by Melinda Colt
He moved closer to study it, stopping himself just in time from gnawing at the fingernail of his thumb, a habit he was trying to break. His mother often teased him that when he was chewing his thumb it was a sure sign he was concentrating really hard.
“Isn’t this a cobblestone like the ones used to pave the alley?”
Beside him, John bent down to analyze the pavement. “I think it might be,” he said, straightening. “But this isn’t cobblestone. It’s a sett. Cobblestone is generally of a naturally occurring form, unlike setts, which are quarried to a regular form, like these,” he said, pointing at the square-shaped stones.
“Let’s see if there’s a hole where this fits,” Evan said. “Maybe the killer dug it up, and we might have a better chance to find some fingerprints.”
“Or maybe he just found it lying around. These setts must be several centuries old. Despite maintenance, there are plenty time has shaken out of their place,” John reasoned.
“Either way, it looks to me as if the killer didn’t come prepared,” Evan mused. “Was it a spur of the moment kind of thing? Damn it, where is that profiler? She should have been here already.”
He glanced around, frustrated, wondering what could hold up Chelsea Campbell. Had she been sleeping? Was she out on a date? He’d heard through the grapevine that she wasn’t married, but thought it unlikely she wasn’t involved with someone. She was hot, he had to admit it—around his age, petite, shapely, with a mass of blonde wavy hair, a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice, and the most unusual eyes he’d ever seen. He knew people couldn’t have naturally purple eyes, but whether it was the makeup she used, or the light that lent her blue eyes reflexes of amethyst, they were arresting. He always did a double take when he saw her, wondering what she was doing volunteering for the Garda instead of modeling or something. This was his first chance to test her professional skills, and so far he wasn’t impressed.
Chapter Two
The mangos were green, arranged in black boxes divided into neat rows and lines. Chelsea thought they resembled a binary code, green against black, and then smiled to herself as she pushed her cart to the next aisle. Who else would have made such an analogy? Probably less than 5 percent of the population. Her IQ of 177 qualified her as a genius, but she’d never felt she was one. In fact, the more she studied the human mind, the more she discovered she only had a rudimentary knowledge of it. After all, most humans only used a limited part of their brain for conscious actions. As a doctor in psychology she'd learned to interpret results, to predict reactions sometimes, which was useful in both of her careers. But even though she could estimate the age of a criminal or the danger of a patient close to committing suicide, she didn't truly understand why one killed—other people or himself.
She chose a cantaloupe and smelled it, then crinkled her nose and put it back down. Where could one find a fragrant, sweet-scented cantaloupe in October? Not in Ireland, that was for sure. She went over her shopping list one more time, then headed to the checkout. The supermarket was almost deserted at this hour—just the way she liked it. She wasn’t a fan of crowds and liked standing in lines even less.
She was almost finished placing her items on the conveyer belt when her phone rang. Frowning, she fished it out of her purse, experiencing a moment of panic when she saw the Garda dispatch number. Why would they call so late? Something terrible must have happened.
“Is this all, Miss?” the cashier asked impatiently.
Chelsea only nodded, as she answered the phone, tossing the groceries in her cart with the other hand. “Chelsea Campbell.”
“Ms. Campbell, D.I. Gallagher requested you report to 34 Sráid Anraí,” a woman’s voice informed her. “There’s been a homicide and the detective needs your assistance.”
Chelsea swallowed hard, her palms instantly growing damp. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
On autopilot, she dumped the last of her shopping in the cart, swiped her credit card over the scanner, then rushed out of the store as though demons were chasing her. In the two years she’d been working with the Garda, she’d never been called to a murder scene before, so this must be something terrible. And who was Detective Inspector Gallagher? Her mind worked as frantically as her legs, as she shoved the cart through the underground parking lot, resenting each second it took to reach her car. She knew everyone in Homicide, and the name didn’t ring any bells. Or was it the new guy from Cybercrime, the American who’d transferred here recently? She had a flashback of dark-blond hair and sharp brown eyes that seemed to register everything. She’d seen him around headquarters a few times, and each time she’d felt like a Lilliputian facing Gulliver. Not that he was a giant, but he was tall and well-built, while she was short and far from well-built.
So why would a cybercrime detective investigate a homicide, and why had he requested her? She knew that was the procedure in America, but this was Ireland. Most crimes here were limited to speeding, mugging, and some gang-related murders.
She tossed her purchases in the trunk willy-nilly, shoved the cart away, and jumped into her car. As she drove toward the exit, she tried to remember where Sráid Anraí was. She knew the street, but had no idea where no. 34 was. With one hand, she inserted the address in the SatNav, since she knew that area consisted of several pedestrian streets and she’d have to walk some distance. Thank God the roads were fairly clear at this hour. She was usually a careful driver, but now broke several traffic laws in her rush to get to the crime scene.
Taking deep breaths, she remembered her training and focused on the procedure. She had no idea what type of murder she’d be dealing with. Silently, she prayed it wouldn’t be so horrific that she would get sick and lose all her professional credibility. Then she felt deeply ashamed for her thoughts. The victim—she didn’t even know if it were a man or a woman—deserved more than a weak-hearted, whiny criminal psychologist. That poor person deserved justice, and Chelsea swore she’d be instrumental in catching the monster who’d taken that life tonight.
Spotting the police lights and the group of people at the far end of the street, she knew she’d reached her destination. There were no parking spots available in front of the club, so she simply left her car on the sidewalk. One more traffic offense was insignificant now. Grabbing her bag, she hurried out of the car, locked it, and jogged toward the flashing lights. The night air was so cold it took her breath away, making her skin pucker into goosebumps. Her fashionable leather jacket was hardly appropriate clothing, but she hadn’t planned on going outside.
As she approached the crime scene and made her way through the bystanders, she forgot all about her discomfort. Jaw set, gut clenched, she headed toward the yellow crime scene tape, lifted it slightly and stepped beyond it, careful not to get in the way of the forensic technicians who were searching for and gathering evidence. She spotted John O’Sullivan at the same time he saw her, but before she could speak to him, a dry voice came up from behind her.
“About damn time, Ms. Campbell. If the rain hadn’t stopped and the victim wasn’t dead already, she would have drowned while we waited for you.”
Eyes blazing, she turned to face the man. Aye, it was the Yank alright, his expression as hard as a furious Viking’s. He wasn’t in a sunny mood, but then, neither was she.
“I’m sorry, Detective Gallagher, but I was in the supermarket doing the messages. I came as fast as I could. What happened here?”
His forehead creased. “Messages? In the supermarket?”
“Buying groceries,” she explained the Irish expression impatiently. “What happened?” she repeated, gazing anxiously beyond him.
“We have a thirty-two-year-old female victim, bashed on the back of the head, then strangled. It seems she was already dead when strangling occurred. I want your opinion on this. I understand you don’t have a lot of experience with violent crimes, but—”
“Not having much experience in the field doesn’t make me less competent. Can you give me a pair of gloves? And is this are
a cleared by the forensic team? I want to take a look at the body.”
Gallagher looked taken aback, but he nodded, then handed her a pair of latex gloves.
“Hiya, Chelsea, thanks for coming,” John said, joining them. “We need all the help we can get to find out who killed this poor lass.”
“I’ll do my best, John.” She slid on the gloves. “Are you leading the investigation?”
“I am,” Evan said. “In fact, I discovered the body.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
He described to her the little they had. Chelsea listened carefully, all the while she was analyzing her surroundings, familiarizing herself with the scene.
“Are there any security cameras?” she asked.
When Evan shook his head, she nodded. “No, it’s not a circulated street, and since it’s a pedestrian area there aren’t any traffic cameras either. Any witnesses?”
“The Gardaí are still taking statements, but nothing so far,” Evan replied.
“If anyone had seen anything, they would have come forward by now—or should have. Sometimes people are afraid to report crimes, whether because they fear repercussions, or they’re scared they might become suspects.” She paused, securing the gloves on her fingers. “What is her name?”
“Shannon Brody.”
“Shannon…” Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Chelsea walked over to the body. As she looked down, she swallowed hard, her throat dry. She couldn’t stop the wave of sadness that washed over her. It was natural, as was the fury that followed, the rage directed toward the evil bastard who’d done this to her, to Shannon.
In death, the young woman’s face had lost its animation, its expression, but not its beauty. Who would want to destroy that beauty, and why had he chosen this particular manner? It was never easy to do this, but Chelsea knew she needed her to step out of her comfort zone and into the killer’s mind. In order to understand him or her, she had to think like him, to visualize the murder, to imagine what she would have done if she wanted to end this woman’s life—all the while she had to remain anchored to reality. She knew how dangerous it could be to delve too deeply into the dark depths of an evil mind.
Ignoring the noise and movement around her, she stood and backtracked from the body slowly, gazing around. She felt Evan beside her, but he didn’t talk or stand too close. He’d done this before, probably more times than he could count.
“Did you find a murder weapon?” she asked.
Evan told her about the stone that belonged in a row of pavement.
“Oh, he’s smart,” Chelsea whispered. “And resourceful. The simplest way to get rid of a murder weapon is to leave it at the scene, if you make sure you don’t leave any DNA traces or fingerprints. That’s why the killer didn’t bring a weapon and preferred to improvise. He thinks fast, doesn’t lose his head.”
“Do you believe it’s a man?”
She shook her head. “I can’t say for sure. There’s no trace of sexual assault, no real proof to indicate whether we’re dealing with a man or a woman, but to expedite communication, I’ll refer to the killer as a he for now.” She shivered once under a breath of cold autumn wind. Although her body was sensitive to exterior stimuli, her mind was focused, searching, visualizing. “He’s a risk taker. He wanted to kill her badly enough to risk a relatively public place, but he was calculated enough to choose a somewhat secluded spot and the shelter of darkness. He’s got a violent temper. I think he lost control of himself when he strangled her. The method he chose indicates this murder was personal. He wanted—needed—to look into his victim’s face as he took her life. And I think this was his sole purpose. Not money, not rape, not even revenge for something. He just wanted to end her existence.”
“Why?”
As transfixed as she’d been, she’d nearly forgotten Evan was there. Now she turned to him slowly, struggling to come back, to regulate her breathing. As dark as the alley was, to her it was light, it was safer than the realm of madness she’d forced herself to explore in order to find the monster. It was a draining, shattering experience. Before now, she’d analyzed crime scenes from the security of her desk, through photos and videos, but this was real. Too real.
As though sensing her turmoil, Evan touched her shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”
She blinked to clear her vision, then looked up at him. His brown, steady gaze had a reassuring quality.
She nodded. “Yes. I don’t know his motive yet. We need more data on Shannon, her family, and her friends. Do you know if she was married, or had children?”
“I did a search—she was single, didn’t have any children. The only family she has are her parents, who live here in Dublin. I have to inform them of her death, and I… I was wondering if you’d go with me.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking embarrassed. “With you being a psychologist and all that, I thought you might know what to say, to give them some comfort.”
“Sure.” Chelsea studied him. It was a professional defect and often made people uncomfortable, although she worked at being as inconspicuous as possible when analyzing someone. She sensed he was uncomfortable and dreaded telling Shannon’s parents their daughter had been murdered. She’d imagined an ex-FBI agent would be jaded about these things, so she was surprised to read that kind of sensitivity in Evan Gallagher.
“Do you want to do it now?” she asked.
He moved his shoulders, glancing around. “Yeah, we have to. It’s the right thing to do, give them the news asap. The forensic team will finish here, and Detective O’Sullivan will supervise. For now, there’s nothing else for us to do here.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“Do you have a car?”
“Yes, it’s parked around the corner,” she replied, pulling down the sleeves of her jacket as far as they would go to cover her frozen hands. No matter how much she exercised and tried to keep her blood circulation going, her hands always seemed to be cold.
They consulted John and Nóirín, then left after John promised he would take care of the rest and wrap things up for tonight. As they walked toward Chelsea’s car, Evan looked up Mr. and Mrs. Brody’s address on his phone. Most of the gawkers had scattered, but Chelsea was pleased to see the Gardaí were still at work, questioning the remaining people. With any luck, maybe someone knew Shannon and could give them a clue on where to start searching for her killer.
As they reached the vehicle, they found a stray yellow cat sitting on the hood, eyes half-closed, fluffy tail wrapped around himself. Chelsea smiled, and saw Evan mirroring her gesture.
“Smart kitty. The engine must be warm still.” She hated to bother the cat, but he jumped away when they approached, crossed the street, and got lost in the darkness.
Chelsea climbed into the car and Evan took the passenger seat. She turned on the engine and the heat. From the corner of her eye she noticed Evan looked cold too, all hunched up in a jacket that strained at the seams to accommodate his wide shoulders. He barely fit inside her sleek city ride.
“You should dress warmer,” she said, backing up so she could slide the car off the sidewalk.
“Speaking from experience?” he asked dryly, glancing pointedly at her thin jacket and jeans.
“Yes. But I wasn’t going anywhere on foot. What’s the address?”
He told her and tapped it into the SatNav himself. Then he leaned back in his seat, appearing to relax under the warm air coming from the vents. “Who goes grocery shopping at ten p.m.?”
Chelsea felt a smile tug at her mouth. “I like to go when no one’s about. So, how do you feel here? Have you settled in yet?”
He moved one shoulder in a slight shrug. “There wasn’t much to settle. I rented a flat in Ranelagh, and now I’m looking into buying a car.”
“That’s it?”
“I like to keep things simple.”
“Like any self-respecting man. I envy you your capacity to keep things uncomplicated. I remember I saw a funny meme once, portraying the di
fference between a man and a woman. The woman was this whole mass of complicated circuits, while the man was a simple box with an on/off switch.”
He snuffled a laugh. “Sounds about right. Why complicate stuff? Life already complicates it for you.”
Her smile faded. Life definitely complicated things, and sometimes that was just an understatement to define tragedy. She had more than one reason to know that.
“What do you think happened to Shannon Brody?” she asked, stopping for a red light and turning her head to look at Evan.
His expression was carefully schooled, but underneath it she could read the sorrow, the anger, a sense of futility, as well as a steely determination to find the woman’s killer.
“It’s too early to tell much, but if we compare precedents, this type of murder looks like a passion crime—either a lover, or someone who wanted to be one, maybe a stalker the victim didn’t even know. Or maybe someone who resented her for some reason.” His gaze was distant, underlined by the fatigue shadows under his eyes. “It could be a lot of things. This is just one hypothesis of many. We’ll question her family, her friends, check out her electronic devices, her contacts. In a way, we’re lucky that social media exists. It gives us clues we might otherwise not discover. But sadly, it also offers motives and opportunities for many sick individuals to find prey of all kinds. It’s a fucking playground to them.”
She nodded silently, knowing too well how right he was. When the SatNav announced they’d arrived at their destination, she moistened her dry lips. This was going to be heartbreaking.
The Brodys lived in a pretty house, small and well-kept, surrounded by a neat hedge of evergreens. An outside light was burning above the front door, making the place look cozy and welcoming.
As they climbed out of the car, Evan checked the address one more time. “Okay, let’s do this.”
