by Gregg Olsen
“Just a thought,” I say. “I’ve got a trainee with me anyway. Ronnie Marsh. Know her?”
“Ronnie?”
It wasn’t a question.
It was excitement.
If I checked his sperm count it would have doubled.
“She was here for a rotation. Smart girl.”
Evidently, Ronnie makes an impression wherever she goes.
“Yeah,” he says. “If you come by, I’ll show you what we’ve got on your kit.”
“See you in a bit, Marley. By the way, how long will that test take? A couple of days? A week?”
“Nah,” he says. “We have a new piece of equipment. We can get the DNA in two hours. Trouble is, I’m the only one here that’s been trained on it. You’ll have to ask for me.”
“Will do.”
That way you can show off for Ronnie and tell me what I want, I think.
“Bye, Marley.”
“Later on, Megan.”
I’m glad I can make someone’s day. Now I have to get the DNA samples from the Clallam and Kitsap County cases, also a rush job. Maybe I should send Ronnie to hand deliver them to be sure he’ll get on it. To be fair, Marley is a good forensic technician. The last case I had involved a locked cell phone. He managed to get it open in an hour and was able to give me much-needed information. And he’ll work all night if the case interests him. He’s like me in that way. Curious to a fault.
On the other hand, Marley is part of the bureaucracy. He’s stuck with having to justify everything. Every penny. Every hour. I only have to get results. I do what I have to and then ask for leniency if they catch me.
Much like I am about to do to Jim Truitt.
Wangling people to get information or favors is a residual trait from a childhood in which I learned very quickly that a trick or a lie is an excellent way to get what you want. I probably cried for a bottle even when I didn’t want one. But as good as I was at manipulation, my mother was the undisputed queen. She manipulated me my entire life. I didn’t realize it then, but every idea I thought was mine, every move I made, was orchestrated by her. Taking care of my brother while she was gone for days or weeks at a time was all for her benefit. She told me she was protecting the family—protecting me and my brother—but she was really maneuvering, lying bitch that she was. She betrayed us. When my stepfather was murdered, Hayden and I were forced to run. No plan. No money. No shelter. No food except what I could scrounge or steal. She turned me into a predator just like her, and my brother into someone I pitied and tried to protect.
That’s not true, I think as I reel in my thoughts.
I love Hayden. Always will. But the things I was forced to do I had to do alone. He thinks I abandoned him, and I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me.
In fact, I think he hates me.
Ronnie comes to my desk and dramatically lays a few eight-by-ten photographs in front of me. The quality is not the best because at the moment Jefferson County’s budget doesn’t include a decent color printer. She puts her finger on the first image.
“Margie Benton. Clallam.”
I was prepared for Margie to have red hair. Even to be young, in her early twenties. But I’m not at all prepared for the close likeness to Leann Truitt.
In fact, they could be sisters.
“Dina Knowles. Kitsap,” Ronnie says, turning up the next picture.
I feel my heart beating fast in my chest. My mouth is dry, and I feel a little nauseous. Not as bad as at the autopsy, of course. I was overwhelmed with feelings from the past crashing into each other and forcing themselves to the front. I must have zoned out staring at the pictures. The next thing I know, Ronnie is gently shaking my shoulder.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I force my eyes away from the photos and look at Ronnie.
“I’m okay. I’m fine,” I say, and try to lick my lips, but I have no saliva.
Ronnie sees my predicament. “I’ll get you some water,” she says, rushing away to the water cooler. She returns a second later with a tiny paper cup.
I have part of a pint of McCallum’s Scotch hidden in the back of my bottom desk drawer, but I don’t think I should get it. I need to be a good role model, although I really could use a drink.
I take the water and down it like a shot, turning the cup over on my desk and giving Ronnie a half smile.
“Feel better?”
“I’m fine,” I say.
The truth is I’m embarrassed. She already saw me get sick at Dr. Andrade’s stainless steel table. But she hasn’t seen a tenth of the things I’ve seen.
Or done.
Ronnie has several more pictures in her hands and starts to pull them away. I put my hand on hers.
“Leave them. I need to see all of them.”
I start with Margie. The description under the photo shows her height at five feet six inches, weight 110, hair color red, eyes blue, age twenty-two, white, female. The date she went missing and the date the body was found are listed last.
The second picture in the stack is a missing person’s poster. It appears to be a selfie taken in a car. It captures her from the chest up. The top of the steering wheel is in the picture but can’t hide the fullness of her breasts. Not now. She is giving a sexy You know you want me look. Her hair shines with a lustrous copper hue. Her face is flushed with happiness.
The contrast is like a negative of the autopsy photo.
Dina Knowles is listed as five feet eight inches, weight 120, hair red, eyes hazel, age twenty, white, female. The dates she went missing and was found are also recorded. I turn to the second page, which is also a missing person poster. This one is captured in the backyard of a home. She is sitting at a picnic table with a large drink in front of her. Maybe an iced tea or Long Island tea. There are several beer cans and bottles on the table. She is smiling and playfully holding a hand up in a fake attempt to block the camera. No rings on her fingers. No jewelry. Wrong. She is wearing a nose ring, a small gold hook. I did that once to look like a college student. I was only seventeen and had faked my admissions papers to get into Portland State.
I look again at the “Missing” photo of Margie. She is wearing earrings that look like little gold multicolor butterflies.
They are missing in her autopsy photo.
Margie was killed almost two years ago. Dina six months ago. The dates they were reported missing were not the same months, or even close. The killer wasn’t driven by a season or date like some. Instead he focused on the similarity of his victims.
Leann’s description from her license matches the description given by Dr. Andrade at the autopsy. Height five feet seven inches, weight 125, hair red, eyes hazel, age twenty-one—one month shy of twenty-two—white, female. She is wearing hoop earrings in the license photo. In the autopsy photo, her hair is washed-out red. Dead looking. Tiny puncture marks indent each earlobe. The earrings are missing from her pierced ears.
Ronnie said there was no jewelry in Leann’s cabin except for the locket.
Maybe this guy is a collector?
Margie’s butterflies.
Dina’s nose ring.
Leann’s hoop earrings.
Serial killers frequently keep mementos of their victims. I knew of one guy in Indiana who kept the driver’s licenses or ID cards of his victims. The pictures turned him on. They also proved to be his downfall.
“They all have the most beautiful red hair,” Ronnie says, bringing me back to the moment. “Mine was bright like that until I put a ridiculous rinse on it. I think I’ll change it back.”
She’s right. They all look like sisters. I don’t say it, but it passes through my mind just then: Ronnie looks like she could be related to the dead girls.
Twenty-Six
I flip through the remaining crime scene photos provided by the detectives in the Clallam and Kitsap County Sheriff’s Offices. The injuries on the bodies are almost identical to our victim’s. Dark narrow cuts encircle the wrists, the same marks are around the
ankles, and there is a wider, deeper bruise around the throat. A buckle mark cut into the back of the neck. The bodies only differ in the amount of deep tissue bruising from a fist or feet.
Margie also had some bruising that their pathologist stated was caused by a club about two inches wide that had broken some of the ribs in her back. She was the first victim. It’s possible her killer changed his method a little in the next killings for some reason.
Refining his techniques.
Anxious he’d be caught.
Playing with his victim.
I couldn’t look at the pictures of Margie’s evisceration too closely. Just so violent. So unspeakably cruel. I would read the autopsy report findings for that one. The idea of a baby being cut from her made me sick to my stomach. My mother escaped her captor and stayed lost long enough to have me. He didn’t cut me out of her.
I see Ronnie is having trouble with it also.
I have an idea and call Cass at the Nordland General Store. The phone rings several times before she answers.
“Nordland General Store. Eat in or carry out?”
“Cass, it’s me. Megan Carpenter with Jefferson County Sheriff’s.”
“I thought it might be you or that friend of yours. The Sheriff’s Office number came up on the screen. What can I get you?” she asks, before adding her two cents: “I hope you don’t want to talk to that no-account Bobbsey twin again. He gives me the creeps.”
I tell her what I have in mind without giving her a reason. She draws her own conclusion and agrees. She promises to call me.
I hang up just as Ronnie makes her way over from her temporary desk.
“I’ve got the detective from Kitsap on the phone,” she says. “He wants to know if we’re going to have a meeting here or do we want to come there? He’s already talked to Clallam County and they can go either way. He sounds anxious to see what we’ve got.”
I think for a moment. “Give me his number and tell him I’ll call him back. I need to see what the sheriff wants.” I don’t, really, but I need time to think how to do this. I already have a helper. Ronnie has worked out okay, but I work alone. Not out of jealousy, or to guard my case, but more because I do whatever it takes to find the bastard and take him out of play. I don’t need partners holding me back or holding me accountable.
I’m not sure how Ronnie will react to what I just asked Cass to do.
Ronnie goes back to her desk and gets on the phone.
My desk phone rings, and I answer. “Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office, Detective Carpenter.”
“Thank goodness. I thought maybe you’d quit.”
I know the voice immediately. “Hello, Dan.”
Dan Anderson is a man I met on my last major case, involving multiple murders up in Snow Creek. He lived in the area of the murders and helped with background information on two of the victims. He asked me out, I accepted, and the date went fairly well. And then the case had ended, and I didn’t keep up with him. In fact, he left a couple of voice messages that I never got around to returning. I don’t think I intended to. I figured he would get tired and give up. Most men would. Apparently not Dan.
“It’s been a while, Megan.”
Actually it has been two months and some change. I almost ask how he got my desk number but catch myself before the words come out.
“Yes, it has. Sorry.” I find myself almost doing the whole I’ve been busy or It’s me, not you routine. He saves me from babbling.
Actually, he saves me from ruining a potential relationship—something that has been in short supply of late.
As of always.
“I’m sorry for not reaching out before now,” Dan says. He doesn’t ask if I’d gotten his messages. He’s not confrontational or judgmental that way.
“I should have called you,” I say.
The line is silent. I’m wondering what to say next and I guess he is too. So awkward.
“Well, I’ll let you go. You’re probably in the middle of some big case. I just wanted to hear your voice again.”
I don’t need a relationship right now. Then I feel my resolve melting. “Actually, I am. But if you’re ever in the area, we should get together for coffee or something.”
It was like the words just escaped from my mouth. Just came out. I didn’t mean them. Or did I?
“As it happens, I’m in the area.”
“Port Hadlock?”
“No, Port Townsend,” he says. “I might as well come clean. I ran into Mindy a while back and she suggested I call you. In case you’re wondering, she’s the one who gave me this number.”
That figures. Mindy has been pushing me to have a life for as long as I’ve known her. “I’m pretty tied up today,” I say.
I am busy, but it’s really not you. It’s me. I’m sorry.
He lets out a breath. “Oh. Okay. Maybe some other time.”
His disappointment is palpable through the phone and I immediately amend my response.
“Dan,” I say, “wait. I might be able to meet you downtown, at the waterfront. You remember where Hops Ahoy is, right?”
We had our first and only date there. Mindy came along with me to be an escape route if I didn’t like him. He showed up and the two of them did most of the talking. I couldn’t share my past and felt horrible making things up. Not that I couldn’t come up with lies quick. I just didn’t like lying to Dan. He walked me to my car and asked me for another date. It didn’t happen.
I didn’t let it.
“That’s great. When? I mean what time?”
We agree on seven and the call is over. I hope I will be able to put the case aside by then, knowing full well that I’ll stew all night. And something may come up. If that happens, I have his number to disappoint him again. Unfortunately, Ronnie overhears my part of the conversation.
“Is Dan your boyfriend?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “Just an acquaintance.”
I’m not about to explain to her that when it comes to relationships, especially one that might actually go somewhere besides the bedroom, I’m pretty messed up. Or that I liked him almost immediately and I know he liked me. Or when it comes to love I don’t have the trust that’s needed to water it and help it grow. Instead, I withhold the parts of me that are important and end up lying about almost everything. Nothing grows in salted soil.
Ronnie grins. “Sounds to me like you have a date tonight.”
I give her a shrug and return the smile. Yes. It does. Not much scares me, but I’m scared. I need to make a call. I go outside and make a call to another person I haven’t talked to for a while.
Dr. Albright is always there for me.
Twenty-Seven
Karen Albright doesn’t let me down. She answers almost before the first ring is finished.
“Megan, I’m so glad you called.”
She sounds sincere. Is sincere. She’s my last best friend on earth. She’s the only living soul who knows almost all of my past. Enough to label me one of the monsters I’ve hunted. Hunted and killed. But she doesn’t. She listens. I trust her like I never trusted my mother. Or my aunt.
I’ve never allowed myself to call her Karen. Her first name. She is always Dr. Albright to me. She knows it. I know it. It’s what works for us.
“Dr. Albright, I just called to see how you are.” Even I can hear the lie in my voice. The nervous edge that comes with each word.
“Talk to me, Megan. I’m here.”
I knew she would always be there too.
“This is going to sound silly,” I say.
“Then why don’t you take a moment and amuse me.”
I can hear the smile. I don’t know why, but I feel a sting of wetness in my eyes. I don’t allow myself to cry. It’s a weakness. Weakness equals disaster, even death, in my world. I force myself to let out a small laugh.
“I’ve got a date tonight.”
Dr. Albright stays silent. That’s one of my tricks. A good one.
I fill in the gap. “I gu
ess I’m afraid.”
“Afraid you’ll have fun?”
I detect the mirth in her voice again. She’s not interrupting the flow. She’s redirecting it to the real reason I called her.
“I like him,” I say. “He likes me. He’s been trying to reach me for a month.”
“He contacted you today?”
“Just now. He wants to meet me for drinks tonight.” I don’t admit that I’m the one who proposed that. It’s a little miscommunication, not really a lie. Dr. Albright is quiet. I know if I don’t tell her what’s on my mind, the whole conversation will be me saying one or two words and her staying silent.
“We got together a short while back and seemed to get along. And then, when he was walking me to my car, he asked me to go with him to some kind of art thing. I said yes. But I didn’t meet him. And I haven’t been returning his calls. And then he just shows up and I have too much to deal with already.”
“What are you dealing with, Megan?”
“I’m on the hunt again. I know you don’t approve of what I do, or how I see my place in the world, but someone is kidnapping, torturing, and killing young women. I can’t… I don’t know how to…”
She waits. I get my voice under control, although my emotions are all over the place. Sadness, panic, anger, rage, self-loathing. I don’t want to be like my biological father. I don’t want to be like my mother. Sometimes I don’t want to be like me.
“I see myself as the bad guy—girl—sometimes. It freaks me out, but I know what I have to do. I know it’s the right thing to do. Yesterday and today have been a jumble of connections to my past. I attended an autopsy on one of these victims. There are three so far over the last two years. The one I went to the autopsy on happened two days ago. At least, that’s when we found her body.”
I can feel the darkness edging its way into my vision and my thoughts. Anger is winning out. Soon it will be full-blown rage.
I keep going. No air. No stopping. Just unloading it all.
“The woman he killed two years ago was gutted. He cut a baby out of her. She was four months pregnant. Sick. Disgusting. And the woman I found yesterday had a baby about a year ago. I think she got pregnant by her father. He’s a suspect now. He’s rich and arrogant and sick in the head. He’s trying to get the sheriff to take me off the case.”
