1st Shock (Schock Sisters Mystery Series)

by Misty Evans

  He blinks once. Then again. And again.

  Apparently I’ve confused him. Then it hits me. This guy has been visiting serial killers and suddenly two investigators show up at his door. He’s not stupid. He knows he’s either a suspect or I want his research.

  But there’s something else. His relaxed body language. It disturbs me, but my brain won’t latch on to specifics. It swirls in my head like a fog that I can't grab.

  "You want...copies? Of my research?"

  I hold up my hand. "For reference. I promise I won't share it with anyone outside of our firm, which includes my sister, Charlie." I point to Matt. "And Matt. Who's already heard it all."

  "What are you going to do with it?"

  "Study it. I have two skulls, reconstructions of murdered young women, in my office. I want to bring them justice." I hold up the folder. "I believe your notes can help."

  I peer up at him, waiting for him to decide and the fog in my head clears, makes room for a new idea.

  "In fact," I say, "if you'd like to visit my office and see what we're all about, you're more than welcome."

  This seems to perk him up. "I could make it part of my research. Include it in my paper."

  "Why not? My sister is a forensic psychologist. A profiler. She worked Mickey's case in the past. I'm sure she'd be willing to do an interview."

  "Oh, man. That'd be awesome."

  Awesome, indeed.

  I spend the next five minutes snapping cell phone pictures of his notes. When I finish, I hand the folder back to Devante, and Matt and I make our way to the street where morning sunshine warms my cheeks. I take three full breaths, let all the fresh oxygen invade my body.

  "Visit the office?" Matt says. "What the hell was that about?"

  "I want to get him on video. Coming in the back door."

  "Why?"

  "To see if he looks like the guy in the wig."

  16

  Charlie

  Mickey has refused to speak to us, his attorney letting me know in no uncertain terms that "Mr. Wilson has nothing further to say." I sat around this morning waiting for the go-ahead, and instead wasted my time, while my sister and Matt do the legwork of digging into Devante Bales.

  JJ is putting pressure on whoever he can, but our convicted serial killer has decided he's the star of the show. Like a king on his throne, he'll let us know when he's ready to talk, if ever. Meanwhile, he's been spilling his guts to this PhD student with regularity.

  From what Matt and Meg told me after their visit, Devante doesn't fit a stereotypical serial killer. None of us are completely ruling him out yet, but on the surface, he seems like a normal twenty-four-year-old college kid. I've got Teeg running a background check and should have it by the time I return to the office.

  Devante is due to visit us after his three-o'clock class. Heads-up thinking by my sister to get him in our environment where we can put a little pressure on him and see what result we get. Meg and I scanned his interview notes while we ate a quick lunch, but I had to bail in order to deliver a DNA kit to Yvonne after not being able to yesterday.

  I arrive at her house the same time Juanita pulls in. Her smile is warm, but doesn't quite meet her eyes as we exchange hellos on the way to the front door. It's only been a few days since she visited the office, but I swear she's lost weight. She has another colorful scarf covering her head, but her skin has taken on a pallor that makes me want to rush her to the hospital.

  The clock is ticking. On her, on me.

  It's going to come down to Yvonne's mitochondrial DNA to prove—or disprove—this family connection.

  Half an hour later, I leave the two women chatting as if they are indeed mother and daughter. If nothing else, they’ve formed a bond that can help Juanita as she faces the coming weeks. A part of me worries their DNAs will not match, and we won't have time to find Juanita's true biological parents before she passes.

  I call my dad and a sense of peace washes over me hearing his voice. I'm one of the lucky ones to have parents who love and support me every step of the way, and I can't imagine being at the end, only to find out I might die without knowing who gave me life.

  "If you're calling to tell me about the serial killer, Charlize”—Dad never says hello, just jumps right in as if we've been having a conversation all along—"I already saw it on the news."

  "Hi, Dad," I say pointedly. "I'm good, how are you?"

  He snorts at my reminder to have manners, and I laugh. "Actually, I'm calling about the woman I mentioned earlier this week. Juanita. I have DNA matches I'd like you to look into, see who they turn up and contact the most likely candidates to help us figure out her parentage."

  Dad's been retired from the Army for nearly fifteen years. He was career military, and he's the one I've gotten many of my traits from, from my slender build to my need for organization and rules.

  "Done." He's worked other cases like this with me and needs no further instructions. "Send them to me and I'll start right away."

  "I'll have Haley"—I stop, remembering she's not in the office and for good reason. I should probably check on her this afternoon, at least send a text and see how she's doing. Meg probably already has. "I'll email them to you."

  "Now, what about this serial killer?"

  I have a lot of work to do this afternoon and evening but seeing my dad might help me feel less agitated and angry. "Can you come over for dinner? I don't have time to make anything, but I can order pizza. I'll show you all the files and my notes."

  "Cripes. Your mom is dragging me to some fundraising event tonight. She's insisting I wear my uniform. Can you believe it?"

  Of course, I can. Though he complains, Dad loves to dress up with all of his medals and bars. "Wear it and have a good time. Kiss mom for me."

  I drop off Yvonne's kit and get to the office before Devante is due. Someone has started a fresh pot of coffee, the scent pleasantly filling my nose as I enter the back door. Normal, that's what it feels like.

  Music is coming from Meg's work area. Matt is in the conference room having cleared the table. He brought in the landline from Haley's desk and is fielding calls. I give him a wave in greeting as I pass, and he calls out, "They're on your credenza."

  Meaning the files. I'll have to haul them home tonight to start going through them again. I plop into my chair, tuck my purse away, and glance at the background check I requested.

  At three o'clock, I'm sitting on the edge of Haley's desk, waiting for our guest to arrive. The seconds tick by on the wall clock. I still haven't purchased a new battery for my watch and Meg's is around my wrist. I tinker with it as the second hand on the wall passes the twelve again.

  Yeah, I'm a stickler for being on time. This guy is a college student, but he's no freshman. I doubt his professors put up with him being late.

  At three-o-five, Meg enters with her favorite coffee mug in hand, giving me a raised brow. I shake my head. No Devante. She goes to the window and stares at the parking lot. Knowing her, she is mentally willing him to show up.

  At quarter after, Matt stumbles in, handing me a couple of pink message slips. None need an immediate return call and I lay them on the desk.

  "No sign of our guy?" he asks.

  "Nope." I swing my legs, my heels thudding against the wood of the desk, irritation in each strike.

  Meg sends me a curt glance. "Maybe he got stuck in traffic."

  Or he's guilty of something.

  I'm thinking back to what Matt and JJ said about exploring other options. "Matt?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Text Haley and ask if she knows Devante. Send her a picture in case she knows him by another name."

  "Haley?" Meg's frown deepens. "Why would she know him?"

  "She probably doesn't, but there's a possibility she has a stalker." It's an angle I should’ve looked at before. Both times our boy showed up, it was when Haley was here alone. "I want to rule out that our visitor isn't simply a stalker who has nothing to do with Mickey Wilson or the co
ld cases we're investigating."

  Matt nods and points at me as he heads back to the conference room. "Smart."

  Once he's gone, Meg looks outside again. "You don't really believe she has a stalker."

  "Like I said, we need to rule it out. Devante's her age and she hangs around a lot at the college bars. They could’ve crossed paths at one time or another. He may be guilty of stalking but not killing anyone."

  An audible sigh from Meg. "What do we do if he doesn't show?"

  "His background check is clear, no priors or anything outside parking tickets. I'll dig deeper and go through his college history and social media tonight."

  "I'll come over and help."

  That evening, however, it's JJ who shows up on my doorstep, sushi and a fresh bottle of wine in hand.

  "I can't..." I start, tongue-tied when I see him looking so absolutely delicious and memories of the prior night flash through my tired brain. "You can't be here."

  "Meg said you're working like usual." He shoots me an evil grin. "I'm taking care of you whether you like or not, Schock."

  He barges in, gently shoving me out of the way.

  I'm ashamed to say I don't protest nor throw him out, but the stacks of files on missing girls and Devante's interview notes sitting on my dining room table feel like a black hole waiting to suck me in. Having help to make the evening a little less horrific is welcome.

  Of course, tomorrow I'll give my sister grief. She sent JJ instead of showing up herself.

  We eat, drink, and pour over details until midnight. I keep going back to Devante's notes, Mickey talking about his mother, how awful she was to him whenever she had a boyfriend around. I read over a section about the man she ended up with, his kids. I remember most of it from my pretrial evaluation of Mickey, but it's good to get a fresh perspective.

  Connections. It's all about them, the threads that weave people together. Families especially, but also coworkers, the people in your neighborhood, at your church or synagogue, even the clerk who checks your groceries. Everyone knows a piece about you or may share your secrets. They help put random pieces of any puzzle into a whole. It's why I love assisting people with tracing their ancestry, uncovering buried secrets, finding those oh-so-important connections.

  I didn't hang around for Mickey's trial after I pronounced him fit for it. I need to get my hands on the transcripts. In Devante's notes, Mickey claims his stepsiblings hated him, especially the girls. Apparently, Mickey used their dolls to practice terrible things on.

  Devante's earliest interviews include Mickey laughing about how weak and whiny they were. I have a feeling they’re lucky he didn't do the same to them as he did their dolls.

  JJ and I move to my sofa after a bit, my feet in his lap. His suit coat is off, and his button-down shirt is open at the collar. He squeezes one of my toes when he sees me chewing on my bottom lip. "What is it?"

  My brain keeps circling back to Mickey's stepfamily. His mother. "I need the transcripts from Mickey's trial." If I were still in law enforcement, I could get them myself, and these days, I might ask Teeg to hack into the appropriate department and retrieve them for me. But with my own personal DA at my disposal, it's better to use him. More legal and less likely to get me into hot water. "Due to the graphic details regarding the victims, the judge sealed chunks of them so the press couldn't print the gory particulars."

  JJ just looks at me, playing dumb.

  I nudge him with my foot. "Can you get them for me?"

  "Maybe."

  I kick him. Not hard, but enough. "Why maybe?"

  "Quid pro quo." He gives me a wolfish grin. "What are you going to do for me?"

  "Shoot you in the ass, if you keep it up."

  His deep laughter jiggles the couch and soon I'm joining in. There's no real reason for it, but we've both been so tense and stressed out, it feels good to let loose. Once more, I'm reminded of what this man does to me.

  Feeds me. Makes me laugh. Helps me solve cases.

  He reaches for my hand, his eyes sparking with that predatory look. "I'll get you the transcripts. What's your take on this Devante kid?"

  He never showed and didn't respond to Matt's calls or messages. Haley insists she doesn't know him. He's probably a normal college kid, but... "I just don't know."

  17

  Meg

  At seven a.m. there's a soft knock on my front door. A quick tap-tap-tap that’s been my sister's calling card from the day we moved in here. Since I'm a creature of habit, she knows I've just finished my morning meditation. I'm a firm believer my mood will set the tone of the day and doing it right after my shower keeps my energy balanced. Something I desperately needed after Devante blew us off yesterday.

  As a result, I went to bed aggravated and spent most of the night berating myself.

  Fatigue has settled on me, pressing in and shooting a variety of aches straight down my legs as I move toward the door.

  I refuse to let that rotten energy take over. As dog-tired as I am, as heavy as I feel, there's important work to be done and it needs a positive attitude.

  I set my phone and earbuds on the entry table I found at a flea market. I tend not to buy used furniture—God only knows what kind of weirdness it might carry. A friend likes to boast she won Al Capone's desk at an auction years back and now keeps it in her bedroom.

  Al Capone's desk.

  In her bedroom.

  Talk about crazy. No way in hell I'm bringing that into my house. He could’ve carved up a body on that thing.

  My table though? The expertly carved legs drew me in, and I immediately wanted it. Ten minutes of questioning the merchant and receiving assurances he'd made it the week prior and it hadn't been anywhere but his home, I loaded it into my van. Am I nuts?

  Probably.

  I can't worry about it.

  Charlie knocks again. "Meg?"

  "I'm here."

  I open the door and my stomach collapses. So much for starting with positive energy. My sister isn't alone. The fact JJ is with her isn't a shock. His car has been parked in our shared driveway at certain times the last few days. Those being late at night and early in the morning.

  During those visits, he's been the stealth bomber of lovers. Coming and going in silence and avoiding me seeing him.

  "JJ," I say. "No offense, but this can't be good."

  "I'm sorry." Charlie gets straight to the point. That's her style and more than likely she's figured out I know this isn't a social call. Not this early with JJ and his wrinkled suit in tow.

  I push my shoulders back, readying myself for whatever news they have. As long as it's not our parents, I can deal with it. "What is it?"

  Charlie comes inside, waving JJ in behind her. "JJ got a call. We have another body."

  Another...body.

  A huge rush of air blasts between my lips. It's not quite relief, but it's a whole lot better than where my mind had taken me seconds ago. All I know is my mother and father aren't dead.

  For a few seconds, I'm polarized. Just standing there unable to move. Charlie retreats a step, but I put my hands up. Someone has died, more than likely been murdered. What right do I have to receive comfort or coddling?

  Finally, I close the door. "I'm fine. Tell me about the body. Is it..." How do I ask this? "...one of ours?"

  Meaning is she a young blonde found on or near the Beltway.

  Charlie nods. "She was discovered at one-thirty this morning a quarter mile from the Beltway. Some idiot couple riding home from a bar had a fight and the woman threw her husband's phone out the window. He stopped to look for it and stumbled over our victim."

  "My God."

  "The M.E. said she hasn't been dead twenty-four hours."

  Good.

  Excellent actually. Twisted, I know. I'm not oblivious to the poor woman being brutally murdered. It's tragic and horrifying and at some point, I’ll experience rage over the injustice.

  But we have a body. With skin and organs and cartilage.

&nb
sp; I automatically form questions regarding DNA and blood under the nails. What about semen or saliva on her body? Hair? The killer could’ve left any number of possible leads.

  "Before you ask," Charlie says, "I don't know about trace evidence. I haven't been able to reach anyone at the lab."

  "Has she been identified?"

  "Not yet," JJ says. "She was wearing a denim skirt and long-sleeved T-shirt. We estimate her age to be late teens-early twenties."

  "Same manner of death as the others?"

  "Yes."

  I don't press him. If she died in the same way, I don't need the nitty-gritty details of a woman being nearly decapitated one day after I interviewed a possible suspect.

  Could I have...? Oh, no.

  "You don't know it's him," Charlie says.

  Devante. That's who we're talking about. We both know it. The kid—man, really, because he's no adolescent studying serial killers and using academia as an excuse. Research, my ass.

  I poke my finger at Charlie. "Don't tell me what I don't know. He was a no-show at our office yesterday and hasn't returned any of my calls. We have no idea where he is."

  "It doesn't make him a killer," JJ says.

  Well, thank you so much, Emperor of Cold Cases. "It doesn't not make him one."

  JJ concedes the point with a sideways tilt of his head.

  Still in my yoga pants and shirt, I angle around my sister and head to my bedroom where I slide into flip flops and grab a brush to run through my hair.

  Charlie watches me, knowing full well whatever I'm about to do, she can't stop me. "Slow down, sis."

  "I'm going to the morgue."

  "It's seven in the morning."

  As if that matters? "So? Someone will be there." I point at JJ. "He'll get me in." I open the front door, wave one arm for them to hurry the hell up. "Out."

  JJ takes one step but is stopped by Charlie's hand latching onto his forearm. "You're not going there, Meg."

  My sister is rarely wrong. Today, she is. Dead wrong.