by Elle Gray
“I think you’re right. Exactly right,” I say. “I need to go back to the beginning and simplify this. We need to look at the basics.”
“Probably the best place to start,” she tells me.
“You’re a genius.”
She smiles wide. “I know.”
I laugh and take a bite of my dessert. I love this woman. She keeps me grounded.
Twenty-Four
Pacific Crest Motor Court; Briar Glen, WA
“All right,” I say, slamming the door behind me. “Wakey wakey, time to work.”
Astra pulls the pillow off her face and looks at me through one squinted eye. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Five after seven.”
“How are you awake and so energetic?”
“I went for a run at five.”
She groans. “What in the hell is wrong with you?”
“That is a very long list, and we don’t have time to go through it all today.”
Astra flops back on the bed and pulls the pillow over her face again. I laugh as I throw open the curtains, letting the morning light filter through and brighten up the room. After that, I walk over and yank the pillow away from her.
“I’m on vacation,” she groans. “I get to sleep until nine when I’m on vacation. It’s the law.”
“Pretty sure it’s not actually a law,” I say. “And just because you had a couple more shots at the bar last night than you should have doesn’t mean you’re on vacation.”
“I’m not hungover,” she argues. “I just like to sleep.”
After dinner, we found our way to one of the town’s main watering holes. Astra claimed it was scientific research and she wanted to observe the Briar Glen locals in their natural habitat. That of course, led to one drink. Which turned to another after a couple of guys noticed her and started to ply her with more. I pulled the pin before she did and reminded her that we’re working and that I needed her to have a clear head. To her credit, she stopped drinking and didn’t flirt with the guys who were buying her drinks, let alone go home with one of them. Or both of them.
“Up. Shower,” I order her. “And after you get out, we’ll have food and coffee.”
“I’ll have coffee now.”
“Sorry, you don’t get coffee until you’re showered and ready to party.”
“You suck,” she groans. “And this is hardly a party.”
That much is true, and I concede the point as she rolls out of bed and heads for the shower, grumbling the whole way. She closes the door and a moment later, I hear the shower start up. Experience tells me I’ve got a good twenty minutes or so before she emerges, so I busy myself while she’s in there.
I grab the dry erase pen and go to the whiteboard, drawing a line down the middle of it, separating it into two columns. At the top of the first column, I write “Omnivore Unsub,” and underline it. At the top of the second, I write “Preferential Unsub,” and underline that. Then in that column, I write the name Tracy Weber, and the first woman, who I learned, was named Stephanie Helton.
Stephanie’s roommate Casey finally appeared down at the Sheriff’s station to file a missing persons report. According to Casey, it wasn’t unusual for Stephanie to take off for a day or two, but when she still hadn’t turned up after a few days, she began to worry. She’d called around and nobody had seen Stephanie, so half out of her mind with worry, Casey finally came to the station to report her missing.
I make a mental note to speak with Casey myself, then step back and look at my handiwork and nod to myself. That done, I tidy up the table and lay out the food I brought back with me. After my run, I stopped by the Sheriff’s station on the off-chance Morris would be there. He was, and he filled me in on the ID.
I told him I likely wouldn’t be in the station today and left, picking up some of those delicious smelling breakfast burritos he’d had the first day I popped into his office. And by the time I got back to the hotel, I was filled with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. Astra’s comments last night, and the realization that I’m definitely complicating things, really struck home.
The shower turns off and I have to wait a few more minutes for Astra to emerge in a cloud of billowing steam. Her hair is tied up in a bun, and she’s got no makeup on. Not that she wears much to begin with when she’s out on assignment. But even in yoga pants and an oversized, baggy sweatshirt, she still looks ready for the catwalk.
“You look entirely too pleased with yourself this morning,” she remarks as she drops down into the chair across from me.
“And you finally look alive,” I reply, sliding one of the cups of coffee over to her. “You may have coffee now.”
“You are a benevolent god.”
“I am actually.”
I hand her the burrito and some breakfast hash browns, and after a moment of looking at it, then sniffing it suspiciously, Astra tears into hers. As she eats, groans of pleasure escape her mouth that, even muffled by her food, sound wholly indecent. I’ll admit, the burritos are really good, but I certainly don’t think they’re that good.
When we’re finished, I clean up and throw everything in the trash can, then retake my seat. I stare at the white board as I sip my coffee, focusing on the two names I scrawled out.
“Basics,” I announce. “What’s the first thing we’re taught to look at? The most basic thing we’re told to focus on?”
“Victimology,” she says.
“Correct,” I say. “Why this person at this time? What is it about these victims that attracted their killer to begin with?”
“Basics,” she says with a smile and a nod.
“Doesn’t get any more basic than that.”
“So, if I’m reading you right, you want me to do a deep dive on these two women,” she says.
I nod. “Also, I want you to go back through the old case files and find more victims. Throw out any case where the body was found at a primary crime scene. If there’s blood on the ground, toss it. I only want cases where the body was dumped. And you may need to look closely at the crime scene photos for that. You probably should anyway, just in case. If you find a case that meets that parameter, write their name in the first column.”
“Anything else?”
I nod. “Then I need to know what’s linking all of these people. I need a background on them. It doesn’t have to be too deep just yet. But I need to know the basics,” I say. “There’s a reason these people were picked by the killer. I want to know what it is.”
She sketches me a small salute. “Aye, Aye, Cap’n. I’ll get right on it.”
“Good. Thank you.” I get to my feet.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Shower, and then I have a couple of things I need to follow up on.”
“Lead?”
“Possibly,” I nod. “Hopefully. I’m getting tired of spinning my wheels and waiting for bodies to drop. I want to get out ahead of this. I want to figure out what in the hell is going on in this town.”
“I don’t know much. Not yet. But based on what I’ve read so far, there’s a lot of bad things happening here.”
I laugh. “That’s very true. On so many different levels.”
Twenty-Five
St. Bernard’s Midnight Mission & Food Bank; Briar Glen, WA
Having spent a couple of hours interviewing Casey, Stephanie Helton’s roommate, I got nowhere. Not that I expected it to yield any answers. According to Casey, Stephanie was a good person, did good works, never had trouble with anybody, and didn’t have any enemies. Stephanie was studying to be a social worker and child advocate. She was passionate about caring for children.
After talking to Casey and poking around Stephanie’s room, I retreated to a coffee house to regroup. I spent some time on my laptop, going through the digitized case files, looking for something, some direction to run in. In the file for the Tyler Salters murder, I found the name of a witness who’d come forward, saying he saw Tyler being taken off t
he street. According to the log, it’s a man named Louis Vuitton.
My first inclination was to brush it off, just as the deputies who interviewed him had, simply because the name is obviously fake. A play on a popular fashion designer Louis Vuitton. And also because the account he gave seemed rambling and incoherent. Mr. Vitton spoke of angels and demons taking Tyler away. I figured talking to him would just be more pointless wheel spinning.
But I have nothing else. No other leads. And in the end, I know I have to do my due diligence. One thing I feel separates me from a lot of my colleagues is that I don’t cut corners. I run down every lead, no matter how outlandish it might seem. No stone left unturned and all that. You just never know what might be hiding underneath that last stone you’re tempted to ignore. I must have said it a million times to myself: there’s nothing I hate more than things getting missed.
So I figured I might as well try to track down Mr. Vitton to see what he has to say for himself. I mean, he did come forward and all. Maybe I can cut through the angels and demons and decipher what it is he’s really getting at. I reason that he wouldn’t have come forward about that specific case if he hadn’t actually seen something.
That led me to St. Bernard’s Midnight Mission and Food Bank. After asking around, I learned that because they’ve got such a relatively small homeless population, this is the only shelter in all of Briar Glen. And if Louis Vitton is going to be found anywhere, it’s probably going to be here. Especially as the nights continue to grow colder the closer to winter we get.
The mission is located in the warehouse district of the city. It’s a little dingy and grimy, but it’s not nearly as bad as some of the run-down sections of Seattle. It’s largely abandoned, but there are still a few places trying to make a go of it. I see a small packaging company, as well as an auto restoration shop. A few restaurants and other businesses still maintain a warehouse here as well. And despite the numerous derelict buildings, I still don’t see many homeless people.
I park in the lot beside the building, which looks like an old warehouse that’s been rehabbed and repurposed to accommodate its new purpose. It’s definitely still industrial, but it’s been cleaned up, had a new coat of paint slapped on it at some point in the last decade, and looks fairly well kept.
I walk to the front door, passing between a marble statue of an angel in armor, holding a fiery sword on one side of the walk, and another of who I assume is St. Bernard himself. He’s dressed in the bulky robes of a monk, and he’s holding a staff that’s topped with a cross in one hand, with a Bible in the other.
There are a few people milling about outside the doors and they all turn to look at me as I walk by. I get the feeling I’m being sized up, the way a predator measures his prey, deciding whether or not it’s worth giving it a shot. One thing my father always told me was to walk confidently and carry yourself with purpose, even if you’re scared. Perhaps especially if you’re scared. He said carrying yourself with confidence will always make somebody think twice before having a go at you.
I haven’t been genuinely scared for a long time, knowing I can take care of myself if it comes down to a scrap, but that advice has always stuck with me. I think there are some people who will always underestimate me and think they can roll me. But they’re few and far between, simply because I do walk with my chin up and chest out, just like my dad taught me. Projecting strength and confidence.
It apparently makes the guys outside the doors think twice, because they turn away from me and go back to their conversations. I pass through the thick haze of cigarette smoke and into the mission itself. In front of me, I see a couple dozen cafeteria-style tables arranged in neat rows. There are about twenty-four people or so sitting at the tables eating.
Beyond them is a row of banquet tables covered with large soup tureens and warming dishes full of food. There are several people walking down the line, letting the volunteers behind the tables dish up their food. Once served, they walk over to the tables and find a seat.
On the far end of the cavernous room a makeshift church has been set up. There’s a tall, curtained backdrop that’s adorned with a few religious tapestries. A small dais sits in front of the backdrop with a pulpit situated on top of it. A series of wooden benches sit in front of the pulpit, serving as their pews. There are currently no services being held.
“May I help you?”
I turn at the sound of the voice to find a diminutive woman standing behind me. Her smile is warm and welcoming. She can’t be more than five-two, if that, and probably doesn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. Despite her small stature, there is a presence about her that commands attention and respect. She is one of those people who definitely seem larger than their body.
She’s dressed in a drab gray dress with very sensible leather shoes and black stockings. Even if she weren’t wearing the head covering traditional for nuns, I would have guessed she was a Sister anyway. There’s just something very spiritual about her. It’s comforting. A silver cross dangles around her neck, and I would guess that she’s in her mid to late fifties.
“Hi,” I say lamely. “I’m Blake. Agent. Wilder. Special Agent Blake Wilder.”
Inwardly, I slap myself silly. I’m not somebody who makes a habit out of tripping over my own tongue, and I don’t know why I am now. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, giving myself a mental slap upside the head.
“Sorry,” I say. “Let me try that again. My name is Special Agent Blake Wilder and I’m with the FBI.”
A look of worry crosses her face, but her smile never falters. “My name is Sister Catherine,” she replies. “I guess you could say I’m the caretaker here.”
“How long have you been here, Sister?”
“Please, just call me Catherine. Or just Cat,” she says, waving me off. “I’ve never been one for formalities.”
“Me either,” I say, giving her a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Cat. Just call me Blake.”
“Has something happened? Has somebody done something?” she asks.
“Do you think somebody’s done something?”
Her smile is beatific. “It seems a logical deduction, since I can’t say I’ve ever had the FBI in my mission before.”
Her wit is disarming and makes me laugh. She’s a clever woman, and a very likeable person. I can also see the sharp intelligence in her eyes and know that she’s got a formidable mind. I know I should keep my distance, but I like her almost immediately.
“How long have you been here, Sister?” I repeat my question.
“Oh, I guess about twenty years now. Though, it’s getting to the point where our services don’t seem needed as much,” she says. “It used to be overflowing in here every night. Now, the population of homeless and lost souls has been dwindling over the years. Praise the Lord.”
What she sees as a cause of celebration and thanks, I see in a very different, sinister light. Either I’m just cynical, or something is really rotten in Briar Glen. Homeless populations don’t just spontaneously dwindle. Sure, sometimes cities enact programs to help them out of poverty and off the streets. But judging by Mayor O’Brien’s attitude, I don’t think that’s the case in this city. He didn’t even seem to care that young women are being butchered.
The idea that the homeless have somehow been lifted out of poverty enough to get off the streets and build new, prosperous lives seems about as likely to me as Bigfoot riding a unicorn through the front door right now. It puts the case files sitting back in my hotel room in a whole new light for me.
The one thing I didn’t check on was their living situation. When I go back and check through the files, if these open-unsolved homicides are majority homeless, then it turns the case on its head. Suddenly, my theories start coming together. This could really be the one thing I’ve been missing to bring the whole picture into focus.
Even though adrenaline is flowing through my veins like a raging river, I force myself to calm down. I don’t want to get ahead of myself and end
up falling flat on my face. It’s happened to me before, and that was such an unpleasant experience, I have no desire to repeat it.
Stick to the basics, I tell myself. I’ve got to walk before I can run, and I need to remember why I’m here.
“I’m looking for a man, Sister.”
I bite back the laugh that threatens to bubble up and out of my throat as I listen to the words in my head and realize how it might sound. I really am hanging around Astra far too much. I look at Sister Cat and immediately feel my cheeks flush with heat as I think about her reading my thoughts and disapproving mightily. I clear my throat and try again.
“He could be a witness to a crime. A very bad crime, and I need to speak with him,” I say.
“Who is it you are looking for, Agent Wilder? And why do you think he’s here?”
“Please, call me Blake. And my understanding is that the man I’m looking for is homeless, so I’m just kind of putting two and two together here,” I explain. “I’m hoping he’s here, or that you know him and can point me in his direction. He’s not in trouble, Sister. I just need to speak with him.”
I can see she’s very protective of her flock, which makes me like her even more. She is a true champion for the downtrodden and actually lives the faith she preaches, unlike so many others I know. I respect that about her.
“I don’t know, Agen－Blake,” she corrects herself. “The people who come to me, come in search of peace. Solace. They come to get away from the horrors of their lives. I don’t know that I can betray their trust.”
“I understand, Cat. I truly do,” I say. “But this man came forward voluntarily. He spoke with the police of his own accord. I just need to speak with him about his statement. I swear to you that I’m not looking to hurt him.”
She sighs and tugs on the cross around her neck, as if seeking divine input or something. Her lips are compressed into a tight line, and I can see she’s struggling with the decision. I just need to give her a push to topple her over that edge of indecision.
