by CJ Lyons
"Right. She leaves from school, why? To buy time."
"Plus mobility," Lucy put in. "No bus stop near her house and she doesn't drive."
"So she must have wiped her computer before she left for school. Something like that has to take several hours at least."
"Not to mention taking the camera card and setting up her alibi with her mom last week."
"What fourteen-year-old thinks that far ahead? When I was her age, I couldn't remember to make sure I had clean underwear for the next day." Burroughs tapped his fork handle against the tabletop as he thought. "Told you. Scripted."
Their food arrived and both of them dug in. Lucy had ordered a breakfast platter, tons of protein, it should keep her going until she stopped to eat again. Lord only knew when that might be.
"What about money?" he asked, wiping ketchup from his chin.
Lucy shrugged. "No bank account or credit cards that she could access. Mom gave her twenty a week in allowance, who knows how much she had on hand in cash."
"Twenty a week? Sheesh, don't tell my kids. They get five and that's only if they do all their chores."
They finished eating and returned to the Impala. Lucy stood with her car door open for a few minutes while Burroughs cranked the AC's blower. She remembered warm Indian summers when she was a kid in Latrobe, the air heavy with the smell of yeast and hops from the Rolling Rock brewery, but never this hot.
While she waited, she leafed through Ashley's binder again. Raw images of screaming mouths, tortuous geometric shapes resembling mazes with no escapes, and few images of hope.
On the last page, set apart by several blank pages, was a portrait. A young man slaying a demon. Standing beside him, hidden by shadows, was a feminine figure with a sword drawn. It was hard to tell if she was poised to stab the man in the back or come to his aid.
Which was Ashley? The victim cowering in shadows….or the assassin, ready to strike?
Chapter 11
Saturday, 3:47 pm
"Let's get back to the house." Lucy climbed into the broiling car.
"You think the mom is hiding something from us?"
"No. But I need to get a better feeling for Ashley. What kind of kid she was, what kind of person she would turn to for help. There has to be something in the house."
Lucy's phone rang when they were about three miles away from the Yeager's house. It was Walden. "We may have something. A body."
"Where?" she asked, grabbing a pen and her notebook.
"Tastee Treet on Route 22 just past Murrysville. A young woman. While working the scene, they found Ashley's ID."
"Is it Ashley?" Her voice remained neutral but her molars clamped down with a pulverizing force that spiraled pain into her jaw.
"Don't know for sure."
"We're about ten minutes away. Stay with the mom. I don't want her hearing anything about this until we know what's going on."
"No problem."
She hung up and repeated what he'd said to Burroughs. The slightest frown was Burroughs' only response as he steered the Impala through the traffic. Minutes later, she spotted the crime scene: fire truck, ambulance, a smattering of police cars from several jurisdictions all crowded a tiny dirt parking lot. Men in uniform milled around the outside of the ramshackle shack that housed the Tastee Treet.
Burroughs slid the Impala between an Allegheny County Sheriff's vehicle and the Murrysville volunteer fire rescue squad. Two kids in their late teens, wearing firefighter turnout pants, sat on the rear bumper of the squad. They looked up at Burroughs and Lucy but didn't meet their eyes, instead their gaze slid away, back down to the hard-packed dirt. Lucy spotted a puddle of vomit nearby and guessed it belonged to at least one of them.
The building itself was small, maybe 700 square feet. It listed to one side. Lucy had the urge to tell the group of cops and firemen leaning against the far wall, laughing and smoking, to move around to the opposite side of the building, push the other way and try to re-balance things. White paint was peeling from around fogged windows, the roof was missing several shingles and the cardboard signs with the daily specials had rotted in place within their plexiglass holders.
She pushed open the front door, setting off a much too cheerful jangling from a brass bell. A half dozen police officers were gathered at the counter, laughing.
"Jeezit, it's not a carnival," she muttered.
"They heard the FBI was coming, didn't want to miss their chance at the big time," Burroughs said.
"Help me clear them out." She plastered a smile on her face and addressed the crowd. "Gentlemen, I'm Supervisory Special Agent Guardino from the FBI. Who is in charge here?"
An Allegheny County deputy turned from where he'd been chatting with the other men at the counter. "Well now, Special Agent from the FBI, we've just been trying to figure out why you'd be interested in our little case." He shifted his duty belt, adjusting the weight, and glanced at his audience. "This sure as hell ain't no case of domestic terrorism."
"Unless the French did it," a Murrysville officer put in. "Get it? French fries?"
The few chuckles and nods he received in response gave Lucy some idea of what she might be dealing with. And why the two boys out front had lost their lunches.
"I called the FBI," Chief Deputy Dunmar said as he entered from the door behind the counter. "Get your butt off that counter, Lassiter, and clear these people out of here." The deputy jumped to his feet. "Now!"
Lucy gave Burroughs a nod. "See, that's how it's done." She beamed at Dunmar and for once it wasn't fake. "Thank you, Chief Deputy. Mind running over things for myself and Detective Burroughs?"
"No problem at all," he replied, his shirt buttons threatening to spring off as he puffed up with importance. "If you follow me."
He led them behind the counter, past the soft serve machines and deep fryers. One of the fryers was covered with clear plastic, a smattering of black fingerprint powder visible beneath it.
A small room was chiseled out of the back corner of the building. In it there was a card table and two folding chairs. A young woman with blond hair pulled back into a hair net and wearing a polyester, robin-egg blue uniform, sat at the table, her face buried in her hands, crying. A uniformed police officer stood beside her, looking miserable.
"This our reporting witness?" Burroughs asked in a low voice that barely carried over the sound of the girl's weeping.
Dunmar nodded. "But everything you want to see is out here."
He pushed open an emergency exit door in the rear of the establishment. Here there was a green metal dumpster and several large air-tight liquid waste containers. One of them had the lid off and a foul stench emanating from it.
Burroughs hid his retch with a cough. Dunmar didn't bother to hide anything. Instead, he freshened the wad of chaw in his mouth and stood at the door, not going any closer.
The smell wasn't the usual odor of decomp. Instead, it blended odors of burnt flesh, fried doughnuts, and French fries into a sweet and greasy melody of death.
Lucy breathed through her mouth, leaving Burroughs fumbling for his notebook as she approached the vat. If not for the burnt flesh part, the smell might have been at a home at any McDonalds or Krispy Kreme.
"Actually not too bad once you get used to it," the guy from the medical examiner's said. He squatted on the far side of the container, taking photos.
"I think that's what bothers me the most." Lucy stayed clear as he positioned a ruler beside a wet footprint and shot another picture. "Okay if I take a look?"
"Yeah, the crime scene guys finished awhile ago. I was just keeping busy until you got here. I'm ready to roll anytime you are."
"Roll?"
He nodded to a hand truck parked beside his van. "Thought it'd be best to take the whole vat in. Empty her in the lab, save all the trace."
"Good idea." She looked over her shoulder. Burroughs was now engaged in earnest conversation with Dunmar, comparing notes on the Steelers' home opener. Lucy crept closer to the barrel. It
stood chest high, she had to bounce up on her tiptoes to get a good peek inside.
Maybe Burroughs was the smart one. Avoiding this. A woman had been folded into the vat of oil.
Her hair was brown, long like Ashley's, swirling around in a mass of over cooked French fries and other debris congealed into a waxy yellow substance that caked the top of the liquid.
"Rigor's come and gone," the assistant Medical Examiner said. "She's been dead since sometime Friday. Can't say for sure until we get her back for the PM. Want to see more?"
"Yes, please." Lucy forced a polite smile, even though every instinct in her body absolutely, positively did not want to see more of the mutilated corpse.
He drew on a thick, black rubber glove that covered him up to his armpit and reached in, snagging the corpse's hair and pulling her head up. Golden brown oil ran off the curves and planes of the woman's face and neck. What it left in its wake was something Lucy was certain she wouldn't be able to banish from her dreams for months.
There was no face. The eyes were gone, faint rims of the orbital bones gleaming white around a red, swollen mass of blisters. The nose looked like some creature had bitten it off, leaving behind a chalky white mass of irregular tissue. And the mouth—no lips, no tongue, a few teeth gaping from a large hole gnawed from grey-white-red swollen flesh.
"Did the same with her hands," the ME said. "I figure he maxed out the fryer to about 400 degrees then plunged her face into it, held her there a good long time."
He released the jaw and the head fell forward, splashing in the oil, disturbing the layer of wax-coated debris.
"We found more teeth inside in the fryer pan. It'll take a few days but we can probably get a decent dental reconstruction. That and DNA are gonna be your only hope of ID'ing her."
"It's not Ashley." The knowledge eased the stranglehold locking her jaw muscles. She stepped away from the container and took a deep breath.
"You sure?" Dunmar asked. "They found her wallet in the trashcan inside the employee break room."
"I'm sure. Ashley only had one piercing in her ears. This woman has four in this ear and a cartilage piercing."
The ME let the woman slip back down beneath the oil. "You looking for someone named Ashley?"
"Missing kid from Plum," Burroughs said, coming closer but not looking into the container.
The ME frowned. "Might have something that helps." He closed the lid on the dead woman and trudged over to his evidence case. "One of her hands was shoved up against the lid of the container. The flesh was gone, as you can imagine, but I found these intertwined with the bones and soft tissue that remained. Photographed and bagged them before any more damage could occur."
He handed Lucy two plastic evidence bags. One contained an oily hank of long, dark hair, torn out by the roots. The other the remnants of a Piaget watch. The band had been mostly destroyed, the crystal was shattered, but the engraving on the back was clear: To Ashley, love Dad.
Lucy wordlessly handed them to Burroughs who took one glance and reached for his cell.
"I figured our victim grabbed them as her attacker held her down in the fryer."
A vision of Ashley holding another woman down in the vat of boiling oil filled Lucy's mind. The stench of frying flesh filled her throat, gagging her. Could Ashley have done this?
Could Lucy have been wrong about everything?
Chapter 12
Saturday, 4:41 pm
Burroughs hung up his phone. "Dad confirmed it—he gave Ashley the watch for her birthday last year. Said she never took it off."
Lucy nodded, still trying to absorb the new information. "Call me when you have any results," she told the ME and turned to Burroughs and Delmar. "I'm going to talk with our witness. You know her name?"
"Doris. Doris Sykes."
She left the men outside and returned to the break room, relieving the uniformed officer. Scooting the second chair beside Doris's, she sat down and took the girl's hand in hers. Doris's shoulder shook with silent sobs, but after a few moments she looked up.
"Doris, my name is Lucy Guardino. I'm with the FBI. Can you tell me what happened today?"
Tears still streaming down her face, Doris nodded silently. Her eye makeup was clumped into pockets of baby blue and black, threatening to topple from over-mascared lashes with each blink. She sniffed and took the tissue Lucy handed her, blowing her nose.
"How old are you, Doris?" Lucy began when the girl didn't speak.
"Eighteen."
"Eighteen. Good." Doris kept nodding, so Lucy bobbed her head as well. "How long have you been working here?"
"Almost two years. Well, two summers. But I graduated in June, so nows I'm full time here." She straightened, dabbing at her eyes and succeeding in smearing her makeup further. "Got promoted to Assistant Manager after I graduated."
"Assistant Manager. Wow, that's great. So you have keys to lock up?"
"Yes ma'am. I work three to closing Wednesday through Friday. All day on weekends—I'm in charge then."
"That's a lot of responsibility. Who's the manager?"
"Mr. Tillsbury. Well, he's the owner. Opens weekday mornings at 11, gets things started for lunch."
"He works alone until you get here at three?"
She shook her head in scorn. "Mr. T? Nah, he just makes sure the bank deposit adds up and does the ordering. He's usually out of here by one at the latest. And he never comes in on Saturday or Sunday."
"So today you opened. Who else was here?"
"Ronny Clarkson, he only works weekends. He's a lazy sumthin-sumthin. That's why I was the one emptying out the trash in here, that's how come I was the one—" Her hand covered her mouth even as she kept on talking, trying to shove the terrible words and images that accompanied them back down inside. "I was the one who went out there, found that—her—the body." Fresh tears started up. "Is it," she gulped and tried again, "is it Noreen?"
"Who's Noreen?"
Doris shot a quick glance over her shoulder and leaned forward until they were shoulder to shoulder. "Don't tell Mr. T, promise? I don't want to get her in no trouble."
"Noreen works here?" She nodded. "What's her full name?"
"Noreen Crenshaw. She only works part time, has a baby to watch out for. Usually works 11 to 4 on weekdays."
The woman had been dead more than 24 hours, the ME had said. Yesterday. Right around the same time Ashley was last seen. "Was Noreen here yesterday?"
Another nod. "Most of the time. Said she had to leave, so I came in early. Place was empty."
"You mean she left it unlocked? No one was here?"
"She locked the register. Not like there's much else to steal except hotdogs. And who'd take the bother to cook them themselves? This time of year the place is always empty. Mr. T only keeps it going 'cause if he sells it, his wife would make them move to Florida and he don't want to go."
Lucy tried to steer Doris back on track. "You spoke with Noreen? Was anyone here with her? Any customers?"
"Doubt it. She must have been real bored 'cause the place was as clean and spotless as I've ever seen it. Everything scrubbed down and shiny."
"What exactly did she say? When did she call you?"
Doris slipped a cell phone from her pocket and flipped it open. "We didn't talk. She texted me."
Damn technology. Didn't people actually talk anymore?
Doris tapped a blue enameled nail on the phone keys then turned the screen around. Gotta go, sorry, cant help it, N
"I just figured it was something to do with her baby."
Lucy looked at the time stamp. 2:11 pm yesterday. She pulled out the picture of Ashley. "Have you ever seen this girl before?"
"Not in person. But her picture was on the bus pass I found in the trash with that wallet the police took."
"She's never been in here?"
She sucked in her lower lip as she concentrated. "No ma'am."
"Do you have any pictures of Noreen?"
Doris pushed back her chair and reached b
ehind Lucy to the bulletin board. "Here's one of her and me right after graduation."
Lucy took the photo. Two smiling faces beamed out at her. Noreen's brown hair was pulled back far enough to reveal a sparkling array of earrings dangling from her ears. Five from the left and four from the right.
"I need to take this. Did Noreen have a car?"
Doris frowned. "Yeah. But it's not here."
"What kind of car is it?"
"Toyota Corolla, blue, hatchback. Real old and pretty rusty."
Lucy didn't think she could get anything else helpful from the manager. "Thanks, Doris, you've been a great help." She started out the door, then couldn't help herself, and turned back. "You said Noreen had a baby?"
Doris nodded, tears seeping from her eyes again. "Jared. He's four months old. Looks just like his mommy."
Lucy forced herself not to think of the motherless baby, instead imagined Noreen's last moments, begging for her life, for her baby's future, fighting her attacker.
Could Ashley have done that to another girl? Did she have the strength? Not just physical strength, but the psychological will it took to dehumanize and kill.
She turned to her resident expert and called Nick. She told him what they'd learned so far. "I've heard of teenagers who kill in groups or go on sprees, but what about carefully planned murder? A murder whose only purpose was to cover your tracks?"
"If it is her, the fact that she chose a target who looked like her but overlooked details like the earrings is definitely indicative of juvenile thinking," he said. "As is wiping the place clean, destroying the face and fingerprints but not thinking of DNA and dental records."
"Yeah, what's with that?" Lucy asked, tapping her wedding ring against the phone, wishing she could see his face as he spoke—a lot of times Nick would lay out persuasive arguments both for and against a position, seeing both sides clearly, but she could always tell by his face where his heart really lay. "These days with CSI catching criminals in thirty seconds flat, you'd think a kid would think of that. It's as if our killer can't really focus for long—he comes up with big ideas but can't implement them fully."
