Good Little Girls

by Rita Herron

  Tinsley didn’t respond. She walked back to the window and looked out into the night.

  Wyatt knew the answer to Marilyn’s question, and so did she.

  His phone buzzed. “As a matter of fact, you’re keeping me from doing just that.”

  She squared her shoulders defiantly. “No matter what you think of me, all I want is justice. The public deserves to know the truth.”

  His dark gaze met hers. “Just how far would you go to get it?”

  Her wry smile returned. He didn’t wait for a response. He gripped the door to shut it.

  Marilyn stood on tiptoes to look past him at Tinsley. “Call me when you want to talk, Ms. Jensen.”

  Marilyn’s shout echoed through the door as he slammed it in her face.

  He cursed the woman for getting to him as he answered the call.

  “It’s Bernie. I’ve been digging into Samson.”

  “What did you find?”

  “His grandmother, the one who raised him, died two years ago.”

  The timing fit when they believed the Skull had abducted his first victim.

  Wyatt stiffened. “He also has access to drugs at the psych hospital where Cat is.”

  “Exactly. I checked, and he didn’t show up for his shift tonight. He called in sick. I’m texting you his address.”

  He started to hang up, but Bernie stopped him. “There’s something else. Forensics turned up a strand of hair at Tinsley’s. Haven’t had time to run the DNA, but it’s female.”

  His heart stuttered. “It could belong to Tinsley.”

  “This one is shorter, a darker blonde.” Liz Roberts had been at Tinsley’s, but her hair was light blonde and waist length. “I can’t see some woman helping the Skull.”

  “Could be some woman fell for him before she knew who he was. There have been cases where a submissive female helped her boyfriend or husband capture his prey.”

  True. Other times, the female was the dominant one, and the man was following her commands.

  “There’s another possibility,” Bernie said. “The person who drugged Tinsley’s tea and put those papel picados on her porch was not the Skull.”

  A copycat. He’d considered that in the beginning. Now they had information to support that theory.

  So who was this impostor?

  The conversation with Marilyn Ellis echoed in his head. She was ambitious, would do anything to get her story. Anything to get justice.

  And she had blondish hair.

  Surely she wasn’t that devious. Was she?

  Tinsley listened quietly as Wyatt relayed the news the FBI analyst had given him.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “You believe someone is working with him now?”

  “It’s a theory—a copycat drugged your tea to make it appear as if the Skull was back in order to draw him out.”

  “But who would do such a thing?” Tinsley asked.

  Wyatt hesitated to make accusations, but he couldn’t shake the idea that the reporter was involved. Or hiding something. “The only person I can think of is Marilyn Ellis.”

  Tinsley gaped at him in shock. “I know she wants a story, but I can’t believe she’d go that far.”

  “I can,” Wyatt said. “She’s made her name by exposing the underbelly and tackling controversial topics. She slanted the story about the Keepers to paint them as heroes. With the interest in the Keeper story being replaced by more urgent pieces, she needed a new story to get back into the spotlight.”

  Marilyn Ellis did like attention. That was obvious.

  “If she stirred up the news that the Skull was back with an impostor,” Wyatt continued, “she not only caught the public’s eye but also caught the eye of the real Skull.”

  Horror engulfed Tinsley. “You mean she intentionally angered him so he’d come out of hiding?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s the reason he kidnapped Joyce.”

  Wyatt nodded. “The timing supports that theory. Now I just have to prove it.”

  Anger emboldened Tinsley. Her friend had died because Marilyn Ellis wanted to be the center of attention on the nightly news? “Do you think Marilyn has had contact with him?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m requesting warrants for her DNA and her home and office computer and phone.”

  Tinsley couldn’t wrap her head around the idea that Marilyn—or any woman—would be so heartless as to intentionally draw the Skull back to her door. Marilyn had to have known how traumatic that was for her.

  She obviously didn’t care, though. Media attention meant more to her than Tinsley’s sense of safety.

  “If she drugged me, then she dug up those skulls and left them on the porch, too,” Tinsley said.

  “Seems probable. She wanted you drugged so you wouldn’t recognize her if you saw her outside.”

  Anger railed inside Tinsley. “If she did this, I want her charged.”

  Wyatt agreed. “I still haven’t talked to that psych nurse who works with Cat. He fits the profile.” He gestured toward the door. “I’m leaving an officer to stand guard here while I go to his house.”

  Tinsley assured him she’d be fine, but she wasn’t fine. Not only was her friend dead, but the reporter’s selfish need for attention might have been what cost Joyce her life.

  Wyatt phoned Hatcher to fill him in as he drove toward Samson’s.

  “The contractions have stopped, but the doctor insists Korine stay on bed rest. I may have to tie her down to keep her at home, though.”

  Wyatt laughed. “Isn’t that how you got into this situation, man?”

  “Very funny,” Hatcher said, although his partner didn’t mind the ribbing.

  “All joking aside,” Wyatt said, “do whatever necessary to take care of them.”

  “Thanks, buddy. Now what’s up with the case?”

  Wyatt explained his findings at Hinke’s. “The lab has those bags and are analyzing the contents. I also got word that Tinsley’s tea was drugged and that the person who did it might be a woman. If Marilyn Ellis intentionally lured the Skull out of hiding, she hurt Tinsley and caused Dr. Ferris’s death. We could charge her with involuntary manslaughter.”

  Hatcher made a low sound in his throat. “If she really wants justice as she claims, she’ll turn herself in.”

  “Somehow I don’t think she’s that altruistic.”

  “I’ll request warrants while you check out Samson,” Hatcher offered. “Just be careful, man. If you need backup, call it in.”

  Wyatt agreed and hung up; mentally he reviewed what he knew about Samson as he approached the man’s neighborhood.

  The house was a small wooden cabin that looked rustic against the backdrop of the marsh. A little Baptist church sat on a hill to the right, the old-fashioned cemetery filled with stone markers and overrun with weeds.

  Deserted and abandoned, this house or the church and graveyard would be a perfect place to hide or bury a body.

  Except if Samson was the Skull, why not leave Joyce’s body here instead of risking capture by dumping her in front of Tinsley’s cottage?

  It wasn’t about the kill, he realized. It was about letting Tinsley and the police know that he was back, not the impostor. He was narcissistic and wanted credit for his activities.

  Wyatt parked and walked up the dirt drive, senses alert in case Samson was watching. The house appeared dark, with only a dim light burning from one of the back rooms.

  A beat-up black hearse sat near the house, parked at an odd angle.

  Samson could have easily put Joyce’s body in a garbage bag, loaded her in the hearse, and driven her to where he’d stashed a boat. Or hell, he could have stolen the canoe.

  He aimed his mini flashlight across the exterior and then the interior of the car, searching for blood or anything suspicious. A stain on the passenger seat. Dark. Could be blood.

  No one in the front.

  With gloved hands, he opened the latch on the back, then the door.

  He s
hined the light across the interior and found a stretcher. Stains darkened it, and a blanket lay piled on the floor, also stained with something that could be blood.

  Enough to get him a warrant.

  Now, for the house.

  Hoping it was unlocked, he crept toward the front door. Mud from the last hurricane still caked the bottom of the steps and sides of the house. A dead tree lay on its side, branches and limbs that had been ripped from the trees a chaotic mess in the backyard.

  One of the wooden steps was missing, so he climbed over it, swatting at mosquitos and gnats swarming near the screened door. The door was unlocked, so he gave a knock, then announced himself.

  “Samson, FBI. I’m coming in!”

  No response, so he pushed the door the rest of the way open, then paused to listen.

  No voices. But a low wailing sound echoed from the back room. A crying sound like an injured animal—or person.

  The moment he stepped inside the living room, he spotted it: an altar for the Day of the Dead ceremony. But he didn’t have time to examine it now. The wailing sounded again, and he crept down the hall, his gun at the ready. The light came from a naked bulb shining in a bedroom to the left. No one inside.

  The wailing came from the opposite room. A dark room that reeked of a foul odor.

  He aimed the flashlight across the bedroom space, searching. Nothing. The wailing continued, driving him to the closet door.

  He slowly pulled it open, his anger mounting at the sight of a metal cage jammed in the back, covered by old blankets.

  It was too dark to see what was making the sound.

  He yanked away the dirty blankets, dread coiling inside him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Marilyn stormed into the newsroom and did her segment, furious with Camden.

  He thought she wanted the story—Tinsley’s; Korine’s; Cat’s; the Skull’s—because she was a media piranha.

  He had no idea. She wanted it because she connected with the victims.

  But he would never know how deep her connection was. Exposing the truth would expose her own family secrets.

  Secrets she wasn’t ready to share.

  But she had a plan.

  Her coworkers doused her with compliments as she finished. A male anchor who’d expressed interest in her invited her to go for a drink, but she declined.

  She had too much on her mind to sip martinis and make chitchat about his career goals. Typical male who only wanted to talk about himself and what she could do to help him.

  Men with that kind of drive were admired, when an aggressive woman with ambition was deemed a bitch.

  She’d heard the whispers behind her back.

  Not that she cared.

  She rushed outside and barreled toward the house in the boonies. No one knew about her visits here either.

  No one ever would.

  She parked at the house, then checked the Keeper page. Several people had commented on the River Street Rapist, then others on the disappearance of Dr. Joyce Ferris.

  Please help us. The law does nothing. We want our children and daughters to be safe.

  So did she.

  Justice had to be served, no matter the cost.

  Satisfied she was doing the right thing, she forced herself to go into the house. It was dark, musty, and smelled old. The windows rattled as the wind shook them, dust motes floating in the air.

  A noise rumbled from the back room. The smell of sickness and evil wafted toward her in a mind-numbing wave of disgust and bitterness.

  The pathetic lump of a man who lay in the bed wheezing for a breath turned his head slightly and looked over at her. Recognition and a sliver of hope lit his eyes.

  Dumb fuck kept expecting her to grow a heart and leave him alone.

  His eyes darted toward the prescription bottle on his nightstand. His frail hand trembled uncontrollably as he stretched it toward the pills.

  She knew what he wanted. For her to ease his suffering.

  Rage seethed inside her. She picked up the medication and claimed the chair by the bed.

  His helpless moan punctuated the air.

  No one knew the things she did about him.

  Or his dirty little secrets.

  But they would.

  His pitiful wail came again. A pleading in his eyes that she’d never seen before.

  Hate swelled within her. How dare he try to make her feel guilty, like she should take care of him.

  She moved the pain pills on the table, just out of his reach.

  A twisted look flashed in his eyes. If he had the strength, he’d jump out of that bed and strangle her.

  But he didn’t have the strength, and he knew it. He also knew he was at her mercy.

  She removed the recorder from her purse and set it on the table by the pills. Anger radiated in his growl.

  He earned a pain pill when he told his story. And it had to be the truth, not the lies or bullshit he’d told others.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Wyatt tossed one dingy blanket after another onto the floor. Four in all. Had Samson thought they would muffle the sound of someone crying inside that cage?

  Furious, he threw the last one aside, then stooped and shined his light into the cage. Relief filled him when he realized it wasn’t a woman.

  But on the heels of relief, anger set in. A dog lay inside, his bones pushing at his sagging skin, a mangled chew toy on the cage floor.

  “Hey, buddy,” he murmured. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Had Samson adopted this dog from the rescue center? If so, why treat him like this?

  He slowly reached out his fingers and let the dog sniff them as he talked in a low, calming voice. “Are you ready to get out of this place?”

  The dog tilted his head, his eyes sad.

  “I know you got a raw deal here, but your life is about to change.” He released the latch on the cage, then held out his hand again. “That’s it, boy, I’m your friend.” Slowly the dog nuzzled his hand, and Wyatt stroked his back.

  It took several minutes to coax the poor guy from the closet, but finally they made it to the living room. That altar for the Day of the Dead ceremony reminded him why he was here.

  He phoned for a team to search the house and the graveyard in case Samson had buried victims on that hill or in the marsh.

  His phone buzzed as he hung up. Hatcher. He quickly filled him in.

  “The judge gave us a warrant for Marilyn Ellis’s DNA but denied ones for her phone and computer. If her DNA matches the DNA on the tea bottle, he’ll reconsider.”

  Wyatt didn’t like it, but it was a start.

  “I talked to the ME and that forensic specialist,” Hatcher said. “She said the skulls left on Tinsley’s porch match the bones from that graveyard. She’s trying to get an ID for us now.”

  Wyatt considered that information.

  If Marilyn had dug up those bones, separated the heads from the skeletons, then left them on Tinsley’s porch, she might be mentally disturbed herself.

  “How about the bags of remains at Hinke’s?”

  “Dr. Patton is analyzing the contents. Severe decomp is complicating the analysis.”

  Those remains might be the break they needed. They could belong to the Skull’s first three victims. “I’m going to request BOLOs for Samson and Hinke.” He glanced at the dog, who was looking at him with pleading eyes.

  Both men had questions to answer.

  Tinsley blinked again, and the face of the man on her porch slipped into focus. The officer. Thank God.

  She was just being paranoid. The Skull wasn’t there after all.

  Although he had been. Right in front of her.

  The information she remembered about her captivity had helped create a profile. If she remembered more details, it might help.

  Body wound tight with tension, she returned to the pictures on the table and studied them again. Something was bothering her.

  Something about Norton and his jo
b.

  But what was it, dammit?

  The answer teetered on the edge of her consciousness but evaded her.

  She rifled through the information the FBI analyst had collected on the four boys. None of them seemed familiar . . .

  Or did they? Had she met Norton or one of the others when she was younger?

  If so, where?

  She’d never been to that orphanage. Maybe at an animal rescue event? But there were dozens and dozens of people who attended. How could she possibly remember them all?

  Her phone dinged, and she checked it quickly. Maybe Wyatt had news.

  Her sister’s name appeared, then a series of texts.

  I’m so sorry for everything, sis. I wish I’d been stronger when the police found you. You needed me to be there for you, and I failed you.

  I don’t blame you for hating me and not wanting me in your life.

  You’ll hate me even more when you find out the truth.

  Even so, I’m going to try and fix this.

  I still wear my sea turtle necklace and think about those lazy days when we combed the beaches with Dad and Mom.

  I remember hugging Gingersnap between us and whispering secrets in the dark.

  I have secrets now. Secrets that will hurt you, I’m afraid.

  But everything I did, I did for you. I want you to be happy and free again.

  Love always, Carrie Ann

  Tinsley swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. Carrie Ann didn’t understand at all. She didn’t hate her. She wanted to protect her.

  What secrets was her sister talking about?

  Her heart ached. It had been so long since she’d seen Carrie Ann. Since those days when they’d been best friends. Thanksgiving and Christmas had passed last year with the two of them separated. The anniversary of their parents’ death as well as Gram’s had come and gone, two days they’d promised to always spend together.

  Carrie Ann wanted to reconnect. So did she.

  Her finger hovered over the reply box.

  Worried Carrie Ann would do something erratic, she sent her a text.

  I don’t know what secrets you’re talking about, but we’ll talk. I can’t now, though, am trying to help the police find the Skull. None of us are safe until he’s caught.