, I just—well, it’s over. It’s been over a very long time.”
“Love just doesn’t turn on and off like a faucet, Miranda.” He sounded angry.
“I didn’t say that, I—” She stopped. “Nick, I’m sorry.” What else could she say? She knew Nick had feelings for her, feelings she didn’t or couldn’t return. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her best friend.
He waved off her apology and stood. “I just wanted to check in on you since I’m off duty, so to speak.” The sheriff was never really “off duty.” It had been a running joke with them when he’d first been elected.
“There’s nothing going on between me and Quinn,” she said, then bit her tongue. Why was it so important that she convince Nick of that?
Or were her protests more about convincing herself?
He gave her a wry smile. “Believe what you want, Miranda, but the truth is your heart has always been with Quinn. I never had a chance. But I only just realized it.”
“I care about you. You’re my best friend.”
He nodded, and she knew she’d said the wrong thing. Nick was in love with her and she’d called him a friend.
Why did she always put her foot in her mouth?
“I know you care, Randy. You’ve always been a good friend. But a lousy girlfriend. ‘Night.”
She stared after him, wondering why in the world he’d stopped by. To see if she and Quinn were together? To convince himself of something? She shook her head as she finished her beer and tossed the empty bottles in the bin under the counter.
She’d never understand men.
CHAPTER
17
“You’re a fool.”
The Bitch was furious, but right now he didn’t care. She’d make him pay for breaking the rules later. After the hunt. But now, she couldn’t do anything.
He saw the gleam of excitement in her eyes.
He still hated her, but he hated her less on the nights they hunted together.
Her lack of patience irritated him, though.
“Why not that one?” she whined, gesturing at the brunette who had pulled into the gas station.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I want a blonde this time.”
“You just had a blonde.”
“I don’t care, I want another one.”
She sighed and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t want to be here all night.”
“It’s never taken more than a couple of hours. Dammit, have a little patience!” She never had patience. She thought he was a freak because he sat in the middle of the woods for days on end logging data about his birds.
He didn’t care what she thought about him. Right now, she was a help. Although most of the time he wanted to strangle her.
He didn’t dare touch her neck.
The brunette drove off after filling her tank. It was nearly eleven in the evening. They’d been here two hours. Traffic had slowed considerably after ten.
He placed his binoculars in his lap and waited for the next car to turn into the highway strip mall. They had a great vantage point, well concealed, up the road from the gas station, on a private drive. He knew the owner of the house at the end of the drive. An old woman, deaf as a post, who went to bed with the sun.
He’d selected this place because it was a regular stop for college students. Between the gas station, the pizza place, and the small bar, he knew he’d find someone that suited him.
He wasn’t picky. He just wanted a blonde again.
He’d hunted from this place once before. As a rule, he didn’t use the same place twice. Just in case. But enough time had passed. It was in this place that he’d found another blonde, twelve years ago.
If only she hadn’t had a friend with her.
The Bitch never let him go after Miranda Moore. It ate at him constantly. But The Bitch thought Moore deserved to live since she got away. Always, she taunted him. Always, she rubbed his nose in his failings. He hated her. Hated both of them.
Someday he’d make them pay. They were two peas in a pod, teasing him, ridiculing him.
But for now he couldn’t touch Miranda Moore. The Bitch said she’d turn him in. And he believed her.
“We’ll kill Miranda Moore if she becomes a threat, but she’s not,” The Bitch said over and over again. “She beat you, sweetheart. I want you to always remember that.”
As if he could forget with her constant reminders.
A Honda Civic pulled onto the frontage road. Bypassed the gas station a
nd went straight to the pizza place. He raised his binoculars.
A blonde stepped out from the driver’s side. His heart swelled, pounded in his chest.
The One.
Instantly he knew, just like every other time he’d hunted for women. She was The One, and he would have her.
“I’m going,” he said.
“Wait.”
“What now?”
“Look.”
Grudgingly, he looked. The passenger door opened. A redhead emerged. Together the blonde and the redhead walked into the pizza parlor.
“Wait,” The Bitch told him.
“No.”
“I said no more pairs. It’s too risky.”
“All right.”
She relaxed, and he opened the passenger door.
“Where are you going?” she demanded, almost leaping across the seat to grab him.
He stepped back, pocketing the bottle of molasses in his windbreaker. “I’m taking care of the car.”
“You said you agreed!”
“No pairs. Trust me. I’ll only take care of one.”
She didn’t believe him, but he didn’t care. He had no use for the redhead. This time, he only wanted the blonde.
He’d have to kill the redhead first.
CHAPTER
18
The lights of Nick’s truck illuminated the blue Honda Civic as he pulled up behind it, staying back thirty feet from the probable crime scene. He jumped out, leaving his lights on, and approached the responding officer, Brad Jessup.
“How’s the girl?”
“The EMT said critical. They’ve already taken her to the hospital.” Jessup checked his notes. “According to her driver’s license, she’s JoBeth Anderson. She had an MSU identification in her wallet and twenty-three dollars.”
“What happened? Hit and run?”
“Doesn’t appear to be any damage to the vehicle, sir.”
“Who called it in?”
“Red Tucker, sir.”
Everyone knew old Red. He owned the saloon fifteen minutes down the road at the 191/85 junction and was rumored to be the oldest man in Gallatin County.
“Where’s he now?”
“I had him sit in my cruiser, sir.”
Red sat at an angle in the passenger seat of Jessup’s patrol car, feet outside the car. His thick shock of white hair was in need of a trim, and his weathered face had so many wrinkles it could pass for a map of Yellowstone trails.
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