The 7 She Saw (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 1)

by Elle Gray

  My eyes fall on a photo of Murray and the dark-haired woman I saw last night. She’s a beautiful woman with creamy skin and hazel eyes. Her cheeks are naturally flushed, she’s got delicate features, and full, pouty lips. She’s stunning, and coupled with Murray, who is a tall, lean, athletic, good looking man, I have no doubt they would have made genuinely beautiful babies.

  “What is it you do at the hospital, Mr. Murray?” I ask, for no other reason than to give him something to focus on other than his missing fiancée. The more mundane the better. I want to get him calmed down, simply because if his mind isn’t occupied with his concern and fear, he might be in a better position to provide us with valuable information that could help.

  Plus, it gives me a chance to look for tells. Honestly, my initial sense is that he had nothing to do with it. They say it’s usually always the spouse or boyfriend, but they’re not always right. While it’s true that a shocking number of murders are committed by somebody the victim knows, there is still a high number committed by strangers to the victim. It’s up to us to determine which kind this is, and what’s really going on here.

  “I’m a nurse,” he tells me simply.

  “Do you often work overnights?” I ask.

  “No. They called me last night because somebody else had called off and they needed somebody to cover,” he says.

  “What does Tracy do for a living?” I ask.

  “She’s a kindergarten teacher,” he tells me.

  “Did she have any trouble with anybody recently?” Morris asks. “Anybody threaten her or anything?”

  He shakes his head. “No, of course not. Everybody loves her. Tracy is a good person. A genuinely good person.”

  “Everybody has skeletons, Jordan,” I tell him.

  “She doesn’t. I’m telling you, Tracy never had trouble with anybody.”

  “Does she run the same route every night?” I ask.

  He nods. “She’s faithful about it. Almost obsessive, really. But it’s a safe neighborhood. She’s never had any trouble…”

  His voice trails off, unable to complete the thought. His face falls and he looks away, doing his best to control his emotions, but I can see that it’s taking a real effort on his part to stay calm.

  “How long have you been together?” I ask.

  He’s still bristling at the suggestion that his fiancé is anything but the saint he thinks she is. And maybe she is. But the fact that her abductors knew where she was running, deep inside a neighborhood, tells me that she’d been targeted. They knew where to look for her, and worse, knew what her running schedule was.

  “Two years,” he says, his voice soft. “We got engaged about four months ago.”

  “And you’re sure that she never had trouble with anybody?” Morris asks.

  “I’m positive!” he shouts. “Why are you sitting here asking me all the stupid questions instead of out there looking for her?”

  Jordan loses his battle with his emotions and his lips quiver as the tears start rolling down his face. He scrubs them away angrily and tries to reassert his control once more. The tears stop falling, he’s breathing heavily, and his face is red. It’s a Herculean effort for him, but he’s holding on as best as he can.

  “Jordan, it may not seem like we’re trying to find her but believe me when I say we are. Sheriff Morris is doing all he can,” I tell him. “But to find her, we need to gather all the information we can. I know this is difficult, but please try to understand that the questions we’re asking are necessary.”

  “Fine. Ask your questions,” he grumbles.

  Morris glances at me and I can see his discomfort. Clearly, we’re on the same page about the next question and he seems to want me to ask it. I don’t blame him. It’ll probably easier coming from me since Jordan may not be as inclined to lash out. At least, in theory.

  “Jordan, I apologize in advance because I know how indelicate this is going to sound, but is Tracy seeing anybody else?” I ask. “Do you have any suspicions about her having somebody on the side?”

  His eyes narrow and he glares at me hatefully. “Of course not. How could you even ask me that? We loved each other and she would never cheat on me.”

  On the surface, it sounds like a stupid question to ask. Obviously. I mean, if she had somebody on the side, how would he know? On the other hand, him finding out she had a side piece would absolutely be motive for murder. So asking him the question isn’t so much because I think we’ll get a straight answer from him, it’s because I want to see his reaction to it. I want to get a read on him and see if I get the idea that he knew about it. And if I get the slightest hint that he knew, I’ll have no choice but to consider him a suspect.

  As I study him closely, reading his micro expressions and body language, I can tell that if she were stepping out on him, he had no idea. The look on his face and the outrage I’m seeing in his expression all point to a man who believes, down deep in his soul, that Tracy was faithful to him. And maybe she was. That will all come out the deeper we dig into her disappearance. But for all practical purposes, although I can’t entirely exclude him as a suspect at this point, I think I can fairly safely move Jordan to the back of the list.

  So that brings me back to the question at hand－how did Tracy’s abductors not only know where to find her, but when she would be at her most vulnerable?

  Seventeen

  Burt’s Burgers; Briar Glen, WA

  We’re sitting at a patio table, soaking in the sunshine. The afternoon is cool, but not cold, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. It’s a perfect day, weather-wise. After spending a few hours talking to Jordan Murray about his missing fiancé, Morris decided that we needed to stop off for lunch, so he decided on Burt’s, claiming it had the best burgers in town.

  The waitress comes out and drops off our plates: a bacon cheeseburger and fries for me, a double bacon and barbecue burger and onion rings for the Sheriff. My mouth starts watering at the sight of the still sizzling grease and hot cheese oozing out from under the bun and onto the wax paper beneath the burger. I pick up a fry and pop it into my mouth, enjoying the crunchy texture of the outside that surrounds a softer middle.

  “You know, it’s a good thing I enjoy a good burger, or I might have been offended by you choosing this place for us,” I remark.

  Morris smirks as he takes a bite of his burger. A rivulet of grease spills down his chin, so he sets his burger down and grabs a napkin, quickly wiping it away as he chews.

  “It’s a good thing I know you’re not the type who’s easily offended,” he replies.

  “And how would you know that?”

  He chuckles. “You’re not the only one who can read somebody, you know. I may not be a fancy profiler like you, but I can read people well enough.”

  “Okay first of all, I’m not a fancy profiler. I’m not part of the BAU,” I say with a laugh. “Maybe someday, but I’m not there yet. But I’ve got a pretty good understanding of psychology, and of people in general. I just use everything I learned in getting my degree in my work.”

  “All right, fair enough.”

  “And second, I never said you couldn’t read people. I imagine as a cop, you actually have to be pretty skilled at it.”

  “I do my best. As for my read on you, I know you’re not easily offended because you’re made of tougher stuff than that. You ain’t one of these people who get offended by the slightest thing that can be perceived as politically incorrect,” he says.

  “Not bad,” I reply. “But I admit that I can be a bit touchy about dealing with sexist crap. Just because I’m a woman, it doesn’t mean I’m less than anybody.”

  “And I’d never say you are. In fact, if I’m bein’ honest, some of the toughest people I know are women. Smartest too.”

  “That’s a pretty enlightened attitude, Sheriff. I don’t see much of that around the hallowed halls of the FBI.”

  “I hear it’s an old boy’s club.”

  “That’s an understatement.”<
br />
  He chuckles. “I think that’s pretty common in law enforcement. You look hard enough, you’ll see it in my department too,” he admits. “But I’ve got more female deputies in my shop than we’ve ever had in the town’s history. So I’d like to think I’m makin’ progress on that front.”

  “I’d say so,” I tell him.

  I look at him for a moment as I cut my burger in half, then take a bite of it, studying him closely to see if there’s a punchline coming. But I judge that he’s being sincere. Which means I’m the one who’s a jerk here since I’ve been making assumptions about him since I got into town. I let his big, gruff, country demeanor lead me to assumptions about everything from his taste in music, his taste in movies, and his attitude toward women. I’ve been wrong about everything about Sheriff Morris, which has been humbling, to say the least.

  I chew another bite of my burger, which I have to say, is actually pretty good. I guess it’s just another thing Morris is right about. As we eat our meals in a companionable silence, my thoughts turn to the woman on the beach, and of course, to Tracy Webster. Her abduction has started to clarify some things in my mind. But at the same time, I’m still a bit confused. And sadly, the only way my theory is going to pan out is if we find her body.

  I’d much rather be proven wrong, to be honest. Being wrong, I can deal with. Having to look into those hazel eyes that looked so full of life in that photograph, dulled and glazed over in death would be unbearable. I understand it’s an aspect of the job, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I take a small piece of every person whose had their life stolen with me. They’re in my heart and always will be.

  Some consider that a liability. Some stress the need to keep a distance from the victims, to not personalize things, and keeping your heart cold, just to maintain our own sanity. It’s a philosophy I disagree with. I think part of what makes me good at my job is that I do take these crimes personally. Seeing these people, whose lives have been stolen from them makes me want to hold somebody accountable. It drives me to seek justice for them. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

  “So, I’m thinking Jordan doesn’t have anything to do with it,” I start.

  Morris nods. “I agree. Poor kid’s all torn up.”

  I nod. “And even though I want to be wrong and desperately want to find her, I’m pretty sure we’re only going to find Tracy when her body is dumped somewhere.”

  He sighs. “I had the same thought. Which would be a damn shame. To say the least. But what’s cookin’ in that big brain of yours? I can practically smell the smoke from here.”

  I frown for a moment as I consider my words. “I don’t have anything concrete just yet, I’m afraid.”

  “But you’ve got some ideas. I can see it on your face.”

  “It’s just… the woman on the beach, and now Tracy,” I say. “Did you notice how similar in appearance they are?”

  He sits back in his chair, munching on an onion ring as he ponders my words. He obviously hadn’t noticed the similarities in their appearance.

  “They’re both young brunettes. Similar body types－thin but curvy,” I say. “Both very pretty.”

  “And does that mean something? I mean, it could be a simple matter of coincidence. Availability.”

  “Possibly. But I think it’s more than that.”

  He smirks. “I feel some of your profiler voodoo comin’ on.”

  I laugh softly. “Hardly. Just observational work. But it could be that what we have is a preferential offender.”

  “A preferential offender?”

  I nod. “Yes. And in this case, our unsub prefers curvy brunettes,” I say. “It could be that these women are substitutes for a curvy brunette who did him wrong at some point in his life. And by killing these women, he’s symbolically killing her.”

  “That’s an interesting take.”

  “It’s also not certain yet. There are certain things that still aren’t making sense to me.”

  “Like what?”

  “First, I’m looking at this as a serial. But the multiple offenders who assaulted the woman from the beach argues against that. And last night, when Tracy was snatched, the use of a van suggests to me that there were multiple offenders at that scene as well.”

  Morris purses his lips. “What makes you say that?”

  “If this was a single offender, he’d be a lot more circumspect about taking her. He’d use stealth and speed. I doubt that a single offender would risk snatching a woman out in the open like that. And the use of a van suggests to me, there was at least one man in the cargo area who did the snatching, as well as a driver. I believe we’re looking at two offenders. At least.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “The time between the sound of the door slamming and the van taking off was too fast for anything else,” I explain. “So I believe we’re looking at multiple offenders. Which makes no sense if this is a serial since they don’t typically work and play well with others.”

  I sit back and take another bite of my burger and wash it down with some soda. I go over my words and all of the facts I have in my head for the millionth time. There are so many things that are starting to come into focus, but at the same time, so many more questions are forming in my mind.

  “But I won’t know whether my theory holds water or not until we find Tracy. If she’s returned without harm, I’m wrong－”

  “But if she’s not, you’ll be able to put together a profile.”

  I shake my head. “I’ll have another data point to start a profile. There’s still a lot I don’t know. A lot I need to figure out first before I can give you the most accurate profile I can put together.”

  “So how do these preferential offenders who snatched Tracy work in with the other murders you’re looking at?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know that they do, to be honest. There’s still a lot I’m trying to figure out, Sheriff. But I’m hoping to find answers in all of the case files I’m sifting through. I have to say though, Briar Glen is a complicated, confusing place.”

  He chuckles. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

  “It’s a good thing I like riddles and puzzles.”

  A rueful smile touches his lips that looks sort of nostalgic. Like his thoughts are forcing him to look into a fonder time in his past. But in a way, he also looks somewhat sad.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” I say.

  “I was just thinking that police work sure has changed over the years. It used to be easier back in the day. I’ll admit, it was a lot sloppier and less precise. But easier,” he tells me. “I came up in a time when we didn’t have all these psychological considerations. And Briar Glen isn’t exactly the kind of place that fosters that sort of forward-thinking police work. But I can see it has its uses.”

  “Maybe once this is all over, we can work on getting you a federal grant to get some investigative training. If we can secure you the grant, you’d be able to bypass the city council altogether, since it’s not coming out of the city’s general fund. If you’re interested in something like that anyway.”

  “That sounds terrific to me. I’d sure appreciate that,” he says.

  “Then we’ll see what we can do,” I tell him. “But first, let’s get everything here sorted out.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  Eighteen

  Briar Glen Sheriff’s Station; Downtown Briar Glen

  It’s just after seven the next morning and I’m sitting at my desk in my borrowed office, immersed in the case files. As I laid in bed last night, unsuccessfully trying to get some sleep, a thought occurred to me. So after a few fitful hours of sleep, I made my way down to the station to get to work on seeing if my idea bore fruit. And so far, after a couple of hours sifting through the case files－the crime scene photos in particular－I feel the twinge of excitement pulsing in my belly.

  As I stand to refill my coffee mug, the door bangs open and the square-jawed deputy
from yesterday steps in lugging a couple of boxes with him. He drops them on the floor in the corner, flicking a dismissive glance at me. I pour my coffee and turn to him, irritation in my eyes.

  “Excuse me, Deputy Summers, but have I done something to offend you?” I ask.

  His smirk is the embodiment of arrogance. “As a matter of fact, yeah. I found you walkin’ into our station pretty offensive,” he sneers. “And I find you tryin’ to make Sheriff Morris look bad even more offensive.”

  “With all due respect, Deputy, I’m not here trying to make anybody look bad. I’m trying to help clean things up here.”

  “What makes you think we need help? Things seem to be workin’ just fine to me,” he says.

  “If you think the astronomical murder rate, not to mention the sky high open-unsolved percentage in Briar Glen to be things working just fine then, I don’t actually know what to say,” I reply. “If you can’t see there’s something strange happening in this town, I can’t help you, Deputy.”

  “Maybe I don’t need your help.”

  I shrug. “Maybe you don’t. But thankfully, you’re not the one who gets to make that call.”

  He scoffs and gives me the up and down elevator eyes, a sneer on his face. This is a man I have no doubt has no compunction about putting hands on a woman. I don’t need to be a psychological expert to profile this guy. He’s a cretin and a chauvinist, probably suffering from a touch of narcissistic personality disorder.

  “You Feds are all alike. You think you walk on water,” he spits. “You think you can just roll into town and act like we should be grateful. Like we should roll over and thank our lucky stars you’re here to save us from falling all over our own feet,” he growls.

  I drop down behind my desk and set my mug down, letting out a hearty chuckle. Summers’ face darkens and he glares at me like he wants to beat me bloody here and now. But he’s given himself away. Now I know his secret. His hatred of Feds－any Fed－and the vitriol he’s spewing can only come from one place.