Violet Darger (Book 1): Dead End Girl

by Tim McBain

  Loshak’s grim mug greeted her when she opened it. So he’d finally seen it for himself.

  “I can explain,” she said, but he held up a hand to cut her off.

  “Save it. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to do some of that when we get to the meeting.”

  “Meeting?”

  “Yeah. Sheriff O’Day called an emergency meeting of the task force.”

  Loshak cocked his wrist toward his face.

  “Starts in 20 minutes, so we better get going.”

  Darger was already reaching for her jacket.

  “It’s a Sunday.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose our local boys were too thrilled when they saw that their case had made the tabloids twice in one weekend.”

  The dryness in his delivery only made the words sting more. She knew the worst was still to come.

  When they reached the parking lot, Darger headed for her car instead of following Loshak to his.

  “I’ll follow you in my car,” she said.

  The last thing she wanted was to be trapped in a moving vehicle with Loshak’s wrath.

  But even as they filed into the conference room on the second floor of the Sheriff’s office, he said little. She couldn’t figure it out.

  It was a smaller group this time. No lawyers and no uniformed officers. Just the three detectives and their bosses. From the icy stares aimed in her direction, she could have sworn the room was about ten degrees colder than the rest of the building.

  “Well, well,” Janssen said. “If it ain’t our resident Superstar FBI Profiler!”

  Violet cringed internally but kept her face calm. She risked a glance at Detective Luck, and he gave her what she thought was an encouraging blink.

  Sheriff O’Day spoke up then, calling the meeting to order.

  “I know that none of us are thrilled to be here on a Sunday. I’m sure we all had been looking forward to spending some much needed time with our families,” he said.

  His top lip and mustache quivered with irritation.

  “But I think some things in terms of this investigation and this task force need to be addressed. Chief Haden, I know you had a few things you wanted to say.”

  Luck’s boss moved to the front of the room, hitching his belt up over an ample belly. He cleared his throat before speaking.

  “I’ve already discussed this with my detectives at length, but I figured it would be wise to reiterate to the rest of the group: from this point forward, there should be no extraneous photographs taken at crime scenes. Myself and the two Sheriffs have agreed to this effect. The crime scene techs and the coroner should be the only ones with cameras anywhere near a scene. Period. End of story.”

  He made no secret who that comment was aimed at, staring at Darger for the duration. She clenched her jaw, wishing she had the power to go invisible.

  “Furthermore, I’ve canceled the stakeout detail for all crime scenes within Athens city limits, effective immediately,” the Chief of Police said.

  “I’ve pulled my men off their details as well,” Sheriff O’Day added.

  Loshak held up a hand.

  “Hold on, now. Let’s not be hasty about that.”

  “Hasty?” Sheriff O’Day said. “What’s the point of staking out the dump sites if he knows we’re watching now?”

  Loshak gaped for a moment, and then his gaze roamed over to Darger. His eyes held a look of incredulity. Oh boy. That wasn’t good.

  She was starting to think Loshak hadn’t actually read the article. Hadn’t known about the stakeout being blown.

  She’d only mentioned it to Patricia Peters to relieve the woman’s paranoia. To let her know they were doing everything they could… Of course, Darger knew now she’d been conned. She didn’t think Loshak would care for her excuses, whatever they may be.

  “As far as I’m concerned, it’s all down the tube now,” Sheriff O’Day was saying. “All those extra man-hours. The overtime. This operation cost our department a lot of money.”

  “Ours, too,” the Chief agreed.

  She knew that her one job at this meeting was to keep her mouth shut. Avoid digging herself into a deeper hole. Head down, lips zipped. But she couldn’t help it.

  “Thank god you all have your priorities straight.”

  “Let’s not overlook the most obvious fact,” the Sheriff said, ignoring her, but struggling to keep his voice level. “This makes all of us look bad.”

  She thought of Sierra’s broken body, defiled and on display now twice for anyone that wanted a peek.

  “You think you look bad? You should see the girl,” Darger said with a snort.

  Sheriff O’Day’s spine straightened, and he squared himself toward her.

  “Thanks to you, Agent Darger, the entire country has seen her.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Darger thought she saw Detective Luck wince on her behalf.

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing the FBI is here so you can blame us for everything when re-election time comes around.”

  “Gentlemen,” she could hear one voice saying over the din.

  She thought it might have been Loshak, but she was too embroiled with the Sheriff to look.

  “You have a lot of nerve to go lobbing suggestions like that—” the Sheriff started to say, and Darger got louder to match his voice.

  “Balls, Sheriff. They’re called balls, and it’s a good thing at least one of us has a pair!”

  She was vaguely aware of other voices around them, trying to interrupt, but a match had been struck and the flame had been kindled. She couldn’t even hear her own words among the uproar, let alone the Sheriff’s or anyone else’s.

  And then a high-pitched whistle sounded. They all turned. Luck removed his thumb and forefinger from his mouth.

  “Everyone here has one objective, and that is to find this guy. Hopefully before he kills again. It’s not going to happen if we keep doing this,” he said, gesturing at the group. “Agent Darger made a mistake. I don’t think there’s any argument there. But what’s done is done. We have to move forward with a new plan.”

  “The detective is right,” Chief Haden said. “I think we better adjourn this meeting before things go too far. I say we take a day to gather our thoughts. Maybe two. We can regroup later in the week when cooler heads have prevailed.”

  The group disbanded, scattering like a flock of seagulls in a busy parking lot.

  Loshak was halfway down the stairs when Darger caught up with him.

  “Loshak,” she started to say, but when he wheeled around and she caught the fierce look in his eye, the words died on her lips.

  “Not here,” he growled.

  The knot that had been in her gut since the previous evening grew two sizes. She stood frozen in the stairwell until she heard the door open and close. It wasn’t until Janssen of all people stopped next to her to scowl and gruffly ask if she was alright that she was able to move again.

  Luck must have taken an alternate route outside, because he was waiting near the front door when she came out.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Darger kept walking.

  He kept pace with her, putting an arm out to try to slow her down.

  “Violet.”

  She recoiled from his touch, finally stopping next to her rented car and fixing him with a contemptuous glare.

  “Thanks for going to bat for me in there,” she said, the sarcasm sharp in her voice.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “They practically blamed me for the leak, when the reality is that Patricia Peters could have gotten photos from anywhere. She’s a family member of the deceased! She could have submitted requests for the entire file, the autopsy, you name it.”

  She unlocked the car and climbed into the front seat. Luck had a hand on the car door, keeping it open while they argued.

  “Yeah, but those pictures did come from you.”

  Her fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, squeezing until he
r knuckles felt like they might pop out of the sockets.

  “I can’t believe you think this is my fault!”

  “Listen, Violet, you’re not the only one that got chewed out over this, alright? I spent the first half of the day getting reamed by the chief. That was my crime scene. I’m the one who let you take the pictures. I’m in hot water, too.”

  “That must be why you rushed to my aid, then,” she said. “Too busy covering your own ass?”

  “What do you want me to do? I’m pissed, you’re pissed. Everybody’s pissed! You want me to throw gas on the fire? Start arguing about whose fault it is and isn’t? That’s not gonna help anything, because it doesn’t matter. It’s too late.”

  “You got that right,” Darger said, ripping the door from his grip and slamming it shut. She wrenched the gearshift, throwing it into drive and accelerating onto the street, leaving Detective Luck standing alone in an empty parking lot.

  Chapter 48

  It’s Sunday. He shouldn’t be here. Got called in.

  The booth feels as isolated as ever. But he doesn’t mind for once. Not even solitary confinement in the wire threaded glass cage can get him down today.

  The Sunday edition of The Plain Dealer sits on the counter before him. The headline beaming big bold letters:

  ‘Doll Parts Murderer’ stalks Athens County

  It’s crazy to him. Makes droves of moths flutter in his gut.

  Seeing the story in print isn’t as visceral as seeing the story depicted on TV. The shaky camera images of the bloody garbage bags on concrete.

  But being the headline is a big deal. Especially on Sunday. He’s going national.

  The Plain Dealer is the biggest paper in Ohio with a circulation of nearly a quarter of a million. He figures similar stories populate papers and websites across the country.

  Is this progress? Maybe. Now that The Daily Gawk posted the video and pictures, the story is blowing up. The brand name completes the shift from “The Trash Bag Murders” to “The Doll Parts Murders” overnight, the latter name based on a quote from a lady who peeked into one of the bags. Up until now, the papers and TV stations seemed split on the matter. But The Daily Gawk ran with Doll Parts in the headlines of their stories, and that cemented it.

  The Doll Parts Killer.

  He doesn’t like the name. Doesn’t hate it, either. It could be worse. He knows that for a fact. It has more of a ring to it than some of the media nicknames for serial killers he’s read about. The Florida Gay Bar Murderer. The Alligatorman. The Sex Beast. The Weepy-Voiced Killer.

  All real nicknames. All of them ridiculous.

  He could live with his.

  “I’m front page news,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the duffel bag at his feet. “Above the fold and everything.”

  Nice. I bet your mom will be so proud.

  He chuckles. Weird clucks of laughter climbing his throat and exiting through the segmented pink circle of his lips.

  It feels wrong to have her here in the booth. To have the bag unzipped — opened — even if he can’t see her for the moment. Just those two nylon canvas flaps on the floor under the counter.

  She is still frozen, mostly. The process had distorted her features some. Made her nose and brow look swollen yet flattened — fatter and flatter at the same time. Almost like a sandwich someone sat on in a weird way.

  But the makeup offsets these flaws. Her eyes have a kind of beauty restored to them. A femininity brought back that seemed to have drained from her little by little as the skin went slack. The places where the frost crystals glitter? They look intentional. Some makeup artist’s magic touch providing a sparkle.

  A crack has formed on the tip of her nose. A cleaved spot damaged by the cold. It looks a little like a cleft lip.

  This, too, he covers with makeup. For now.

  He knows she won’t last forever. Knows that she can’t. But he’s thankful for the extra time the freezing affords him.

  The wall unit furnace clicks. He holds a hand toward its grill. Feels the warmth saturate his fingers. The meat and then the bone almost stinging from the heat. This is the simplest feeling a mammal can feel he thinks. A warming of the blood. A thwarting of the cold.

  But she can’t feel that anymore. Holding the head up to the furnace would only melt that which preserves her. Would only speed the rot along.

  It’s too bad it works that way. That she must be cold to belong to him.

  It’s too bad that possession of another is all he can ever know. Not a real relationship. Not a real connection.

  He can’t help but think it: Maybe the newspapers are right. He doesn’t have a girl. He has a doll. A toy to help him make believe.

  Movement across the aisle catches his eye. Blobs shifting behind the glass in the office. It’s Candice. He somehow knows before he can fully see her there behind the window.

  And the old feelings come over him. That painful throb of hope and self-hatred doing battle in his chest.

  Even after all that has happened, part of him thinks maybe he gave up on himself too soon. That he could have found a girl. A real one. If he really tried.

  He closes his eyes. Tries to picture himself going to the movies with Candice.

  And it’s there. It’s all right there.

  The plush theater seat. The gigantic drink nestling in the cup holder at his wrist. He tilts the bucket of popcorn, and Candice’s dainty hand grabs a handful. The whole world smells like butter.

  She smiles at him. Such a gorgeous being. Like an angel.

  And still part of him wonders what it would feel like to have her head in the duffel bag.

  To dominate her. To possess her.

  He opens his eyes. Sees the layers of glass that separate them. Sees the grid of chicken wire caging him away from humanity.

  This is how the real world works. He sits in a little glass compartment. Uncomfortable. Apart. Locked away from all the rest.

  Worthless. Powerless. Alone.

  The Other.

  Better to forget it. Better to live in the fantasy world for as long as he can. The place where he is God.

  He fishes a hand into the bag. Feels for her. His human popsicle girl. He puts his hand over the face. Fingers touching those eyelids. The thinnest, softest part of her. He knows he’s mussing her makeup, but it will be worth it.

  With his free hand, he gropes for his belt.

  Chapter 49

  Violet wanted nothing more than to skulk into her motel room and hide for a few days. Maybe forever. Instead, she forced herself to march over to Loshak’s door and knock. She would face her executioner with dignity.

  The door whisked open so fast, it created a draft that rustled Violet’s hair around her face.

  “Christ, Darger,” he said, rubbing his hands over his face. The rage she’d seen back at the Sheriff’s office had waned, it seemed.

  “I mean… Christ.”

  She followed him into the room, closing the door behind her.

  “I didn’t know she was going to turn around and sell the photos. I didn’t even give them to her. I only showed them to her because she begged me. You should have seen her, Loshak. She was so much like Sierra in the way she manipulated me, it was crazy. She asked me for a glass of water and then—”

  “Enough!”

  Darger was so shocked at how quickly the anger returned to his voice that she actually jumped a little.

  He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to control his emotions.

  “Look, I know you probably think this’ll be a great notch on your belt as you climb the Bureau ladder, but for fuck’s sake. Girls are dying. This isn’t one of those mystery-of-the-week TV shows where the good guys always get the bad guy at the end of the episode.”

  “I know that,” she said, clenching her teeth. “I’m not—”

  He held up a hand, eyes closed, as if he couldn’t even stand to look at her.

  “Let me finish, OK? That stakeout detail, that was the best �
�� that was the only thing we had going for us on this case. And now it’s gone, OK? We are back to square one, and you know what? He’s going to kill again. And when he does—”

  “It’ll be my fault,” Violet said, her voice a haunted whisper.

  The words came out almost involuntarily and sounded more like she was talking to herself than to anyone else. She had a strange detached feeling suddenly. Like she was watching the scene unfold from outside.

  “What? No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just going to be a hell-ride from here on out, as if it weren’t already,” he said, lifting his head and shaking it. “We’re going to have to double-down and get real smart. Smarter than we’ve been.”

  “But it will be,” she said, eyes swiveling over to meet his now. “My fault.”

  They were stretched so wide she could feel the cold of the air touching the places usually covered by the thin skin of her eyelids. Tears blurred Loshak into a muddy silhouette.

  “Ah shit, Darger. Don’t do that.”

  She turned away in an attempt to conceal that one of the tears had finally dislodged itself and was running down her cheek.

  “I should go,” she said, heading for the door.

  Before she closed the door behind herself, she added, “I’m sorry, Loshak. Really sorry.”

  Those words were still echoing in her head when she reached her room. I should go.

  And she should, shouldn’t she? Look what a goddamned mess she’d made already.

  She wasn’t wanted here. Certainly wasn’t needed. Even Cal, when he’d given her this assignment, hadn’t sent her because he respected her talent. He wanted her to babysit Loshak. Just another round of political games the suits play while the people on the street get carved up by a psychopath.

  Her hurt turned to anger, and she funneled the anger into motivation to get work done. She spent the rest of the day typing up two reports — one for Quantico and one for Loshak and the others. The only sound from her room for many hours was the click-clack of her fingers on her keyboard.

  The report for Loshak included all of the witness statements she’d taken, along with her updated profile. All assembled into a neatly organized package, exactly how Loshak would want it.