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

by Elle Gray

  “So when were you rejected by the Bureau?”

  His jaw is clenched so tight, he looks like he could shatter stone between his teeth, telling me that I scored a direct hit.

  “Let me guess, you didn’t pass the psych eval,” I press. “Am I right?”

  Summers opens his mouth to reply, but wisely bits off his words. Instead, he turns and stalks out of the office, slamming the door behind him, no doubt going to go trash-talk me to some of his buddies. Which is fine since I don’t really care what somebody like him thinks of me.

  With him gone, I get back to work, calling up the next case file and immediately scrolling to the crime scene photos. This is one of the homicides in the city from a couple of years back, a guy named Donald Landry. I’d been so busy trying to glean whatever information I could from the case files themselves, I never stopped to thoroughly study the crime scene photos. Now that I’m taking the time to thoroughly examine them, I’m seeing the threads of my theory starting to come together to form one intricate tapestry.

  Or at least, one of my theories. I’m not sure how it dovetails with the other, or if it does at all. It could be that I’m looking at two entirely different situations unfolding that may coincidentally be overlapping with one another. I’ve never been a big believer in coincidences. However, that’s a song for another dance. Right now, I need to ensure that my first theory holds water.

  “One thing at a time though,” I quietly remind myself.

  I blow up the images of the Landry crime scene and carefully look them over, then look at the notes in the crime scene report and see they don’t match one another. Next, I call up the crime scene photos from one of the more recent homicides, that of Tyler Salters. Same thing. No blood at the scene, and it’s not noted on the report either, adding another brick to the wall of my theory.

  There’s a knock at the door, and I look up to see Sheriff Morris standing there. He gives me a grin and walks in, coffee mug in hand, and immediately fills up. When he sits down in the chair across the desk from me, I give him a grin.

  “I thought the cop shop swill was good enough for you,” I tease.

  “I dwelled in darkness, but you have shown me the light,” he replies.

  We share a laugh, but it fades quickly as my thoughts turn back to the matter at hand. And once again, I feel that tingle of excitement in the pit of my belly I get when I’m onto something and the momentum of a case begins to accelerate.

  “So I’ve been going through the case files. Studying the crime scene photos and all,” I begin. “And I’m noticing a trend among the victims－”

  “Which victims are we talkin’ about here? Is it the brunette women, or is it the non-brunette women kind?”

  “The non-brunette woman kind,” I clarify. “Although, there is an interesting commonality. But I’ll get to that in a bit.”

  “The floor is yours,” he says.

  “Let me just say up front that this is hardly definitive. At the moment, it’s little more than anecdotal,” I explain. “But it’s an interesting place to start. See if we can build out the theory from there.”

  “All right. Noted.”

  I take a drink of my coffee and give him a nod. “So anyway, I’ve picked out half a dozen cases from different years. And in those six cases, the photos from the crime scene show no pooled blood,” I tell him. “But it’s not noted on the original ME’s report. That’s why I didn’t see the link between these cases before.”

  “Let me be clear on this. You’re sayin’ the lack of blood at the crime scene is a link between different crimes, from different years?”

  “You don’t?”

  “Well, I admit, it’s an awfully big coincidence, but－”

  “I’m not a big believer in coincidences, Sheriff. These six bodies I’ve found so far, and who knows how many more I’m going to find, were all dumped,” I say. “Killed at a secondary location and dumped. And for some reason, the initial crime scene reports don’t mention that fact. Don’t you think that’s a bit strange?”

  “Well, when you put it that way, it does sound strange,” he says.

  “Tell me something, how long has Dr. Carville been the ME here?”

  “Oh, I guess it’s got to be about ten years or so now,” he frowns, and then his eyes widen. “You’re not sayin’ you think she’s mixed up in this somehow, are you?”

  I shrug. “I’m not saying anything yet. But of the six cases I’ve pulled so far, she’s the name on all the reports. She analyzed the crime scene but didn’t see fit to note that the victims were killed at a different location. To me, that’s a curiosity.”

  “I’ve known Sofia for a good long while now, and I can tell you firsthand the woman wouldn’t hurt a fly,” he says, his face suddenly red. “There ain’t no way she’s mixed up in this. God, I’ve known her for years. I don’t believe that.”

  “And that may be, Sheriff. Like I said, right now all I’m doing is gathering information and trying to see how the puzzle pieces all fit together,” I say.

  That seems to mollify him somewhat, and he sits back. The sudden heat in his voice as he defended her is interesting to me. It suggests a personal relationship between the two. A relationship that isn’t strictly professional. Not that I’m judging them for it. Not at all. My only concern is that it could cloud Morris’ judgment when it comes down to it, if the pieces do actually fall the way they’re suggesting to me right now.

  I’m troubled by the fact that as the city’s one-woman forensics unit, Sofia can paint a picture of a crime scene any way she wants without being contradicted. And the fact that in these six cases, across six different years, all fail to list the obvious fact that it was a body dump bothers me. It definitely sets my radar pinging.

  “Sheriff, I need to know that no matter how this all shakes out, that you’re with me. That you’re committed to getting at the truth,” I say.

  His expression darkens and he glares at me with actual heat in his eyes. He hasn’t looked at me with that much anger in his expression since the day I walked in. That further bolsters the idea that he and Sofia are more than just colleagues.

  “You can say whatever you want about me, Agent Wilder. Call me an ignorant yokel. Call me an idiot for not bein’ the kind of cop you are, what with all your fancy degrees and education. I don’t give a damn,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “But don’t you ever sit there and question my integrity. Ever.”

  “I’m not questioning your integrity, Sheriff. I would never do that. All I’m saying is that I know how difficult it is to believe that somebody we care about could be involved in something so… shocking,” I say as delicately as I can. “I know how our personal feelings and our relationships to others can cloud our thoughts. Believe me, I’ve been there. That’s all I’m saying.”

  He sits back and I watch as the heat and anger melt away, his expression turning to one of surprise. He runs a hand over his face and that’s when I see the worry crossing his features.

  “How’d you know?” he asks. “About Sofia and me?”

  “It’s my job to be observant. To pick up on the subtle clues.”

  His laugh is rueful. “We’ve been discreet. Nobody knows about us. Can’t know about us,” he says. “It’s improper, and in the case of Briar Glen, illegal for me to be having relations with a subordinate.”

  “How is she your subordinate?”

  “Because accordin’ to our charter, the ME’s office falls under the auspices of the office of the Sheriff,” he says. “They could fire me. Jail me for a bit, if they’re feelin’ vindictive. They’ll sure as hell strip me of my pension.”

  “The city council?”

  “Nest of vipers. Yeah, them,” he says. “The mayor and the council sometimes like to make examples of civil servants who displease them. And I’ve displeased them more than once, so they’re lookin’ for reasons to take me behind the woodshed.”

  I lean forward and pin the Sheriff to his seat with my eyes, letting him
feel the intensity of my gaze.

  “Nobody will ever hear it from me, Sheriff. I give you my word,” I tell him, mustering every last drop of sincerity I can.

  He looks at me for a moment, then nods. “I appreciate that, Agent Wilder.”

  A grin touches my lips. “Are you ever going to just call me Blake?”

  Morris’ chuckle is a deep rumble that starts in his belly and works its way upward. But I can see the relief in his face, knowing I’ll keep his secret. It might be a moot point though, if the pieces keep falling into place in the direction they’re going. It makes me wonder if Sofia would keep their secret or use it as leverage against him to either avoid any responsibility, or to cut a deal that benefits her. I hope we never have to find out.

  There’s a knock on the door and Summers sticks his head in again. He glares balefully at me while Morris’ back is turned, but when the Sheriff turns, his expression morphs to one that’s far warmer and friendlier. The shift is so sudden, I almost laugh as I think about how badly he must have failed Quantico’s psych eval, which I can guarantee he did. Just for giggles, I make a mental note to look it up.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff,” Summers says. “But we’ve got a body.”

  Morris and I exchange a look, both of our expressions darkening as the full implication of it hits us.

  “Damn,” I mutter.

  Nineteen

  Widow’s Bluff; Briar Glen, WA

  “Couple of hunters found her and called it in,” Morris says.

  “Why is it called Widow’s Bluff?” I ask.

  “If you believe the old stories, back in the day, women who’d just lost their husbands would come out to this point and throw themselves off,” Morris replies.

  I step to the edge and look at the waves crashing against the rocky shoreline a hundred feet below and shudder, then quickly step back. I’m not much for heights. Especially when there’s tall, jagged rocks waiting for you below.

  Turning around, I watch Sofia kneeling down next to the body of Tracy Webster, scratching out notes and observations in her notebook. This time, I’m looking at her with a more critical eye, watching everything she’s doing, looking for any sign that would confirm my theory. Or refute it. From the corner of my eye, I catch Morris watching me scrutinize her. His face tightens and he steps away but says nothing.

  On the ground, Tracy’s body is staged just like the other woman’s. She’s been wrapped in a thin, muslin robe, her hands folded over her chest. And just like the other woman, she’s got one white acrylic fingernail with a red cross on it, which confirms one of my theories. There is a serial in play here.

  It’s a good thing, and a bad thing. On the plus side, it will help me refine my focus. With two bodies now, I can start putting together a profile. And in the negative column, of course, is the fact that somebody is hunting women in Briar Glen.

  “Looks like you’re right.”

  Sofia’s voice cuts into my thoughts and I look down at her. There’s part of me that wants to believe Morris is right about her, that she wouldn’t harm a fly. But my experience has shown me that some of the worst monsters hide behind the sweetest faces. You just never know what darkness lurks in the hearts of people.

  But as I look around at the terrain, I know for certain that if Sofia is involved with this, she’s not working alone.

  I squat down on the other side of the body. “Right about what?”

  “That we’ve got a serial killer in town,” she says, pointing to the nail. “The signature.”

  “And the robes,” I note. “Very ritualistic.”

  She nods. “This girl took a beating. Look at the bruises on her face, and those you can see on her body.”

  Like the first woman, the cloth is thin enough that it’s nearly see through. I can see not only that she is nude, but that she is covered in bruises.

  “Sadistic bastards,” Sofia mutters.

  Her tone suggests genuine outrage to me. That could argue that she’s sincere in her shock and anger. Or that she’s a very good actress.

  “You studied forensics at Washington, right?” I ask.

  She nods. “I have a dual degree in internal medicine and in forensic science from U-Dub. Go Huskies,” she says with a small laugh. “I’ve also studied a little criminal psychology and profiling techniques. Nothing like you of, course. I’m definitely not profiler material, but I find it, and what you do, fascinating.”

  I laugh politely but add that bit of information to the pile growing in my mind. If she’s got education in profiling techniques, she would know how to plant evidence or remove it based on potential profiles. And her training as a medical examiner means she’d have access to crime scenes, and the authority to make final reports. She’d know to make the appropriate determination about dump sites versus primary crime scenes in her reports. It rules out the possibility that this was just sloppy police work, which is another damning brick in the wall I’m building around her.

  There is still a lot that isn’t adding up in this scenario, of course. But the signs I’m seeing are pointing to Sofia’s involvement, in some fashion. It could be that her role is simply limited to falsifying reports. It makes her no less culpable, of course but it does make me wonder who she could be covering for. Who could she possibly be willing to risk going to prison for the rest of her life for.

  My eyes find Sheriff Morris. He’s standing with a couple of his deputies, gesturing to the area around them, obviously giving them orders to sweep the area for evidence and clues. But could he be ordering them to look for things he knows aren’t there? I don’t want to believe it, and everything inside of me is resisting the idea, but I have to consider the possibility that Morris is involved as well.

  There have been cases of men and women working in tandem to commit serial murder. Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka come immediately to mind. Back in the nineties, Bernardo and Homolka worked together to rape and murder teenage girls, including Karla’s younger sister. So it’s not unprecedented. But what’s throwing me is Sofia’s assertion that there are multiple offenders.

  It makes me wonder if perhaps she threw that out there as a red herring, knowing it would muddy the waters. If she’s studied profiling, she would know how to throw a monkey wrench into the gears. Her knowledge of forensics, crime scenes, and profiling makes her a very dangerous person. It also puts her near the top of my suspects list.

  What I don’t have is motivation. What would Sofia get out of this arrangement? Karla Homolka claimed that Bernardo abused her mentally, physically, and sexually, breaking her down and eventually forcing her into the series of rapes and murders they were convicted of. Karla claimed that his abuse had stripped her of sense of self, and that she had lost her ability to think and act independently.

  But as I look at Sofia, then at Morris, I just can’t see it. I understand that my growing fondness for the gruff old sheriff could be clouding my vision, but I just don’t get the sense that he’s the type of man who would ever lay hands on a woman. Much less coerce her into a series of rapes and murders. He doesn’t read sociopath to me, which he’d have to be to commit these atrocities.

  But then, sociopaths are adept at hiding their true natures and mimicking normal emotions. I like to think that I’ve been educated and trained well, not to mention that I have a natural ability, and can see through the BS. I like to think I’m intuitive enough to see through a person, see whether their emotions are genuine, or whether they’re simply faking it. And Morris doesn’t ping my radar.

  That doesn’t exclude him, of course. Standing back and looking at this objectively, there is no way I can exclude him. Not now. Not after what I’ve learned so far. But I want to think it’s unlikely. Time, and the evidence, will tell. What I do know for certain is that I need to be on my guard around them both, and I need to view them through an entirely dispassionate and objective lens.

  As Morris approaches me, I get to my feet and give him a nod. “Ritual’s the same. Condition of the bo
dy seems the same too.”

  He nods. “Don’t need to be a profiler to see that. Initial thoughts?”

  “Whoever did this is young. Strong. Fit.”

  Morris looks around and nods again, turning to look at me pointedly. I can already see his mind working and know exactly what his next words are going to be.

  “Terrain would make it tough for anybody but a strong, fit man to hike out here carrying a body,” he says.

  And that much is true. The path through the woods is steep in places, and rocky. It’s tough to get to and lugging Tracy Webster’s one hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight would make it even more difficult. His implication, of course, is that Sofia couldn’t have done it. But I look him in the eye, holding his gaze firmly.

  “Not necessarily. It could be that somebody smaller and physically weaker had help hauling Tracy Webster up here,” I offer. “We may be looking at multiple offenders, after all.”

  Morris grinds his teeth so hard I can practically hear them cracking. I’m not sure if he’s more upset that I won’t rule Sofia out as a suspect, or if that I’m basically implying that he’s involved. Could be a mixture of both. He leans forward, moving closer to me, and when he speaks, he pitches his voice low so that only I can hear.

  “Be careful what you’re accusin’ me of, Agent Wilder.”

  “I’m not accusing anybody of anything,” I reply, my voice just as low. “I’m simply stating the facts as I see them. Which is what I thought you wanted me to do.”

  He takes off his Smokey the Bear hat and runs a hand through his short, gray hair, then puts it back on. He’s flustered and upset. I can see that plain as day. I probably would be too if somebody was implying that I was a serial rapist and murderer. But at the same time, I can also see that he’s hearing my words, and though he doesn’t like them, he has to grudgingly respect them, since I am presenting facts as I see them in an unbiased way.

  He looks at me for a long moment, then leans forward again. “I can tell you unequivocally that I’m not involved with this. And I know for a fact that Sofia wasn’t either. We were together last night.”