by Misty Evans
The sketch of Avery is good—my sister's work is always exceptional, and it blows me away. How she can take a skull and bring it to life gives me chills.
Mickey throws a look at the sketch, then scrutinizes it more closely. He sits forward and–yep, there it is—I can tell by the twitch in the left corner of his mouth he recognizes the face. He stares at the girl's eyes and his breathing grows faster, shallower.
My stomach sinks at his obvious tells. Damn. She's one of his.
At least this victim and her family may get closure after all.
"Who is she?" I tap the picture, bringing Mickey's attention back to the present, instead of the past attack he is mentally reliving. Bastard. "How did you find her? Why did you target her?"
One of his nicotine-stained fingers touches her hair, brushes across the lips. "My sweet, sweet Tonya. You were quite the fighter, weren't you?"
Meg stiffens, gripping the seat of her chair. I know she's battling the urge to slap Mickey's hand away.
I'm doing the same. "Tonya who? I need a last name."
His finger slides down the poor girl's jawline to the base of her throat. "Don't remember, but what I do remember is the way her pretty blue eyes bugged out when I put my thumbs right here."
He starts to demonstrate, and I know Meg will come out of her seat if he does, so I pull the sketch away and slam my fist on the table, startling them both. "Why her, Mickey? Tell me or the interview is over."
He shrugs it off, once more slouching in his chair and looking at me with hard eyes. I don't miss the way his gaze drops to my throat before he sighs audibly. "You know why."
"I want to hear you say it."
I feel Meg's scalding look—she probably wonders why I don't list the identifying common denominators to speed this up. But I want him to confirm the details. You never give a criminal the facts, you make him admit them on his own.
"Come on, Agent Schock, or is it Dr. Schock? I never could keep that straight—you're a Fed, a psychologist...wait, you're a bitch. Maybe that's what I should call you. You know my profile as well as anyone. You know why I killed those girls." He leans forward again, flashes a cunning smile. "You know why you're really not my type."
"My partner is not familiar with your MO," I say offhandedly, as if his smile isn't pure evil and makes my skin crawl. "I figure you want to fill her in. You always told me I didn't really understand you. If I detail your official profile, I'll probably get something wrong, won't I?"
His ego is far too big to not take the bait. Killers like him love to gloat and who does he have in this penitentiary that wants to listen?
He glances over at Meg, smug. "College girls, athletic, and blond. Book smart but no common sense. They believe they're invincible, go running by themselves at night or are too busy looking at their phones instead of who might be in the dark parking lot when they leave the bar. You know the type. Lots in D.C., always pretending to be so important. Tonya was one of them, perfect body, running by herself at night in Hollings Park. It was all too perfect, too easy, to snatch her and show her just how insignificant she was."
Hollings Park. Only half a mile from the Beltway.
"So it's about power for you?" Meg doesn't miss a beat. "Feeling superior?"
At least she didn't ask about the absence of rape. I'm proud of her for not giving up that detail, which is vital since Mickey here couldn't get it up unless he killed them first. Luckily, he wasn't into necrophilia.
I fill Meg in on a bit of Mickey's history. "Mickey had an abusive mother, and took it out on his sister's dolls, decapitating them with his bare hands. Mommy forced him to sleep in their locked basement, told him no woman would ever love him—he goes for the throat of his victim as an act of shutting up his mother."
"The bitches deserved what they got," Mickey replies, shooting me a glance since I fall into the 'bitch' category. He taps his thumb on the table. "Interview is over. I want my cigarettes."
The door opens and Dan, the guard, steps in with three cartons of Marlboros. He sets them down as I give him a questioning look. "Complements of the Justice Department,” he says.
JJ strikes again. How in the world he came up with them in the time I've been sitting here is beyond me. He's probably already figured out Tonya's last name and notified the detectives in charge of her case.
Lyrics from an old Heart song swim through my brain. He's a magic man.
I give Mickey my best hardass glare and place my hand on the cartons when he reaches for them, pulling them back toward me. "One more thing. We have another sketch to show you."
I nod at Meg. She pulls the one of Emily from the folder. I can see my sister holding her breath as she spins it for Mickey to see. "What about her? Did you kill her too?"
Mickey's eyes narrow before he glances away. "Do I get more if I answer?"
I smile. "I can make it happen, but you have to tell the truth. If you lie, I'll know, and then not only will you not get extra, I’ll throw these in the trash."
He wants the cigarettes so bad he's almost salivating, but his tell is missing—no twitch, no smirk, no change in his breathing–when he glances at Emily again.. "Yeah, her too. "
"Name?" I question.
He scratches his ear, makes a face. "Mary? Ann? Jane? I don't recall, but I do remember killing her."
"Where? Did you find her at the park like Tonya?"
He shrugs. "Sounds about right."
"You're lying," Meg says. "You never saw this girl, and you certainly didn't kill her."
She may be an artist, but she's got the instincts of a profiler.
I remove the boxes and rise from my chair. "You're right, Mickey, this interview is over."
His shackles jangle as he lunges for me, the evil look firmly in place once more. "You goddamn bitch!"
I hustle Meg to the door and throw a smile at Mickey. "It's Dr. Goddamn Bitch to you."
9
Meg
I don't know what it is about Thursday, but lately I can't seem to stay on schedule.
Today, the morning after the Mickey visit that left me with a sleepless and extremely creeped out night, I'm exhausted. Emotionally and physically drained to the point where hours of meditation won't help.
And, I started the day with a call from my mother.
My parents live in Cedarwood Cove, Maryland, a small town an hour out of D.C. where Charlie and I grew up. Mom had big news to share. Apparently, skeletal remains had been found along the Silver Tail, a hundred mile long river that flows through our hometown.
For Mom, that equals a barrel—possibly two—of catnip. Before Charlie and I barged into her world, Mom was a journalist for the Annapolis Capital. It was a role she cherished, absolutely thrived on, but gave up to be a stay-at-home mom. As grateful as I am that she was home each day and always available, she shouldn't have given up her career. Even as a kid, I sensed something in her. A loss I didn't quite understand until I became an adult.
Not that she'd been a bad mother. She's great. Rock-solid in all the ways one should be. Even if she took the PTA president to task over a bake sale that somehow discriminated against boys.
Hey, I never said she wasn't nuts.
As honorable as sacrificing her career had been, there was a hunger within her that couldn't be satisfied by life as a stay-at-home mom. I sensed an emotional void in her. That down deep she really didn’t want to be home. She may have been there physically, but I needed more. I needed to talk to her about…whatever…boys, my friends, things bothering me, the color of the sky and why I loved it and she always seemed preoccupied. Studying the newspaper for stories she could’ve written, corruption cases she could have chased. Murderers she may have helped catch. Even when Mom was home she wasn’t present. She’d be deep in her journal making notes about Gayle, our neighbor across the street.
That hunger still exists and manifests itself by her spying on Gayle, who keeps odd hours. Dad used to joke that a man with that name had to be out all night because during th
e day too many people tormented him for having a woman's name.
Suspicious of said hours, Mom started watching him. Keeping an eye out, as she'd say.
And taking notes.
In her mind, Gayle could have been up to anything. Weapons smuggling, drug trafficking, female slavery. When it came to him, my mother's imagination ran wild and fueled her need to dig, to find the truth. To this day, years later, she's still searching.
She has journals dedicated to his daily activities. When he came home, when he left, the day he cleared six garbage bags from his garage leaving Mom to think he could be disposing of a dismembered body.
She has no real proof of this, but the man's unusual schedule ran headlong into her desire to have her career back and created the perfect storm of insanity.
So, on this Thursday morning, when skeletal remains were found on the banks of the Silver Tail, well, Mom called me, convinced it might be one of Gayle's victims.
At which point, I decided a trip to my hometown was in order before my mother ran to the cops with fifteen years’ worth of journals and accused the quirky man of murder.
Talk about creating a problem with your neighbor.
It took Dad and I over an hour to convince Mom to hold off, to see where the investigation led before she approached law enforcement with her theories. By the time we were done, Dad looked as if he'd climbed Everest. He may have even sprouted a few extra gray hairs.
But, phew. Close one. She’s as crazy as can be, but I love her. She’s family and for me, that’s what is most important. When things go south, the only people I know I can count on are my parents and Charlie. I think that’s what drives me on these cold cases. If one of them went missing, I’d lose my mind. It would rip a chunk out of me I’d never get back.
When I think of Emily and all those lost kids from when I was in the sixth grade, that’s what I feel. I could have been one of those kids and their families have no idea where they are. I can’t live with that.
It is, in fact, my greatest fear and I hope to never experience it. Even thinking about it gives me jitters.
I kiss my parents goodbye, warn my mother to stay put, and leave my childhood home. Mom won’t be put off for long, so I hop in my van and head straight to the police station. Charlie and I, given our work with cold cases, are minor celebrities in our little town. Letting the chief know I'd be willing to help if the remains went unidentified will give me access and an ability to keep my mother in check by telling her the investigation is active. At the very least, I could create a composite sketch.
The chief was out at the site, but I left a message with his assistant to have him call me. While in town, I make a quick detour to the Silver Tail. Not so much to nose around, but to visit my favorite rock. From what Dad told me, the body was found four miles downriver. Something I’m grateful for because over the years, this river—and the giant boulder I’ve claimed as mine—have given me countless hours of peace.
I deal with enough dead bodies in my day job, I don’t need them littering my happy place. I know that sounds harsh, but I don’t ask for a lot. When I’m here, it brings back happy thoughts from before the sixth grade when we played in the shed our dad built. The minute I hear the babble of the river, my stress level drops.
I pull into the makeshift lot. It was never meant to be a parking area, but years of folks driving over it has left nothing but hardened dirt and gravel. I feel the crunch of pebbles under my tires and my body damn near sighs. My place.
I lock my doors and head toward my spot. The air is warm and moist, and I take a second to center myself. To block out murders, dead bodies, and cold cases. If I lived closer to my hometown, I’d come out here every day and meditate.
Just ahead is the she-shed Dad made for us when we were kids. He needed approval from the zoning board for the single room wood structure and after six months of negotiating finally agreed the town's nature center could use the dwelling for various events. To date, I'm not sure they ever actually used it, but Charlie, me, and our friends sure did.
I wind my way along, loving the feel of my soft-soled shoes moving over grass and patches of dirt. Beside me, the river is low from a lack of rain and piled rocks break the surface. On summer days, I’ve been known to kick off my shoes and wade right in. Not today. No time and it would be cold. There’s nothing relaxing about that.
But there’s my rock. A boulder actually, big enough for two people to share. I’ve never brought anyone here though. The most I’ve done is point it out to Charlie, but she’s not about to ruin her silk clothing by sitting on a dirty old rock.
I pause and close my eyes, absorbing the rustle of swaying leaves and chirping birds. The sun’s heat warms me, and my body responds by releasing the tightness in my shoulders.
My rock. I open my eyes and climb across several smaller boulders that lead to the river’s edge. I check my footing as I go, testing the stability of each before stepping on it. I’ve learned the hard way that slipping will win me a concussion or various scraps and cuts.
Then I’m there, standing in my happy place as water flows beneath. I avoid the sharp edges of granite that’ll dig into my skin then settle into my favorite crossed legged position. If I wanted, I’d hang my feet over and my toes, even with the lack of rain, would skim the water.
My place.
I give myself ten minutes to block out the world then another three to return to reality.
I say a short prayer for the person—the decomposed body—found just miles from here. I don’t know what the circumstances around that death were, but I hope it was peaceful. I’ve already told Charlie when it’s my time, I want her to bring me here. I don’t care if they have to roll me out here on a hospital bed, this is my only request. To die in my happy place.
On my rock.
Plenty of time for that though. Now I’m preoccupied with these murders and need to get to the office.
My morning is shot. That’s all I can think as I drive and contemplate the work to be done before I leave tonight. The lack of my sister's BMW and Matt's SUV will help. No distractions. Charlie had mentioned something last night about being gone. Court maybe. Or to see that ancestry client she picked up from JJ. I'm not sure. I was focused on the curve of Avery's cheek at the time and Charlie's words were lost. It's an issue with me. Charlie knows it. If my knowing where she would be this morning was that important, she'd tell me and text me.
And yes, it's still Avery. The lead was a bust. Charlie went crazy yesterday trying to find a missing Tonya that matches our gal. No dice so far, and she and JJ ruled out all the cold cases in this area that might be linked to Mickey. Not one missing college girl with blond hair named Tonya in the three-state region. Either that bastard Mickey lied, or Tonya didn't tell him her real name. Good for her.
Matt? Who knows where he is? Charlie handed off some cases and he disappeared. Matt's the brother we never had so we don't stress about his vanishing acts. His work ethic rivals Charlie's so we don't need him to check in every day. There are cases where he's worked twenty-four hours straight. No sleep. At all. That's the guy he is.
How he and my sister have the energy for what they do, I'll never know. Then again, they say the same about me.
I park my well-used minivan in my usual spot. The banged-up vehicle makes my sister cringe but it has plenty of cargo space for my supplies and it's been paid off for five years. Why do I need a snazzy new one? I'd rather spend that money searching for victims.
After locking it, I walk the few steps to the door, shove my key in and turn it. Or at least try to. There is no cha-chunk from the heavy deadbolt which means...
Unlocked.
Hunh. I step inside, shut the door again and flip the bolt. We're not freaks about the doors, but we've been around crime enough to know we're a whole lot safer when they’re locked.
Particularly with what we do. Who knows when the disgruntled spouse of a client may want to have a chat about the naughty pictures Schock Investigations too
k?
"Haley?"
Our office assistant appears at the end of the hallway. Separating us are four doorways. The conference room, my studio, and Charlie and Matt's offices.
"Good morning," she says.
"Morning." I point over my shoulder. "The door was unlocked."
"Oh, shoot." She clunks herself on the head. "I'm sorry. UPS delivered your supplies and the phone blew up. By the time I got done, he was gone, and I forgot to lock up."
"It's all right."
Fresh out of college, Haley is determined to do a good job. We're probably an entry-level stepping stone for a pretty twenty-two-year-old with a psychology degree, but I can't blame her for the fact we'll more than likely lose her in a year. She's only been with us four months, but she's good. Conscientious, punctual, and doesn't mind grunt work mixed in with the not-so-grunt.
"I had Jack put the boxes in your studio."
Did I mention she's on a first name basis with all the delivery guys? They love her. She hands them coffee and they put the packages wherever she wants. The fact she's a tall blond with a face I'm dying to sculpt doesn't hurt.
"Thank you," I say because when you get boxes and boxes of art supplies, it's nice to have someone else carry them for you.
"Do you need me to unpack them?"
"No. Thanks. I'll take care of it."
I find said boxes neatly stacked in the corner of my office by the closet. There's nothing pressing in there, so I add unloading them to my mental to-do list for the day.
Silence descends on my sanctuary and after the wacky morning I've had, I pause for a second and close my eyes. I inhale then release the breath, allowing my brain a few brief seconds of rest. A musky scent hangs in the air. UPS man Jack, I assume, laying the aftershave on a bit heavy. I'm not one for scented soaps and I wrinkle my nose, wishing for a window to crack open.
I turn to the stand where Avery waits. "Good morning," I say. "Plenty to do today."
A flash of white catches my eye and I glance to the far corner. Something churns inside me and I feel a burst. Like a pilot light that won't fire, and I hate it.
