A Lullaby in the Dark

by Billie Reece

  I’m up and out of my chair before I realize what I’m doing. Grabbing the front of his mustard stained jumpsuit, I stick my face right in his. He smells like cooked meat.

  Thomas doesn’t flinch, he just keeps staring back with the vacant smile.

  “Detective Covington!”

  Dr. Shroff’s voice snaps me back. I release my grip and turn to see him standing in the doorway. I didn’t hear him open it.

  “You’re done here,” he says, opening the door wider.

  Thomas Quillen tracks my movements as I gather the photos and place them back inside the folder. When I’m done I make eye contact. “I’ll see you again,” I promise.

  I threaten.

  “Through the proper channels, I’m sure,” Dr. Shroff says. “For now, please leave.”

  Tucking the folder under my arm, I make my way to the door. I stop when I’m level with the doctor. At five foot six and with one-inch dress shoes, I look him right in the eyes.

  He lifts his chin, trying to be taller I think. “I’m reporting this to your captain.”

  “You do that.”

  I turn to leave when Thomas Quillen’s voice sings through the room, gentle and raspy with no stutter. “Tell the ninja girl I say hi.”

  Four

  I’m almost to my car when my cell rings. A quick check of the ID makes me curse. Captain Helen Packer, my boss.

  My finger hovers over the green icon. That doctor must have called and complained. Given that it’s Sunday, Captain Packer is not going to be happy.

  Better to get this over with. She’ll be double-the-mad if I don’t answer. “Captain, how are you?”

  “Where are you?” she asks, getting right to the point.

  I choose a vague answer. “About to get into my car.”

  “I need you at the office. Immediately.”

  Perhaps I’m in more trouble than I think. “It’s Sunday. Everything okay?”

  “I’ll explain when you get here.”

  Pointing the fob at my white Dodge Charger, I unlock the driver’s door. “I’m an hour out.”

  Silence.

  I slide behind the wheel.

  “Let me guess. You’re visiting Thomas Quillen again.”

  “Yes.” I start my car. Well, at least Dr. Shroff hadn’t officially reported me. Yet.

  “That’s a conversation for another time. For now, get here as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Pack a few days of clothes as well. You’ve been personally requested.”

  I switch my phone to Bluetooth. “What are you talking about?”

  “Just get here.”

  Five

  The Foothills Parkway takes drivers above the treetops and foothills from the valley below. I’ve lived in Tennessee my whole life and I never tire of the grand mountain vistas.

  It’s been a while since I came up this way. The last time, I was with my ex and our son. He got car sick.

  A slow turn around the next bend presents me with a view that goes on forever, only interrupted by the dips and swells of the Smoky Mountains. My fingers flex around the wheel of my Dodge Charger. I exhale. Though I don’t want it to, my mind replays what happened when I checked in at the office.

  I walked in to find a puffy and red-faced Captain Packer. Short and chubby with a gray bob and entirely too much makeup, her usually hidden rosacea showed through.

  From behind her desk, she said, “An eight-year-old girl has gone missing in Iris, Tennessee. Danielle Stevens is her name. She was last seen two days ago. Out hiking with her dad.”

  “Not to sound insensitive, but what does this have to do with me?”

  Time seemed to stand still then as Captain Packer produced a photo. New, yet familiar. A little girl. A closet. Tears dried into the dirt on her cheeks.

  She slid the photo across the desk. “It arrived this morning, delivered right to the family home. No one saw anything.”

  I studied the picture. “Delivered how? Mailbox or left at the front door?”

  “Front door. Encased in an envelope and attached to a doll. Just like before.”

  Recalling the conversation now quickens my pulse. I swing my Dodge Charger out and around a slow-moving truck and accelerate along the Parkway.

  “Copycat,” I had said to the captain with no doubt in my mind.

  She shook her head. “We’re not so sure.”

  “What the hell does that mean? We are sure. Thomas Quillen is the murderer. Seeing as how I visited with him this morning, I’m his alibi.”

  Captain Packer took a breath. “The envelope had the same typed message with the same font and the same smiley face after it. ‘Open Me’.”

  “Then clearly someone leaked that detail.”

  Her lips pressed together. “Or we got the wrong man.”

  I stood up. “Are you kidding me with this? Thomas Quillen confessed. That plus the evidence gave us a solid conviction.”

  Captain Packer let out a weary sigh.

  I sat back down. “I promise you this is a copycat. The details leaked. Some sick new person is playing us.”

  My boss picked up a letter opener and fiddled her finger on the tip. She didn’t make eye contact.

  Silence.

  Finally, she lifted her bloodshot, heavily mascaraed eyes. “But what if it isn’t?”

  My teeth ground. I stood back up. The little girl’s face gazed up at me, pleading. “Fine, I’ll go.”

  Six

  When I pull into the police station in the town of Iris, a news van sits outside, its dish up and side door open.

  Crap.

  I drive my Dodge Charger into an empty spot, grab my things, and walk with purpose to the front door. Several reporters follow my steps but make no move to intercede. Why would they? They have no clue who I am.

  Brick and three-story, the police station used to be the old courthouse. I know this because it says so on a plaque affixed to the front door. The station sits in the center of town, surrounded by equally old historical buildings—a café, a consignment shop, a drug store, and various others. When I step inside the station, the smell of old construction greets me.

  To the right of the lobby sits a front desk behind bulletproof glass. I approach the window, producing a badge. “Detective Kate Covington.”

  The woman behind the glass wears frumpy tan pants and a too-fitted striped top. Her brown hair lays in hot rolled curls, teased up and out. I’d place her in her thirties, though most would probably think fifties. She leans in, studying my badge through the glass barrier.

  “I was sent to consult on the Danielle Stevens case.” I nod to the secure door off to the left. “Buzz me in, please.”

  She sniffs. “I’ll have to check about all of this. No one told me you were coming.”

  I sigh, momentarily closing my eyes. “Fine, check with whoever you need to.”

  While she walks away and places a call, I watch her. I don’t need this. I’ve already had a long day and I suspect it’s only getting started.

  Holding my gaze, she talks to whoever is on the other end. I look at her desk and the nameplate. Nuna Dillon.

  She hangs up and crosses back over to slide open the small security window. “I’ll need you to sign in.” She produces a logbook that I quickly scrawl my name through.

  She watches. “Knoxville, huh? I’m not much for big cities. I prefer to hear crickets at night, not cars.”

  “Yep.” I nod to the security door and this time it buzzes open. “Thank you, Nuna,” I say, and she blinks, clearly surprised that I used her name.

  Good, maybe that scored me some brownie points. In my experience, it’s the people like Nuna Dillon who come through in a crunch.

  Lieutenant Cal Gordon greets me as I step through the door. “Any problems finding the station?” He hands me a cup of black coffee in a real mug.

  “All good.” I take a sip, wincing a bit at the weakness. Nobody seems to drink strong coffee as I prefer. “How long has your t
eam been here?”

  “I arrived this morning,” he says. “The rest have been trickling in.”

  Older than me by ten years, Lieutenant Gordon is a soft-spoken man. A gentle giant type. Well over six feet and near two-fifty in weight. Bald but with thick black hair covering his arms and peeking out from his collar.

  We’ve known each other for a long time. He works out of Knoxville as well and has recently been put in charge of a task force that covers special investigations in East Tennessee.

  With his own mug in hand, he leads the way down a long hall. “Let’s get started.”

  Seven

  While Lieutenant Gordon and I go way back, none of the other faces in the workroom look familiar.

  Wait. That one does. Caroline Christianson. I wasn’t even a detective yet back when she emerged from the woods some fifteen years ago now. Twin sisters missing for over a year. I helped with the case for a few months and then got reassigned. Everyone thought the twins were transported over state lines, but they were here in East Tennessee the entire time.

  The case was officially solved a couple of years ago with their abductor, and torturer, now dead.

  In her mid-twenties, Caroline has already made a name for herself in profiling. She specializes in cases involving children, brought on, I’m sure, by what happened to her in those woods.

  “We’ll make introductions,” Lieutenant Gordon announces.

  Everyone in the room gives off a professional vibe save for the young detective perched on a desk, arms folded with indifference, her red hair flat ironed into a perfect line. She’s in her late twenties, I’d say. Perfect makeup. Spray-on tan. Brand new detective.

  For an active workroom, things are too neat. It makes me uneasy. Where are the documents, files, statements, photos, videos, and the myriad of other things that pile up during an investigation? I realize the team just got here, but I still expect more mess.

  “Detective Dominic Oats,” Lieutenant Gordon says, nodding to a man on his left. “Transferred from Atlanta three years ago. Now works out of Chattanooga.”

  His hair and skin are the same color of black. I’d put him a few years younger than me, early forties perhaps. A short man, five-five. Slender, too, but his presence comes across dignified. I like him.

  “Happy to be here and to contribute,” Dominic responds in a deep south drawl. No ego at all to his tone. Yep, I’m going to like him.

  Lieutenant Gordon moves on to a Latino man standing stiffly just outside the group. With a worried expression and a nice suit, I’d place him in his mid-thirties.

  “Detective Ignacio Lergo. Used to be over in Nashville. Now lives in Johnson City. He’s the newest addition to our team. We don’t know each other very well yet, but I hear great things.”

  “We must be hearing different information,” the red-haired, spray tan jokes.

  Ignacio sends her an anxious look and she returns a cocky grin.

  I keep my focus on him. “Nashville, huh?” His name turns over in my brain. “You were involved in that human trafficking case. You broke it open.”

  He’s quick to shake his head. “Team effort.”

  “Excellent work,” I say and he seems to relax a little.

  Lieutenant Gordon continues, “Caroline Christianson, in from Hummingbird, Tennessee and consulting on profiling.”

  With dark hair, pale skin, and light blue eyes, she looks just like she did as a child. Haunted. Intelligent. Shy. Strong.

  We exchange a smile and nod.

  “Lastly, but certainly not least, Detective Sharon Buchanan. She works out of Sevierville.” The lieutenant nods to the young detective.

  She flashes a professionally white grin. “Oh, now, you love me the best.”

  With a smirk, Lieutenant Gordon simply shakes his head. I’d tell her to knock it off and stand up, but that’s me.

  Lieutenant Gordon looks at me, nodding to go ahead.

  “Detective Kate Covington. It is nice to meet everyone. I wish it were under different circumstances.” I realize then that I’m still holding my coffee mug and soft case. I lay the case on a nearby desk. “I’m sure Lieutenant Gordon has already filled you in, but I was the arresting officer in The Lullaby Man case. I’ve been brought in because of the similarities.”

  I take a sip of my now chilled coffee before setting it down too. “Before we go any further, Thomas Quillen, The Lullaby Man, is not behind this. He is currently incarcerated at East Tennessee State Hospital.”

  Sharon raises her hand. “Wasn’t there an accident when he was arrested?”

  “Yes, he fell four stories off a building.”

  Ignacio asks, “How did that happen?”

  A long pause passes while I consider my response. “He was cornered and chose to jump versus face me.”

  “That’s too bad,” Sharon says in a tone laced with insinuation.

  “It is too bad,” I agree.

  It’s too bad he lived.

  “That aside,” I continue, “we are one hundred percent sure Thomas Quillen is the right man. What we need now is to focus on who is behind this abduction, locate the person, and get Danielle Stevens home to her family.”

  The room falls silent as those words settle in. I look at Lieutenant Gordon. “Catch me up.”

  He clears his throat. “Dominic and Ignacio have been going through the statements. Uniforms are doing door-to-door checks both near the abduction site and the townhome community where the family lives.”

  “Has anyone spoken to the parents again this morning?” Caroline asks.

  Lieutenant Gordon shakes his head. “We’ve yet to get around to that.”

  “I’d like to do that,” I say. “But I want to look at the crime scene first. Also, where are the items—the ‘care package’—that arrived this morning on the family’s doorstep?”

  Ignacio crosses to a desk where he retrieves three evidence bags. He hands them to me and my breath catches. The stuffed and faded baby doll is bad enough. One of those old cabbage patch things. The photo is worse. So many times worse.

  Danielle Stevens looks nothing like the previous victims and yet the same. Raw terror etches her face as she cowers in the corner of the tiny closet. A closet too similar to the original to be a coincidence.

  Seeing the envelope tightens my chest. Identical. How can that be? Same font, words, and a smiley face. Staring at it now transports me back a decade to when I first joined the investigation. To when Thomas Quillen was hunting and killing little girls.

  Back to Mary, Opal, and Rachel. Back to their families as I delivered the horrendous news. Back to Ava Neal, the first victim and the only body yet to be found.

  “Everything okay?” Caroline quietly asks.

  I blink at her voice, just now realizing she’s moved closer. “Yes.” I look at Lieutenant Gordon. “Have these been to forensics?”

  “Not yet. Headed there right now.”

  I look around the room. “Does the press know about these things?”

  Everyone shakes their heads.

  “Good. This stays silent.” I hand the items back to Igancio, but I look at Dominic. “Let the family know I’m coming. Make sure they understand the importance of keeping this quiet.”

  With a nod, he crosses to the door.

  I pick up my now cold coffee mug and very deliberately hand it to Sharon. “More coffee please.”

  She hesitates, casting a look at Lieutenant Gordon. But he simply turns away. With a sigh, she takes my mug and leaves the room.

  “Make it to go!” I yell after her.

  Eight

  I stand a hundred yards inside the trail’s gate watching the team moving about. This is where it happened. Two days ago on Friday afternoon, Eugene Stevens parked his truck and got out with his daughter and dog in tow. They strolled this exact trail, bordered on both sides by thick pines. The dog wandered off. Eugene went to see. When he came back, Danielle was gone.

  At first, everyone thought Danielle Stevens had wandered off
and got lost. Now with the “care package” that arrived this morning, the photo confirms an abduction.

  Lieutenant Gordon approaches from down the trail.

  “What evidence has been collected?” I ask.

  “A footprint. Hiking boot. Size 9.”

  “Average, give or take.” From the to-go cup, I sip the coffee Sharon got me.

  Down the trail yellow tape blocks the path. Behind me as well, stretching across the gate. Beyond that official vehicles jam the tiny parking lot to spill out onto the narrow country road.

  Uniform officers scatter the area, pitching in here and there. A chilly spring breeze stirs the pines. Caroline Christianson stands alone, her dark hair lifting with the breeze. She readjusts a lightweight blue scarf already tied around her neck. Quietly, she steps into the trees.

  Crunchy dried pine needles line the three-foot-wide path that bends and stretches miles through the forest. A well-maintained path but not a frequented one. A hundred yards back sits the gate. A car could drive by, glance over, and have a clear shot of Eugene and Danielle hiking. But that’s still quite a distance to snatch a kid and then run. Which means the abductor was likely already in the trees.

  “What about the K9 unit?” I ask.

  “Tracked the girl over to the nearby water tower and then the trail goes dead.” Lieutenant Gordon shakes his head. “No one saw anything at the water tower. Another hiker thought he heard an ATV. But a struggling girl on an ATV?”

  I can visualize that. “Worth checking.” I sip the coffee. “What else?”

  “When the girl went missing, the locals organized a search of the area. They trampled right through what would be evidence.”

  I sigh. “Please tell me the footprint you were talking about was grabbed before.”