by Mary Burton
“Our church was one of many that sent volunteers. We searched all the woods, abandoned buildings, and along the river. Never found one sign of her.”
“Did Bill Dawson search for her?”
“No. He was too torn up, or so he said. Many thought he might have been the one that killed her.”
“Why?”
“The husband is the first suspect, isn’t he? And they fought a good bit right before the baby was born.”
“What did they fight about?”
“I never could tell. But I saw them arguing after church one day.”
“You are still involved in the church?”
“Until six months ago when the cancer made me too sick to work.”
Brenda shook her head. “That was a sad day when we boxed up Momma’s desk. She was the heart and soul of that church. Pastor wouldn’t be the man he is today without Momma.”
Kate nibbled the cookie. “That’s not true. He would have done fine without me.”
“He would have done well enough, but you were the one that helped him stay focused.”
“I’m glad to know I had a part in the success.” She rolled her head from side to side, closing her eyes. “Ms. Wainwright, I know I said I wouldn’t mind the fatigue, but I think I overspoke. My energy dropped as if someone opened a trap door.”
Rachel set her cup down. “Of course. Thank you for your time, Kate.”
Brenda rose. “I’ll show you to the door.”
They wove through the house and a framed image sitting on a half-moon table caught her attention. It was Kate in younger, healthier days standing next to a vibrant, laughing man in front of a red car. “That’s a nice picture of your mother. Is that your father?”
“I wish.” Sadness passed over her gaze like a spectator before she picked up the picture and wiped a piece of dust from the glass with her sleeve. “That’s Pastor Gary. That picture was taken about the time Momma started working at the church.”
“She clearly thinks a lot of the man.”
“He and the church were her entire life,” Brenda said. “She’s devoted her life to them.”
“A rich full life, judging by all the pictures.”
Brenda replaced the image. “Yes.”
Rachel reached for the front door. “Do you go to church there, Brenda?”
“I did until three months ago. Between work at the hospital and taking care of Momma I don’t have much time. And I want to take what time I have with her.”
“You’re a good daughter.”
She raised her chin. “I’ve always tried to be the best I could be for her. She sacrificed so much for me.”
Brenda watched as Rachel stepped out onto the front porch and scanned the street for signs of Oscar. “He seems to be gone.”
Rachel tensed. “I think you’re right.”
“What did he want with you?”
“He’s a bit overzealous.”
Brenda shook her head. “I didn’t like his look. You need to be careful of him.”
She fished her keys out of her purse. “I will. Thanks for the tea, Brenda.”
“Any time, Ms. Wainwright. Any time.”
Rachel slid behind the wheel of her car and locked the doors before firing up the engine. She glanced back at the house and saw the faintest flutter of lace curtains in the front window as if Brenda lingered to watch over her.
“Keep tailing him,” Deke said. “He’ll make a move sooner than later.” He listened to protest on the other end of the call. “Don’t care what the captain says. I’m right about this. Stay on him.”
Deke ended the call as he arrived at the Forensics lab. Brad had arranged the ten original letters on the light table in chronological order as well as the copies Rachel had made of the missing letters.
Deke shrugged off his coat and set it aside. He moved to the table and studied the arrangement. “So what do you have?”
“An interesting story.”
“Entertain me.”
Before he could answer Georgia breezed in the room. She shrugged off her jacket and laid it on top of Deke’s. She didn’t bother a glance at the men as she scanned the letters. “Hope I’m not late for the party.”
“Georgia,” Deke warned. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Georgia glared at her brother. “Since when? I don’t see why I can’t be a part of this. Fact I was helping Rick review the case files the other night.”
Shit. As much as he wanted to bark at Rick, how could he? Rick was no match for Georgia, who since she was a small kid, had hated being left out. She’d nosed her way into more private conversations. How many times had she hammered on a closed door, demanding it be opened? If Georgia wanted in, there was no stopping her.
He shifted attention to Brad. “Go ahead.”
Brad glanced at Georgia who folded her arms. She remained in battle stance as if expecting Deke to change his mind and toss her out. She’d not leave without one hell of a fight.
Brad cleared his throat. “The first letter is fairly straightforward. The victim . . .”
Georgia shook her head. “Call her Annie. She had a name and deserves to be remembered as a person.”
Brad scratched his neck. “Sure. I’m assuming this is Annie’s handwriting based on a sample Deke obtained from her sister.”
Georgia glanced at Deke. “How did that meeting go?”
Deke kept his expression neutral, giving no hint to the tense exchange he’d shared with Margaret. “Fine.”
“She gave you a sample just like that?”
“For the most part.”
A frown wrinkled her brow. “Okay.”
Brad watched the interchange and, certain that it had ended, continued. “Note the large looping style? Also note the way she adds an upward flourish to her letters. It suggests a woman wrote the letters but of course that is not a given. It suggests an emotional immaturity.”
“She was in her early twenties,” Georgia added.
“Understood. But I’ve seen folks in their late forties write in a similar manner. Handwriting can’t confirm age but it suggests emotional maturity.”
“Young and reckless fits her profile, Georgia,” Deke said.
She ignored the comment and waved a hand toward the letters. “What else do you see?”
“Note the size of the letters. That suggests a confidence. Maybe vanity. Arrogance.”
Deke rubbed the tensing muscles in the back of his neck. “Anything else?”
“Note how small her A is at the end of each letter. Suggests perhaps isolation, loneliness.”
“How can we be sure Annie wrote these letters?” Georgia asked.
Brad glanced toward a frowning Georgia and then back at Deke before pulling out the song sheet. “This is the sheet from her sister. It’s our control. We know she wrote this. And I can say for sure that she wrote the first sixteen letters. The handwriting is consistent.”
“And all the remaining letters?”
“I see small changes that I missed on the first pass. I noticed them on the second pass and they make me question the validity of the latter letters.”
“Why?” Deke asked.
“Note the way she crosses a t on the song sheet and in the initial letters. A clear loop at the front of the t. But in the last letters the loop is much smaller and tighter. And note the signature A is larger.”
“Maybe she was under stress,” Georgia said.
“Maybe,” Brad said. “All the handwriting looks like hers in the last five letters but closer inspection reveals a tighter command of the lettering. It’s as if she’s not writing naturally but thinking about each letter.”
Deke straightened. “The last five letters are fakes?”
“That would be my professional opinion.” Brad pointed to the last letters, which he’d grouped together. “The word choices are different, courser, and angrier. It’s as if two different authors wrote the letters.”
Georgia picked up the last letter. Frown lines deepene
d. “Are you sure Rachel Wainwright hasn’t had some hand in this? She’s been trying to tear into Buddy’s case. Maybe she faked them all to cast reasonable doubt.”
“I don’t see her doing that,” Deke said without much thought.
“She’s trying to make a name for herself,” Georgia challenged. “Attack the victim is a common technique for defense attorneys.”
“The paper stock is thirty years old and from the same lot,” Brad said. “The ink is as old.”
Deke said to Georgia, “This would not be Rachel’s style.”
Georgia arched a brow. “How do you know what her style is?”
Shit. He did not need to open a nonexistent can of worms with his sister. “Georgia, stop talking.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You stop.”
Brad cleared his throat, fatigue making him edgy. The Saunders crime scene had taken twenty hours to process. “Intelligent.”
Georgia glared at Brad.
Brad looked at Deke. “Bottom line: two different people wrote these letters thirty years ago. Annie and someone else.”
Georgia shook her head. “And that someone sends them to Rachel and attacks her and kills another woman to get them back. Why? Change of mind?”
“Or one person went against the wishes of another,” Deke said.
“You’ve three murder victims who were all beaten to death,” Georgia said.
He nodded. “Your point?”
“Those crime scenes,” she said. “The blood spray and the pools of blood. Annie Rivers Dawson’s crime scene looked similar.”
The lines in Deke’s face deepened as he imagined Georgia scanning the Dawson files. “Remind me to kill Rick.”
She rolled her eyes. “My point is that if not for the thirty-year gap I’d have concluded the same person killed all four women.”
Deke arched a brow. “Jeb’s in jail.”
“Perhaps he didn’t work alone all those years ago. Maybe he was working for someone. Perhaps when Rachel stirred the pot she made someone nervous.”
“Dixie was killed before the press conference.”
“Rachel requested DNA a month before that press conference. Someone might have heard about the retest.”
“Damn.” He reached for his phone.
“Whom are you calling?”
“The state lab. I want those DNA tests on my desk tomorrow.”
“The blood could still come back as Jeb’s.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it now.”
Rachel arrived at the address that once had been shared by Annie and her husband Bill. It was a tiny house, made of brick with cracked and peeling shutters. The front lawn had long ago turned to seed and the gravel driveway was washed out from rain and erosion. She parked in front of the house spying a public notice sheet on the front door. She moved past a mailbox crammed with flyers and papers down the uneven rutted driveway toward the house.
She glanced around the empty street, trying to imagine where Jeb might have parked his car that last day of Annie’s life. She stared at the large picture window, now covered with yellowing, torn curtains. Had he stood here and watched her through the window? And if he had, had there been someone else that had watched Jeb and set him up for the murder? Perhaps Annie’s lover?
Gravel crunched under her feet as she moved closer to the door. Walking up cracked front steps, she read the eviction notice on the front door before opening the screened door and trying the front door. It was unlocked.
She twisted the rusted brass knob and pushed it open. Immediately, the smells of mold and dust leapt from the dimly lit living room, now stripped of furniture. A flip of a light switch up and down confirmed the electricity had been cut off. She pulled open the front curtains, coughing as dust escaped into the musty air. Light streamed into the darkened room, shining on the piles of trash in the corner and dust coating the floor. In another room little feet scurried into the shadows.
Rachel turned to her right and searched the darkened corridor that cut into the deep shadows. She knew from the police report that Annie had been killed in the front hallway off the living room. The white walls were sprayed red with blood and on the hardwood floor puddles of blood. There’d also been signs that her body had been dragged out the back door.
Rachel reached for her phone, turned on the flashlight app and cut into the darkness. The first door on the right had been the baby’s room. A girl. She’d been named Sara. And just five days old when her mother had died.
Rachel peered into the dark room that smelled more of mold and decay. She didn’t venture toward the room Annie shared with her husband, a man who’d refused all interviews with the press and had been immediately cleared by the cops.
Bill Dawson had moved out of the house the day Annie had died and never returned. He’d tried to sell it but the foul history had tainted new buyers for a year before a man from out of town had bought the house. And then it had passed from owner to owner, slowly falling into disrepair as the neighborhood had crumbled under hard times.
There had been rumors of ghosts and strange noises in the house and some had theorized that Annie had come back searching for her baby. A cold shiver passed down Rachel’s spine and she rubbed her arms. Turning to leave she came face-to-face with a shadowed man. She started, took a step back and gripped her phone, tension and fear making her heart throb.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
For a beat, silence and then a soft chuckle as Oscar McMillian stepped out of the shadows. His cheeks looked flushed, his hair wild as if he’d been drinking. “Rachel, you are a hard woman to catch.”
She gripped her phone. “What are you doing here?”
He glanced around the house and she sensed he liked the creepy seclusion. “I’m here for you.”
“Is this about your case?”
He shook his head. “It’s about you.”
Fear moved up her spine like an electric shock. She had held no illusions about Oscar McMillian when she’d taken his case but she realized now she’d underestimated him. “You need to leave.”
“Why would I want to leave?” He moved a fraction closer, reminding her of a cat that played with a mouse.
“I’m leaving.” She grit her teeth and heart beating fast, moved forward, praying she could get out of this house and away from him.
His arm shot out and he grabbed her. “You are like her.”
Breath stinking of whiskey-pumped fear. “What do you mean?”
“Ellen. She thought she was better than me.”
His long fingers bit into her arm. “I don’t think that.”
“Liar.”
“Oscar. Let me go. I’m your attorney. I’m on your side.” Who would hear her if she screamed?
A sneer curled the edge of his lips. “No you are not. You pity me. Like Ellen.” His second hand settled at the base of her neck.
“Did you attack me the other night?”
“I wish I had.” He pushed his weight forward, backing her up into the shadows and against a dark, dusty wall. “After tonight, you won’t pity me, but you will fear me.”
Rachel drew in a breath as his hold tightened and she screamed. The sound reverberated off the small house’s walls and felt as if they bounced and slammed right back into her.
Oscar’s white teeth flashed in the near darkness. “I like screams.”
She dropped her phone and reached for his hands, hoping to pry them free. They didn’t budge. They tightened. Oscar’s dark eyes glistened in the shadows.
Rachel coughed and kicked her foot into his shin, which earned her a grunt but no relief from the pressure on her neck. She kicked again. Scratched at his face.
Jesus, Rachel, why did you come here alone?
Footsteps thudded from the front of the house. She kicked and whimpered but couldn’t catch enough breath to scream. Please find me.
And then the pressure around her neck released and Oscar cursed as rough hands pulled him away from her. She blinked, his cries of frustration
reverberating on the walls, as two uniformed police officers handcuffed him. One of the uniforms radioed for an ambulance as a third man strode into the house.
“What are you doing here?” The voice, a rough blend of sandpaper and nails, struck a familiar chord. Deke Morgan.
Relief flooded Rachel and if not for pride she’d have cried. “I could ask you the same.”
“You’re trespassing,” he said.
“I didn’t see any posted signs.” A galloping heartbeat left her voice a bit breathless.
One of the uniforms returned and informed Deke that Oscar was screaming for a lawyer from the back of the squad car.
Deke looked at Rachel. “Ms. Wainwright?”
Cut your losses. “No. Not me.”
“Tell him to call the public defender’s office,” Deke said. When they were alone, she cleared her throat and gulped down pride. “Thanks. You were right about him.”
A dark brow arched as if he’d not expected that admission, and after a small grunt, he turned from the hallway and moved back to the living room. She picked up her phone and quickly followed. In the main room the sunshine and flash of lights from three cop cars was a welcome sight.
His back to the window and the lights, Deke surveyed the room. “Anything of use?”
She shook her head. “I wanted to see what the cops might have seen thirty years ago. I wanted to walk in their footsteps.”
“And?”
“Thirty years changes a lot. What are you doing here?”
“Dispatch called ten minutes ago when the uniforms saw McMillian follow you into the house. I figured it was a matter of time before he made a move on you.”
“You figured?”
“I told you he was dangerous. This isn’t my first rodeo, Rachel.”
“How could you know?” The sting of Oscar’s fingers around her neck lingered.
“A hunch.”
“So was I some kind of bait?”
“More or less.”
“That’s cold.”
“It worked.”
“Just barely.”
Calloused fingers that had held her steady as she’d left the hospital days ago flexed. “Does seeing this house give you any insight?”
