by Stacy Green
Only Beckett remained in the squad room. He stood up when she entered.
She held up her hand. “Let me go first because I suck at this. I’m an asshole, and I’m sorry.” Simple, but not enough. “I had no basis to accuse you of talking to the press. You’ve treated me as an equal, and you’ve never given me real reason to be offended or intimidated. And you’re right—all of that’s in my own head.” She forced a tired smile. “My brother likes to tell me my brain is my own worst enemy. I’m working on that. Anyway, I’m sorry.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets, the corners of his mustache twitching. “Thank you. I accept.”
Erin breathed a sigh of relief. “This seems to be a pattern with us. We need to shake up our routine.”
Beckett tried to smile, but he didn’t quite manage it. “So Lucy’s friend found one of Bonnie’s videos.”
“How?” Erin perked up, but the gray pallor of Beckett’s face didn’t offer much hope.
“Sheer luck. Most of these sites are paid via Bitcoin, and getting a subpoena for any of their financial records is nearly impossible since the vast majority of the transactions are overseas. Lucy and her team have been after a specific child porn site they think is using a server in the Ukraine. It’s a miserable endeavor without much hope of success, but she’s bullheaded. Anyway, a video with Bonnie showed up.”
“On a child porn site?”
He nodded. “Remember, she looked younger than her actual age. But the oldest comment on this video is four years old.”
“She would have been twenty-two. Still, that’s a stretch.”
“Not for the guys who only want teenagers,” he said with disgust. “This site caters to a variety of scumbag preferences. Grouped by age and sex of the kid. Bonnie’s video was in a special section: girls who enjoyed being molested as a child and want to be further dominated.”
Erin wasn’t quite sure she understood what he said. “Is that what the site says?”
“Oh no, they don’t consider themselves molesters,” Beckett said. “The specific wording is ‘Peter and Patty: children who were loved by adults and never want to grow up.’”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Beckett pointed to the bottle of antacid on his desk. “I was.”
“How bad is the video?”
“As bad as you’d expect. She’s dressed like a little girl and acts like she’s being raped. Real tears, bleeding—from her genitals and in the mouth from being hit—begging for them to stop.”
“So not fake?” Anxiety exploded like a bomb in her chest. Her abdominal muscles tightened, her legs flexing with the reflex to run. She would have to watch the video.
“It’s possible.” Beckett reached for the antacid and took another swig. “Most of the rape porn videos are people living out extremely sick fantasies. But some are questionable. Bonnie used at this time. She likely got involved with all sorts of people willing to use her.”
“Can Lucy’s people get anything from the video, like an I.D. on the prick raping her?”
“He’s covered up. All black, right down to his mask and gloves. The only piece of anatomy we see is his penis. It’s not white. Could be black, could be any other ethnicity. Impossible to tell.”
Erin still tried to wrap her mind around Bonnie’s torment. “So whether the video is real or not, she’s been doing this for a while. And she had to be all sorts of fucked up in terms of self-worth.”
“It’s one of the saddest things I’ve seen,” he said. “But apparently not all that shocking to Lucy’s people. Kids who are sexually abused and don’t have any real support system have a hell of a hard time getting healthy. That’s how so many kids end up running away and being taken into sex trafficking. Deep down, a lot of them believe they deserve it.”
“But Bonnie did get help,” Erin’s voice bordered on desperation. “Her parents got her therapy.”
“So they say.” Beckett put the cap back on the antacid, his face twisted like he could throw up at any second. “But a therapist is required to report sexual abuse of a minor. I went back to the year Bonnie was eight and all the way up to her turning eighteen. No reports.”
Tension clotted in Erin’s neck and shoulders. Why the hell couldn’t they get one solid answer to some part of this mess? “Neil Archer is so angry at himself and his brother, and it’s obvious he loved his daughter. I can’t believe he didn’t get her therapy.”
“Maybe he did. But whoever did it chose not to report it,” Beckett said. “Maybe Simon Archer paid the therapist to be quiet.”
Erin rubbed her temples, wishing away the dull ache. “If Simon’s not involved in the murders, he still deserves to be trussed up and hung out like a turkey. But if Bonnie’s been doing amateur videos that long, maybe she really did make $100,000, and we’re off on the blackmail angle.”
“No,” Beckett said. “I dug into her financials. Most of these amateur porn sites are paid via Bitcoin. Bonnie’s went into the same account as the offshore deposits, but the Bitcoins are infrequent and amount to a few hundred bucks a month.”
“Simon Archer has an alibi for the night of Bonnie’s murder. Fowler confirmed Simon Archer attended a fundraiser. But he still could have paid someone to kill her, figuring that would still be cheaper than Bonnie continuing to blackmail him.”
Beckett balanced his hip on the corner of his desk. “Bonnie and Virginia’s murders are about more than money.”
“Maybe that’s what the killer wants us to think,” Erin said. “He throws in the Ripper stuff to keep us confused.”
“I suppose.”
Erin motioned for the bottle of antacid. “I don’t believe it either. But I’m too tired to come up with anything else right now.”
Erin dragged out of bed before the sun came up. Beckett emailed her the video of Bonnie last night, but she put off watching it, hoping for one night without nightmares. Her mind barely gave her the opportunity. Scenario after scenario went through her head in a vain attempt to try to piece things together. Everything leading to Bonnie’s murderer fell apart when she tried to tie the professor to it. Some crucial piece eluded her.
When the sky turned silver, she threw off the covers and cued up the video.
Beckett’s description hadn’t done it justice. Either Bonnie Archer possessed exceptional acting skills, or she was raped again as an adult. Or—and this option broke Erin’s heart—Bonnie agreed to make the video. But her physical and emotional pain resonated throughout the entire video.
Simon Archer needed to take responsibility for Bonnie’s miserable life. What would Erin’s father say if he knew the truth?
He would cut off any funding for anything associated with Simon Archer, even if it meant no longer supporting an association he believed in. He wouldn’t want the Prince named tied to a scandal. And he possessed a moral compass—he just didn’t always apply it to business.
5:30 a.m. Her father would be up, probably finishing up his morning treadmill routine. The truth would stop at her father. Necessary steps would be taken. An excuse would be made to cut the funding. Bonnie’s name would never be mentioned. And Simon Archer would feel the sting.
* * *
Erin’s stomach bottomed out when she drove into the CID’s small parking lot. News vans from every local outlet, including CNN, had staked out a spot in the miniscule space. As rabid as the hungry gulls flying over the Potomac, searching for any morsel they could find, the pack descended, moving as a single unit toward Erin’s car. Anxiety plugged her throat, sweat dampened the roots of her hair. The taste in her mouth reminded her of the time she’d taken Lisa up on her dare to eat dirty sand.
Torrence appeared at her car window, shouting questions. Erin’s panic flashed to anger. She shoved her door open and stepped out, badge and bag clutched in her opposite hand. She and Torrence locked eyes, the redhead’s bright and the set of her mouth smug.
“Investigator Prince,” she shouted. “What can you tell us about the new Jack the R
ipper?”
“No comment.” Erin shouldered her way through the small throng. Voices blended together, flashes made Erin’s eyes burn.
The vitriolic band of squawking media closed ranks in an attempt to entice panic and something newsworthy.
Back the hell up. Cornering me is only going to blacklist you.
Erin bit back what she really wanted to say and barked the standard “no comment” as she squared her shoulders and stalked through the mass, who parted just enough to keep her from completely losing her mind.
By the time she buzzed into the building, her damp curls stuck to her face, and she had sweat all over. She dragged a hand through her messy hair as the back of her neck grew hot and a tingling sensation slid down her spin. Erin spun around expecting to see Torrence bulldozing her way into the lobby.
“Sarah, what are you doing here?”
The tall blonde uncurled her long legs and stood. Her fair skin had gone stark white, and purple circles beneath her eyes highlighted their contrasting colors. “I saw the news. I wanted to talk to you.”
“The news doesn’t have accurate information,” Erin said. “Whoever’s feeding them tidbits isn’t privy to the real details.” And God help the bastard if I find out who he is.
“So Bonnie and Professor Walton weren’t killed by a Jack the Ripper freak?”
Her hopeful expression reminded Erin of a small child’s who still believed sweet talk could earn a treat.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss those details.”
“You told me they were cut up.” Sarah wrung her hands so her knuckles popped. “And before, you asked me about Jack the Ripper and told me about the messages left. Jack the Ripper killed whores. This killer called Bonnie a whore—”
Erin put a hand on the girl’s trembling arm. Sarah towered over her—she had to have at least six inches on Erin’s short frame. “This Ripper stuff is probably all bunk. The press bought into it, but we haven’t. We’re not going to panic and start making mistakes. We have several suspects. I promise you we’ll find the person who killed Bonnie and Virginia.”
“Please find out who killed my cousin and Professor Walton,” Sarah said. “And don’t let them kill me.”
“I don’t think that will happen,” Erin said, “but it’s a good idea to be vigilant for a while. You’re still staying at your parents’?”
“My father insists,” Sarah scowled. “He claims it’s for my safety, but it’s all about control with him. He’s made me completely dependent—he’ll only pay for school and allow access to my trust fund if I behave the way he thinks I should.” Her strange eyes flashed. “I envied Bonnie’s freedom. We were polar opposites, but she leveled me out. She understood my life better than anyone. I don’t know how I’m going to go on without her. I tried so hard to understand, but I finally accepted you can’t always understand a broken mind.” Sarah’s chest heaved, her eyes watering. She reached into her leather bag and retrieved a delicate handkerchief with three intricate monogrammed letters.
Erin gently touched the lacey hem. “Ah, the hanky with your initials. My Grandma Prince used to make those. She believed they helped separate us from the lower-income groups.”
Sarah dabbed her eyes with the white cloth. “Sounds like she and my father would get along.”
“She was something else,” Erin said. “Thankfully, my dad’s ego isn’t nearly as large. His snobbery is a lot more subtle.” She tried to smile but faltered when she saw a fresh wave of tears in Sarah’s eyes.
“You’re lucky,” Sarah said. “My father still believes status is everything, and it’s our duty to maintain the gap between social and economic classes. I think that’s why he hated Bonnie so much. She threatened his perfectly controlled family picture.”
Erin hated to push when Sarah barely held herself together, but getting Sarah to give them Ted Moore’s name might break the investigation wide open. “Sarah, I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.” Sarah wiped her eyes.
“Child molesters aren’t capable of stopping.” Erin spoke as gently as she could, making sure to give Sarah personal space. “Whoever did this to Bonnie would have needed a replacement. Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?”
Sarah’s eyes briefly closed, and then the mismatched pupils stared daggers at Erin. “I wasn’t molested. I told you that already.” Her tone hardened, clipped, and bordered on arrogant. “Why can’t you let it go?”
“Because I’ve worked with many victims of sexual abuse.” Erin lowered her voice to a whisper. “And the person who hurt Bonnie and you is still out there. Do you think he could be the one who killed her?”
“I got no idea.” Sarah narrowed her eyes, arms tight around her waist, hands in her armpits, her narrow hip cocked.
Her sudden aggression seemed like a major twist, but many abuse victims used anger as a defense mechanism.
Erin stepped back, hoping the additional space would help Sarah relax. “Do you happen to remember Ted Moore? Your father’s old friend?”
Sarah’s aggressive stance stiffened. The vein in her neck pulsed. She shook her head. “Is there a back exit to this place? The reporters weren’t here before.”
Erin motioned for the desk sergeant. “Let me have a uniform escort you. Is your car out front?”
“Took the metro,” Sarah said. “I had some stuff to do on campus, so I left my car there. Station a couple of blocks away from here. Easy walk.”
Erin’s fingers flexed to reach out for the girl, but Sarah responded with antagonism.
“I promise you I’ll find the person responsible for killing your cousin and Virginia.”
Sarah shrugged, completely closed off.
Failure swarmed over Erin as she watched the girl shuffle behind the uniformed officer to the back exit. So much for a good start to the day.
* * *
The morning briefing had already started when Erin slipped into the room. “Sorry I’m late. Sarah Archer was waiting in the lobby. She didn’t admit to being molested, but I think we’re on the right track with Ted Moore.” She took a chocolate donut out of the box on Fowler’s desk and filled the group in on her conversation.
“I got nothing from Moore’s financials.” Fowler licked pink frosting off his fingers. “And we haven’t found anything to link him to an offshore account yet. We need a warrant for Simon Archer’s financials.”
Clark barked a laugh. “On circumstantial evidence? I’m not shaking that tree. Not without something in black and white.”
“But everything points to Simon having Bonnie and Virginia taken out,” Erin said. “Sarah and Bonnie’s reconciliation is a threat to him. Simon learns all he can about Bonnie from his daughter. Then he sets things up like dominoes and hires someone to make them fall. Meanwhile, he’s got Sarah sequestered at his place to make sure she stays quiet if she does suspect. Virginia is collateral damage because Bonnie confided in her.”
“What happened to your Jane theory?” Beckett asked. “If you’re suspecting Simon Archer, where does Jane come in?”
The one snag she couldn’t eliminate. The idea of Jane the Ripper, combined with the messages, had seemed gruesomely romantic. And completely random. “Maybe Simon hired a woman to kill Bonnie and Virginia because he thought they’d trust her? Or Jane’s a ruse like you’ve said from the start.”
“I’ll also have Marie check to see if Simon Archer’s prints are in any system,” Clark said. “He’s a public official, so it’s possible but a long shot. If we get a hit, we’ll compare them to the ones at both crime scenes. Prince, we can’t go after a man like Simon Archer without a mountain of evidence to back us up. We’ve got to have something more tangible than his relationship with Ted Moore—and there’s no proof beyond Moore’s donation. A good defense attorney could say Sarah tried to get revenge on her dad for allowing Bonnie’s abuser to go free.”
The chocolatey-goodness of her cake donut suddenly tasted like sawdust. Erin knew the game, and
Clark had a point. But she hated it. “What about Virginia Walton?”
“Her autopsy was unremarkable. She suffered as Mitchell theorized, but the killer carved the name on her back after she died.” He used a black marker to scribble on the white board hanging in the middle of the squad room and slashed a black line to create a column for Bonnie and a column for Virginia. Beneath, he listed the known elements of each woman’s life, underlining the overlap.
“We’re getting the security video from The Point today. We’ll start with the night the bartender mentioned, but we might have to expand the date range. We’re all going to have to take turns going cross-eyed looking for Virginia Walton on bad security video. And thanks to Beckett’s breakthrough”—Clark’s derisive tone made it clear he knew damn well how Beckett had ascertained the sex video of Bonnie—“we know Bonnie Archer made the amateur stuff for a long time. Our forensic guys have already combed through Virginia’s computer and found nothing that suggests a connection to the online sex world. Her files consisted mostly of school-related information. Prince, what about that box you guys found in Virginia’s bedroom?”
“We skimmed through it at the scene,” Erin said. “More school stuff, dated back several months. Nothing we can use. Temple didn’t get any trace from the autopsy?”
“Temple recovered a few hairs and fibers we’re going to test, but that’s going to be like pissing in the wind,” Clark said. “Beckett, you said you had something good for us.”
Beckett nodded, looking slightly more rested than he had last night. He still hadn’t shaved, and the scruff didn’t make him look anything but unkempt. “Guess who called me this morning?”
Erin reached for a Styrofoam cup for coffee. “Who?”
“Stephanie Key. She’s on her way with Ricky Stout and their lawyer. Apparently, Ricky has something to tell us.”
* * *
Ricky Stout’s lawyer was a thin, bald man with a groomed beard. His trench coat hung loosely on his small frame, and his briefcase looked heavier than he did. While an officer led the group back to the interview room, he made an announcement in a voice loud enough for the entire department to hear.
