Sight Lines

by Michelle DiCeglio

  “New York City.”

  “Why would you leave New York for Lyons, Ohio?” I could hardly believe it.

  “I was tired of the anonymity,” she said. “I always felt lost, trapped in a sea of strangers. And the job I got here was the only company who even offered me an interview, so I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. I had already put in my notice with my apartment in New York, so I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” She laughed.

  “Any family?”

  “Yeah, in upstate New York.”

  “Are you close?”

  “Not really,” she quickly answered. “My dad died a few years ago—right before I moved. So my mom and my two sisters are all I have left.”

  “Where do you fit into the line-up?” I asked. Ali looked at me with a puzzled look. “Are you the oldest?” I clarified.

  “Middle,” she laughed. “You?”

  “My family doesn’t live here. We’re not close…at all.” I didn’t want to give out too much information. With a common last name like Mills, anonymity was something I enjoyed.

  “Why not?”

  “They have a problem with the gay thing,” I said, officially coming out to Ali. Although, given my current setting and subtle flirtations, I doubted that she needed confirmation.

  She nodded and offered a knowing smile. Even if her family was supportive, she probably had friends whose families weren’t.

  “Well, I was going to go outside and check for my date,” she said. “Did you want to come with me…or do you have to call it a night?”

  “Oh,” I said. It was getting late—a lot later than I had wanted to be out, but something was keeping me here. And it wasn’t just because I was avoiding going home anymore. “I can walk outside with you,” I finally answered.

  We both stood and walked out the front door together. Denim had a nice patio with white Christmas lights strung around a black metal gate. Ali walked to the edge of the patio, where smokers hung out on busier nights, and peered into the adjacent parking lot, perhaps looking for a familiar car. I stood next to her, completely baffled by the low turnout tonight. Either everyone had celebrated Denim’s anniversary on Friday and Saturday nights, or the club was hurting for business. If the latter was the case, there was no way they’d make it to a twenty-fifth anniversary.

  As I watched Ali looking over the railing, I couldn’t help but be drawn closer to her. She had a really nice mouth. Her pouty lips went well with her long lashes and soft blonde hair. She turned around and noticed me watching her.

  “No sign of her.” She shrugged and smiled coyly. She turned her back to the parking lot and brushed off the blow of being stood up. “I’m glad you decided to stay.”

  “I’m glad you got stood up,” I blurted out as a wave of embarrassment went through me. I couldn’t believe I had said that. Even if it was true—it wasn’t very smooth.

  “Me too.” She laughed.

  “I should really get going,” I said. The longer I stood there, the more I felt myself leaning in closer to her. It was becoming obvious that even though neither one of us had planned it, tonight was turning into a date.

  “Okay,” she said, backing away from me. I got the impression that she thought I might be uncomfortable with how close we were standing to each other. “Can I see you again?”

  “I don’t know…” I felt my legs start to tingle. All I wanted to do was run—like I had on every other first date I’d had in the past year. And then I remembered Dr. Winston’s homework assignment. I had followed it earlier today, and it led me to an enjoyable evening. Maybe if I followed it again… “I’m going to the county fair next weekend,” I mumbled.

  “For the Fourth of July?” she asked.

  “Yeah, Saturday night.”

  “I could meet you there,” she offered. “Around eight, by the ticket booth?”

  “Okay…”

  “It’s a date.”

  I really wished she hadn’t said that.

  Chapter Four

  By the time noon rolled around on Wednesday, we had already received twenty-three anonymous calls related to information on the Tammy Davis murder. Her name hadn’t been released to the media until Tuesday afternoon, so the majority of the calls were from last night and this morning. Bishop came by my desk with a list of names and addresses belonging to the last six calls to or from Tammy’s cell phone. He asked that I meet with all of the people on the list to ask their whereabouts on Friday evening and to see if Tammy had any enemies, particularly a young man with a navy blue or black Jeep. I quickly scanned the names and stopped abruptly on the last one: Alison Rhodes.

  Staring at her name, I tried to convince myself it could be a different Alison Rhodes. But in my gut, I knew better. The gay community was very close knit. Tammy Davis’s name hadn’t been released to the media until yesterday, so there was no way for Ali to know whose murder we were investigating when I first met her at the gas station or again at Denim later that night.

  I decided to review the case file before making any assumptions about Ali’s guilt or innocence. The coroner’s report listed the cause of death as a single gunshot wound to the head. Trace amounts of sodium hypochlorite, or bleach, were found on the victim’s clothing and body. The approximate time of death was ten o’clock at night. If the culprit had bought bleach from the gas station before it closed at seven, this could prove that the murder was premeditated.

  I read the report from the responding officer thoroughly to see if an empty bottle of bleach had been recovered but, as usual, very little physical evidence was obtained from around the crime scene. As far as suspects went, there were none. It was looking as if Tammy Davis’s murder was going to go unsolved—just like the other four murders—unless something new popped up quickly.

  “Mills,” Bishop said as he approached my desk. I looked at the clock on my computer screen; it was a quarter past four. “Another body has been called in,” he said. “Female, late twenties. Do you want to ride with me?”

  “Where?” I asked as I got up from my desk.

  “Behind Pariah’s, a restaurant near Vantage Woods,” Bishop said with a heavy sigh.

  “No, I’ll follow you,” I answered. “I want to follow up with that list of names you gave me when we’re done.” I clipped my badge to my left hip and followed Bishop to the parking garage.

  The crime scene was less than a five-minute drive from the entrance to Vantage Woods. The responding officer led Bishop and me to a Dumpster behind the restaurant.

  The owner, an elderly man wearing a white chef’s hat and matching chef’s coat with marinara down the front it, stood in the doorway of the back entrance. He was talking to another officer, who was writing down his statement. Clanging pots and pans could be heard from the back door. It seemed as if dinner was going to be served, regardless of what was going on in the back alley.

  The body was underneath a white sheet behind the Dumpster. I reached into my blazer pocket and pulled out two latex gloves. I put on the gloves and walked over to the victim. Kneeling down, I pulled back the sheet and looked at the victim.

  “Do we know her name?” I called out.

  “Hillary Palmer,” the responding officer answered. He was going through his notepad. “Age twenty-six. Her driver’s license, cash and debit card were still on her person.”

  “Similar to Tammy Davis,” I said to Bishop. Looking over the body, I noticed multiple tattoos. A tribal band in a wave of black and red outlined her left biceps. She had short blonde hair that, if not matted down from the humidity, probably would’ve still been in a messy spike. “Has her cell phone been recovered?” I asked.

  “We found it next to her,” the officer said. “It was smashed to pieces, probably by the perpetrator so she couldn’t call for help. We think she was struck from behind.” The officer walked closer to us and pointed to the victim’s head. “There’s a separate pool of blood that formed from the victim’s head. This stream of blood here, from the laceration to her throat
, doesn’t match up with the wound to her head.”

  “She isn’t too dressed up,” I said to Bishop. “Jeans and a black T-shirt—it was a casual night for her. Dinner with friends? Either coming from or going to, depending on the time,” I added.

  “We won’t know until we get the report back,” Bishop said and walked over to the coroner, who had just arrived.

  Her black T-shirt masked the rich color of the blood that had seeped from her wounds and stuck to her abdomen when I tried to count how many slashes were in her shirt. She was stabbed seven times in the abdomen, once across her throat, plus blunt-force trauma to her head. This murder was more violent than the others committed around this area—if it was, in fact, committed by the same person. I lowered my head slightly and breathed in. I couldn’t smell bleach, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any.

  “Had she been reported missing?” I asked Bishop when he returned from speaking with the coroner.

  “No,” he said. “This was done some time last night. We ran her name through the system and nothing came up. She lives a few blocks from here, so we think she was walking to wherever she was going.”

  “I can check out her residence,” I offered. “Maybe she has a roommate or a nosy neighbor who can help.” Or maybe I was delaying an awkward interview with Ali.

  “Thanks. That would be great,” Bishop said and gave me the address.

  Pulling into the driveway of the victim’s town house, I walked up to the porch and knocked on the screen door. The screen had been torn at the top corner, and the red paint on the main door was peeling off. It didn’t look like foul play, just poor upkeep. I placed my hand on my gun when I heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the door.

  “Hello,” I said with a friendly smile when the door opened. “I’m Detective Mills with the Lyons Police Department.” I looked at the man, who was barely in his twenties, as he stood in the doorway wearing jean shorts and a white undershirt, rubbing his eyes.

  “Yeah?” His dazed look quickly turned to paranoia. I guessed he probably had a dime-sized bag of marijuana on his nightstand that he was worried about me finding. He made no attempt to invite me in.

  “Do you know Hillary Palmer?” I asked.

  “Yes…” His expression turned to concern as he opened the screen door to walk out onto the porch with me. “She’s my roommate,” he added.

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Last night, around seven o’clock,” he answered. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m very sorry to inform you, sir, but Ms. Palmer was murdered last night.” No matter how many times I’d told loved ones that their friend or family member was killed, it never got any easier.

  “But…I just saw her last night,” he said sternly, as if the fact that the last time he saw her she was alive meant that her murder was somehow untrue.

  “What’s your name?” I pulled out my notepad.

  “Drew.” He looked away as tears formed in his eyes. “Drew Hatter.”

  “Is there anything you can remember about last night, Drew?” I hoped he was still with it enough to answer a few questions. “Do you know where she was going?”

  “Yes,” he said, slowly composing himself. “She was meeting friends for dinner.”

  “Do you know the names of the friends she was meeting?”

  “Just two of them, Alex and Mary. I don’t know their last names.” He looked away from me again. “Do her parents know yet?”

  “Another detective will be speaking to them soon,” I said, although it was just an assumption. “Do you know if she knew anyone who drove a black or navy blue Jeep?” I asked.

  “No, not that I know of. We’re roommates but we don’t interfere with each other’s lives too much. This is more of a living arrangement than a friendship,” he answered.

  “Do you mind if I take a look around? Maybe her bedroom?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” he agreed. “Up the stairs, first room on your right.” He opened the door to let me in.

  Walking into the living room, I looked to the left and saw the staircase. Toward the back of the first floor was the entryway to the kitchen. The living room’s black futon had mismatched pillows on each end, and the table in front of the futon was filled with magazines, food wrappers and a dirty ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The big-screen TV had been muted, likely by Drew when he heard my knocking. He pointed toward the stairs as he walked over to the couch and sat down. Reaching for his cell phone, he began to scroll through his contacts and called someone.

  “Hey,” he said into the phone as I walked up the stairs. “Hillary’s dead.” He started to cry.

  The first door on the right was slightly ajar, and I poked my head in before entering all the way. The full-size bed was in the far back corner of the small bedroom, and the comforter was pulled all the way over the pillows. The closet door was open, and a laundry basket full of crumpled clothes sat underneath the few nice dress shirts that were hanging up. I leafed through the dress shirts and assumed she wore them to work, whatever Hillary’s job may have been. I turned back to face the dresser and noticed she had pictures of her and presumably her friends lining the mirror. She was in every picture and looked happy in all of them. Taking them down from her mirror one by one, I flipped over the pictures to see if any names had been written on the backs. Taking a photograph of each image with my camera phone, I decided I could try to run her friends’ images through the database for a match. Aside from going through her phone records, this could help us find out who she might’ve met up with last night, and maybe her friends could tell us if she knew anyone with a black or navy blue Jeep.

  I knew I couldn’t do a more extensive search until we got permission from Hillary’s next of kin, so I closed her door and walked back down the stairs. Drew was still sitting on the couch with his phone by his side.

  “Do you know where she worked?” I asked him when he looked at me.

  “Lyons Credit Union,” he said. “She’s a teller.” He paused. “Was a teller.”

  “Was she seeing anyone?”

  “Yeah, Alex,” he quietly answered.

  “Do you know for how long?”

  “A few months maybe? They were going to move in together when our lease was up,” he added.

  “Will you be around later? In case we have more questions?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “I work in the evenings, but I’m home in the mornings.” He paused again. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Sure.” I turned to face him.

  “What will happen to her bank account?” He looked away. “I mean, rent is due on the first. And I only have enough for my half.”

  “That’s something you’ll have to discuss with her parents. Perhaps your landlord will be able to give you an extension?” I suggested. At that point, I knew he didn’t have anything to do with her murder. If he did, he would’ve made sure to get her half of the rent first. “Here’s my card in case you think of anything else,” I said and handed him my business card. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I added as I turned to walk back to my car. He followed me outside and stood on the porch with my card in his hand as I left his driveway. He was in too much shock to have any more information than he’d already given me.

  Back at Hillary Palmer’s crime scene, I emailed the photos of Hillary’s friends to the station and waited for a response. Bishop had already left the scene. Now that the body had been moved to the morgue for an autopsy, there wasn’t much of a crime scene left. I saw the lid to the Dumpster was open, and I looked inside to see two police officers going through the trash, looking for clues. If the same person who murdered Tammy Davis and the other four women also murdered Hillary Palmer, then most likely the murder weapon would not be found. But whoever killed this woman used a knife, not bullets.

  As the police officers took down the crime-scene tape and the city cleaning crew began to wash the bloodstained ground, I received an email reply from our tech dep
artment with possible matches. Mary Duran, Amanda Reiter, and Connie Frances were all hits. Their addresses were attached. There wasn’t a match for anyone named Alex, but I hoped one of the three matches might know who he was. It was time to start knocking on doors again.

  Connie Frances’s address turned out to be a bust. According to the new tenant, who explained he was subletting the place, Connie had moved out three months ago because she ran out of tuition money and couldn’t afford her off-campus housing. No one answered at Amanda Reiter’s apartment. And the neighbors didn’t seem to care that I was knocking on her door, so I decided to try her again later. Maybe I would have better luck with Mary Duran. Plus, Hillary’s roommate had said she was supposed to meet up with someone named Mary last night, so this was probably my best hope.

  It was well past seven o’clock by this point, so the likelihood of Mary being home was greater than if I had tried at five o’clock. Knocking on her front door, I heard a small dog start to bark, followed by a series of clicks, like several deadbolts being unlocked. Then the door creaked slowly open.

  “Mary Duran?” I asked and showed my badge to a petite female wearing black dress pants and white button-up shirt. If she’d had on a black blazer, our outfits would have matched.

  “Yes,” she said, opening the door farther. Her red hair was pulled loosely back. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

  “I’m Detective Mills, Lyons P.D. Do you mind answering a few questions for me about your friend Hillary Palmer?”

  “Please, come in.” She stepped to the side and held open the door for me. “I know why you’re here,” she added.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said as Mary’s eyes filled with tears. It looked as if she had been crying for quite some time now. “I was wondering if you could tell me about the last time you saw her.”

  “It was last night,” she said and sniffed back a few tears. We walked toward the couch in the living room. “Have a seat,” she said and pointed to the armchair across the room. “We had dinner at Pariah’s.”