by Tim McBain
She could still hear Sierra’s voice in her head. Laughing. Calling her a nerd. Talking about how happy the manicures made those old ladies. Saying how no one cared.
And maybe that was mostly true. Maybe no one cared. No one was there for her in the end. Were they? Just an ambitious FBI agent who wanted to use her for a night like all the rest.
But no. That wasn’t true. It wasn’t. She’d helped a girl who needed it.
“Guess we know she was tellin’ you the truth now, eh?” Loshak’s voice broke in, breaking the spell momentarily.
“Huh?” Darger said, her thoughts still hazy.
“I mean it’s obvious to me that the guy waited around in the same place he grabbed her before. Woulda really pissed him off that she got away. Once he got over the initial fear of being caught, you know?”
“Jesus,” Darger murmured. She hadn’t thought about it before, hadn’t quite fit all the pieces together. “That’s risky as hell. For him to go back there, where someone might have recognized him? Or the car?”
“Damn right. Probably got real paranoid at first, certain we’d come busting down his door any second. I bet he made a thousand promises to himself that he’d never kill again. But when we don’t come for him, all the old urges return. They always do. So he kills Fiona Worthington, thinking that’ll quiet down the thoughts. But he can’t stop thinking about the one that got away. Unfinished business, so to speak.”
And then the horrible realization: what if it was her fault? No one could say for certain what Sierra might have done or where she might have gone had Darger not interfered, but she had interfered. It was her car that got her to Jimmy’s. Her money that had bought the pills that had probably made Sierra more complacent. Less fearful of the monsters lurking in the shadows. If she had left it alone, if she had never come here… would Sierra still be alive? She would never know.
But she would be asking herself that question for the rest of her life. That she was sure of.
Chapter 21
The office of the County Coroner & Medical Examiner was in a squat brick building that shared a parking lot with a Lowes and a UPS distribution center.
Darger squirmed in one of the low-backed chairs in a small reception area, surrounded by the sound of shoes squeaking over tile floors and voices echoing down the stark cinder block hallways. Across from where she sat, a vending machine hummed a single note.
She hit the replay button on the video she’d been watching on her laptop. She couldn’t stop watching and rewatching Sierra’s taped interviews, searching obsessively for something they might have missed.
The hinges of a door somewhere off to her left squealed upon opening then clacked shut. Footsteps approached, but Violet barely noticed. She was immersed in the screen.
It wasn’t until she sensed the rush of breath as someone plopped down into the chair next to her with a sigh and said, “Agent,” that she snapped out of it, jumping a little and yanking her earbuds out.
“Startled you,” he said. It was Detective Luck. “Sorry about that.”
She closed her laptop and rubbed at her eyes.
“Nah, I’m on about three hours of sleep, so I’m a little jumpy.”
“Came down to wait for the autopsy results, I take it?”
“Yep.”
He stared at the blank wall in front of them.
“Just got done notifying the family,” he said. “Worst part of the job, bar none.”
Darger studied her thumbnail. The blue paint was already starting to chip. She must have been chewing while she went over the videos. She hadn’t even noticed she was doing it.
“Did they want to come do a visual? Her parents?”
“It’s only her mom,” Luck answered. “Her dad took off when she was a kid, apparently. There’s a stepdad, but he’s at work. And no, thankfully she didn’t insist on seeing the body. What a cluster-eff that would have been, right? ‘Sorry, ma’am, we can’t show you the head because there isn’t one.’”
He pressed his palm to his forehead, letting his fingers slide down over his eyelids, like maybe that would make the images go away.
“The mother seemed pretty indifferent about the whole thing, honestly. Which is a bummer in its own right.”
“Different people have their own way of responding to news like that,” Darger said. “Sometimes what looks like insensitivity is a mask. A strong face someone puts on. Grief makes you feel vulnerable. And there are a lot of people that would rather appear apathetic than weak.”
“I hear you. You never know how someone’s gonna react to it. But I don’t know. She was pretty darn frigid.”
Luck’s phone buzzed, and he excused himself to take the call. He moved off down the hallway, phone pressed to his ear as he stalked over the gleaming floor.
Darger yawned. The lack of sleep was starting to get to her. That and everything else that had happened in the last 48 hours. She crossed the small waiting area to where the vending machine clicked and buzzed. She fed it two crisp one dollar bills. In exchange, it spat out a cold 20-ounce bottle of Coca-Cola.
Back in her seat, she unscrewed the cap, releasing a burst of carbonation and with it, the recent memory of beers shared over a pizza. Half mushroom, half extra pepperoni and banana peppers. Darger tilted her head back and chugged a third of the soda in one gulp. Too bad it didn’t have any alcohol in it.
Luck sank into the chair beside her. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees.
“We got a vehicle description.”
Darger sat up.
“One of the neighbors out for a run with her dog this morning says she saw a dark blue Buick Lacrosse. She thought 2012 or so.”
“That’s awfully specific.”
“Well, I should say she thinks it was something like that. Said her ex-husband used to drive one like it, but she admitted she hadn’t been looking for a make or model, so she might be off on one or both. It was coming out of that blind alley at about 5:42 AM. Has some kind of running tracker app on her phone, so it keeps track of exactly where she was in her route by the minute.”
“It would match the car description Sierra gave in her original statement. A big, dark sedan.”
“Got something else from her.”
“Partial plate?”
“Not quite that lucky. But when we asked if there was anything distinct about the vehicle — you know, a dent, or a bumper sticker — she says she did notice something dangling from the rearview mirror.”
“Tell me it wasn’t a pair of fuzzy dice,” Darger said.
Luck smiled.
“Nah. Something orange. Flat, like it was made of paper or cardboard or something.”
“Parking pass?”
“Could be. Could be anything. A price sticker from a used car lot. An air freshener. We don’t know.”
As Darger readjusted in her seat, the metal surface of her brooch caught the light. She looked down at the tiny jeweled face.
“Hey — the personal effects that you found — was there a moonstone ring with the clothes or the bag?”
Luck started to shake his head, lifted a sheet of paper on his clipboard and ran his finger down a list of evidence found.
“I don’t see a ring here. Why?”
“She was wearing a ring, said it was her grandmother’s. Might be a good idea to check with area pawn shops to see if anyone comes in trying to hock something like that.”
“A moonstone, you said?”
The pen in Luck’s hand scribbled away as he bent over his clipboard.
“Yes. And the band was silver.”
“That’s good, thanks,” he said and took out his phone. “I’m gonna call it in right now.”
She opened her computer on her lap, and for a while, her fingers tapping on the keyboard was the only sound. Detective Luck was alternating between a stack of paperwork secured to a clipboard and his phone. Minutes ticked by on the big industrial-looking clock secured over the door. After an hour, Darger couldn’
t take it any longer. The yawning had grown more frequent, and her eyes felt heavy and sore. All the Coke had managed to accomplish was making her need to pee three times. She stowed her laptop in her bag, curled up in the cramped little waiting room chair, and leaned her head against the wall.
She’d just rest her eyes for a few minutes.
“Agent Darger,” a voice was saying. A hand rested on her shoulder, shaking her gently.
Her eyelids parted. Detective Luck hovered near her face, looking a bit amused if she wasn’t mistaken.
“Sorry to interrupt your nap, but the Doc’s ready for us.”
Violet straightened, untucking her legs and stretching out her arms and shoulders. Her neck was still sore from the previous night, and this impromptu snooze against the brick wall hadn’t helped.
Luck led her down the hall to a doorway marked by a name plaque that read: Joyce Kennard, DO — County Medical Examiner. The detective’s knuckles rapped at the door and a woman’s voice beckoned from within.
“It’s open.”
“Dr. Kennard,” Luck said by way of introduction, “this is Special Agent Darger from the FBI.”
The county medical examiner was small and slight, with silver hair cropped in a pixie cut. Something about her reminded Violet of a bird. Maybe the way she inclined her head to one side and then the other, blinking frequently. They shook hands. The doctor’s fingers were cold and dry, but she had a firm grip.
“Always unfortunate to meet under such troubling circumstances, but I suppose it’s the nature of the job. Good to have you here, Agent Darger.”
Dr. Kennard reached for a pair of glasses tucked in the pocket of her lab coat while Darger and Luck took their seats in front of her desk.
“Thanks again for doing the exam so quickly. I know it’s not the norm, and you’re busy as it is,” Luck said.
“Happy to do my part, Detective.”
She unfolded the glasses and slid them in place. There was a black leather folio in the center of the desk, and the doctor flipped it open, revealing a tablet. Pressing a button on the side, the device blinked on. With a swipe of the thumb, she brought up Sierra’s file.
“I’ll start out by telling you that I’ve found nothing to suggest this isn’t the same perpetrator as the other girls. That being said, we’ll have to wait for lab results to get a match on the bleach, for example.”
Detective Luck rubbed at his chin.
“But you’re fairly confident it’s him, right?”
“All preliminary findings on my end would suggest that yes, it is the same individual,” Dr. Kennard said, adjusting her glasses so they rested lower on her nose.
Luck glanced at Darger and gave a nod.
“Cause of death, in this case, is asphyxiation due to aspiration of the blood from the neck wound.”
“Ah, hell,” Luck said. A sigh hissed through his teeth.
Violet felt her own involuntary reaction, a tensing of every muscle in her body.
It was more common — as was the case with the other three girls — for victims of a slashing-style throat wound to die as a result of exsanguination. They simply bled out. And while it was likely of little comfort to those girls, to die choking on your own blood was surely a more painful, tortuous death.
Violet tried to tell herself it didn’t matter.
She’s dead, Darger thought, but she felt a pain in her chest as if someone were squeezing her heart in their fist. Her hand moved up to grip the brooch fastened there. It was a movement she made without thinking, perhaps subconsciously knowing what would come next. The memories she tried so hard to bury. The ones that always came back.
The smell came first. Gunsmoke and the metallic stink of blood. And then the sounds. Wet, gurgling noises. Choking gasps. Crying and whispering and shushing, a voice Darger knew was her own but didn’t recognize as such. And last, the images.
Gushing blood that looked black in the strange shadows cast by the streetlight overhead. Zara’s lips pressing together and pulling apart, trying to speak as her strength left her. As her lifeblood matted her hair into clumps. Smeared on the pavement, leaving stains and congealed pools. Soaked into Violet’s clothes and shoes as she held the girl’s body and waited for the ambulance to arrive.
It wasn’t sirens that Violet heard, though. It was the whistle of a train. But there had been no train that night.
Her eyelids fluttered with the realization, trying to clear the memories away. She was back. In the M.E.’s office.
“— like the others, the weapon indicated would appear to be smooth on one side and serrated on the other. Like a combat knife with a sawback.”
Dr. Kennard was still giving her report. Thankfully neither she nor Detective Luck seemed to have noticed Darger’s distress.
“The knife wounds to the neck caused complete severance of the larynx and trachea, as well as the carotid and jugular vessels. Complete severance, again, of the sternocleidomastoid, esophagus, and thyroid cartilage. Once he reached the cervical vertebrae, he switched to something heavier and blunter than the knife to complete the decapitation. The markings on the vertebrae would be consistent with an axe or maul.”
Jesus Christ almighty. Violet was glad she was already sitting. The last thing she needed was a replay of earlier in the day. She was still squeezing the brooch on her jacket so hard that her fingers were starting to cramp. When she released her hold on it, she noticed a pattern of tiny dots imprinted on her skin where she’d gripped the hedgehog’s spikes.
“Any fibers?” Luck asked.
“You know the other three had bits of sisal embedded in their skin from the rope. This time we have what looks like residue left from duct tape adhesive.” Dr. Kennard’s finger flicked at the tablet. “We’ll have to wait for the lab to confirm that. We also found bits of gravel in the superficial scrapes on the back of the heels, elbows, buttocks, and shoulder blades. As if she were dragged over a dirty, rough surface.”
“Like a garage floor?” Violet chimed in, thinking of Sierra’s statement from before.
Good God, what would she have thought when she woke up back in that place again?
Dr. Kennard peered at Darger over her glasses.
“Could certainly be.”
“That reminds me,” Luck said, taking a notepad from his pocket. He flipped through some of the pages. “I had a question for you, Doc.”
“Yes?”
The doctor regarded him from over her spectacles.
“Those marks on her back,” Luck said. “From the pooling of blood?”
“Livor mortis.”
“Right. That’s an indication that she was on her back when she died, right?”
“Not necessarily precisely when she died. It’s a process. But it does mean the body was in a supine position for the majority of the six hours immediately after death.”
Luck studied the notepad in his hands. He seemed nervous to Darger. Unsure of himself.
“It was just something I noticed is all, that well… The first and second victim both had the marks on their backs, too. But the third, Fiona Worthington, the marks on her suggested she was face down in the hours after death.”
Dr. Kennard brought a knuckle to her lips.
“One issue is that Fiona Worthington was submerged in oil, for how long we don’t know. I’d need to look into what, if any, changes might occur with decomposition when a body is in oil. There’s a wealth of information on the subject of bodies found in water, but oil is another subject entirely. Is there some significance to that, you think? Her body possibly being left face down after death?”
“Well,” Luck said, rubbing the back of his neck, which had turned a bit pink now, “and maybe Agent Darger can help me out with this, but I was thinking that maybe it was a sign that Fiona was different from the other victims somehow. Like maybe he didn’t want to look her in the eye while he went about the dismemberment.”
He chanced a sheepish look at Darger. She remembered being at the dumpster crime
scene then, critiquing Detective Luck’s interview transcript and finding them lacking because of a misspelling. But perhaps there was more to him than she’d originally thought.
Of course, his theory contradicted her own. In fact, her own interpretation would have been that the killer wanted the girls watching him during the process. Fiona was different not because he didn’t want her to watch, but because he didn’t care. In fact, maybe he’d placed her face down while he worked so he could pretend it was Sierra Peters.
“That’s… possible,” was all she said. “I’ll be sure to mention it to Agent Loshak.”
Luck shrugged, trying to dismiss the potential importance.
“Anyway, it was just a thought.”
He cleared his throat and refocused his attention on the forensic pathologist.
“What about bodily fluids?”
“We took swabs of everything. But like the others, I suspect the bleach will have rendered any samples useless as far as DNA or blood-typing goes. Doesn’t hurt to keep our fingers crossed, though.”
Luck lifted his hands and created an X with each fore and middle finger.
“I’ll keep ‘em both crossed in that case.”
Chapter 22
The steering wheel shivers in his hands. Pulsing. Throbbing. Vibrations coil from the engine into his flesh. The tremor travels through his palms and forearms and elbows. Dissipating somewhere in the upper arms. Absorbed by the meat.
The stoplight shines red like a Christmas light. Tints the street scarlet. He waits. He watches. Eyes blinking in slow motion.
The duffel bag shimmers in the corner of his eye. A blurred spot shuddering above it like heat distortion. He knows this isn’t real. That the shine wafting off of the bag exists only in his head. That the electric poke he felt when he placed his hands upon it earlier was a similar delusion.
The light flicks to green and the movement resumes. The car stalks forward. Its momentum somehow confident. Hungry.
He licks his lips. Twice. Hesitates.
