Killing Jane: An Erin Prince Thriller

by Stacy Green

  Worry lines carved their way across Beckett’s forehead. He ducked his chin against the cold, his eyes flickering between the slate-colored sky and Virginia’s body being wheeled out of the house. “To make someone suffer the way these two women did takes an enormous amount of anger, not to mention psychotic tendencies. Whoever did this enjoys inflicting pain on people he—or she—believes wronged them.”

  Erin remembered the malevolent atmosphere at both crime scenes and shivered. “Absolutely.”

  Beckett put his back to the activity across the street and looked down at her, the stress of the morning clear in his eyes. “I don’t think we have a clue what any of this is about. We’ve been on the wrong track the entire time, and I have no idea how to find the right one.”

  His words struck Erin like a fist digging into her solar plexus. In the few days they worked together, she quickly learned to count on Beckett’s quiet confidence. She blinked as cold rain sheeted from the swollen sky. Beckett’s confession seeped into her bones and festered like a forgotten piece of food stuck in the back of the refrigerator. Her wet lips worked to say something inspiring, but everything sounded desperate and stale.

  Rain plinked in her eye, snapping her out of it. “Let’s start talking to the rest of the neighbors before the reporters beat us to it.”

  Most of the neighbors had been interviewed by mid-morning. They claimed Virginia Walton kept to herself, and none had more to contribute. No one else noticed any visitors, but the area struck Erin as sterile and segregated. Most of the neighbors knew little about each other and preferred it that way.

  “Where are we at on trace?” Erin stood near the heating vent in the dining room, willing to put up with the stench of the house in exchange for warmth. Her fingers throbbed from cold.

  Marie grumbled something unintelligible. She sat on the floor, surrounded by white boxes. “This woman did not like technology. Boxes and boxes of printed records. She’s got papers from students going back to her college in South Carolina. She brought it all with her! It’s going to take days to catalogue. Beyond the mess of paper, we’re finding the usual mishmash of hair and fiber. No fingerprints so far, and I’m not expecting to find any belonging to the killer. He’s too smart. Wait, she.” Marie peered over the stack she’d marked for evidence. “You think it’s a woman?”

  “Both crime scenes have been signed with a woman’s name,” Erin said. “We don’t have hard proof yet, but it’s a definite possibility.”

  Marie shuddered. “I can’t imagine one woman doing this to another.”

  “Neither can I,” Erin said. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and Sarah Archer’s number flashed on the screen. “Hello?”

  “Investigator Prince.”

  Sarah’s shrill voice made Erin’s ear ring.

  “I just saw the news. Is it true? Is Professor Walton dead?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Erin said. “How do you know her?”

  “She’s my thesis advisor.” A choking sob came over the phone. “She knew Bonnie, too. My God, who’s doing this?”

  Erin waved at Marie and headed outside to find Beckett, fresh chills rushing through her “We’re going to find out, Sarah.” Rain plinked in Erin’s eye as she waved to Beckett to get in the car. “Stay put. My partner and I are coming to talk to you.”

  * * *

  The drive to Chevy Chase took nearly an hour. Erin drove with the radio turned off, still trying to come up with something to put Beckett’s mind—and hers—at ease. But she had nothing. The investigation fell on its heels from the start, and they had done nothing but spin in circles. Virginia Walton’s murder might have widened the playing field but only to multiply the sense of confusion.

  A woman both Bonnie and Virginia trusted executed those brutal killings. Intellectually, Erin accepted women were capable of despicable things. Women killed lovers and children, and women abused and tortured. Women killed multiple people. Her emotional side couldn’t make sense of any of it.

  Sarah Archer had connections to both of these women. She’d likely been sexually abused around the same time as Bonnie. She might be hiding something, but Erin couldn’t see meek Sarah as a killer, especially when Virginia Walton probably had at least fifty pounds on her.

  Erin tried to navigate the giant jigsaw puzzle of evidence. The murders weren’t about obsession or ritual but punishments inspired by the exploits of Jack the Ripper. Could the mutilation simply be a smoke screen or a taunt because the killer believed she couldn’t be caught?

  And was Sarah the next victim—or something far worse?

  * * *

  “Carmen Archer claims she had no idea Sarah and Bonnie reconnected.” Beckett said as soon as he rolled out of his tiny car. “I called on my way here. She didn’t sound too happy about it, either.”

  “Did she talk to you about the sexual abuse?” Erin asked.

  “No, but she backed up Sarah’s time frame on the family fallout, and she admitted she did speak to Sarah several years ago. Asked me not to mention it to her husband.”

  “Well, I can’t blame the Archers if Sarah’s version is true. Anyone who rapes a kid deserves to have his dick cut off, at the least. As far as I’m concerned, their lives should be an automatic forfeit.”

  Beckett jerked his head, staring up at the house.

  Erin worried she’d gone too far. “I’m speaking from a parent’s perspective. We can’t toss all the pedophiles into the abyss. But I’d like to.”

  “It would be wonderful if justice could be that black and white,” Beckett said. “Speaking of pedophiles and all things scum of the earth, you need to let me ask Lucy for help. She might even be able to do it without her NCMEC resources. She’s got a friend who can basically track anything online.”

  “Legally?” Erin asked.

  Beckett shrugged. “I don’t ask those questions. They’ve been able to help me catch some extremely bad people. And I trust them.”

  Erin wanted nothing more than to cut corners. Their case was one of many, and the computer guys had to prioritize. “Sergeant Clark won’t like it. I don’t want to piss him off on my first major case. And you shouldn’t, either.”

  “Think about it. Lucy could give us the break we need.” Beckett stared at the house—a big Greek revival with cultivated flowerbeds already prepared for the oncoming winter. “Nice digs.”

  “Definitely,” Erin said. “McLean, Virginia, is the top dog when it comes to money and snobbery, but Chevy Chase doesn’t lag too far behind.”

  “Isn’t McLean where you grew up?”

  “Yep. As for the Archer family dispute, some grudges never go away, especially when a kid’s involved. They just get stronger.”

  “Like you and your sister,” Beckett said.

  Erin shot him a look. “That’s more than a grudge. And not something I want to talk about.”

  “My bad,” he said. “I’d like to ask Sarah about the messages left.”

  “You mean the killer calling Bonnie a whore and the professor a snitch?”

  He nodded. “She’s family, and it’s going to be hard for her, but right now, she’s the only person connected to both of them. We have to push her this time.”

  Erin chewed on her lip. “But she has an alibi for Bonnie’s murder. Her mother confirmed it, and the housekeeper remembered Sarah’s car being in the driveway, because she’d blocked the girl in.” She leaned against the car. “And you said you had a hard time seeing a woman kill Virginia because of her size. Do you believe Sarah is physically strong enough?”

  “If she incapacitated her, then possibly.” Beckett worried his lower lip. “But Sarah’s afraid of her own shadow. I honestly can’t see her having the presence of mind to commit either murder. But she knows more than she’s telling us—even if she doesn’t realize it.” He stroked his mustache. “As for the Ripper being a woman, I accept we’ve got to consider it, although I think Tori the cross-dresser is more likely. You think the medical examiner will have any luck expediting the
DNA on Bonnie’s baby? That could help narrow things down.”

  “I hope so,” Erin said and pushed upright off the car. “Our killer may simply be a jealous ex, and Will Merritt lied to us about the nature of his and Bonnie’s relationship. Even if he’s not a suspect, he may still be involved somehow.”

  She and Beckett walked toward the door.

  He nodded. “Definitely possible. But in that scenario, Sarah’s out of the equation, and there’s no connection to Virginia Walton. Which makes no sense.”

  Erin rang the doorbell. “Sometimes the connection is in the randomness of it.”

  Beckett grinned down at her. “At least we’re communicating.”

  Erin recognized the woman who answered the door. Not her face but the sort of person she was. Her polished skin gleamed like heirloom china, and the woman’s most likely graying hair was dyed a shining blonde to match her daughter’s. She dressed like Erin’s mother and most of the Princes’ conservative friends: expensive, tailored tweed slacks complimented by a cream cable-knit sweater. The only pieces of jewelry the woman displayed were pearl earrings and a beautiful diamond wedding set. Her stylish house slippers appeared made for snow but probably resulted in soaked feet. They looked great with her outfit.

  Old wealth and proud of it, ready with a subtle insult but unlikely to be outright rude.

  “Can I help you?” Her soft voice seemed to match her outfit, and Erin became acutely aware of her own faded jeans and unruly hair.

  “Investigators Erin Prince and Todd Beckett. We’re here to talk to Sarah about Bonnie’s murder.”

  “And a new development,” Beckett added.

  The woman’s skillfully applied blush dimmed. Her careful smile diminished enough for her mouth to sag and age her at least a decade. “Professor Walton. Sarah is devastated.”

  “I’m sure,” Erin said. “We do need to speak with her. Your name is Melinda, right?”

  “Melinda Archer.” The woman’s dark eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward to get a better look at Erin. “You’re Calvin Prince’s daughter. You spoke with my husband yesterday.”

  “Yes.”

  Melinda’s voice immediately warmed. “We attended his Republican rallies for the last presidential election. He was a wonderful speaker. And if I can be painfully honest, far more appealing than Romney. I told your father he should run for office. He got a kick out of it. And of course, your father has been a wonderful contributor to the Republican Governors.”

  Erin plastered a smile on her face. Her older sister had been telling her father to go into politics for years. Erin could only imagine how Lisa would worm her way into the White House. “I’m sure he did get a kick out of it. May we come in?”

  “Of course, dear.” Melinda stepped aside, beckoning them into a large, tiled entryway. “My husband is at work, but I’ll get Sarah.”

  Her slippers slapped against the floor as she led them into a posh living room. “Please make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right back with her.”

  “Well,” Beckett said as soon as the woman shuffled away, “the Prince name reigns again.” He nudged her. “See what I did there?”

  Erin shot him a look.

  “What I find fascinating,” Beckett said, “is how her attitude completely changed when she realized who you were.”

  “Welcome to my world,” Erin said. “Here’s where things get really smarmy—I’m going to try to use it to our advantage.”

  Erin preferred to stay in the large foyer, but Melinda Archer insisted they take tea in the next room. Erin and Beckett both refused the drink and asked again to see Sarah. Melinda stroked the ribbing on her sweater, her mouth drooping into a deep frown.

  She must have missed her last Botox appointment because her lips had slipped to her chin.

  “Sarah’s a good girl. She’s under a lot of stress.”

  Erin crossed her legs and then thought better of it when she realized her socks, in fact, didn’t match. She planted her feet on the floor. “Mrs. Archer, why do you say that? Sarah’s not in any trouble.”

  “Of course not.” Melinda’s voice pitched high and then back to conspiratorially low. “It’s Bonnie, to be honest. Sarah reconnected with that girl out of guilt. And I don’t want her dragged into whatever her cousin got into, especially while Sarah’s trying to finish her thesis.”

  “Someone slaughtered your niece like an animal,” Erin said. “Worse, actually. Hunters kill the animal first.”

  Melinda quivered, looking at Beckett as if he might intervene.

  Erin didn’t give him the chance. “Please get Sarah for us.”

  Manicured nails tugged at the expensive pearls, and Melinda’s eyes narrowed as they searched Erin again, traveling over her too-casual clothes, lingering over her slightly ragged fingernails and the extra roll of belly flesh that made itself known whenever Erin slouched.

  She straightened and returned Melinda’s appraisal.

  “We have contributed heavily to your father’s many fundraisers.” Melinda’s cool voice hit Erin’s nerves with the force of a burning match. “You might treat me with respect.”

  “I’m trying to solve two homicides.” Erin’s gut twisted, a hundred insults yearning to be released. “Please don’t make me ask you to get Sarah again.”

  Wearing yoga pants and a loose-fitting man’s shirt, Sarah sat with her legs crossed, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands. Her mismatched eyes stared at them in disbelief. “I don’t understand what’s happening.” Her voice sounded rough and deeper from the hours of crying.

  “I’m sorry to do this, but we need to ask you some questions.” Erin tried to be gentle. Melinda had disappeared, probably to call her husband. “What do you know about Bonnie and Virginia Walton’s relationship?”

  “I didn’t know they had one,” Sarah said. “I told Bonnie a long time ago my professor volunteered at her school, and that she was a psychologist. I thought Bonnie should talk to her. She still had anger issues and needed to figure out her future. Professor Walton is—was—a great listener. But Bonnie didn’t like the idea. We never discussed it again.” Sarah stilled, and then her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God. I told Bonnie about Professor Walton. Is this my fault?”

  “Of course it’s not your fault,” Beckett said. “We’re not sure why they were both chosen. “When did you give her Professor Walton’s name?”

  “A few months ago,” Sarah said. “Bonnie mentioned calling her to learn more about the college program, but she never said anything more.”

  “Do you think she would have told you if they started spending time together?” Erin asked.

  Sarah rubbed her temples, shaking her head back and forth. “I wouldn’t expect the professor to. And I thought Bonnie was pretty open with me, but I guess not.”

  “Sarah,” Beckett said, “we have to ask you a couple of questions you’re not going to like. They involve information from the crime scene.”

  Sarah blanched. “I don’t want to look at pictures. I can’t.”

  “You don’t have to,” Beckett said. “But the killer left a message.”

  Sarah seemed to steel herself. “All right. Go ahead.”

  Beckett glanced at Erin. “Please keep this between us. The killer carved whore on a beam in Bonnie’s attic and snitch on the professor’s fireplace mantle. Does that mean anything at all to you?”

  Sarah seemed to shrink, her thin frame getting lost in the loose shirt until the collar reached her nose. “Bonnie wasn’t a whore. She worked at the strip club, but she never slept with any of those guys.”

  “The killer might have considered stripping just as damning as prostituting. But calling the professor a snitch doesn’t make sense if she didn’t know Bonnie well,” Beckett said. “I assume you knew Professor Walton was a lesbian?”

  “She didn’t keep it a secret.”

  “What about Bonnie?” Beckett asked. “Did Bonnie date women too?”

  Sarah’s head slid up the way a turtle emerges f
rom its shell. “I—she never said anything about it. She didn’t want to get serious with Will Merritt. But she never said anything about an interest in women. Is that what you think went on?”

  Erin hated having to be evasive with her questions. Family deserved any details they wanted, but the investigation was too delicate, with too many gaping holes, and Sarah was a suspect.

  “It’s hard for me to imagine Bonnie letting someone else in. She didn’t trust many people.” Sarah looked over her shoulder toward the doorway. “You can thank my father for that.”

  “That’s tough to forgive,” Erin said.

  “I haven’t forgiven him.” Sarah’s tone flattened. “They’re my parents, and I love them. They’ve given me every opportunity in the world, paying for school and my apartment and anything I need. All I have to worry about are my classes. But everything about my world has to be approved by them, because Dad’s an important man. It’s exhausting. What happened to Bonnie—he played a part. And never took responsibility. It’s so typical of him and everyone I grew up with.” She stopped, flustered. “Does that make sense?”

  It made perfect sense to Erin. With the exception of Bonnie’s abuse, Sarah could have been describing Erin’s own upbringing. Money and privilege brought numerous opportunities but came with a different set of rules. Once she broke free and started living on her own, Erin managed to shed most of her bitterness toward her father. But Sarah had yet to forgive.

  Erin imagined the young woman as a confused child, those strange eyes probably more noticeable, wondering what happened to the cousin she loved. A little girl stuck in a world dominated by public perception and selfishness. “Perfect sense.”

  “I guess you would understand,” Sarah said. “I heard my father talking about your family. What do they think about you being a cop?”

  Erin sucked at poker, but she made the effort to keep her expression neutral. “It’s complicated.”

  “I understand.” Sarah twisted her watch around her slim wrist. “After all the things they said about Bonnie’s murder being her fault because of her circumstances, I wonder what they’ll say when I tell them the same person killed Professor Walton.”