by Misty Evans
Matt sinks low in his chair, his gaze shifting skyward. "Shit. Has she named it?"
"It is a girl." Meg appears in the doorway, looking excited. The coroner's office offered a clue, I can see it on her face. "Her name is Avery."
Gentry clearly confirmed the sex of the victim. Matt and I exchange a look. He stands and grabs the new cases, waving at us as he leaves. I open the red folder and grab my favorite pen. "I started a file. The number is UIP281. What did you learn?"
My hand is poised to write the details Meg uncovered. "Avery is not a case number. She's a person."
Meg never gives up, whether it's identifying one of her girls in the basement, as she refers to them, or reminding me to be human and embrace empathy. But Meg likes to dive deep into emotions. If I did that, I’d never make it back up for air. The ghosts of the dead would haunt me night and day. I have to maintain some distance, a certain level of detachment. "Ritter's notes show a fractured neck. Did Gentry confirm cause of death?"
"They're going with strangulation. She's sending out the kit today. Avery had straight teeth and no cavities. She could afford dental work. Also, Dr. Gentry doesn't suspect rape."
I can see this makes Meg happy. I note the details, confirming the same assumption Detective Ritter listed in his notes—sexual assault was unlikely. So she wasn't killed during an act of rape, and most likely not in a robbery scenario.
Meg continues talking, pacing as well. Knowing my sister, she'll start with a sketch then move to the skull. She uses it as a guide while she sculpts. It keeps her focused. As if that were ever an issue.
She holds up a finger. "Emily was found twenty miles from Avery. Same basic facts. Decent clothes, gold earrings. No evidence of rape. My gut tells me there's a connection. We need to look for crossover. A pattern."
Emily. Avery. A trickle of fear worms its way around my stomach. Meg is bright, creative, talented, and so driven, but some days, I feel like I'm losing her to these dead girls.
Dead girls. I hide my internal shudder. The neck fracture, the lack of rape…it reminds me of my last case as an FBI agent—one that still gives me nightmares. Mickey was such a loser, but a damn clever one. Bastard’s in prison now, but his reign of terror still haunts me.
I call up the NamUs log and fill in a few more blanks with our inconclusive evidence. It's not much, but it's more than we had a few minutes ago. "I'll work on cross-matching strangulation cases in the local area." We don't know if Emily was strangled—she's another ghost with no obvious COD, but it’ll make Meg happy if I at least act like I'm looking for a connection. "Off topic, Matt needs help picking out a ring for Taylor. Wanted to know if you could go with him later today and offer your wise counsel."
This gets a smile out of her, but it’s short-lived when Haley buzzes my phone. "You have a visitor. A Ms. Juanita Jones? She doesn't have an appointment." Haley’s voice lowers a fraction. “She said Mr. Carrington sent her.”
Oh boy. This gal doesn't mess around. Guess I wouldn't either in her position. "Send her back," I tell Haley. Meg heads for the door, more than ready to escape to her studio. Before she disappears, I lay on some guilt. "Matt needs help, Meg, no lie. He was going to buy her a pear-shaped diamond."
Her head snaps up and she shoots me a look. "Please, no. She would hate that."
“We need to take care of this, steer him in the right direction."
"I'll talk to him."
In the hall, I hear her soft voice greet our visitor, then Juanita steps into my office. One hand shoots out and I rise to shake it across the desk. Her bracelets jangle. "Thank you for seeing me. I should’ve made an appointment, but... JJ said you wouldn’t mind."
While beautiful, her skin has a gray cast to it, the brackets around her mouth are deep with concern. She wears a brightly colored scarf around her head, the corkscrew curls in the picture JJ gave me long gone.
"Please have a seat." I motion her into the chair Matt vacated, making a mental note to castrate JJ later. "Can I get you something? Water? Tea?"
"A shot of vodka?" She laughs, letting me know she's kidding. Sort of.
"I have brandy stashed in the bottom drawer."
She waves me off with a strained smile. "I'm not usually this pushy, please understand, but if you can't help me in the next few days, I need to know so I can find someone who can."
Something has changed with her prognosis. I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. How long does she have? A few weeks? Days?
What am I supposed to say–you've caught me at a bad time? When could be worse than knowing you're standing at death's door? "Have you taken a DNA test?"
"Yes, with Family Ties, the local outfit in D.C.. I sent one in several weeks ago after I found my birth mother and she claimed my father isn't black. I thought it’d give me a starting point, to prove at least where mine originates from, but the results aren't in yet."
Picking up my phone, I dial my friend at FT. "I may be able to expedite it, hang on."
Within minutes, I have confirmation from Jeri that Juanita's test results will be in her inbox by the next morning. If there are any matches in their database, she'll get notification of those too. My hope is that a distant cousin on her father's side will show up and we'll have a strong starting point to track down the man who shares his genes with Juanita. If I can get a name, I can check public records—birth certificates, marriage licenses, obituaries. I take down her mother's name and number and promise to speak with her as I show Juanita out.
Hours later, I'm still thinking about how to pose my questions to the birth mom when my mind circles back to Mickey Wilson, dead girls, and what Meg said right before she left my office this morning. A pattern.
I love patterns almost as much as I do squares. Sitting at my computer, I start cross-matching local UIP cases that match the late teens/early twenties profile with possible strangulation and no signs of rape.
Dinner time whizzes by as I delve into result after result. Eventually, I jump from my chair and head to Meg’s studio, ready to bear hug my sister at her brilliance.
5
Meg
It's late.
Actually, not that late, but I've been going since six this morning and my fuzzy brain is letting me know just how lax I've been in taking care of myself today.
Five years ago, I had my first panic attack. It came on suddenly and I swore I was in cardiac arrest. After being diagnosed with anxiety, I knew I didn't want to live in fear of these debilitating attacks and through meditation and various other relaxation techniques have kept them at bay. It's been fourteen months since my last episode, and I refuse to give in now.
Along with my drawing pad, I set my pencil on my lap, trapping it under my hand while I close my eyes. I've pushed myself too far, allowed my emotions to drain my energy reserves. It happens spending time with dead women. Usually, I can push through but the synapses in my brain aren't firing.
I can't let it stop me though. Five minutes. That's all I need for a quiet, meditative state that’ll recharge me. As tired as I am, as much as I should call it a day and go home to bed, something nags at me, urging me to begin my sketch of Avery.
Every case starts with a composite image of the victim. As humans our heads are anatomically similar. Generally speaking, we all have the same bones and muscles. Our differences come in the sizes and forms of them.
And that's where my sketches come in. Some forensic artists specialize in composite imagery, others age progression or reconstruction. Me? I have a twofer. Mine are composite imagery and reconstruction.
The former gives me a blueprint before I sculpt. The process allows extra time to dig deep, to focus and form a connection with the victim, something I need if I'm going to help the authorities find the predators.
"Meg!"
So much for quiet. Meditative state officially shattered, I pop my eyes open, stare straight ahead at Avery's skull mounted on the stand in front of me. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get a headache in the next ten minutes.
&nb
sp; I turn and find my sister charging into my office/studio. She spots me sitting with the pad and pencil in my lap and slams to a halt, which is something to behold considering the ridiculous high heels she's wearing. We could feed a family of four for a month on what Charlie spends on a pair of shoes.
But, she works hard and donates more—way more—than her money when it comes to the pursuit of justice. Personally, I think the shoes and clothes are my sister's coping mechanism. When surrounded by violent death, we all need something.
And she won't allow herself to have JJ, so fancy shoes it is.
"Sorry," she says.
Clearly she's aware she's interrupted my meditation, but something has her wired and I firmly believe she's not sorry at all.
She lifts the red folder in her hand. "I think I've got something."
This perks me up. "What?"
"Patterns. You mentioned them this morning, and I kept thinking about an old case, when I was still with the Bureau, so I ran a cross-check using the same markers as Avery. I entered her age, hair color, cause of death, no sexual assault, and a two-year time frame into the system."
My sister's rushed tone prods my weary brain to fire. I stand, setting my pad and pencil on my work table so I can peek at Charlie's notes. I inhale the faded, sweet-yet-spicy scent of her saffron and myrrh based lotion and realize she's had just as long of a day. Together, we'll work through this.
As always.
"Tell me," I say. "Wait. Let's go to the conference room so we can lay it all out."
I'm a visual person. I need everything in front of me and if my sister has gotten a hit or two from the various alphabet soup law enforcement databases she uses, I want to see what she has, absorb it and form conclusions.
I follow her down the short hallway, her feet moving amazingly fast on those stilt heels until she bursts into the room, her excitement flying off her like fireworks on July 4th.
I can't help but feel the energy, but I've been in this game long enough to know I can't get ahead of myself. Too many disappointments have crushed my ability to open up to the chance of success. I remain cautiously optimistic.
Charlie smacks the folder down, flips it open and spreads four sheets of paper side by side. "These are all hits. Four unsolved murders. The first three are females, blonde, not raped."
A wispy flutter cruises along my arms and I quickly skim the information. By the time I get to page four, we're into the good stuff. Skeletal remains found near interstate 495, otherwise known as the Capital Beltway, a road that intersects with I-270, and loops around D.C. in an almost perfect circle.
Charlie taps the page I'm reading. "She's an unidentified female."
"Another cold case."
"Yes."
So many damned cold cases.
I move back to the first victim. Ainsley Sinclair, a sophomore in college studying engineering. Charlie has also printed a color photo of Ainsley and I study it for a few seconds. Her platinum blond hair against a tanned face gives her a sunny, California-girl appearance. I flick my gaze back to page one for her personal details. Nope. Born and raised in Maryland.
"They're all blondes," Charlie says. "Well, except for the unidentified victim. Hers had already decomposed so we don't know her coloring. But, she fits the pattern. Young, female and probable strangulation."
A niggling on the back of my neck alerts me that something, I'm not sure what, is about to happen. Maybe we'll discover a clue, or we'll find, no matter how excited Charlie is, that these cases have nothing to do with each other.
I go back to Ainsley, check the location where her body was recovered. River Road.
Hmmm.
My sister is quiet, but I can feel her gaze on me. She knows I'm thinking, knows to let me gather my thoughts and not to interrupt my flow.
Finally, I look at her and she understands this is permission to charge ahead in her Charlie way.
She waggles her fingers. "What are you thinking?"
We store a computer tablet in the credenza and as Charlie talks, I grab it. A few taps at the screen shows me an image of the roadways around D.C. so I carry it to the giant whiteboard hanging on the wall at the far end of the room. I set the tablet on the lip of the board that holds markers, then scoop one of them up and draw a large circle. To the left of that, I place an intersecting line and label it River Road.
"Meg?"
I snap the marker against the board. "Roll with me here. Ainsley was discovered on River Road. Read the locations where the others were found."
Behind me, I hear the rustle of paper that indicates my sister is about to humor me. "Daphne Meadows was in the trees along the GW Parkway. Near the Beltway."
I check the image on the tablet and zoom in, finding where the Beltway intersects with the GW then draw another line before I turn back to Charlie. "Next."
Charlie sets the report down, grabs another page with fingers that move too quickly and can't quite grab it. Too much adrenaline. She slows down and slides it to her. "Arlington Boulevard West. Mark it."
I don't know all the exits along the Beltway, but I've driven it enough to know general areas. Somewhere on the middle-right of my circle is where Arlington Boulevard intersects.
Charlie studies my rendition and nods in approval.
Still standing next to the table, she rests her hands against the surface and reads the next profile. "Our unidentified victim. Come on, come on," she says. "Where are you?"
Her voice is clipped, her energy contained. Like me, she’s learned not to get too far ahead of herself in case we're wrong.
This time, we're not. I can feel it.
"Got it!" Charlie says. "Braddock Road."
She drops the report and charges toward me. "Right here." She jabs at the approximate location. "Exit 54A or B off the Beltway, depending on if you want East or West."
I draw the fourth and final intersecting line then step back to view my work. Charlie does the same, the two of us side by side, staring at my makeshift drawing of the Capital Beltway.
"My God," Charlie says.
"Young females. Blonde. Strangled."
"Found on the ring of the Beltway." Charlie spins to face me. She’s as pale as the whiteboard. "Serial killer."
6
Charlie
My damn watch is dead again.
Impatiently, I tap the dial, the hand stopped at five thirty-five AM. Two hours ago, before I even put the bloody thing on. I didn’t notice, and now that I’m at my desk, I’m annoyed at my own incompetence.
I go through watch batteries like I do cups of coffee— too many, too often. My body seems to absorb the tiny storage cell’s energy, choking off time. Or maybe, it’s simply the force of mind. Like a Jedi, I need time to slow down or stop it long enough for me to catch up.
There will be no catching up today. I spent several hours last night researching our serial killer and filling out paperwork to try and get files on all the cold cases in the past two years that fit the parameters of Emily and Avery. I couldn’t have slept anyway, my stomach churning like white water rapids. There’s someone I know who could be the killer. Someone I testified before a jury about and helped put in prison nearly four years ago. He was into young, college-age girls, and took out his dysfunction on several before he was caught.
Mickey Wilson’s attorney tried to get him off, saying he was not mentally competent to stand trial and needed psychological help. Don’t all killers need psychological help? I was the forensic psychologist the prosecution called on to evaluate Wilson, and not only did I find him competent to stand trial, I knew he’d killed more than the three women they were charging him with.
The pattern Meg and I discovered could be a coincidence. That’s why I need to find the cold cases in the last two years that fit. The more the better in order to analyze and establish with certainty that we have a serial killer.
While I’m waiting—it could be days or weeks before those files start trickling in—I’m following the one lead I have, Mi
ckey.
I’m heading to Hazelton Penitentiary in West Virginia, a high-security United States federal prison for male inmates. A long drive, but one I hope proves fruitful.
I haven’t told Meg because she’ll want to go with me, and that place will give her nightmares for months. I’ve only been one other time and it took weeks to feel like I had the horrible stench washed off my skin. The air is filled with anger, hatred, and violence. A fog hangs over the area, dispirited, hopeless.
I also don’t want to get her hopes up. The possibility the killer is already present is slim. The timeline for the deaths and when Wilson was arrested may rule out his involvement. However, we don’t have hard and fast dates on the victims, so I already have hope. From what I remember of Wilson, he likes to talk, likes to brag. He’s already in prison and I can dangle an imaginary carrot in front of him, make him believe if he tells me something of value, I can get him perks like cigarettes, or an extra hour in the exercise yard.
The watch goes in my desk drawer and I mentally prepare for the trip. There’s more than Wilson in there because of my testimony. The warden is a brash fellow and not one of my biggest fans, but he has granted me a fifteen minute interview. It could make or break my day. Hopefully, I can use my Jedi mind trick and maximize that time.
I grab my coffee and briefcase, ready to head out before Meg arrives. I leave a note on her art table about the files I’ve requested and the excuse of Juanita’s search for her biological father as the reason for my absence from today. Odds are, she’ll text before I’m on the freeway.
Once I’m at the prison, I’ll have to notify JJ. He’ll be pissed I didn’t get his okay beforehand. All part of the plan to make sure he doesn’t bum a ride as well. The last thing I need is to be in the car with him for a three and a half hour trip each way.
I almost make it out the back door unseen. I’m contemplating stopping at home to grab another watch when I hear Meg’s keys in the lock. “Shit,” I say under my breath, making a quick turnabout and nearly spilling my coffee as I sprint down the hall toward the front. My new heels are not easy to run in and I nearly trip.
