by Stacy Green
Other Books by Stacy Green
Killer Shorts: Murderers Among Us
(Non-Fiction Shorts ebook only)
Martha Beck
The Smiley Face Killer
Jane the Ripper
Mary Bell
Lucy Kendall Series
All Good Deeds
See Them Run
Gone to Die
All Fall Down
Stand Alone Novels
Into the Devil’s Underground
Welcome to Las Vegas (short story)
Delta Crossroads Series
Tin God
Skeleton’s Key
Ashes and Bone
Delta Detectives Series
Living Victim
Dead Wrong
Night Terror
Last Words
Shots Fired
Killing Jane
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Stacy Green
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission from the publisher, except where permitted by law.
ISBN: 978-1-944109-29-5
Published by Vesuvian Books
www.vesuvianbooks.com
For Rob and Grace, for your love, support and patience, and to Mom and Dad, for always believing in me.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
I am compelled to do this horrible thing. It is as if I am pulled by some larger force, a demon that will not rest. He whispers despicable things into my aggrieved mind. My heart knows I should not act, but my brain does not listen. I am no more than a slave to the blood I will yet spill tonight.
—JTR
31 August 1888
I drink in the words for the hundredth time. They make me feel out of breath, my lungs on fire like I just finished a morning run. Breathing harder, I bask in the sensation.
Jane Blackwood wrote those words over a century ago, when she roamed the dark London streets and terrorized the poor, stupid residents. The authorities—all men, of course—dismissed the chief inspector’s idea that a woman, perhaps a midwife, committed the gruesome crimes. A fragile, innocent woman lurking in the London streets alone? Impossible.
Male chauvinists.
But I wish I could thank them. Jane escaped with her letters, and now they’re mine.
I tiptoe through the attic. I don’t want to screw up the big surprise.
Shoving my fist against my mouth, I imagine Bonnie’s shocked face. She’ll never see it coming. Not me—and not my beautiful knife.
A noise drifts up from downstairs: the bedroom door opening and closing followed by Bonnie’s girly voice.
I slash the knife through the air, watching the steel glint in the afternoon sun.
Time for her punishment.
Erin Prince needed to grow a pair. And she would, as soon as she yanked her nerves out of her throat. This one would be different—her first case as lead homicide investigator. And not some drug dealer gunned down in the street, but a young woman “torn all to hell,” according to the sergeant.
Her fingers dug into the stitching on the steering wheel, and she took a deep breath. Just one more minute.
The blazing lights in the row house made it look like an anemic jack-o’-lantern, its creep factor eclipsed only by the strange evening sky. Night had fallen more than an hour ago, but swollen clouds shrouded the harvest moon her nine-year-old daughter had waited all day to see. The resulting weird reddish hue made the sky look fantastically photogenic. A hefty crowd of people surrounded the perimeter and called out questions to beleaguered cops. A uniform who couldn’t have been out of the academy more than a few months hid near a cruiser, his skin pale as a vampire’s.
Erin checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She’d actually done her makeup for the evening, choosing a lovely violet eye shadow to bring out her eyes and accentuate her dress. Her summer tan had faded, the foundation making her skin look almost porcelain save for the deep wrinkles between her eyes. The expensive lipstick Mother had given her for her last birthday still looked freshly applied. She spoke to her reflection, searching for the right tone of voice for the occasion: brisk, businesslike, controlled. “You clean up nice for being on the downhill slide to forty and never getting enough sleep. But the boy’s club is going to love seeing you walk in all dolled up and living up to their stupid nickname.”
Princess. Barely original. But tonight she fit the bill.
She sneered at the mirror. “Too bad you look like a wannabe beauty queen when you’ve got a homicide to handle.”
No more time to waste. Erin stepped out of the car, heels scraping against the concrete. Smoke plumes from the nearby factory filled the air, their miasma blanketing the sewer fumes.
Fall wind sliced down the street and over Erin’s bare legs. She tightened the belt of her dress coat. Tomorrow morning, she’d throw a change of clothes and a pair of tennis shoes in the trunk. Nothing worse than showing up to a scene looking like the centerpiece at a cocktail party. Not to mention the miserable shoes destined to snap Erin’s ankles.
The crowd’s mood changed at the click of her approaching heels, eyes and bodies of all shapes and races shifting toward her. Their heads bobbed up and down like hungry fish surfacing to snatch bugs. A girl chattered about being on television.
Erin’s cheeks flamed. She yanked the badge out from beneath her coat, striding past the medico-legal death investigator’s van.
The scent of backyard barbeque saturated the night air, mixed in with the stench of body odor. One of the younger men held tongs greased with dark red sauce. He absent-mindedly licked one of the ends, his beetle-like eyes taking in everything. Erin fixated on his pink tongue sliding around the tong’s loop and back into his mouth. Some of the sauce ran down the handle an
d onto his fair skin. Their eyes locked. He blinked, buggy eyes opening and closing, and then slowly moved the tongs away.
Damn construction. It had taken over an hour to make the thirty-minute drive from her parents’ house in McLean. Guilt slid into the pit of her stomach as she pictured her brother, Brad, sitting on the end of Abby’s bed reading her a story as she drifted off to sleep. Storytime—the best part of the day, when all your cares could be pushed aside to enter a new world. She hated to miss those moments as much as she hated not being there to tuck Abby in.
She reached the yellow perimeter tape. The muted chatter beyond the line stopped. No turning back. Not with everyone watching. Hell if she’d give them a reason to spread fresh gossip.
A tall African-American man with graying hair and a slight limp made his way over to her. Detective Sergeant Vincent Clark needed to suck it up and succumb to knee surgery, but he refused to take the time away from the squad.
“Bout time, Prince.” His tenor pitched lower than normal, worried and rushed. “We’ve got a new shooting in Anacostia and half the squad is working the Ted Moore murder.”
The Ted Moore murder. Just yesterday she had cursed her luck at not getting the chance to work the case. Moore was the CEO of Endeavor Entertainment, a multimillion-dollar cable network, and the high profile case could make a homicide investigator’s career and prove her worth. But Erin hadn’t won the luck of the draw.
Bad mojo rippled from the row house, and every official milling in and out of the home looked sick to the gills.
Clark glanced at her attire, and his gray eyebrows raised at the sight of her high heels. “This is a new look for you.”
She jammed her hands into the pockets of her Burberry and nodded at her boss. “Dinner with my parents. Jeans and hoodie not allowed.” She scanned the crowd pressing against the crime scene tape like excess belly fat fighting for room against a too-small belt. “Who’s questioning the locals? This is a busy area. Surely, someone saw something.”
Clark jerked his head toward the tittering masses.
Countless sets of eyes stared back, demanding answers and a few juicy stories to share at work the next day.
“Two patrol units responded to the initial call. Most of the block was at a house party down the street. Officer went inside, saw the body, and immediately called for a full investigative unit and the medical guys.”
“And you arrived then?”
What the hell was she thinking asking her boss a question like that? If she wanted to be respected as a homicide investigator, she needed to gain confidence. She normally appreciated Clark arriving at the scene with his investigators. He liked to do a walk-through and get the feel of the place, as he called it. He always let his people run the case. So he’d allow her the same privilege, wouldn’t he?
Clark stroked his chin, his dark eyes worried. “The patrol officers had the scene secure when I arrived. We set up a command post.” He pointed to the end of the cracked sidewalk where a lone officer stood with a clipboard and a pen. “We’ve set up a twelve-block perimeter, and I’ve got units looking. But this guy is long gone. She’s going into rigor. The uniforms are still talking to people, but you and the new guy will need to follow up ASAP. He’s already inside.”
Pain darted to her temples; she’d been clenching her jaw again. Now wasn’t the time for a TMJ headache. She wanted to start out on equal ground with the new guy, not tag along like a trained puppy. He might have more time on the job, but he’d yet to learn the fine art of navigating the convoluted mesh of D.C. crime and the always-attached political ramifications.
“His background’s impressive.”
Clark seemed to read her mind.
“But he’s not interested in talking about it or showboating. He’s just doing his job.” Clark rubbed his smooth chin, looking at the crowd again. “Prick who did this probably knew about the party too. The victim’s name is Bonnie Archer.”
“Who found her?” Erin craned her neck to see whether anyone had been taken to one of the patrol cars.
“A boyfriend. Or as he put it, ‘a friend who hangs out.’”
Erin got the gist. “He tell you anything about her?”
“She’s a recovering drug addict getting her GED, works as a waitress part-time. I ran her through the system. She’s got a couple of misdemeanors for drugs. He says she’s been clean for months.”
“Where is he?”
“We had a unit take him to the Old School. He’s holding up, but we wanted to get him out of here.”
Ugh. The nickname ruined the charm of the old building by bringing to mind the smell of sweaty gym socks. The Criminal Investigation Division and other specialized Metro divisions worked out of a converted school on M Street.
“Any sign he’s our bad guy?”
“He’s shook up,” Clark said. “Asked for a victim’s advocate. But that don’t mean jack.” He gazed over her head at the ever growing crowd. “Listen, I’m going to keep a lid on as many details as I can, but the friggin’ media has a way of finding shit out. They’ve got eyes in every nook in the department—and in a few assholes, I think.”
“Any sign of sexual assault?”
“Big time.”
Bile burned the back of her throat. After the rape, she couldn’t get out of sex crimes fast enough. What a bloody hypocrite, pushing women to testify against their attackers when she couldn’t report her own. And now her first major homicide involved sexual assault. She deserved as much.
Clark reached into his pocket and then cursed. “Forgot I quit smoking last month.”
His eyes bore into Erin’s, their gravity igniting an icy wave of apprehension.
“Yeah, you caught a bad one, Prince. We’ve got to catch this guy quick—because when the details get out, people are going to panic.”
Erin kept her expression neutral, but inside she spun like the teacup ride at Disney World. Nothing rattled Vincent Clark. What the hell was she about to walk into?
Before she could ask any more questions, headlights ricocheted off the house. Clark cursed under his breath at the sight of the Channel 4 news van. A bottle redhead slithered out and beelined for Clark.
“Speak of the miserable devils. I’ll handle her. You go on inside.”
Erin waved at the point officer charged with keeping the wrong people out of the crime scene. The man’s hand trembled, his pen clenched in a death grip.
Her hands tightened on the slick yellow tape at the pallor of his ashen face. “You okay, Murray?”
He ran his hand over his cropped gray hair as if something had nested in it and he couldn’t pry the bug loose. “I’ve been doing this job for twenty-five years. What I saw in there ...” His jaw grew taut. “Prepare yourself.”
Erin’s stomach soured. “Thanks for the warning.” She glanced around once more, half searching for an excuse to put off going inside. Then she stepped over the yellow tape and made her way down the crumbling sidewalk.
The patrol cars’ red and blue lights flashed off the building’s peeling yellow paint, creating a dizzying disco ball effect.
Despite the sorry looking trio of front steps and bowed porch, Bonnie Archer’s home seemed well taken care of. The small patch of grass in front of the duplex was neatly maintained, the ancient windows clean, and a pot of mums decorated the ugly stoop.
Bars rested over the lower window, and the deadbolt on the door offered some protection. Had Bonnie let her killer inside?
A lanky man she didn’t recognize stepped out of the house. He had to be her new partner. Dressed professionally in a blue button-down dress shirt and black slacks, he had short brown hair cut precisely to code. He leaned against the house, his chest heaving as though he might vomit, and looked utterly awkward.
“Are you Todd Beckett?”
He had the plain face of an everyman, easily forgettable save for a ridiculous moustache. Strands of silver threaded the hair at his temples, but he was so unremarkable he could have been thirty or fifty.
“Erin Prince, I assume?”
She nodded and stretched out her hand. “I’m happy to be working with you.” Not the entire truth, but having a partner again had its merits.
“You, as well,” Beckett said. “Although I wish our first meeting wasn’t under these circumstances.” An undercurrent of nerves laced his soft tenor. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
Hopefully, he didn’t notice the sweat beads sprouting on her forehead. Beckett’s impressive file flashed through her head. Two different serial killer cases, each more gruesome than anything she’d experienced. “Worse than the Mary Weston case?”
Beckett’s jaw flexed. “I didn’t actually work that case. But I’m familiar with the crime scene photos. And yes. Far worse.” He took another deep breath, still leaning against the weathered clapboards.
She had hit a nerve, but Erin wouldn’t pick at it. Everyone had horror stories. “Uniforms are questioning the crowd and knocking on doors.”
Beckett glanced over her head—an easy feat considering he had several inches on her five-foot-five-inch frame. “They likely won’t get much. There was a party—”
“I heard.” Erin cut him off with more force than she intended. The urge to get the worst over with beat at her chest. Thinking about how bad the scene might be gave the killer more power. A homicide cop couldn’t be afraid of her job.
“Normally, we’d have a couple more detectives here, but the Ted Moore case and the gang shooting have us stretched thin. We’ll have to follow up with most of these people ourselves.” Good grief, why did she have to start babbling about manpower? “I don’t know how you did it back in Philadelphia, but that’s procedure here.” Erin hadn’t meant to sound condescending, but nerves prevailed over manners.
“Of course. I wanted to get initial impressions from everyone. Cases like this...” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to wait. I hope that’s not a problem.”
His patient tone made it impossible for Erin to make it an issue.
A fresh wave of embarrassment flushed her cheeks. “Just wanted to clarify our usual procedure.”
She cleared her throat, feeling like a student waiting for her teacher’s permission to leave the classroom. “I suppose we should get to it. Sergeant Clark is dealing with the press.”
