by Elle Gray
“Okay, but why the preference for the brunettes?” Morris asks. “I know you said there’s a woman in the past who hurt this guy and all. But if we’re dealing with a cult, rather than just one man, how does the preferential offender bit work? I mean, there’s obviously still a preference.”
“It’s because whoever is leading this cult is the dominant personality,” I say. “It’s his will that’s imprinted on the group.”
“But they believe his will comes from God,” Astra adds.
“Right. But because he’s the dominant, his preferences win out,” I tell him. “When they select their victims for this renewal ritual or whatever it is, it’s this dominant man who selects them. And he selects them based on something in his past. He must have some connection with a woman who looks a lot like these victims.”
“So it’s still like you said, that he’s killing that woman over and over by killing these women in her place?” Morris asks.
I shake my head. “I thought so at first, when I thought we were dealing with one offender. But now that we’ve shifted to a cult dynamic that focuses on God’s justice and righting wrongs, I’m changing that opinion,” I say. “Given that these people believe they’re avenging injustices, my theory is that these cultists were touched in some way by injustice themselves. They probably suffered a tremendous loss, perhaps the loss of a loved one, and had to sit back and watch the system fail them. That’s what I believe has spurred this group. And I believe this leader, the one choosing the victims, must have lost someone who looks like her. Maybe his wife?”
Morris nods and Astra looks at me, a mischievous smirk on her lips.
“Damn girl, that was deep. Made you sound real smart. Smarter than I ever thought you could be,” she says, making me laugh.
He tries to stifle it, but even Morris laughs at that. The laughter is a good palate cleanser. With so much tension in the air, it’s like pulling a pressure release valve.
“Okay, so we just need to find a man who lost a brunette wife or significant other at some point, who suffered some sort of injustice, and is religious,” Morris says. “Should be simple.”
“I think it’s a lot simpler than you think, Sheriff. First of all, our suspect pool is pretty narrow, all things considered,” I say.
He barks laughter. “Right. Anybody who, at any point in time, had system admin privileges to the various city databases.”
“Probably still a smaller pool of humanity than if we had to rule out everybody in the city.”
He gives me a lopsided smirk. “Touché,” he notes.
“It’d be helpful if we knew where these people first crossed paths,” Astra says. “Knowing the origin of the group might help us find the individual members, as well. Especially if they’re not inclined to help us.”
“I actually have an idea about that,” I say. “We need to take a little ride.”
Thirty-Three
St. Bernard’s Midnight Mission & Food Bank; Briar Glen, WA
“Well, this place is certainly charming,” Astra says. “It actually makes your bungalow look like a room at the Four Seasons.”
I laugh. “They’re a homeless shelter. It’s not big on frills and unnecessary ornaments. They’re here to serve people, and that’s it. And from what I’ve seen, they do a great job of it, so cut ‘em a little slack.”
“That’s fair,” she says.
The tables are only half full, but all eyes turn to Astra when we walk into the mission. Good thing I’m used to it from our countless excursions to the bar, or my feelings might be hurt, since the only attention I drew was from guys deciding whether or not they could roll me.
I see Sister Cat approaching us and give her a friendly wave. She smiles in return.
“Sister Cat, nice to see you again,” I say.
“Lovely to see you again as well, dear.”
“This is my partner, Astra.”
They shake hands and then Sister Cat turns to me. “I’m afraid Sergeant Turner isn’t here today.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I actually didn’t need to see him. He was very helpful,” I say. “I actually came to talk to you.”
“To me?”
I nod. “The other day, you’d mentioned you had a fleet of vans for your Meals on Wheels program?”
“Yes, but as I mentioned, only one of them is working right now, unfortunately. We just haven’t had the money to get them repaired.”
“That’s all right. I was wondering if I could have a look at them.”
“Oh, well, I suppose that would be all right,” she says. “They’re around the back, behind the dormitory. I’d take you out there myself, but I’m right in the middle of lunch service.”
“That’s fine, we can find them ourselves,” I say and give her a warm smile. “I appreciate your help. Again.”
“May I ask why you need to see the vans?”
“It’s part of our investigation. I’m afraid I can’t say much right now, but as soon as I can, I’ll fill you in.”
She looks a little concerned, but hands me a ring of keys anyway. Then she offers me a weak smile and a nod before turning away and heading back to the serving tables to finish up with the lunch service, leaving Astra and I to our own devices. So we head out to the parking lot behind the dormitory and find four dark panel vans, each of them emblazoned with the St. Bernard’s insignia.
“You don’t really believe that sweet old nun has anything to do with this, do you?” Astra asks.
“Of course not. I think that somebody is taking advantage of her,” I reply. “Or to be more specific, is taking advantage of her vans.”
“How so?”
“Sergeant Turner told me he saw a dark panel van with an angel on the side being used to abduct Tyler Salters, who as you know, later turned up dead,” I say. “And the night Tracy Webster was abducted, I saw the back end of a dark van. I didn’t see the insignia, it was too far around the corner for that, but it was definitely a dark panel van.”
“And the puzzle pieces keep falling into place.”
“That they do. And hopefully the picture they’re forming is the right one.”
We check out the vans, and as Sister Cat reported, three of them look like they haven’t moved from their spots in a year or more. They’re coated in a thick layer of dust, there are cobwebs hanging from the wheel wells, and two of them have flats. The fourth van, though, looks freshly washed and detailed.
I use the keys to open the rear doors and am immediately assaulted by the acrid punch of bleach.
“Wow,” I note. “Somebody really wanted to cover something up in here.”
I step back, my eyes watering from the fumes. Covering her mouth, Astra hops up into the van and looks around. She squats down just behind the driver’s seat and looks at the floor paneling closely.
“Looks like they missed a spot,” she calls back.
“What do you have?”
She climbs out of the van and steps away, taking a few deep breaths to flush out the stench of the bleach. She looks at me and grins.
“I think we have a crime scene,” she says.
I’m tempted to call Morris and have him send Sofia down here with a luminol kit just to see if she can pick anything up. I’d hate to jam up Sister Cat by taking her one good van out of commission, but I don’t know that we have much of a choice. There might still be evidence inside the van. Of course, I’m still not convinced that Sofia isn’t part of it, so if I call her down here and she turns out to be part of this cult, she’ll destroy whatever evidence is in there.
But I think there’s another way.
“I have an idea,” I say.
“Oh man, I hate it when you say it like that,” Astra replies. “That usually means we’re going to get into some trouble.”
“I thought you liked getting into trouble,” I say with a grin.
“Very different kind of trouble,” she says. “Very different.”
We close up the van, and I slip the keys into m
y pocket. We walk back into the mission and we both head over to the serving lines and offer to help. We work the rest of the lunch shift, then help clean up when it’s over. After that, we grab a can of soda and sit down at the table to wait for Sister Cat. She comes over a few minutes later and sits down with us.
“Well, I certainly do appreciate you helping us out today, ladies,” she says. “We were a little busier than usual. It was nice being able to help so many who needed it.”
“It was,” I reply, and actually mean it.
“So, can you tell me why you were looking at the van?” she asks.
“Sister Cat, are you aware of all the murders going on in the city?” I ask.
She nods, a look of sadness in her eyes. “I am aware. And it’s terrible. Such a waste of life. It just breaks my heart.”
“Mine too. And that’s what we’re here trying to stop,” I tell her.
“That would be a wonderful thing.”
“The problem is that we believe your van was used in commission of at least one of those murders,” I say.
Sister Cat’s face blanches as she looks at me. Her mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. I think the look of disbelief on her face is genuine, and I don’t pick up any sense of falseness or deception in her. I quickly glance at Astra, who gives me a subtle shake of the head. She agrees with my assessment.
“How could that be possible?” she asks. “The van is only used to deliver food to people who need it.”
“Have you ever given out spare keys?” Astra asks.
She shakes her head. “Absolutely not,” she replies. “It’s not that I don’t trust people, but those vans, or rather that van, is all we have. Without it, we wouldn’t be able to run the Meals on Wheels program. So no, I haven’t given spare keys out.”
Astra and I both nod, but it’s my turn to ask a question. “All right, so who does your regular driving for the Meals program?”
“That would be David,” she says. “He’s a lovely young man. Strong in his faith and dedicated to helping the needy. There is absolutely zero chance that he is involved with something like a murder.”
“That’s wonderful to hear. And I’m sure he is a lovely,” I say. “I’m going to need to speak with him, though.”
“I don’t understand,” she says, sounding heartbroken.
“I’m not saying that David was directly involved,” I say. “But that van has been implicated in two abductions that resulted in murders now, Sister Cat. If David isn’t the one doing this, we need to find out who he’s loaned the van to.”
“We’re terribly sorry to upset you like this, Sister Cat,” Astra says. “My partner and I don’t do delicate or subtle very well. But it’s vitally important that we speak with David…”
Astra lets her voice trail off, obviously wanting Sister Cat to supply the last name. Which she does. Grudgingly.
“David Whitscomb,” she says. “And he works at his father’s hardware store. Whistcomb and Son. Please, go talk to him. You’ll see that he doesn’t know anything about any abductions or murders. I promise you that.”
“Thank you, Sister Cat. We really appreciate your help,” Astra says. “And I hope you’re right, that he had nothing to do with it.”
“Thank you, Sister Cat,” I say as I climb to my feet and give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “And don’t worry. Everything is going to be all right.”
We leave her sitting at her table, her keys still in my pocket, looking utterly miserable. Like a woman who just turned her own child into the secret police. I hate to jam her up, but the van is a crime scene, after all.
Thirty-Four
Whitscomb & Son Hardware; Briar Glen, WA
With Home Depot and Lowes elsewhere in town, Whitscomb & Son is one of the last independent hardware stores left in the city. And they’re making a good go of it, as business seems flush. Astra and I wait by the door, chatting amongst ourselves as we wait for the crowd to thin.
We spotted David right off. He’s a tall, gangly kid with a full head of dark, wildly curly hair. It’s the kind of hair women pay hundreds of dollars to get. He’s pale, too thin for his height, and has black horn-rimmed glasses. He’s dressed in blue jeans, a plaid short sleeved shirt, black Chucks, and of course, the company apron around his torso.
As the crowd finally thins and there’s a lull in the crush of humanity, David spots us and walks over, a wide smile on his face.
“Anything in particular I can help you ladies with?” he asks.
“Actually yes, David,” I say. “You can tell us who you lend Sister Cat’s van to.”
If he grew any paler, he’d be translucent. David works his mouth, obviously trying to work up a little spit to get it working again. His eyes are wide behind his spectacles and his face is etched with fear.
“I－I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammers, though it sounds more like a question to me.
“Look kid, lying to FBI agents is a crime,” Astra replies. “You do know that, don’t you?”
He shakes his head as dots of perspiration form on his brow. “I’m not lying,” he tells us. “And you’re not FBI.”
Moving in unison, Astra and I both flip out our credentials, and when he sees them, I’m half-convinced he’s about to wet himself. He somehow manages to maintain control of his bladder, which I find impressive.
“Who did you loan the van to, David? We know you loaned it to somebody because neither of us think you’re capable of murder,” I state. “But, if you continue to deny it and insist you didn’t loan the van out, I guess you’re taking the full weight of a murder rap all on your own.”
“Do you know what happens to guys like you in prison?” Astra says. “Let’s just say you wouldn’t walk right ever again.”
I shrug. “Wouldn’t matter because he’d be spending the last of his life behind bars. They won’t mind if he walks funny.”
“Oh, they’re going to love you in prison, David. I mean really love you.”
“Nightly,” I say.
“Sometimes more than once a night.”
“Stop it. Just stop it,” he hisses. “You’re both lying. I’m not going to prison.”
“Afraid you are,” I press. “Unless you tell us who you loaned the van to.”
He sighs. “He paid me a hundred bucks every time he used it,” he stammers, careful to keep his voice low. “It was his idea, and I didn’t kill anybody. I swear it.”
“And who is he, David?” Astra growls.
“Highsmith,” he says. “Tony Highsmith. But please don’t tell him I told you. He’ll kill me. Like literally.”
“And where do we find Tony Highsmith?”
“He works at Roland’s Garage,” he says. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to work.”
Without waiting for our reply, David turns and all but sprints off. I turn to Astra and grin.
“He’ll never walk right again?” I ask. “Kind of morbid, don’t you think?”
She shrugs. “But effective.”
“Too true,” I reply.
We turn and walk out of the hardware store, bound for Roland’s Garage.
“Tony Highsmith?” Astra asks.
The man underneath the car doesn’t say anything. With as loud as the music is in here, he may not have heard her, so I walk over and turn it off. The shouting and cursing coming from underneath the car is enough to make a sailor blush. He rolls out from underneath the car on the rolling creeper and jumps to his feet.
He’s a large man with wide shoulders and biceps as big as my thighs. He’s got blonde hair, green eyes, and grease covering most of his face. He’s not a pretty man, that’s for sure. And his demeanor only makes him even less attractive. Tony Highsmith is a man who swings first and asks questions later. If he bothers asking questions at all.
“Who the hell are you?” he growls.
Astra and I flash him our creds and his expression goes from righteous indignation to terrified in the blink of a
n eye. That tells me right off that we’re on the right track. But then he turns and dashes out the back door, quick as a rabbit. Astra and I have just enough time to share a look of irritation before we take off after him.
I’m first through the door and have just enough time to register the steel pipe coming for my head to throw myself to the side. I feel the wind from the pipe brush past my face, missing me by scant inches. But I hit the ground and shoulder roll, popping back up to face him. He comes at me, his face twisted with rage, gripping the pipe with both hands like a baseball bat.
“Tony, stop,” I say. “We just want to talk.”
But Tony doesn’t stop. Instead he takes a home run cut, one that very likely would have knocked my head clean off my shoulders if he’d connected. But his swing is sloppy and he’s off balance, so I sidestep it easily, throwing my elbow back with as much force as I can muster. The connection with his face sends a jolt up my arm and into my shoulder that hurts like hell. But I feel his nose give way with a satisfying crunch that makes it all worth it.
When I turn, I find him bull rushing me again, blood streaming down his face, and murder in his eyes. The man is a lumbering ox who doesn’t know the first thing about keeping your balance when you fight. Obviously. But it works to my advantage. He’s probably used to his size intimidating people into backing down from a fight. And though he is a frightening looking man, I don’t back down from a fight.
As he closes in on me, I feint as if I’m going to spin to the left. Tony bites on the move, so I spin around to the right and drive my foot into the back of his knee. I hear something pop and then his leg buckles under him, sending him sprawling face first into the dirt. He howls in agony and clutches his knee as he rolls around on the ground, reminding me of a soccer player.
I step over to him, careful to stay out of range of those long, thick arms and give him my sweetest smile.
“You know, this all could have been avoided if you’d just talked to us,” I tell him. “But now you’re going to jail for the attempted murder of a federal officer.”
