by Rachel Lucas
I nodded silently, my eyes pleading with his for what to do next. It only took him a moment before he moved into action.
“Doug, I need a copy of this entire footage sent to me as soon as possible,” Logan reached in his back pocket and pulled out his business card. He pointed to his secure email address at the police station. “Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Doug answered, seemingly surprised that we would take notice of such a non-descript figure.
Logan took me by the arm and started guiding me back towards his car.
“Wait,” Lacy called after us, running to catch up, “we had a deal. There’s something here, isn’t there. You promised us. Exclusive rights, remember? What did you see on that film?”
Logan stopped, as though just remembering the agreement. He didn’t say anything for a moment. I could tell he was debating how much to divulge and how much information to keep to himself. He turned around slowly, carefully choosing his words.
“You’re right,” he agreed hesitantly. Lacy’s eyes widened and her face lit up. I could tell she was already envisioning herself as the reporter getting the exclusive on a big breaking story. To finally get to cover a major story, this was the kind of thing that made a career. “I have to run a few things past my police chief first though. There’s a lot we’re still just putting together. Meet me at the Riverview Police station. Don’t air any of that coverage yet. As soon as we’re ready to make a statement, you’ll get the story first.”
Lacy stood frozen for a moment, thinking through what Logan had just offered her. I could tell when it all seemed to click for her. She turned around and jogged back to the news van, eager to share the possible exclusive with Doug.
“Come on,” Logan was guiding my arm again, “let’s get you back to my office.”
“But what about the search?” I asked, looking around at the police cars still parked all around and the officers continuing their investigations.
“We have plenty of coverage here now,” he assured me as we reached his car and he helped me into the passenger seat, “it’s more important now that we get back to the department and I contact the other police jurisdictions where the murders occurred. If there is a link, if we really have a serial killer on our hands, this entire operation needs to be coordinated.”
“My car?” I questioned.
“We’ll come back and get it later. Besides,” he gave me regretful look, “it has to be searched for fingerprints and any other evidence now.”
We passed Detective Hammond just before we turned onto the street to exit the trailer court. Logan explained to him why we were headed back to the department and asked Hammond to call in CSI for my car. Fortunately, Don Hammond, Logan’s partner, had been working on this case with him since the beginning and knew by now not to question what new twist was going to come in this case.
As we turned onto the street and headed just a few miles away to the police station I was stunned to realize it was only just early afternoon. This day already seemed like one of the longest in my life. I couldn’t imagine it getting any worse.
I was wrong.
Chapter Five
A very nice office assistant named Ruth Ann was scanning my fingerprints. It was a digital scanner, which was good because you didn’t have to worry about getting ink all over your hands. The only thing was you had to roll each finger just right in order to get a complete scan. If you didn’t, you would get a rejection signal and have to scan again.
My hands were shaking so badly from the events of the day that we were on the third try, each of the ten fingers needing to be just right. Ruth Ann was being very patient so when I heard my cell phone ring, I didn’t dare even look to see who it was.
“Almost there,” she encouraged. She was an older woman with dark auburn hair and a kind smile. I could tell she had a lot of experience at this. I imagine she must have fingerprinted every kind of criminal as well as school teachers and federal employees who needed fingerprints for background checks. “There we go, all done. You did a great job.”
“Thank you,” I barely managed to tell her before Logan came to the door to check on me.
“Thanks Ruth Ann,” he gave her a grateful smile, “Caitlyn, I’m meeting with the Chief right now. I’d like to have you there.”
I followed him down the hall to a large office. A sign on the door read “Police Chief – Jason Brickman”. As I followed Logan into the office, the police chief sat at his large, cluttered desk. Even sitting down, he was a tall man. He looked to be in his late fifties, although still in good shape for his age. His short hair was dark brown and graying at the temples. He looked up at our entrance and I immediately noticed a pair of intelligent hazel eyes.
A part of his messy desk had been cleared and a small, metal, decorated box sat there, wrapped in a clear evidence bag. There were also several newspaper articles and a hand-written letter spread out in front of him, each wrapped in the same clear plastic bags.
“Chief, this is Caitlyn Stewart,” Logan introduced me as we entered. He motioned me to one of two chairs sitting across from the police chief. I sat in the chair indicated as he continued. “I spoke to you about her. She was a childhood friend of Elizabeth Marshall. She’s been very helpful on this case.”
“Ms. Stewart,” the Chief nodded in my direction. I tried not to blush at Logan’s complement.
“Please, call me Caitlyn.”
“Caitlyn then.” He acknowledged then turned a penetrating look at Logan. “Now, let me get this straight. You were both there to see the trailer, the murder scene, being demolished. While you were there, you got a call from Jessica down at county and she said she found some secret message on a painting you found earlier at the crime scene?”
“Yes,” Logan agreed from where he stood next to the chief’s desk. He seemed too keyed up to sit. He slid a piece of paper across the desk to the chief. I remembered the piece of paper but it seemed like days ago since I watched Logan write it, instead of just this morning. I even remembered the words.
“Look under my home. You will find the answers. Inside the metal box. You’ll find the truth. Help me. Keep it safe.”
“Now, you’re telling me that based on this information that was found on a painting of a dragon…” His bushy eyebrows rose at that word, “the two of you decided to dive under a half demolished trailer where you found this box?”
He motioned to the metal box on his desk. His tone was half disbelieving and half confused. I had to admit, the way he was describing it, it did make me and Logan look like we’d both lost our minds.
“Yes, that’s where we found the letter and the newspaper articles,” Logan answered. It seemed to be taking all of his patience not to pace around the office. He stood still but I could feel the energy radiating off of him. I could tell he didn’t want to be standing here explaining all this to his police chief. He wanted to be moving. He wanted to take action on this immediately.
Chief Brickman read over the letter penned by the late Barbara Marshall then read over each newspaper article. He pinched the bridge of his nose as if just realizing what a large-scale operation this might be. He let out a heavy sigh and picked up his phone and dialed an extension.
“Ruth Ann, who’s back from the trailer park?” He asked. He paused for a moment and waited for her reply. “Ok, send them into my office please.”
Within minutes there were several uniformed and plain-clothed officers coming into the chief’s office. I sat there silently as he gave out directions and assignments. He gave the assembled officers a quick briefing on what was found in the letter and newspaper articles.
“I’ll make the call to the Feds myself,” he grimaced, not seeming to be too pleased with the thought. “Sawyer,” he pointed at Logan, “I want you coordinating this. Use the briefing room. The Feds might come in and take over. If they do, we need to be in full cooperation. I want you calling St. George P.D., tell them what we have. See if they’ll send us the files on the murder that took
place there. Look for any connections. Find out about the symbol on the victim. See if it’s a match. Send them the photo that we have of the symbol.”
He found the newspaper article with the small artist’s rendering of the strange symbol.
“Likewise, Olsen, I want you calling Evanston P.D. Chambers, you call Boise. Graves I want you to contact Sandy, see if they have any unsolved murders around the same time frame. Erickson, do the same with Colorado Springs. Let’s get a copy of this symbol and get it out to every one of those jurisdictions. Report back to Detective Sawyer or myself with whatever information you find.”
The officers quickly dispersed back to their own office areas, eager to get to work.
“Come on, Caitlyn,” Logan said as he helped me to my feet, “let’s get back to the briefing room. I have some calls to make.”
I followed him to the door but the chief stopped him before we could leave the room.
“Sawyer,” he called. Logan turned around. “We still have officers out canvassing the area, don’t we?”
“Yes,” Logan confirmed.
He gave me a sharp look then glanced back at Logan.
“Do you think it’s wise to have a civilian in the middle of all this?” There was no question he was referring to me.
“Well, Chief,” Logan replied, looking him directly in the eyes, “you read the letter. Until we locate Elizabeth Marshall, I think we’d better keep a close eye on Ms. Stewart.”
My stomach churned at his words.
Chapter Six
The briefing room was a large, open room with chairs in a few rows facing the front of the room. There were two portable dry-erase boards next to a desk up front. At the desk there was a computer and a multi-line phone. There were a series of windows high up on the wall, enough to let in natural light but without making the room too bright.
Logan had directed me to a chair close to the desk. He tossed his still dusty jacket over the nearest chair and took a seat before the computer. He quickly logged in, pulled up the internet and was searching for the contact information for the St. George Police Department as well as the Washington County Sheriff’s Department.
As he dialed the numbers and asked to speak to the proper officials, he stretched the phone cord out as far as he could while he started organizing places, events and timelines on the dry-erase boards.
The room was eerily quiet with just the tapping of his fingers on the keyboard and the squeaking of the dry-erase markers. His voice, when he spoke to his fellow police officers, was solemn, respectful, sometimes urgent.
I sat there in somewhat of a stunned daze and watched him work. The events of the day were starting to catch up with me. I felt completely exhausted in both body and spirit. A part of me still couldn’t believe everything that had happened.
When I woke up this morning, my life had finally seemed as though it was getting back to normal. For months I had been on a frantic rollercoaster ride, doing everything I could to prove that my childhood best friend, Elizabeth Marshall, Lisbeth as I always thought of her, was innocent of her mother’s murder.
There had been a lot of circumstantial evidence against her. She had also had a very turbulent, confrontational, and sometimes violent history with her mother. The authorities were convinced she had done it and seemed to have the proof to convict her. It didn’t look very hopeful. But she was so insistent on her innocence.
If that wasn’t difficult enough, she was awaiting her trial down at the state mental hospital. Lisbeth had been diagnosed with Disassociate Identity Disorder, or the more common term, Multiple Personality Disorder. As a teenager she had been diagnosed with as many as twenty-seven different personalities. And I was uniquely familiar with almost every one of them.
Just when I’d thought that there was no way to prove that she didn’t kill her mother, I was able to help uncover some very important information with the help of Logan, a detective with the local police department.
We had uncovered what we thought proved that Lisbeth hadn’t committed the crime. Incredibly, the new evidence seemed to point to her mother Barbara killing herself while at the same time framing her daughter for her murder. Before I even had a chance to adjust to this new information, the local DA dropped the charges against Lisbeth.
Within hours, her doctor at the state hospital had her transferred to another treatment facility because of the publicity. I didn’t know what to think or what to do. He wouldn’t let me see or speak to her because he thought it would interfere with her new treatment and possible recovery.
I thought we were in the clear. I thought I had successfully helped to free an innocent woman. Her doctor was treating her with a new medication, one that was supposedly integrating her various personalities. Although I had my doubts, he was certain she was on the road to recovery and was very capable of living an independent, productive life.
That was my reality until this morning. I thought that I had accomplished something important. I had helped prove her innocence. She was going to have a bright future before her.
That was when we found the metal box under the half-demolished trailer that had been her childhood home but was now no more than an empty shell of a murder scene. That was when we found the letter written by Barbara.
The letter explained that Barbara had killed herself to protect others. She was convinced that her daughter was very dangerous, so she killed herself so her daughter would be found guilty and locked up for the rest of her life. Then there were the newspaper articles. One after another, one murder after another.
Lisbeth wasn’t just dangerous she was possibly a serial killer.
Before we could even react, my first instinct was to contact her doctor. I had to convince him of how dangerous she was. But my efforts were useless. She had been on a group outing with other patients at her new facility and had slipped away and disappeared.
She was free now, loose. And she had left a frightening note on my windshield at the trailer park, letting me know that she was there, letting me know she was disappointed with me, that I had failed her. And I had. I had helped free her in a way.
If only I’d known what a danger she was. I would have done everything I could to keep her safely locked up, where she couldn’t harm herself or anyone else.
A beeping from my cell phone brought me back to the present. As Logan continued writing notes on the dry-erase board and making calls, I dug through my purse to find my phone.
There was a text waiting for me that had just come.
“Shower planning at Mom’s Sat. 10am.” It was from my sister, reminding me we were getting together this weekend to plan her baby shower. All those normal, happy family events seemed so foreign to me at the moment. It didn’t seem to connect with this bizarre circumstance I found myself in.
I noticed the symbols on my phone for a missed call and voicemail. That’s right, I thought, my phone had rung while I was being fingerprinted. I looked at the number but didn’t recognize it. It was probably just a phone solicitor, I thought. I went ahead and dialed my voicemail just to be on the safe side.
The voice on my voicemail was deep and masculine. There was a raw, raspy edge to it. It was sly, sinister.
“Caitlyn,” just the sound of my name spoken by that voice sent chills down my spine, “come and find me if you dare, people will die, do you care? Park City’s just a taste. Don’t let this chance go to waste.”
My cell phone hit the floor with a thud. Logan turned just in time to see me double over in pain.
Chapter Seven
“What is it?” Logan froze in the middle of writing on the dry-erase board.
“Voicemail.” It was the only word I could get out. I felt as though I couldn’t move. The only thing I could do was point helplessly at my cell phone lying on the floor with one shaking finger.
“Caitlyn?” He must have seen the terror on my face. He dropped the marker he was using and came to my side.
“Voicemail.” I repeated. I gave myself a sha
ke mentally and reached down to pick up the phone. I pushed the button to replay the message and all but shoved it into Logan’s hands. I didn’t want to hear that voice again. Ever. “Listen.”
He put the small phone to his ear. His eyes widened as he listened to the message. He paused for just a moment then he was in full motion. He ran to the door of the briefing room and called down the hall.
“Chief!” The police chief’s office wasn’t far down the hall. It took only a moment for him to appear and for Logan to start giving instructions. “Listen to the voicemail.” Logan gave him just a moment to hear the message before he continued. “Let’s see if we can get a trace on it. It was short, but we might be able to get a ping off of a local cell phone tower. See if we can find out who the phone number is registered to. I’m calling Park City.”
Logan handed the phone off to his boss and was back at the desk, doing another internet search. As soon as he found the number he picked up the phone and dialed the Park City Police Department. He immediately identified himself to dispatch on the other end and began explaining why he was calling. He described the message on my voicemail without giving away too many details and asked if there had been any unusual crimes that had taken place that day. He hit the speaker button on the phone so I could hear the answer.
“It’s been pretty quiet here today,” the female voice of the dispatch officer answered, “let’s see, there’s been one car accident this morning. There was one domestic, girlfriend angry at her cheating boyfriend. Oh yeah, and we had a few tourists from Australia that got a bit rowdy at a local restaurant and had to be escorted out. Other than that, it’s been a routine day here.”
“That’s good to hear,” Logan seemed only slightly reassured. “I’ll be sending you pictures and a description of our suspect. Hopefully, it’s an empty threat. But just in case, you may want to send out a BOLO.”
