Bishop cleared his throat as he continued to the next slide. “Third body, found in September of last year. Jane Lanciano. Caucasian female. She was found by a Villager in Vantage Woods the day after her eighteenth birthday.” A photograph of the deceased’s frail, child-like body appeared on the wall. “Habitual runaway as a juvenile and known drug user who frequented the Villa. Cause of death, once again, single gunshot to the head.” Bishop paused while some of the officers sighed, as if to mourn the death of a girl so young.
“Bryn Taylor, fourth victim. Found March of this year,” Bishop said as he clicked to the next slide. “Age twenty-two. African-American female. She was driving from Michigan to Tennessee for a camping trip. There were no physical signs of struggle inside her vehicle. She either knew the person or voluntarily let him or her in. We believe she picked up her killer, who was perhaps posing as a hitchhiker. Cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head with a small-caliber bullet.” Bishop went to the next slide without skipping a beat.
“Finally, from this past weekend, our fifth victim. Tammy Davis. Age twenty-four, Caucasian female. Cause of death is the same as the others. A single gunshot to the head using a small-caliber bullet from what appears to be a long distance. Ballistics indicate that all five bullets from all five victims came from the same gun.” Bishop stepped out from behind the podium. “Braxton, why don’t you come up here and finish the rest?”
Braxton took three upbeat steps to the podium and cleared his throat. “We have five women, ranging in age and race, but all suffering the same cause of death. The victims vary from teenage drug addicts to a mother with a husband and three kids. The major connection appears to be the crime scene. Vantage Woods. We believe these women have been sought out solely based on opportunity. If they had a vehicle, their vehicle was found at the scene, completely wiped clean. This makes us believe the killer was in the car at some point.” Braxton paused, as if waiting for applause.
He continued enthusiastically. “Vantage Woods has miles upon miles of trails. The bodies of these women were all found near the beginning of the trails, just a few hundred yards from the street where their cars were found. It’s my belief that these women did not escape their captor but, rather, were ‘freed’,” he said, using air quotes for emphasis, “and then hunted. In all of the areas where the bodies were discovered, we noticed some outlying trees and brush—giving the killer enough coverage while still allowing for clear sight lines.” He made a cross with his index fingers indicating the crossbow on the scope.
“The suspect is using the victims’ own vehicles as a method of transportation, so he—or she,” Braxton said, then paused and imperceptibly scoffed, as if offended by the idea that a woman could be smart enough to pull off such a crime, “is somehow gaining access to these vehicles, either by force or by trust.” He looked toward Bishop, who returned to the podium to finish the presentation.
“The state won’t let us close the hiking trails,” Bishop said, “so we’re going to have to double our manpower in the area until we catch this guy. We’ve eliminated most of the Villagers as suspects. They’re all too doped up to be able to hold a rifle steady enough to shoot at close range, let alone to accurately hit a target from a hundred feet away.” The fact that he so callously described the Villagers bothered me. His daughter was considered a Villager, at least by the journalists who wrote about her disappearance and murder. “There are overtime sign-up sheets in the break room,” Bishop added. “Are there any questions?”
“Has he been profiled?” an officer asked.
“Yes,” Braxton answered. “Caucasian male, late thirties or early forties. He has a high intelligence but comes off as simple.” After the third murder, Bishop called the FBI field office in Cincinnati and requested an agent take a look at the case. Within a few days, we were given a basic profile to work with.
“Any reason why there’s no sexual assault?” the same officer asked.
“This doesn’t seem to fulfill a sexual need for him. He lacks confidence—especially around women—but he isn’t easily intimidated either. He’s a loner with no close family, and he likely hunts for sport. He seems to get a real thrill out of what he’s doing.” Braxton turned to Bishop again, likely looking for a nod of approval. “Are there any other questions?”
“What about Hillary Palmer?” I asked. “She was found behind Pariah’s.”
“Yes, I know who you’re referring to, Mills,” Braxton smugly answered. “While her death is tragic, there’s no reason to believe it’s related. Can we move on?”
“No,” I challenged him, unsatisfied with the way he so quickly dismissed my question. “What if she was targeted by the same killer? But something went wrong, so he had to change his M.O.? The circumstances are basically the same.”
“How so?” Braxton sighed, making it obvious he was just humoring me.
“She was found in plain sight,” I continued with confidence, ignoring his attempt to make me feel inferior. “You said the victims were sought out due to opportunity and that their vehicles were used for transportation, right? But what if the killer realized too late that she didn’t have a car?” The room went quiet. I looked at Bishop, who slowly nodded his head. I took it as a signal to keep going. “He wouldn’t need a rifle if he’s that close to her. The hunt would still be on, so to speak—”
“I just don’t see how it fits,” Braxton said, cutting me off and trying to gain control of the room.
I continued anyway. “The fourth victim, Tammy Davis, had just left Pariah’s before she was abducted. And Hillary Palmer was found behind Pariah’s a few days later. I think that’s more than coincidence, Braxton.”
“Mills may be on to something,” Bishop interrupted. “Let’s look into the employees at the restaurant and have an officer patrol the back alley after dark.”
“Yes sir,” Braxton said as he stepped away from the podium, dragging his feet like a pouting three-year-old as he made his way back to his seat in the front row.
“Everyone’s dismissed. Have a good shift,” Bishop called out. “Someone hit the lights,” he added. As the officers stood to walk out of the room and begin their shifts, Bishop made his way over to me. I could see Braxton watching us out of the corner of my eye, but I knew he wouldn’t stick around to eavesdrop. He had to go put some ice on his bruised ego.
“That was a good catch with the restaurant,” Bishop said when the room cleared. “I didn’t want to mention this, especially in front of Braxton, but I want you to consider applying for sergeant.” I waved my hand in protest.
“What about Braxton?” I asked. “Clearly he wants the job.”
“Braxton’s the top choice in the eyes of the commissioner, but I think he has his eye on you too. If nothing else, at least you’d give Brax a run for his money.” Bishop chuckled to himself. “Besides, Braxton doesn’t have the same intuition you do. His best working theory right now is that we should be looking into funeral homes or morticians. He thinks they could be trying to boost more business for themselves.” Bishop rolled his eyes.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, knowing I already had my answer. The thought of applying for sergeant hadn’t even crossed my mind.
“See that you do,” Bishop said and left the room.
I went back to my desk to go through each case file with fresh eyes. It was the first time I had read through each report in chronological order. I didn’t want any of these murders to turn into cold cases, but if we didn’t catch a break soon, that’s exactly where they were headed.
As I read Ali’s statement, I couldn’t help but get the urge to run a background check on her. She was mildly connected to one of the murders, so it wasn’t unethical to run a search on her per se—although the fact that I was the one doing the searching could make it perhaps a tad questionable. Nonetheless, I typed her name into the local database. I searched through criminal and civil cases, but nothing came up. I knew she had only been living in Ohio for two years, but not even
a speeding ticket appeared. Feeling guilty rather than relieved, I couldn’t bring myself to search her name in the national database.
I lost track of time reviewing the case files, so I hadn’t had time to over-think my date with Ali. I was supposed to meet her at the fair in less than an hour. If the date went anywhere near as well as my other dates in the past two years, we wouldn’t make it past the cotton-candy stand before I found an excuse to leave. Being a detective really came in handy when I needed to get out of an uncomfortable situation. But part of me actually wanted to make this date last beyond a shared bag of spun sugar.
With fifteen minutes before the dreaded D-word, I drove to the fairgrounds and parked in the field that served as the parking lot. As I walked through the grass toward the entrance, I noticed Bishop standing near the gate. Great, I thought. This date was going to be awkward enough without having to explain to Ali my connection to Bishop—let alone having to explain to Bishop why I was fraternizing with a woman connected to our investigation. He said hello as he walked through the security checkpoint with me. Showing the guard my badge, I was able to keep my gun on me once inside the festival. With the recent murders, the townspeople were on edge.
I didn’t realize it was a little past eight o’clock until I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Lacey,” Ali said. I turned around to see her smiling. She was wearing cut-off jeans and an army-green tank top. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid again, and the black admittance stamp on her right hand made her dark nail polish stand out.
“Hello,” I said warmly and smiled at her. And then I remembered Bishop was next to me. He wasn’t at the station when I had to bring Ali in for questioning, but I still didn’t want him to know who she was yet—or that I was pleased to see her. “This is my boss, Captain Bishop,” I said, hoping she would get the hint that I had to act professional around him.
“Hi, I’m Ali,” she said and shook his hand.
“William,” he said and politely smiled. “Nice to meet you.” After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Bishop spoke again. “Well, I’ll let you ladies be. There’s a pig roast with my name on it.” He patted his belly and walked away. As guilty as I felt for not inviting Bishop to spend the evening with us, I wanted time alone with Ali. And I knew he would meet up with the other single guys from the station anyway. From what Tara had once told me, her mother had abandoned their family when Tara was only three years old, and Bishop had taken the divorce pretty badly. He hadn’t really dated anyone since. The only time I met Bishop’s ex-wife was at Tara’s funeral—and, in my opinion, based on the brief time I’d spent with that woman, he was better off without her.
“He seems nice,” Ali said.
“He is.” I hoped that was the only interaction those two would have. At least for now, anyway.
I decided I was going to ignore the fact that she knew one of the victims. I wanted to put it behind us. It turned out everything was circumstantial anyway, just as my gut had been trying to tell me. Tonight, we were just two people on a date. And the knots in my stomach proved it.
As we walked around the fairgrounds, we told one another about our week. I never knew the wide world of web design could be so fascinating. As we continued to walk through the crowd, we passed the midway where parents and children eagerly spent their money trying to win oversized and overpriced stuffed animals. Big, plastic rings twirled toward glass bottles, and Ping-Pong balls bounced off bowls as goldfish swam nervously inside. Music from the cover band in the next tent pumped through the speakers, and the smell of deep-fried everything lingered in the air around us.
As we approached the last booth in the midway, the attendant started talking to us through his megaphone. “One dollar gets ya one dart. Pop a balloon, win a prize. Come on over here, pretty ladies, and win yourself a souvenir.” I looked over and saw an older man with gray hair wearing a blue baseball cap and a dingy short-sleeved T-shirt. He had a beige apron tied around his waist with pockets in the front for money and darts. “Or win it for your date?” he added.
“Do you want a stuffed animal?” I asked her.
“You don’t have to.” She blushed.
“There’s no better way to remember tonight,” the attendant called on the megaphone again. “Two dollars and I’ll give ya three darts.”
Ali and I walked over to the game, and I looked at the corkboard filled with balloons. Green, blue, and red balloons hung in a neat grid. Pin holes and popped balloons surrounded the ones that had yet to meet their fate. I dug into my front pocket, pulled out two wrinkled bills and handed them to the attendant.
“Step right up, folks, and watch this amazing lady take home a prize,” he called into the megaphone while handing me three darts. Yeah, no pressure.
I lined up the first dart with a red balloon mixed in a cluster of blue balloons. I let it go, and it flew through the air, landing in the middle of the red balloon and busting it wide open with a loud pop. I took the second dart and aimed it at another red balloon, throwing the dart with the same amount of force. I popped that one as well.
“One more balloon, and I’ll upgrade you to a big prize!” The attendant pointed to the row of three-feet-tall stuffed animals lining the top of the booth. I could see a purple gorilla, a big blue elephant, and, hanging high in the corner, a red and yellow penguin with sunglasses.
I aimed my last dart and threw it toward the diminishing balloon grid. The dart grazed the side of a green balloon but bounced backward, landing point-first into the ground. I missed.
“Better luck next time, darlin’,” the attendant said and handed me a small green frog. The frog’s tongue was hanging out of its mouth, and it was holding a heart between its hands. The heart had YOU ARE RIBBIT-ING embroidered in white thread. It was too cheesy to be taken seriously, so I didn’t feel awkward when I handed the frog to Ali.
“Thanks,” she said. She looked at the frog, then at me, then back to the frog again. “You’re ribbiting too.” She laughed.
Feeling my face turn red, I stepped away from the game before the attendant could talk me into another round. We started walking toward the aisles of food carts, Ali still laughing.
As we strolled by the beer tent, I saw Bishop inside, talking to some officers from the station. Most of them were on duty, but that didn’t keep Bishop from monopolizing their time with stories of his glory days. It was a nice night, and people were here to have fun. The fairgrounds held fewer than a thousand people, and most of us knew each other from work or from living on the same block. It was a lovely evening to relax with friends.
“Do you want anything to eat?” Ali asked as she led me through the rows of food carts and into the beer tent. I looked over to where Bishop was standing, less than a hundred feet away, and I knew he had no idea I was in here. I didn’t want to explain to him how I knew Ali or why I was still here with her. Then again, maybe a part of him already knew what we were doing here. He had left rather quickly after she arrived at the gate.
“Do they have cotton candy?” I asked.
“It is a fair.” She laughed.
She took my hand in hers and led me through the crowd until we found the cotton candy cart. About ten people back, Ali stopped when we reached the end of the line, but she made no attempt to let go of my hand. I felt a little uneasy, not because we were in public—Lyons was actually a progressive town—but because she was letting me know loud and clear that this was indeed a date. I could feel my palms start to sweat, and the little voice in the back of my head started to scream at me to run away.
Standing at the proverbial fork in the road, I didn’t know which way to turn. Left would be to let go of her hand and end the date. Right would be to tighten my grip and not let go until the ride was over. I knew this was going to happen eventually. But I had hoped we could at least share some fair food before my classic flight-or-fight response kicked in.
Yet here we were, next in line to buy a bag, and I could feel my throat start to close
and my legs begin to tingle as all of my adrenaline rushed through my body. I can’t do this, I thought. I can’t be on a date. I can’t let myself get close to someone again. As Ali asked me what color of cotton candy I wanted, I yanked my hand from hers and took a step back.
“Are you okay?” she asked as she eyed me up and down.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Pink.”
She asked for pink cotton candy and passed it to me as she paid the four dollars. She walked alongside me as I tried to open the plastic bag, but my hands were too sweaty, and I couldn’t get a grip. I was a fumbling mess. I knew Ali was watching me as I was about to completely lose it in front of her, but it was as if someone else was controlling my body, like an eight-year-old had the remote control to a toy car and was wildly moving the joystick back and forth, making the car run into the wall.
“Here. Let me help you,” Ali said as she gently took the bag from my hands and undid the twist tie. With the frog secured between her arm and her side, she opened the top of the bag wide enough for my hand to fit through. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reached for your hand,” she said as she held the bag open for me.
“It’s not that.” I looked away from her and stuck my hand in the bag. Pinching the cotton candy between my thumb and index finger, I pulled at it and watched it rip away from the larger clump still in the bag. “I don’t know what it is,” I lied. I knew Ali was going to excuse herself any minute because of my erratic behavior—just like all the other women I’ve tried to date—so there was no sense in explaining myself. It would be a waste of time.
“We can leave if you want to,” she said as she pulled out a clump of pink sugar for herself. “I have to go soon anyway. I have to let my dog out.”
And there it was: her way of politely ending our night, ending whatever budding romance could have been. I didn’t blame her. I would have ended things with me too.
Sight Lines Page 5
