by Misty Evans
I cap one of the dry erase markers and toss it on the table. "I take it you didn't find anything at Devante's?" He would've called if he had, but I can still hope.
"He's clean. I even checked for loose floorboards and secret panels. I couldn't find anything that suggests he even watches crime shows, much less kills people."
"Then what is his fascination with Mickey? Why pick him to do a doctorate thesis on?"
"A lot of people are fascinated with serial killers. It doesn't mean they want to be one."
I contemplate picking up the marker and throwing it at him. Not because he's being snarky, but because I'm so frustrated. "Damn it."
He drags out a chair and slouches into it, kicking his feet up on another while motioning at my board. "Let's talk it out. Walk me through what you've got."
Matt would be like Billy Ray, protecting me and Meg against any threat. He isn't just a good guy, he's one of the best. He knows I need to act, to feel like I'm accomplishing something.
I walk to the board and start talking. A little while later, Meg slips in and pulls out a chair as well. The look on her face tells me not to ask questions about her visit to the morgue, so I keep going with the murder board and facts.
I'm bringing them up to speed on Mickey's stepsiblings, when JJ calls.
I hold my breath as I answer, and it rushes out of me when he tells me why he's calling.
His voice is tired, strained. "We found Devante."
19
Meg
As much as I despise admitting weakness, the visit to the morgue drained me. Sucked every drop of my energy. Young women are dying and all we can do is sit around a table and talk. Talk, talk, talk.
The only thing JJ can tell us is our main suspect has a rock solid alibi. Devante, the kid who disappeared on us right after the latest murder, is apparently not our killer.
He's a college student partying in Atlanta with his fraternity brothers.
Great. Excellent. Our one solid lead collapsed under the colossal weight of this damned case. Yes, I'm irritable. Shoot me.
If the strain, that carefully crafted cadence, in JJ's words is any indication, I'm not the only crabby one. The low murmur in his voice is downright scary. I've seen him in court. He's the affable, charming guy who happily leads witnesses into corners they don't know exist. They're too busy being wooed.
Right now? Those traits are in a tight race with exhaustion.
"According to the M.E," JJ says via the speaker on Charlie's cell phone, "our vic died around midnight. Devante was in Atlanta by then. He blew you off and hopped on a six-thirty flight out of Dulles. Upon questioning, he stated he and three other guys had dinner and went to a club after checking into their hotel."
"Have you verified that?"
There's a pause and I silently wince while Matt slowly shakes his head. I recognize the silence. It's an overworked JJ battling his emotions and the unintended insult I've thrown.
"Meg," he says, his voice sharp enough to slice me in two, "are you serious right now? Of course I did. There's security video at the club. Devante and his buddies strolled right in. They left at one-fifty so unless he's Superman, there's no way he could’ve slipped out of the club to be in D.C. at midnight. It's a dead end."
I lean across the table and take the phone out of Charlie’s hand to ensure he hears me. "JJ, I'm sorry. That came out all kinds of wrong."
"Bet your ass it did. We're all working hard."
"I know. I let my pissiness take over and that's not fair to you. It'll never happen again. I really am sorry."
Charlie waggles her fingers in a gimme gesture, so I hand the phone back. She'll diffuse the situation. It's a gift she has and considering she knows JJ way better than I do, I'm perfectly happy to let her intervene and do her magic.
She holds it closer to her mouth. "Mr. Attorney, give Meg a break and forgive her or she'll be freaking out all night over you being mad at her. We have more important things to do."
My sister meets my eye across the table and winks. In spite of myself, I can't help but smile. Charlie gets off on moments like this. They give her power, a need to conquer I will never understand or particularly crave.
"Hell, yes, I'll forgive her," JJ says. "I'm not that much of an asshole."
"Excellent." Charlie flips open a folder on the table. "Since Devante is a bust, let's move on. I've been researching Mickey's family life."
JJ groans. "Helluva mess there."
"Indeed. We should talk to his stepsisters. The stepbrother sounds like a peach also."
Curious, I grab one of the folders and skim the first page. Devante's notes on Mickey. The stepsiblings challenged him in every way. Or maybe it was the reverse and Mickey did so to the point Billy Ray took to carrying a knife.
How twisted were these people that one felt the need to be armed?
I hold the page up. "The stepbrother?"
"Yes," Charlie says. "He protected the girls. JJ, have you talked to the sisters?"
"Not yet."
At this, I'm already out of my seat, folder in hand and heading for the door.
"Meg?" Charlie calls. "What are you doing?"
"We need to talk to the family. Who's coming?"
"I'm out," Matt says. "Gotta check in with our paying clients."
"I can't," JJ says. "I have a meeting with the AG in an hour. Will you two be all right on your own?"
The Attorney General. On a Sunday. That can't be good.
Charlie nods. "We'll be fine. From my research, it looks like Dixie still lives in the area. Meg and I will talk to her and call you when we're done."
"All right. Be careful. And good luck. You'll need it with this bunch."
We arrive in Arlandria, a diverse multi-cultural neighborhood nestled on the border of Arlington and Alexandria counties, just before noon. As usual, JJ came through and supplied Dixie's address, which appears to be an apartment over a Peruvian restaurant. All I know is I haven't eaten yet today, and we'll be stopping for a to-go order before leaving.
Assuming she’s even home. For this house call, Charlie favored the drop-in-unannounced strategy in an effort to avoid potential witnesses playing hide and seek with us.
We snag street parking and walk by a series of two-story connected brick buildings that boast a bar, a small Latino food market, and the restaurant. On the far end of the latter is a door marked 2A, B, and C. Charlie checks and finds it unlocked then opens it to reveal a set of stairs.
We're looking for 2A, so we make our way up while the aroma of cooking meat and rich spices make my stomach howl.
"When did you eat last?"
I wince and curse myself because I know what's coming and Charlie's lectures on proper nutrition can be epic. Absolutely turn-me-to-stone harsh. In light of that, I choose not to answer.
"Meg!"
"I know, I know. When we're done, we'll stop and grab something."
"You're unbelievable. One day you’ll fall over."
Probably. But it won't be today so I can't worry about it now.
Charlie reaches the top and points at the first door on the left. "Here we go." She knocks lightly and puts her ear to the wood. "Movement. Bingo."
Anticipating the door swinging open, she steps back, faces it and straightens her shoulders.
"Who is it?" A woman calls from inside.
"Hi, Dixie. My name is Charlie Schock. I'm a private investigator working on a cold case. My sister, Meg, is with me."
"What do you want with me?"
"We're hoping you can give us some information about Mickey."
The long, ensuing pause is interrupted by my rumbling stomach. My sister gives me the side eye, reminding me she has issues with my lack of concern for myself. What she doesn't understand is it’s not that I don't care, but it's damned difficult to stop and nourish myself when there are dead women who deserve justice.
"As soon as we're done here," she says, "you're eating. I don't care if I have to shove it down your throat."
/>
A second later, Dixie's door swings open, revealing a woman in her late thirties with shoulder length auburn hair set off by crystalline blue eyes. Wisps of cloudy gray float between the auburn strands giving a tonal effect that provides warmth.
"Hey." Her gaze shoots to Charlie and her elegant clothing, then to me in my ripped jeans and Wonder Woman T-shirt. "Sisters, huh?"
I smile at that. "I know. Hard to believe."
I hold my hand out. "I'm Meg. Thank you for opening up."
"Sure. But I'm on my way to an appointment. Got two minutes. What do you want to know about Mickey?"
Interesting. She opened it but won't invite us in.
Charlie nods. "As I said, we're investigating a cold case. We suspect the woman was murdered by a serial killer."
Dixie's demeanor, her entire body really, seems to collapse, just fold in on itself. "Oh, God. Please tell me they didn't find more of his victims. He’s the devil himself. Pure evil."
"The case we're working doesn't match up with Mickey's timeline. He was already in prison when this girl was murdered. The manner of death fits though."
"You think it's a copycat?"
I cock my head, more than likely giving away my surprise the sister of a serial killer would automatically jump to that idea. Charlie will give me grief for, as they say in baseball, tipping my pitches, but that's me. I wear my emotions like a Burberry overcoat worth showing off.
"We don't know," Charlie says. "The killer knows a lot about Mickey's methods. We're hoping you can tell us about his friends, people he interacted with, coworkers."
"Ha," she barks. "Mickey didn't have friends. He's too much of an asshole. Nobody wanted to be near him. Except us. We were stuck with him."
"We?" I ask.
"Yeah. Myself, Billy Ray, and Bonnie, my brother and sister. Bonnie hightailed it to the other side of the country to get away from Mickey. Me and Billy Ray? We wouldn't leave. This is our home. We like the East Coast and I'm not letting that no-good monster wreck it for me. As long as Mickey is locked up, I'm staying."
Charlie leans casually against the doorjamb. "I read his trial transcripts. I'm sorry for what he put you through."
"It is what it is. We had Billy Ray. He took care of us. Mickey used to beat him senseless. Call him a useless piece of shit, but he always protected us." Dixie turns and holding the door open with her foot, reaches for something inside. The sound of jingling keys cues us that we're losing her. "I gotta go. You can walk out with me and we'll talk."
"Thank you," Charlie says. "Where is Billy Ray now?"
"He lives in the Smoky Mountains. After the trial, he got sick of the news media. Plus, his fiancée dumped him. He hid the whole Mickey thing from her and refused to go to court because he didn’t want her to know they were connected."
"He lied to her," Charlie says.
"Can you blame him? Would you marry a man whose brother is a murderer?"
Point there.
Dixie nudges her chin and Charlie and I move aside to give her room. "Losing her destroyed him. All that time he'd spent protecting us, doing the right thing, sacrificing and she dumped him. Still breaks my heart. He wanted to get out of town, so he bought a cabin and hid out." She shrugs. "He liked it there and stayed."
She steps between Charlie and I to lock the door and we inch backward, in case she, like Billy Ray, likes her space. "I do know," I say. "When life gets crazy I have a spot on the Silver Tail I like. It's quiet. Babbling water, tweeting birds, swishing trees. There's something about nature that relaxes me."
"Well, you and Billy Ray would get along then. He's a nature buff."
Dixie heads for the stairwell with Charlie and I in tow. She's clipping along, but her much shorter legs are no match for Charlie. I take up the rear, more than happy to let my sister do her thing and squeeze whatever info she can from Dixie.
Charlie grabs the handrail as she hustles down, an impressive feat in her skinny, high-heels. "Do you have his address?"
"Yeah. It's a cabin off Cove Mountain Trail. In Little Greenbriar."
"Little Greenbriar?"
"East Tennessee. Deep in the mountains." She rattles off an address, then, "The cabin has a giant wagon wheel in front. You can't miss it."
Dixie pushes the door open allowing a burst of sun to light the shadowed hallway. Once we clear the doorway, she lets the door go and it closes with a loud thunk.
I hold my hand out. "Thank you, Dixie."
"You're welcome. Just don't tell Mickey I talked to you. I don't want my name anywhere near him."
Charlie says her goodbyes, offering a business card in case Dixie needs anything. I suspect what she needs is to be left alone and never hear her stepbrother's name again.
We stand under the streaming sunlight as Dixie hustles to catch a bus rolling to a stop at the corner.
"Billy Ray," I say.
Charlie spins around and heads for the Peruvian restaurant. "We'll get your food to go."
20
Charlie
I feel like I'm in a time capsule, a history lesson unfolding under me as JJ and I land in eastern Tennessee. The Smoky Mountains earned their name from the fog that hangs over them, and before we touch down at the Pigeon Forge airfield, I see as many fields and forests as I have towns and Metropolitan cities.
Meg was exhausted, even after I fed her, and decided to stay home. I was going to suggest she do that anyway, but she came to the idea on her own, saving me an argument. Thank God. She pushes too hard, forgetting to eat, tossing and turning at night. Sometimes, her art helps get rid of her demons, and others, there's nothing in the world that can. I told her she needs a hobby, a boyfriend, something to bring light and joy into her world, but she claims art is all she needs. Right now, with all these dead bodies, she's draining herself to the point of a nervous breakdown.
I reminded her Matt needed help picking out a diamond for Taylor, but he's out of town for the day, working on another case, so not much help in the distraction category.
Luckily, JJ was more than happy to offer to help with the serial killer investigation. Law enforcement has no further leads, and someone higher up and in charge of a helicopter, wants this resolved. Fast.
I admit I was relieved to not have to make the sixteen hour round-trip drive on my own. This was more of a long shot than trying to get Mickey to stop hiding behind his attorney and talk to us again, but I have a tickling in my gut that won't wait for Mickey to come down off his high horse.
While his sisters were victims, Billy Ray knows his stepbrother better than anyone, I'm betting. Maybe it was only because Billy Ray wanted to keep the girls safe, and he never intended to become a hero, but looking at it from a psychological standpoint, he subconsciously understood his brother's neurosis and how to stand up to him. That may offer a key as to how I can handle this copycat.
I suspect Billy Ray will want nothing to do with us. He won't want to discuss Mickey, their childhood, or the trial, and I can't blame him. Mickey destroyed his life. Why relive that destruction? All I can do is hope he’ll tell me something I don't already know that might let me peek inside the mind of this copycat killer.
Some serials pattern themselves after others they admire. They find inspiration in these "role models," studying their methods and avoiding their mistakes. I wrote an article for Psychology Today a few years ago about copycats and two had been so confident, so egotistical, they called in their crimes to the press to ensure investigators would make the link to their "murder mentors." They wanted credit for being better and smarter than the killer they copied.
Both were caught.
Unfortunately, there is an abundance of these role models for them, from H. H. Homes in the nineteenth century to modern-day killers like Ted Bundy–and our illustrious Mickey Wilson. People like Devante are fascinated with him, and apparently, so is our copycat.
After landing, we hit the rental company inside the terminal. JJ and I didn't talk in the helicopter, but now I'm going to be stuc
k in a car with him as we venture to Cove Mountain where Billy Ray has tried to disappear.
I hold up my phone so JJ can see the screen showing my GPS map. "It's thirty-four minutes to the mountain, and at least another half hour to get to Billy Ray's place. I'm guesstimating, since GPS can't actually locate his address."
"I'll drive. You navigate."
These are our strong suits. If only our personal relationship worked so easily.
Any worries I have over JJ wanting to discuss us are put to rest when he asks me to tell him about Mickey’s trial. I have the transcripts with me, so I start reading as he drives toward the giant mountains rising into the clouds in front of us.
Maybe because he's looking for tiny clues that might be revealed from the trial, or he's just tired, he listens without interrupting. Here and there I've made notes in the margins, but I stick to reading the transcript only and leave out my thoughts about the things that send up red flags. My intuition insists our copycat attended the trial.
The road becomes a two-way, the incline steepens. We pass what's considered a village too small to even register as a town. Pastures with horses, traditional farmhouses and white picket fences. It seems like every few miles there's a historical marker about a battle scrimmage or other important landmark. Signs pop up a few times, directing us to more historical places if we want to turn off the main road.
The higher we climb, the more we leave civilization behind, giant firs and oak trees creating a canopy above our heads. The GPS directs us to a turn that lands us on a gravel road. My ears pop from the pressure as we continue, snaking around bends, heading down into a valley before climbing once more.
The forest closes in, cutting off sunlight. I stop reading, but JJ doesn't say anything, either concentrating on driving or turning over Mickey and our copycat in his head.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye and see the stubborn set of his jaw. The kind of pressure he's under takes someone of extreme fortitude. I let him continue his mental stewing in silence, only offering directions when necessary. A part of me wishes this was the way it could be for us all the time—working cases side-by-side, and not having to worry about our personal relationship.
