An Eye for an Eye

by Caroline Fardig

  “You’re sick over it? Oh, how awful for you, Baxter. Tell me—did you raise her? When you were ten years old, did you get up in the middle of the night every night to give her a bottle and change her diaper because her father was off on a bender and her mother had abandoned the two of you to go screw some random guy? Did you have to walk an extra mile on your way home from school to go to the supermarket to steal the expensive formula because she couldn’t tolerate the shitty welfare formula our mother insisted on giving her? Did you help her with her homework every night after finishing your own or take her to buy her first bra? If we can’t find her or solve this stupid case in time, are you going to be the one who has to tell her precious baby boy that his mommy is never coming home again?”

  I lashed out, striking at his chest with both fists. Baxter didn’t flinch, and in response pulled me close to him. I cried against him, unable to find a glimmer of hope in this utterly hopeless situation.

  After I’d quieted down enough to hear him, Baxter said, “Let’s get you sobered up. I think our best shot is looking into this case. If nothing else, maybe it’ll give us some clue as to how to find this guy.” When I pulled away from him, he gave me a hard stare. “Ellie, are you up for this? If not, we can get someone else—”

  “No, this is my fight.” I willed myself to get my act together. Using every last bit of strength I could find, I locked down my emotions. Steadying my voice, I said, “You know I can’t sit idly by if there’s something I can do to save my sister.”

  His expression softened. “I figured as much. Come on. I think all you need is a couple of cups of coffee and a greasy cheeseburger and you’ll be good to go.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I rode with Baxter to the station feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. The coffee and cheeseburger had hit my empty stomach like a ton of acidic bricks, making me feel worse, not better. The only positive side was that I had managed to channel my rage, frustration, and terror over Rachel’s abduction into working on the case Hunter/Justin wanted us to re-solve. With Jenna’s case, I’d never been able to fully flip that switch and become a dispassionate investigator, and as a result, I’d gotten way too emotional too many times. This time, everything was on the line, and I wasn’t letting anything get in the way of what I needed to do.

  Baxter worked the whole drive to the station to convince me that the best way to get inside the killer’s head was to understand what he’d gone through as a child and how it had affected him. There was also a strong possibility that in studying the old police files from his mother’s murder case, we could find names of relatives, friends, or neighbors who might still have ties to him. Baxter believed that was the key to finding where he was hiding Rachel.

  The physical evidence from the Fox murder case was being located and transferred to the sheriff’s station, and the incident files were being pulled and copied for our use, so there was no investigating that could be done yet. Our first task was to attend a meeting headed, of course, by Agent Manetti.

  The moment Baxter and I entered the conference room, it became deadly silent. Sterling, Amanda, Beck, Chief Esparza, and Manetti all stared at me, radiating pity, just like they had at the cemetery earlier today. Everyone seemed to be afraid to speak.

  I cleared my throat. “I appreciate your concern for me and for my sister’s safety. But I can’t handle you all treating me like some victim’s distraught family member. Even though I am.” I rubbed my forehead. “Look, just bust my balls like usual and don’t try to sugarcoat anything for my benefit. I need to be aware of all the gory details, or I’m going to miss something. I’m a liability as it is, and I’m trying so hard to be dispassionate and professional. No pity, okay?”

  Sterling grinned. “You all heard it. Matthews just gave me a free pass to say whatever I want to her. Someone write that shit down.”

  I gave him a half-hearted smile. “Yep. Bring it.”

  Amanda pulled out the seat next to her and gestured for me to sit. “You realize you’ve just undone all the progress I’ve made with his attitude in the last couple of months.”

  “I know. And he was so close to becoming somewhat human.”

  Sterling snorted. “Oh, it’s on, Matthews.”

  Manetti, the human buzzkill, said, “Clock’s ticking, people. Detective Sterling, can you quickly bring everyone up to speed on the Richards case from this afternoon?”

  Sterling nodded. “According to Dr. Berg, Michaela Richards died sometime this morning, roughly six to eight hours before she was found. COD was exsanguination again, same MO as Jenna Walsh. Hand missing, following the pattern as expected. This time the victim was holding a garden spade. We found a note in her mouth like in the Donovan case. The victim was again redressed in dated clothing like we saw in the Walsh case.”

  Manetti said, “Ms. Carmack and Mr. Durant, a forensic report?”

  Beck whined, “We’ve hardly had time to do a thorough analysis of the evidence.”

  I saw the other four men in the room simultaneously clench their jaws.

  Amanda chimed in, “But of the evidence we did process, which included the poem and the spade, we found the same fingerprints as we had on evidence from the Walsh case and on the award from Ellie’s office. It’s the same suspect as before, as we all thought. I don’t expect the victim’s clothing to be of too much use, but we’ll be processing that as soon as we’re done here.”

  Manetti glared at Beck as he said, “Thank you, Ms. Carmack.” To the rest of us, he said, “I take it you’ve all watched the video that Justin Fox sent. He seems to have changed his appearance since Ms. Matthews saw him on Monday. We took new images of him from the video and cleaned them up and distributed them to the news outlets, hoping someone will recognize him that way. We’ve also distributed photos of Rachel Miller in hopes that we can trace the last place she was seen, or find out if she was ever seen with Fox. I’ve sent the video to some of my guys to analyze and hopefully find some kind of clue as to where he’s holed up. Cyber said the email itself was sent from a Hotmail account on a free Wi-Fi network at a Starbucks in Carmel. That could have been done in the parking lot from the comfort of his vehicle, but we’ve sent deputies out to interview the employees just in case. Detective Baxter, do you have anything to add?”

  Baxter shook his head. “Not much. Now that we know his real name, we found Justin Fox’s driver’s license number and ran it. We checked out his current listed address and his last known address, but both are in apartment complexes that have no record of him living there. Deputies canvassed both complexes, and no one recognized him from any of the photos we have. So that’s a dead end, but no surprise there. We’ve got people digging through his financials, but in the last six months, he’s become a ghost. We’ve got a work history for him, but again, nothing in the last six months. It feels like he’s been planning this for a while. I guess all I have to say is that once we have the incident files and the evidence, we can use all the help we can get.”

  Esparza said, “You’ve got the full resources of the department at your disposal. Everyone who isn’t scheduled to be out on patrol is available to help. Also, there have been multiple offers from deputies who’d be happy to come in and work on their days off. Don’t hesitate to ask for anything you need.”

  Manetti nodded. “The same goes for my field office. I’m calling a meeting with the key players from the original case, which I hope will give us some insight into the bigger picture. We’ll have Sheriff Walsh, Frank Donovan, and DA McAlister put their heads together and reconstruct the case for us, and we’ll Skype in the former coroner, Dr. Franklin. You’re all welcome to attend that meeting later, if you like. I’ll have a firm time once I speak to the four of them.”

  I didn’t particularly want to be stuck in a room with two people who’d lost loved ones to this psycho while Rachel was in her current situation. It could prove to be too much for me. Besides, I thought it would be better for me to work the evidence from a fresh perspect
ive with no preconceived opinions or theories.

  Manetti said, “I think that’s everything from my end. Work fast and work smart. Thank you all.” When we all got up from our seats to go get to work, he added, “Ms. Matthews, I’d like to speak to you for a moment.”

  Fighting the urge to utter a heavy sigh, I stayed put. I wondered what kind of reprimand he’d have for me this time.

  Baxter said to me, “I’ll be at my desk. Come find me when you’re done.”

  Once everyone was out of the conference room and the door was shut, Manetti came over and stood in front of me. His expression and tone softer than I thought possible, he said, “Ms. Matthews, please know that this department and the bureau are committed to bringing your sister home safely. This case is priority number one, and I will personally see to it that anything within our power will be done. You have my word on that. I know you don’t want my pity, but I want you to know you have my sympathy.” His eyes held mine. “And you have me, anytime—day or night. If you need something analyzed in a hurry or a favor called in for anything, I want you to come to me. If you need to blow off some steam and yell at someone, you come to me.” His mouth pulled up in the corner. “Not that you don’t do that already.”

  I was floored by his kind words. I didn’t think he had it in him. Maybe I was wrong about him, like he’d said. “Thank you, Agent Manetti. I appreciate it.”

  “No thanks needed. We’re going to continue to work the current cases as well, hoping something will give us a clue as to where the killer might be hiding. If we can get to him before the seventy-two hours is up, I think we’ll have a much better chance of freeing your sister. I don’t want to hang all our hopes on being able to re-solve a thirteen-year-old murder case in three days, or, for that matter, on a sociopath’s promise that he won’t hurt your sister. I like to have a backup plan.”

  I nodded, trying not to think about the fact that my sister’s life and safety rested on the whim of a serial killer. What if she were to say or do something that made him angry and he lashed out?

  I must have seemed uneasy, because Manetti laid a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll bring her home. You focus on staying positive, because that’s the only thing that’s in your control.”

  Frowning at him, I said, “I thought we weren’t going to treat me like some victim’s distraught family member.”

  He smiled and lifted his hand away. “Right, sorry.” His tone turning gruff, he said, “Get to work, Ms. Matthews.”

  “Much better.”

  ***

  I found Baxter at his desk, perusing a scanned autopsy report on his computer screen.

  “You look like you feel better. I can’t imagine Manetti gave you a pep talk.”

  I dropped down into the chair next to his desk. “Surprisingly enough, that’s exactly what he did.”

  “So he’s not in fact a cyborg like you previously thought?”

  “Possibly not.”

  He gestured to his screen. “I’ve got a copy of the autopsy here, which I’ve sent to Dr. Berg to have him look over. The previous coroner conducted this autopsy. The victim, Leann Fox, suffered blunt force trauma to the head before being strangled to death.”

  “That’s how Amy Donovan was killed.” I rubbed my aching forehead. “He was killing mommy all over again.”

  “Exactly.” His desk phone rang, and he answered it. After a few moments, he said, “Excellent. Thanks,” and hopped out of his chair. “There are boxes waiting for us in evidence.”

  My body tensed. I was raring to dive into this case so we could get it solved and get my sister back. But at the same time, I had a gnawing apprehension that the evidence would be unusable and of no help.

  Baxter and I walked to the evidence room in tense silence. As outwardly positive as he always tried to stay, he had to have some of the same fears as I did. Baxter signed the two boxes out of evidence, and we took them to the lab. Amanda was in there, processing some clothing, but Beck was not around.

  “Hey, is that the evidence from the old case?” she asked, stripping off her gloves and coming over to the workstation where Baxter had set the boxes.

  I blew out a breath. “That’s it.”

  Baxter removed a knife from his pocket, put on a pair of gloves, and sliced open the tape holding the smaller box shut. He opened the lid, and to my delight, the box was fairly full. He took out paper bag after paper bag of what I assumed to be clothing, and then got down to several other items, all hidden from view in paper bags and manila envelopes.

  Unable to wait any longer, I snapped on a pair of gloves and started pawing through the parcels, scanning the evidence tags to note the contents. I set aside the clothing, which wouldn’t be likely to yield much information, and went for the possibly more interesting items. Unfortunately, aside from the victim’s clothes, the other bags and envelopes only contained accessories such as shoes, a belt, and jewelry.

  I slammed the bag of shoes down on the worktable. “This whole box is full of the clothes the victim died in? Big freaking deal. Where’s the good stuff?”

  Baxter pulled a longer box over in front of him. “This is the murder weapon… Well, maybe not exactly.”

  “How is it not exactly the murder weapon?” Amanda asked.

  “The autopsy report said the victim sustained a blow to the head before she was manually strangled. Now, I haven’t read through the entire report yet, but I assume she was stunned by whatever’s in here and then finished off by the killer’s own hands.”

  She shuddered. “Just like Amy Donovan.”

  Baxter slipped his knife through the red evidence tape and opened the box. He lifted out a four-foot long garden spade that had seen better days. The metal blade had a dent it and was covered by dirt, rust, and a substance that could be dried blood. I set out a sheet of clean butcher paper on the table, and Baxter set the spade down carefully on it.

  “Ouch. It would hurt like a mother to get clocked in the head with this thing,” he said.

  “Mmm-hmm. I guess this is a good place to start,” I murmured, already zeroing in on the smudges of fingerprint powder that were visible on the spade’s wooden handle.

  He nodded and backed away from the table. “If you guys want to run with this, I’ll keep going on the autopsy and then get cracking on the case notes once I get them.”

  I barely heard him, already whizzing around the lab, donning a clean lab coat and gathering a camera and fingerprinting and blood collection supplies. I heard Amanda say something to him, but didn’t register it. I had my job now, and nothing was going to take away my blind concentration.

  Moving the bench magnifier over to the work surface with the spade, I turned on the magnifier’s light and brought the arm down to get a good look at the handle. There was residue from fingerprint powder over most of the handle, but I was hoping whoever had originally processed this item had missed a print that I could pull myself.

  I changed my gloves and put on a mask, then took a deep breath. This was it. I had to find something on one of these items that had been overlooked thirteen years ago. The spade’s handle was made of a light-colored wood that had been sanded smooth and varnished, and the D-shaped grip was made of red-painted metal and wood. Good old-fashioned black fingerprint powder was the perfect choice. I took several photos first, before I disturbed any potential evidence.

  Before I applied any more fingerprint dust, I looked for smudged fingerprints I might use to be able to get some DNA. Not that we could get a DNA match returned from our lab in seventy-two hours, but if we really were chasing a new killer, it could come in handy if there were a court case in the future. I saw a blurry partial print that seemed to have escaped the first round of dusting, so I took a photo, then swabbed what I could of it.

  After I’d packaged the swab, I dipped my fingerprint brush in the powder and gently swiped it on the grip and the top few inches of the handle. When I set my tools down to inspect the handle, I was disappointed to find no evidence of fingerprint
s. Not to be deterred, I went on swiping fingerprint dust in six-inch sections down the handle. Finally, near the socket that attaches the spade’s blade to the handle, I found one lone fingerprint. My heart hammered in my chest. On a small curved surface like the handle, it would be best to use Mikrosil, like Amanda and I had used on the boots Jenna had been wearing the night she was killed. Fighting to steady my shaking hands, I took several photos of the print, then mixed the Mikrosil base and hardener and dabbed a small amount over the fingerprint. The twenty-minute wait was going to kill me this time if I didn’t move on to something else. I decided to concentrate on the blade end of the spade.

  I moved the arm of the magnifier down to the other end of the spade, taking in the mess on the back. If this dark substance was in fact blood, that meant the killer had to have hit Leann Fox at least twice with this thing. Like Baxter had said, that would have been extremely painful. Two blows from the heavy spade could have disoriented her enough for her attacker to easily overpower and strangle her. She may have been knocked out and unable to fight back at all. I wondered briefly whether or not there were any scrapings taken from underneath her fingernails during the autopsy—not that there was anything we could do about it now.

  Ripping off my gloves, I texted Baxter: Fingernail scrapings done at autopsy?

  His quick response was: Yes, but no DNA was found.

  Damn. Regardless of the fact that she’d raised a serial killer, this poor woman had met a violent death. Granted, Justin Fox had to have been young when his mother was killed. It was possible he’d developed his sociopathic tendencies after she was gone. Maybe it wasn’t her fault, but I still couldn’t bring myself to feel a normal amount of empathy for her because of what her son was currently doing to my sister. In some ways, it almost made it easier to focus since I wasn’t spending any time feeling sorry for my victim.

  I put on new gloves and took several photos of the bloodlike substance on the blade of the spade. I then moistened two swabs and went over a couple of areas where the substance was more concentrated. After setting those swabs aside to dry, I staked out another worktable and started on the clothing. Amanda had taken the boots, jewelry, and belt to her workstation and was working quietly, not being her usual conversational self. I knew she understood the stakes here and was pleased to see she wasn’t wasting any time. Beck, on the other hand, had just returned from one of his breaks. I took the victim’s shirt and began examining it, thinking if I stopped to berate Beck about wasting time, I might lose my cool and not be able to get it back.