by Elle Gray
A wry grin touches my lips. “You know as well as I do that doesn’t prove anything, Sheriff. Co-conspirators can’t provide alibis for one another since they tend to be less than reliable. I mean, co-conspirators kind of have a vested interest in protecting each other.”
He smirks, knowing I’m right and that his words were foolish. He nods and glances over at Sofia, who’s still hard at work processing the body. I feel bad for putting him on the defensive like this, but it’s my job. This is what I do. I dig and keep digging until I’m able to ferret out the truth.
“For what it’s worth, my gut instinct tells me you’re not involved. I can get a feeling about a person sometimes and let me just say you’re not setting off the warning bells in my head. But I have to follow the evidence where it leads me,” I tell him, then add pointedly, “Wherever it leads me.”
He nods and grits his teeth, obviously not wanting to continue this out here, which I don’t blame him for.
“Listen, I need to get back to town. I need to notify her fiancé. I’ll have one of my deputies drive you back when you’re ready to go,” he says, obviously not wanting to be around me right now.
“That’s fine,” I reply. “I want to spend a little more time out here anyway.”
“All right then. I’ll see you back at the station later.”
I watch Morris walk off. He’s still tense and angry, but he’s not trying to deter me from what I’m doing. I can see it’s taking a toll on him, which doesn’t seem unreasonable, given how everything seems to be unfolding.
I don’t actually believe that Morris is involved. And I don’t want to believe that Sofia is either. The odds of two sociopaths meeting and joining forces like this are long. At best. But as Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka showed the world, it’s not impossible.
And like I said before, we never truly know what darkness is inside somebody’s heart.
Twenty
Pacific Crest Motor Court; Briar Glen, WA
I walk to the edge of hotel lot and stare out at the Pacific. The sun is slipping toward the horizon, setting the sky aflame in vivid shades of orange and red. The vast and endless ocean in front of me shimmers, reflecting the colors in the sky like it’s a pool of fire. A cool breeze blows in, rustling through the brush and making the trees of the forest that surround the hotel groan mournfully.
I slip the Bluetooth ear bud in and press the button to make the call, then drop my phone into my pocket as I wait for the call to connect.
“As I live and breathe, it’s world-renowned monster hunter Blake Wilder on my phone. It’s like having Publisher’s Clearing House show up on my doorstep with one of those giant checks. Whatever did I do to earn such an honor?” Astra gasps, feigning breathlessness.
Despite the dark mood that’s settled down over me, I laugh. “Have you always been this big of an ass and I’ve just never noticed before?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” she chirps brightly. “Being observant was never really your strong suit, babe.”
I like that no matter how bleak my mood, Astra can usually get me laughing and lighten my mood. She’s a bright spot in my life, for sure.
“So how are things down in southern hickville?” she asks.
“Complicated. Getting more complicated by the minute?”
“Really?”
“Indeed.”
“Like, good complicated, as in you found yourself a rich, gorgeous man and you’ve decided to run off to the Maldives with him?”
I laugh and kick at a stone near the toe of my boot. “Fortunately for me, it’s not that kind of complicated.”
“I don’t know what’s fortunate about that,” she replies. “I mean, that’s the dream. What about this sheriff you’re dealing with? Small town sheriffs are known to be super-hot. I think it’s that Old West cowboy vibe or something.”
“Oh, Sheriff Morris is great. He’s a smart, tough, and good-looking older man,” I tell her. “I bet he’d fit right in with your daddy issues perfectly.”
Astra’s burst of laughter is so loud, I can feel my shoulders moving up towards my ears as if to protect them.
“That was a nice shot, Blake,” she says. “I hate you for it, but that was a good one. And they say you’re a goody two shoes, uptight prig of an ice queen who doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
“I see you attended Grant’s latest TED talk about me.”
“I just got the Cliff Notes version,” she replies.
My laughter and the good cheer she inspired in me tapers off as I stare out at the ocean, thinking about everything that’s happening. And right on cue, the darkness that’s been hovering at the edges, kept at bay by Astra’s humor, crawls back in and settles down over me.
As I stand there, I feel a prickling on the back of my neck. A sensation like a finger of ice sliding down my spine makes me turn around and scan the grounds around me. I’m certain I’m being watched. But I don’t see anybody lurking about. I look at the forest that surrounds me, peering into the shadows, looking for the slightest movement, but still see nothing.
I’m not one given to fits of paranoia. My instincts are usually spot on. I learned to trust them completely a long time ago, and right now, my instincts are telling me that somebody’s watching me. I can’t see them, but I know somebody’s out there. I’d bet my life on it.
“So what’s up, girl? Why do you sound so tense?” she asks.
“Hang on a sec,” I reply.
The unsettling thought that somebody’s watching me through a rifle scope steals over me. I suddenly feel exposed. Vulnerable. Silhouetted against the backdrop of the fiery colored ocean behind me, I’m sure a blind man could drop me with a shot. This is hunting country, after all, and everybody is armed.
Moving with a purpose, I walk back to my bungalow and go back inside, shutting the door behind me. I turn the locks and quickly retrieve my sidearm. I chamber a round and turn out the lights, sidling over to the window and peeking around the curtain. Nothing outside moves and I still see nobody. But the feeling of being watched doesn’t diminish.
“Blake? What’s going on?” she asks, her voice suddenly as tense as I feel.
“Nothing,” I reply. “Maybe I’m just getting jumpy in my old age.”
She scoffs. “You’re the least jumpy person I know. Are you in danger?”
“Unclear at this point,” I respond. “But I’m pretty sure somebody’s got eyes on me.”
“That’s my best friend Blake, always making friends and influencing people wherever she goes.”
If somebody was going to take a shot at me, they probably would have done so by now. God knows I presented them with a perfect target outside. I’m not going to ignore it or write it off. Somebody was definitely out there and they were definitely watching me. I’m sure of it. But I back down the threat level in my head, thinking that perhaps it was kids. Or some random hunter passing through. Or somebody with no nefarious intent.
I set my sidearm on the table and sit down, keeping my eyes trained on the grounds outside. It never hurts to be vigilant. But I turn my attention back to my phone call when Astra snaps me out of my head and back to the present.
“Blake?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” I sigh. “Sorry.”
“You’re freaking me out, babe.”
“It’s fine. I’m sure it’s nothing,” I tell her. “I’m just wound pretty tight right now. For such a small city, there’s a lot going on here.”
“Lay it out for me,” she says.
And so I do. I lay out the facts as I know them, including my observations and conclusions, and give her my theories as to what I think it all means. She listens to me patiently, and knowing Astra as I do, she’s analyzing it all. She’s a lighthearted goofball and a free spirit, but she’s a damn good agent and truly one of the smartest people I know.
“Wow,” she says when I’m finally done. “There really is a lot going on there.”
“There is. And I could really use your help,” I s
ay. “I need your brain, Astra.”
“Sure, what do you need me to do?”
“Honestly? I need you to pack a bag, grab your gear, and get your butt down here,” I say. “I’ll clear it with Rosie and Potts.”
“Road trip. Excellent,” she says.
“I’m going to send you some files and if you don’t mind looking over them tonight, I’d really like to hit the ground running,” I say. “I need you to analyze some things for me. I need independent corroboration.”
“You got it,” she says. “I’ll do my homework tonight, and head out first thing in the morning.”
“You’re a life saver, Astra.”
“Yeah. I really am.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Great. I’ll see you then.”
I disconnect the call and set the earbud down next to my sidearm, then turn my attention back to the window and the grounds beyond it. But the feeling of being watched has dissipated. Whoever was out there is gone, but the disquiet I feel about being watched in the first place lingers.
Twenty-One
City Morgue; Briar Glen, WA
The next morning, I called Rosie and Potts first thing and got them to sign off on lending Astra to me for a while. I made sure to leave her a key to the bungalow and instructions with the manager to let her in. I left a message for her in the room, telling her what I needed to her to start with.
After that, I headed down to the morgue. I wanted to be there for Tracy’s autopsy. Well, want probably isn’t the right word. I felt like I owe it to her to be here and to bear witness. It’s not a pleasant way to spend a morning, but it serves to reinforce my determination to get justice for this woman.
“Cause of death is manual strangulation,” Sofia observes, using her stylus to point to bruising around Tracy’s neck that are definitely shaped like fingers. “Her hyoid bone is also broken.”
Tracy Webster, the beautiful vivacious girl in the photos in her fiancé’s home, is pale, cold, and lifeless on the slab in Sofia’s morgue. She’s covered in bruises and more than two dozen cuts and stab marks by my count. Her face is still swollen, and there is a large indentation in the side of her head, as if somebody beat her with a baseball bat.
Her hands, like the first woman’s, are torn and ragged. They’re covered in defensive wounds, cuts, and abrasions. Her nails are cracked and torn, and there are two missing altogether. And there is, of course, the one pristine acrylic. It tickles something in the back of my mind, but I can’t quite figure out what it is just yet, so I file it away for more thought later.
“She’s also got four broken ribs, a fractured skull, and… a lot of other wounds,” Sofia continues, shaking her head and looking miserable. “All of the damage you’re seeing was inflicted antemortem.”
“Jesus,” I whisper.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t there. I doubt he would have let this poor girl suffer like this,” she replies. “But wait, there’s more.”
Sofia points to a video screen on the wall and uses her remote to call up images from her computer. They’re pictures of Tracy’s back and my eyes widen at what I see.
“Please tell me those aren’t whip marks,” I say softly.
“Certainly look like it to me,” she replies.
I step closer to the monitor and force myself to look closely at the wound patterns. They’re not like a normal whip that leaves singular lash marks. These look to be grouped together, but the flesh is so ravaged, it’s hard to tell for sure. Shaking my head, I turn around to Sofia.
“Looks like a cat o’ nine tails maybe,” I say. “It’s definitely not a regular whip.”
“I agree.”
“And the first girl didn’t have these wounds, right?”
She shakes her head. “Definitely not. I would have mentioned it.”
Like you mentioned some of the vics we’re looking into were killed elsewhere before being dumped? The thought makes it to my lips, but I bite it back, not wanting to put her off, or put her on alert that I’m looking at her, just yet.
“Are these wounds antemortem?” I ask, afraid I already know the answer.
“Most assuredly,” she replies. “This girl suffered enormously. And she too, was assaulted by multiple people. I’ve found bite marks, Agent Wilder. I’m not a forensic odontologist, but they look to have been made by different mouths. I’m going to send them to somebody for analysis, but I’m certain she was bitten by different people as she was being assaulted. The rectal and vaginal tearing and bruising is consistent with our first victim.”
I turn away from the screen, wanting to get the visual out of my mind, but I know it won’t be easy. The poor girls back looked like raw hamburger. That’s not something that’s easily unseen. I’ve seen all kinds of degradation visited upon innocent people. I’ve seen all manner of horrors people can inflict upon others. But this has to rank up there with the worst of them.
“What kind of person can do this to another?” Sofia asks quietly.
“It’s not a person. It’s a monster.”
She nods, but says nothing, her expression sober and a touch sad. Sofia sounds sincere, like she’s earnestly trying to understand, but can’t quite grasp the answers she’s searching for. But there’s that piece of my mind that wonders if this is all an elaborate act. Wonders if she’s simply engaging in a bit of theater to keep the waters muddied and deflect my focus. It’s cynical, but I keep coming back to the fact that her reports have been altered.
In most cases, that would be enough for me to pull her in and have a sit down with her. But I’m hesitant to pull the trigger on dragging her into an interrogation room just yet. Partly out of deference to Sheriff Morris. I want to have more than just altered reports to hit her with when I do have that conversation with her. I know that if she really is this clever, and this good at playacting, I’m going to need it.
If she truly is this sociopathic murderous mastermind I’m starting to think she is, she’ll be able to find some way to explain the discrepancies in her reports away. And without further proof to bolster my case, I’ll be left grasping at air. I won’t get a second bite at that apple, so if I’m going to go at Sofia, I need to have everything lined up just right, so I can go at her hard, box her in, and give her no wiggle room she can use to escape.
That’s part of the reason I called Astra. She’s great at analyzing data. I need the fresh eyes, just to make sure I’m not barking up the wrong tree. She’ll tell me if I’m off my rocker, or if there really is fire underneath all the smoke that’s surrounding Sofia right now. I need her perspective and insight.
“What are you thinking, Agent Wilder?” Sofia asks. “Do you have any suspects? Any leads?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. I’m still gathering information. There are a lot of moving parts here, and I like to be thorough before I do anything.”
She nods soberly, but she looks at me as if she can see that I’m withholding. She’s a smart, observant woman, so I need to watch myself around her. The last thing I’m going to do is lay out my theories or thoughts any more than I already have with her, lest I tip her off that I’m looking at her involvement.
That she’s probing me and trying to glean information tells me that Sheriff Morris hasn’t said anything to her about where my thoughts are leading. I know it can’t be easy for him to keep that to himself. He cares about her quite a lot, and I’m sure it’s killing him to remain silent as I zero in on the woman he loves.
To me, that shows Morris’ strength and character. It also leads me to think he’s not involved. If he were her co-conspirator in this, he would have told her, if only so they could make plans to throw me off the scent. Or perhaps make plans to just to kill me outright so I stop digging into things they’d rather keep secret.
That option would likely bring scrutiny they wouldn’t want, but it’s something I need to remain cognizant of in any case. It seems a small thing, him not telling Sofia that I’m circling. But it makes me think even more highly of Morris
than I already did. It shows his integrity to me.
I walk to the edge of the table and look down at Tracy. She looks peaceful. Like she’s at rest. But I know what she endured before her death and it hurts my heart for her. It makes me angry. As I stand before her, I silently pledge to find the monsters who did this to her and make them pay for it. I’ve never been the religious type, but I hope wherever she is now, she can hear me.
As I look at her, something in her hair catches my attention. I bend down and look at it closely.
“What is it?” Sofia asks.
“Something in her hair,” I reply. “Do you have a pair of tweezers?”
Sofia quickly hands me a pair of long handled tweezers and a specimen jar. I latch onto it and pull the object out of her hair and hold it up, scrutinizing it.
“It looks like red wax,” I say. “Candle wax.”
I drop it into the specimen jar and hand it to Sofia. She examines it for a long moment before she nods.
“I think you’re right. Candle wax,” she says.
“Nothing she could have picked up in the forest,” I muse. “It could have come from the primary kill location.”
“Agreed.”
I don’t know what it means yet. Although I’m inclined to say it’s evidence from the primary crime scene, I can’t say it definitively. For all I know, she got it at home. It’s unlikely. I don’t recall seeing any used candles in her home when we were there. But since I wasn’t exactly looking for candles, let alone taking an inventory of them, it’s still possible she picked it up at home.
“Could be nothing,” I say.
She smirks. “I remember you saying that everything is something when you’re dealing with a crime scene.”
“I believe I said most everything is something,” I respond. “This could be one of those things that’s not.”
“Well, I stand corrected then,” she says.
The air in the room seems to grow thicker around us and sense of anticipation is hovering overhead. Anticipation of what, I don’t now, but it’s there all the same. There’s a lot to consider, so I want to get out of here and get back to the hotel to see if Astra’s there yet, and if so, what she’s been able to turn up.
