Betrayed (A Jenny Watkins Mystery Book 2)

by Becky Durfee

  In an instant the image was gone, but it had been telling. Morgan was sexually assaulted before she was killed, but there would be no seminal fluid. No DNA. And the gun might have explained the lack of a struggle at the house; perhaps there had not been one. Maybe she’d gone peacefully after seeing the weapon.

  Jenny jotted the information down on the notepad she kept by her bed, another strategy she’d learned from her mentor Susan. After the vision had been sufficiently described in writing, she lay back down, hoping to be enlightened a little more, but no other visions came to light.

  In the morning, Jenny kept the television on while she packed up her painting supplies, ready to head back out to the lake. She knew local news updates recurred every half hour, so she made sure to be watching when the time came. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard the anchor begin.

  Breaking news in the Morgan Caldwell investigation this morning. The body of a young woman was found in an orchard in Trent, thirty miles from the Caldwell home. While the remains have not yet been positively identified, police officials have reason to believe they could belong to Morgan Caldwell. Alex Mayfield is on the scene in Trent with the latest. Alex…

  A live shot from the orchard-turned-media-circus appeared on the screen. A young man in a shirt and tie spoke eloquently into a microphone as many others did the same in the background.

  Thanks, Pam. Police were called to the scene about an hour ago when the owner of this orchard made a grizzly discovery while heading out to harvest his pecans. The remains of a young woman were found just off of a service road on the property. Police are unsure of exactly how long the remains have been there, but based on the condition they believe it is possible that these remains belong to Morgan Caldwell. As you probably know Morgan disappeared from her home in Braddock three days ago and hasn’t been seen since. A positive identification is expected later this afternoon, and we’ll let you know the result as soon as it happens.

  Reporting live from Trent, this is Alex Mayfield.

  The announcer continued from the newsroom.

  Morgan Caldwell is a sophomore at Monroe High School, where a vigil is scheduled to take place at seven o’clock Saturday night. A source close to the family says the vigil will go on as planned, even if those remains do turn out to be Morgan’s.

  The newscaster abruptly switched to the forecast, a concept which boggled Jenny’s mind. How could she talk casually about the weather when something so horribly tragic had just occurred? “Distance,” Jenny reminded herself. “I’ve got to keep my distance.” As cold as it seemed, Jenny needed to strive to be more like the newscaster.

  At that moment her cell phone rang. She looked at the screen before answering, noticing Zack was the caller; she was sure she knew what the call was about. “I saw,” she said instead of hello.

  “This sucks,” he replied. “But at least they found her. Now they can start investigating. Maybe the attacker left some clues behind.”

  “I hope so, but he seemed careful,” Jenny said, recounting her vision from the previous evening. “He took steps to make sure he left no DNA behind.”

  “Well maybe she scratched the shit out of him and she’s got some of his skin under her fingernails.”

  “Gloves,” Jenny muttered, mostly to herself.

  “What?”

  “She was wearing gloves.” Jenny closed her eyes to recount the first vision she’d had. She distinctly saw black leather gloves on her fists as she punched at the assailant. “I bet he made her put them on for that reason. I can’t think of why else she’d be wearing gloves in October in Georgia. It’s not that cold.”

  “Maybe there will be fingerprints on the gloves?”

  “Maybe,” Jenny said half-heartedly. She was preoccupied with thought. “What if I call the police and tell them they’ll find sexual assault, no semen, and gloves. Do you think they’ll believe I’m a psychic when I know all those details?”

  “It’s possible. I think you should call the police with what you have. Give them your phone number and your full cooperation. Hopefully soon they’ll start to take you seriously.”

  Jenny sighed. “I guess you’re right. Hey, are you still interested in a road trip to Braddock? Or even Trent? I think I may skip the painting today given the latest developments.”

  “I’m always up for a road trip,” he replied. “What time?”

  “I can be there in an hour. Will you be ready by then?”

  “I was born ready. And while I’m waiting for you to come I’ll find out where Morgan lives…lived. Maybe you can get a good contact if we get close enough to her house.”

  “That’s excellent thinking,” Jenny said. “See? This is why you’re my partner.”

  Jenny spoke to a police officer and was able to convince him to at least write down her tip and her phone number. She was optimistic that Zack would turn out to be right; once her account started lining up with the facts, the police would be in contact with her again. Then she could work together with them and hopefully provide those poor grieving parents with some answers.

  After a quick bite to eat Jenny left to pick up Zack. “Where first?” she asked when he got into the car. “Braddock or Trent?”

  “Braddock,” Zack replied. “Not only is Trent out in the middle of nowhere, but did you see how crazy it was there? That place was crawling with reporters. We probably won’t be able to get anywhere near the orchard.”

  “You’re right,” Jenny reasoned. “Have you got Morgan’s address?”

  “Sure do. Got it programmed.” He held up his phone and waved it back and forth. “Time to rock and roll!”

  Zack and Jenny discussed the clues they had so far as they drove out toward the Caldwell’s house. The drive was short, only about thirty minutes, but before they could even come close to the house, they found the road was blocked off by police. Reporters and curious onlookers swarmed like bees. “Damn, dude,” Zack said. “People are sick.”

  Jenny gave Zack a sideways glance. “We appear to be just as sick as they are, you know.”

  “We’re here to help,” he said, “not to stalk.”

  Jenny didn’t respond as she turned her car around, looking for a place she could park within a reasonable distance. She was quite sure this quiet suburban road had never seen so much traffic, aside from an occasional graduation party or family reunion. A reflective glance at the well-manicured lawns and abundant minivans made Jenny wonder if any place on earth was safe from evil.

  She found a space around the corner from the Caldwell house and parallel parked her car. “So what do we do now?” she asked.

  “We get out,” Zack replied, exiting the car. Jenny followed suit, and once outside he added, “and we get as close as we can.”

  Feeling like little more than an ambulance chaser, Jenny walked with her head down as she and Zack approached the scene. “Are you relaxing?” Zack asked her.

  “No,” Jenny confessed. “I’m not sure I can with all of this going on.”

  The crowd of people behind the police barricade had to have been in the hundreds, all with different motivations for being there. Teenagers were crying, women carried baked goods, and others looked as if they were simply satisfying a morbid curiosity. Members of the press stood just inside the police blockade, but even they were kept at a distance. Nervous excitement buzzed over the crowd, and while the noise was kept to a minimum, the energy level was extremely high—too high for Jenny to have any meaningful contact.

  “I think I need to leave here,” Jenny confessed. “I’m not getting anything.”

  “Okay. Where would you like to go?”

  “Someplace quieter,” she replied. “Close by, but quieter.” Jenny looked around until her eyes fixed on the road beyond the crowd. “I want to be over there. On the other side.”

  “Are you on to something?”

  “Don’t know yet.” Jenny always kept her answers brief when she was trying to receive a message. “But I want to be over there.”

/>   Zack pulled out his phone and looked for a way to get to the other side of the crowd. The entire street was blocked off, so they couldn’t simply go through. “It looks like the streets form a grid,” he said, examining at the map on his screen. “If we go this way and make a few lefts, we’ll be on the other side.” He pointed away from the crowd. “Do you want me to get the car?”

  Jenny shook her head. “Walk.”

  Zack understood her need for brevity. He walked silently by her side as they rounded the block, passing groups of neighbors who were all very busy discussing the same thing. Some were angry, others frightened, and still others were simply fascinated. No matter the reaction, there was only one topic of conversation on everyone’s lips: Morgan Caldwell’s murder.

  As Zack and Jenny approached the crowd from the other side, Jenny stopped in her tracks. She turned slowly and began walking in the opposite direction with Zack wordlessly following her lead. They walked about a mile down the street and around an unfamiliar corner until Jenny stood frozen at a seemingly random spot on the side of the road. “Here,” she said decidedly. “Something happened here.”

  They stood silently for a moment as Jenny tried to grasp what had happened. The location seemed too idyllic for anything bad to have transpired there. An average-sized house sat behind a bed of mums in full bloom; the lawn was well-manicured, and the mailbox had been hand-painted with care. Yet somehow this location harbored a horrible secret, although Jenny couldn’t figure out what it was.

  “What do you think happened?” Zack posed.

  “Don’t know,” Jenny replied. She closed her eyes for several moments before shaking her head with frustration for the final time. “I can’t get it. There’s too much commotion.” She pointed toward the ground. “But something definitely happened here. This is the spot, I’m sure of it.”

  Zack took out his phone and started typing, making a note of the address where they stood. He spoke as he pressed the letters. “15625 Armistead Lane. Got it,” he remarked. “Do you want to try anywhere else?”

  Jenny contemplated a moment before stating, “No. I don’t think there’s a point. There’s too much interference. I guess we should just go back to the car.”

  They started the trek to the car silently until Jenny pounded her fists into her head. “Ugh. This is so frustrating. I can see him. When I close my eyes, I can totally see the man who did this. But I have no idea who he is.”

  “You’re an artist,” Zack surmised. “Why don’t you paint a picture of him?”

  A brief flicker of excitement was quickly overshadowed by reality. “I paint landscapes,” Jenny declared. “I’ve never painted a face before. I’m not sure I could do it.”

  “How different could it be?”

  “It’s very different,” Jenny declared. “For you to say an artist should be able to paint landscapes and portraits is like saying an athlete should be able to play baseball and football.”

  “Ever hear of Bo Jackson?”

  “No.”

  Zack laughed. “Then I guess I shouldn’t use him as a reference.” He put his hand on Jenny’s back and said in a comforting tone, “But I think you should try it. What have you got to lose?”

  Jenny sighed, trying to ignore the twinge of excitement brought on by Zack’s touch. “You’re right. Worst comes to worst I can’t do it.”

  “But if you can,” Zack added, “then the whole world will know what Morgan Caldwell’s killer looks like.”

  Jenny sat at Lake Wimsat with her canvas and paints. “Okay,” she whispered under her breath. “Help me with this, Morgan. I can’t do this alone.” With that Jenny began painting, not allowing herself to think her way out of succeeding. She mindlessly let her hand take over, not pausing to look at the whole picture until it was completed. Unaware of exactly how much time had passed, Jenny took a step back to see the finished face she had created, and the image took her breath away. The likeness was amazing, right down to the piercing eyes.

  She was staring into the face of a cold-blooded killer.

  Jenny walked through the front door of her house with the painting tucked under her arm. “Hey,” she called, signaling she was home. Greg was busy working on crown molding and didn’t respond. Once she walked out of earshot from Greg, she sarcastically whispered, “Nice to see you, too, honey.” She carefully leaned the canvas against a wall. “It’s a painting of the murderer from my vision. I’m glad you asked.”

  She called Zack, eager to tell him she was able to capture the killer’s likeness, but Zack had a bit of news of his own. “They officially identified the remains today,” he said. “They are Morgan’s. I saw it on TV a little bit ago.”

  Jenny contemplated the appropriateness of her comment before speaking, deciding her words were within reason. “Good. I’m glad. We already knew she was dead, so the sooner they determine it’s her, the better.”

  “Did you finish your picture?”

  “I did, actually, and it came out pretty good, if I do say so myself. Thanks for the idea.”

  “That’s why I make the big bucks.”

  Jenny rolled her eyes. “I’m going to take a photo of it and print it out. A few times. Carrying around a canvas isn’t exactly practical.”

  “Are you going to take it to the police?”

  “I was debating on whether I should go in or wait until they contact me.”

  “I’d go in,” Zack said. “As soon as you can. Imagine how you’d feel if someone else got attacked while you’re sitting at home with a picture of the killer that you haven’t shown anyone. They might recognize this guy right away as some scumbag they’ve already dealt with. You never know.”

  “You’re right,” Jenny said. “I would never be able to live with myself if I didn’t do everything I can to get this guy caught.”

  “Atta girl,” Zack said. “I’ll keep my cell phone on. If they commit you to the loony bin, you can use me as your one phone call.”

  “Great,” Jenny muttered. “Thanks.”

  Jenny walked nervously into the Braddock police station with the printout of her painting in her purse. She approached the information desk and said in a low tone, “Hi. I’d like to speak to somebody about the Morgan Caldwell case. I may have some information that will be useful.”

  “Okay,” the woman behind the desk said. “What’s your name?”

  “Jenny Watkins.”

  “Okay, Miss Watkins, have a seat over there and I’ll get a detective to speak with you as soon as one becomes available.”

  “Thank you,” Jenny replied politely. She turned and sat on a bench with several other people who she presumed had similar claims. This was going to take a while; she should have brought a book.

  After thirty minutes her name was called and she apprehensively walked back with the detective who had addressed her. He didn’t look very friendly; he looked tired and disheveled as if he’d been up all night, a likely scenario given the circumstances. She sat in the chair next to his desk as he looked pessimistically at her over his glasses. “So what have you got for me?”

  His demeanor made Jenny want to go home, but at this point she was committed. “I believe I know who Morgan Caldwell’s killer was, although I don’t know his name.”

  The man typed as Jenny spoke. “Who do you believe it was?”

  Jenny opened her purse and pulled out the picture, unfolding it in front of the detective. “This man. I painted his face.”

  When the detective looked at the paper, Jenny thought she saw a brief glimpse of recognition in his eyes. However, he simply regarded her with a skeptical expression and asked, “Is this a joke?”

  That was not the reaction Jenny had expected. “No, sir. It’s not a joke.”

  “And what makes you think this man is the killer?”

  Jenny looked down at her lap and shamefully admitted, “I’m a psychic, and I saw it in a vision.”

  “You know what I think happened?” the detective asked, leaning forward on his elbows
. “I think this guy promised he’d call you in the morning, and then he didn’t. And now you’re trying to get back at him. That’s what I think.”

  “No, I swear…”

  “Now you listen to me. We’ve got a real investigation going on here. We have a killer on our hands, in case you haven’t noticed. We don’t have time to be entertaining peoples’ personal vendettas or their silly little fantasies that they can chit chat with the dead. Now I suggest you take your little picture and get out of here before I charge you with interfering with a police investigation.”

  Jenny opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. Instead she folded her picture back up and placed it in her purse, wordlessly getting up from the chair and leaving the station. She wasn’t sure whether to feel anger, shame or frustration, but she definitely brimmed with emotion as she climbed into her car.

  Before calling Zack to confess her failure, Jenny dialed Susan, the only person who would fully understand her situation. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Susan, it’s Jenny.” She started her car and pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Well hello, Jenny. What’s up?”

  Jenny let out a sigh. “Do you remember what you went through before you met Bill?” Bill Abernathy had been the first cop to take Susan’s psychic ability seriously.

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yeah, I’m going through it now. On the Morgan Caldwell case.”

  “Really?” Susan asked. “Morgan Caldwell? Going straight for the high profile, huh?”

  “I didn’t choose it, believe me,” Jenny confessed. “Morgan did. She gave me a very clear image of the killer’s face, but nobody in a position to do anything about it will believe me. In fact, I painted a picture of him—a very good likeness, I might add—and brought it to the police department. The cop there actually got mad at me. I’m not exactly sure who this guy is, but he must be somebody important.”