Roses from My Killer

by Linsey Lanier

  Suddenly Miranda couldn’t breathe. A vision floated through her head of Hannah Kaye’s dead, mutilated body hanging from a rafter in an old house on the east side of Atlanta. She could smell the dankness and the death. She could feel the darkness. She could hear the pounding rain outside that horrible house.

  Inside her head a voice echoed. She could have sworn it was Tannenburg laughing at her.

  Overwhelmed with disgust and defeat, she reached for the armchair to steady herself.

  “Miranda?” Parker’s tone was low, but full of concern.

  Stubbornly she shook off the sickening sensations. “I’m all right.”

  Focus, she told herself as she squatted down for a closer look.

  The marks weren’t random. They were carefully placed all over the body. Her arms, her breasts, her stomach, her legs. There was a sort of sadistic artistry to them. Even with the dried blood, Miranda could make out the shapes.

  “Hearts,” she said, swallowing back her nerves.

  “That’s what they look like to me,” Smith agreed, her voice a little shaky.

  For an instant the heart-shaped pendant she’d given Mackenzie flashed into her mind. She wanted to throw up. Instead she forced herself to focus. And noticed something else.

  Were those letters inside each of those gory hearts? She could make them out clearly.

  She turned to Smith. “JY?”

  “One of our detectives took photos and got her fingerprints earlier. We managed to identify her as Josie Yearwood. She’s a local. Single. Lived on Roanoke Island in Manteo. She owned a boutique there. Josie’s Gems.”

  The killer carved her own initials into her? Like carving initials in a tree? That was sicker than usual. But where were the killer’s initials? If this was some sort of bizarre declaration of love, shouldn’t they be there, too? Not if you didn’t want the authorities to know who you were.

  “The killer knew her,” Parker said.

  “Or at least her name,” Miranda agreed. “That wasn’t how she died. Look at the marks on her neck.” There were bruises along both sides of it. “The bastard strangled her with his hands when he was finished with her.”

  “The petechiae adds weight to that idea,” Parker said, noting the red marks around the victim’s eyes.

  With her gloved hand, Miranda carefully lifted an eyelid. Sure enough, the eyeball was as bloodshot as it gets.

  Wesson pointed to the flowers scattered around the body. “What’s with the roses?”

  Smith had moved back to the sliding doors. She stood rubbing her arms and staring out at the ocean.

  But she turned and gestured toward a far wall where electronic equipment stood on a side table. “That mp3 player was playing ‘Red Roses for a Blue Lady’ over those speakers real loud.”

  So loud, a neighbor had called it in. Miranda looked down at the roses spread in a circle around the body. “These aren’t red or blue.”

  “They’re purple,” Parker said, his voice dark with meaning. “Meant to signify love.”

  Hearts and flowers. He had a theme going on here. Was he a boyfriend? Miranda stood and studied the wall, her heart pounding as she read the words written in blood.

  Roses are red.

  Violets are blue.

  I got you dead.

  I’ll get the others, too.

  A chill went down Miranda’s spine. That was the intended effect.

  “Not very original,” Wesson said with a smirk, but Miranda could tell she was hiding a shiver in her voice.

  Miranda studied the letters. They didn’t look like a killer’s handwriting. Instead they had an artistic flair. Almost like calligraphy.

  She pointed at the last line. “The others?”

  Parker crossed the room to examine the writing for himself. “It means there are going to be more.”

  Now it was Miranda’s turn to be skeptical. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just bragging.”

  “Other what?” Wesson asked. “Lovers? Girlfriends?”

  “That’s for us to figure out. It’s part of his game.”

  Wesson let out a breath. “What a sick bastard.”

  “Yeah.”

  Suddenly Miranda’s stomach began to quake. Not with nausea this time. With anger. A hot searing rage, building up inside her like a volcano about to explode. She was going to find this sonofabitch and make sure he got what he deserved for what he’d done.

  She was going to make sure he’d never do it again.

  She turned to Smith, who was still at the door. “Okay. So who’s renting this place?”

  Smith raised her gloved hands. “I called the rental company, but no one answers.”

  “Have you found any fingerprints yet? Any trace evidence?” She looked at the wall again. If the killer had written those words with his finger, there might be some prints. But he’d probably worn a glove.

  Smith’s voice sounded weak as she answered. “The guy who came out here earlier looked for trace. Another one of our detectives is following up. He’s dusting for prints on the lower level now. It’s worse down there.”

  Miranda stared at Smith. Worse? “What do you mean?”

  “Follow me and I’ll show you.”

  Smith led them to an elevator. The four of them piled in and rode down to the lower level. When the doors opened, Miranda stepped out into an open basement like area.

  At the end of the space, a man who seemed to be in his mid-thirties was busy dusting a set of cabinets. Dressed in casual clothes with his hair cut high and tight, he wore an intense expression on a good-looking face. A bottle of Luminol and an ultraviolet light sat on a counter nearby.

  Overhead hung a single bare light bulb. Beneath it stood a chair with bloody smears all over it. As Miranda crept toward it, she could see a large pool of blood on the cement floor under the chair.

  This was where he’d carved her up.

  There had to be blood traces from the killer in there. Surely he cut himself with all that work.

  “Have you found anything yet, Deweese?” Smith said to the man.

  He shook his head, his face showing the strain of his work. “No trace. I’ve only found one set of prints as far as I can tell, which is the vic’s. He had to use restraints of some sort, but all I’ve found is a roll of duct tape. No remnant of anything else anywhere.”

  They stared at the grisly scene for a moment, then Smith remembered to introduce the newcomers. “This is Wade Parker, Miranda Steele, and Janelle Wesson from the Parker Agency. The sergeant asked me to call them in. And this is Mike Deweese, our top detective.”

  “Glad to have you aboard.” He held up his gloved hands. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands.”

  Parker nodded. “Of course. We hope we can be of help on this most unfortunate case.”

  Miranda looked around the space. This was a storage area. There should have been stuff here. A lawn mower. Tools. Gardening equipment. But except for a few things on the cabinet shelves, it was empty.

  She turned to Deweese. “Have you found anything that might tell us who this guy is?”

  “Only that he was careful. He’s smart enough to cover his tracks well. He thinks he can get away with this.”

  That was all too apparent. “Anything that belonged to the victim? Her cell phone? Her clothes?”

  “He must have taken all of that with him.”

  Careful was an understatement. This guy was meticulous. “Let Smith know if you do uncover anything.”

  “Will do.”

  They moved through a door that led outside to get a much needed breath of fresh air.

  Taking off her mask, Miranda studied the yard. There was no car. How did Josie Yearwood get here? The killer had to have brought her, then left. And where did he get those roses from?

  She turned to Smith. “We need to find out who’s renting this house ASAP.”

  “The rental company might not open until Monday.”

  It was the wee hours of Sunday morning now. “Is there anyone
on staff you can call? Anyone you know?”

  “Maybe. I’ll work on that.”

  Miranda gazed at the homes across the street. “Have you canvassed the area?”

  Smith nodded. “The houses over there are vacant right now. The folks we spoke to in the few places that are occupied didn’t notice anything unusual.”

  “What about the vic’s next of kin?”

  “I paid a visit to her grandmother earlier. As far as I could tell, she’s Josie Yearwood’s only living relative in the area. I didn’t tell her—how she was found. Of course, the poor woman was very upset. Too upset to give me much information.” Her face turning pale, Smith rubbed her arms again.

  Giving that kind of news had to be one of the hardest things Smith had ever done. Miranda felt for her. They needed to talk to the grandmother soon, but it was better to let the news of her loss sink in a while before questioning her about her granddaughter. Besides it was late.

  So they were at a standstill for now.

  She gazed down the street. “What about that neighbor who called in the disturbance?”

  “I talked to her earlier. She’s the closest occupant, but she didn’t see any activity here.”

  And she was probably asleep now.

  Miranda’s gaze moved to Parker. He was weary from the travel and the gory sight inside, but she could see he was most concerned about her. Wesson looked exhausted from the ordeal, as well.

  Suddenly all she wanted to do was find a hotel, throw up, and crawl into bed.

  But that wouldn’t find Josie Yearwood’s killer. She turned to the house again. “A lot of rooms in there.”

  “Yes,” Smith said wearily.

  And the local staff was small. “You can use some help dusting for prints. Do you have some kits we can use?”

  “Sure, Steele. Thanks.”

  “It’s what we’re here for. That okay with you two?” Miranda said, directing her gaze at Wesson.

  Wesson came alert. “Of course.”

  “A good decision,” Parker agreed.

  And they headed back inside.

  Chapter Seven

  About half an hour later, the coroner showed up. She turned out to be a stern young woman named Dr. Natalie Lipman. She wore a serious look and a lab coat under a fall jacket, and her long dark hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, making her appear practical and professional. As Miranda expected, she made a preliminary confirmation of manual strangulation as the COD.

  They went through the rooms.

  Miranda focused on the kitchen, dusting every surface, every countertop and knob and handle, along with every plate and cup and glass in the cupboards. She found nothing.

  In the baths and bedrooms, Parker found no sign of activity. Wesson had taken the halls and closets and found just as little evidence.

  It was if the house had been freshly cleaned, waiting for the next renter.

  “This place hasn’t been used at all,” Miranda said when they met back on the second floor.

  “No, it hasn’t,” Parker agreed. “Except for the gruesome incident on the third floor and lower level.”

  “Maybe the killer wasn’t a renter,” Wesson suggested.

  “How did he get in here? I didn’t see any signs of forced entry.” Had someone else let him in? This wasn’t the type of crime where there would be an accomplice.

  There were too many questions, and they were all blurring together in Miranda’s head. It was after three a.m. This was all they could do for tonight.

  “Let’s get some rest and see what we can do in the morning,” Parker suggested seeing the weariness on her face.

  Giving in, Miranda nodded just as Smith came down the hall. “We’ll try Yearwood’s grandmother in the morning and see if she’s up to talking to us,” she told the officer.

  “I was just about to suggest we wrap things up. Dr. Lipman is getting the body ready to take downstairs. Hill’s going to stand guard here over night.” Looking drained, Smith reached into her pocket for her cell. “Here’s the grandmother’s address. I can meet you there at nine.”

  Miranda took down the information. “Sounds good.”

  They made their way back outside and watched Deweese and Hill carry the body out on a stretcher. They had wrapped the woman completely in cloth, so her body couldn’t be recognized, as well as for sanitation reasons. They were just loading it into the ambulance to take it to Greenville for the autopsy, when a news van squealed around the corner and came to a screeching halt at the curb.

  Just what they needed right now.

  A woman in a bold red suit hopped out of the passenger seat with a microphone in her hand. She had flowing dark hair and a gorgeous face. There was a touch of Asian in her dark, heavily made up eyes that flashed with excitement as they took in the scene. Behind her, the van door slid open and a bulky guy with a camera on his shoulder climbed out.

  The woman waved wildly at the back of the ambulance. “Get that shot. Hurry. Before they close the doors.” Then she rushed over to the doctor. “Excuse me. What can you tell me about what happened here today?”

  Dr. Lipman gave the reporter a surly look. “You’ll have to speak to the authorities. They’re right over there.”

  The woman in red turned and focused on Smith.

  Smith shook her head. “Oh, no. I can’t face her. She’s the most aggressive reporter in the Outer Banks.”

  Parker leaned over and murmured in Miranda’s ear. “Do you want me to take care of them?”

  She’d love to, but how would that look to Smith? “No, I’ve got this.” She straightened her shoulders and marched across the yard. “Can I help you?” she said to the reporter when she reached her.

  The woman stared at her a moment. “Are you? Why, glory be, yes, you are.” She spun around to the man with the camera, who had followed her and made a wheeling gesture with her hand.

  “Rolling, Ms. Tremblay,” he said to her.

  She looked into the lens and spoke to some invisible person who was probably at the station. “Well, Tim, as you can see, my tip was correct. Miranda Steele and Wade Parker are here from the Parker Investigative Agency in Atlanta. Ms. Steele, can you tell us why you’re here in the Outer Banks?”

  She stuck the microphone in Miranda’s face, pushing her irritation level up several notches.

  This lady had gall.

  Nice to meet you, too, Miranda wanted to say. Or maybe just shove a foot up her ass. But they weren’t here to pick a beef with the local news.

  Instead she forced herself into professional mode. “The Parker Investigative Agency has been asked to consult on a case,” she said as calmly as she could.

  “A murder case, correct? That’s what you’re famous for after all.”

  Miranda resisted the urge to wince. This lady wanted sensational, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to give it to her. She wanted to reassure the viewers they were safe. But how could she do that with a serial killer on the loose?

  She thought about what Sergeant Ballard had said to them. We want to keep this as quiet as possible.

  “We have no conclusive information at this time.”

  The reporter shook a hand toward the gurney. “What do you mean? Those officers are putting a body in that ambulance. Isn’t that woman over there the coroner?”

  Miranda put her hands behind her back and resisted the urge to yank that microphone out of the woman’s hand and pop her on the head with it. “I can confirm there has been an incident, but I’m unable to provide details at this time.”

  “You mean you can’t tell me who that is?”

  “The victim’s name has not yet been released by the—” she turned to Parker and whispered. “Where are we again?”

  “Nags Head,” he murmured back.

  Weird name. “By the Nags Head police department.”

  “But there must be something unusual about this case to call in the Parker Agency.”

  “No comment.”

  “What can you tell
us, Ms. Steele?”

  Miranda paused a moment, giving the coroner and the officers time to finish up and close the doors of the ambulance. “We have nothing to report as yet. When we do, Sergeant Ballard will give a press conference.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Smith cringe.

  The reporter huffed with frustration. “Surely you must be able to tell us something about this case, Ms. Steele.”

  “Not that I haven’t already said.” The ambulance pulled away from the curb. Miranda waited until it rounded the corner at the end of the block. “Right now, we’re calling it a night.”

  She turned away from the woman, who stared at her open-mouthed as they all started across the lawn to their cars.

  With no other recourse, the reporter faced the camera again. “Though there was little Ms. Steele could tell us tonight, rest assured I’ll be staying on this case and reporting details as soon as I uncover them. This is Angela Dawn Tremblay for Channel Three News.”

  Chapter Eight

  Miranda reconfirmed the meeting with Smith with Yearwood’s grandmother in the morning, then she and Wesson climbed into the Nissan with Parker and they headed across the bridge to Roanoke Island.

  Parker had made reservations at a quaint little bed-and-breakfast in the middle of town. A restored bungalow from the early nineteen-hundreds, its rooms featured a traditional décor with antique furnishings, yellow bead board, a large four-poster bed with a canopy and an eyelet quilt, and cozy throw rugs over a hardwood floor.

  But Miranda could barely take in the furnishings. After saying goodnight to Wesson, as soon as they were inside the room, she stripped off her clothes and headed for the shower, hoping the hot pulsing water would wash away the images of the blood and gore.

  It didn’t, but at least she was clean.

  As she stepped out of the bathroom in the terrycloth robe the place had provided, Parker took her into his strong arms. She melted into them, relishing their soothing power.

  He kissed her forehead and leaned his face against her temple. “I’m so sorry you had to see that tonight.”