[Anthology] Abby & Sei Thriller Starter

by Ty Hutchinson

  “I’m not sure I’m getting the point you’re trying to make, except that a strong person did this.”

  “What I’m saying is yes, you need a lot of force, but not a lot of strength. If you, Agent Kane, took an axe, wound up and swung as hard as you could, you would probably do the same damage we see here. The key is knowing you need to wind up.”

  I smiled at Green, realizing what he was trying to tell me in his puzzling way. “This isn’t the first time our killer has swung an axe into a person’s chest.”

  “It’s the only way he would know to wind up. A first-timer wouldn’t think to.”

  Green’s observation told me one thing: I had a possible serial killer on my hands and my one-off homicide just blew up into a big deal. I thanked Green for his time, and he promised to update me on his findings but said he’d already told me “the juicy stuff, no pun intended.”

  Before I exited the autopsy room, he stopped me. “Excuse me, Agent Kane.”

  I looked back. “Yes?”

  “Would you mind having dinner with me?”

  With a question like that, I sort of expected him to stutter, or look away, or fidget with his pockets or pen, but he didn’t. He just stood there, totally relaxed with his eyes holding still on me.

  For the second time in one day, Dr. Timothy Green had caught me off guard. He was a nice person but not the type of guy I normally found myself attracted to. Not that my track record with men is anything to brag about. I had to admit, though, his boldness impressed me. “Would you accept a cup of coffee instead?”

  If I had disappointed him with that answer, he certainly didn’t show it. He only smiled and nodded before saying he would be in touch.

  8

  While I had made decent progress that first day, I hadn’t anticipated that my victim might be connected to others. I had a lot of work ahead of me but I knew the drill. Boy, did I know the drill.

  Initially, I had thought about calling it a day and heading home but decided otherwise after my visit with Green and dropping the laptop off at the bureau. It was nearing four in the afternoon. If I hurried, I could get a jump on the Golden Gate Bridge traffic. With sunset nearing eight, I would still have plenty of daylight to survey the crime scene.

  One of the park rangers at Muir Woods had left a detailed map of where the body was found, but I wasn’t in the mood to play find-the-location. I put a call in to the ranger, and he said he would meet me at the park office near the entrance.

  Forty minutes later, I was removing a duffel bag from the trunk of my vehicle when I heard a voice call out. “Agent!”

  My head turned to the left, and a bearded man in a uniform about thirty yards away waved at me. He wore the standard, gray shirt and dark green pants with that all too familiar Smokey hat. He also had a smile that projected a good distance. I waved back and headed toward him. He waited with both hands on his hips.

  “Thanks for meeting me.” I extended my hand. “I’m Agent Abby Kane.”

  “It’s not a problem,” he said, giving me two prompt shakes. “I’m happy to help. I’m Elijah Finch, but you can call me Finch. Everyone around here does.”

  “How did you know I was the agent?”

  “You’re the only one wearing a suit. I have to say,” he motioned to my feet with his eyes, “I’m a little concerned about your lack of proper foot gear.”

  I held up my duffel bag. “I always keep a change of clothes in the trunk in case something like this happens. If you have a place I could change quickly, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing. You can change at the office and leave your belongings there.”

  Finch let a couple of eager tourists slip by us on their way to see the tallest living things on earth before moving forward.

  “How late is the park open?” I asked as I followed.

  “Well, daylight savings just went into effect, so we’re open until eight every night.”

  “Do people normally stay so late?”

  “Oh, yeah. The park is very popular. I’d say right now there are about a hundred people hiking along the main trail and thirty or so still on the outer trails.” He looked down at his watch. “They have three hours to get out, or they’re spending the night.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  “Camping and picnicking in the park aren’t allowed, but there are trails that go in and out of the park and lead to a few camping areas. Have you been here before?”

  “I have, actually. I’ve brought my kids a few times, but we’ve always visited in the morning and only for a few hours.”

  “That’s very typical for most visitors.”

  He led me into the park’s office and pointed out the bathroom. There, I made my quick change into a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, cross trainers, and a hoodie.

  “Be sure you use the bathroom while you’re in there,” I heard him call through the door. “It’ll take us about forty-five minutes to get to the location.”

  Finch wasn’t kidding when he said forty-five minutes. The hike wasn’t hard, and it was scenic; I can’t say I didn’t enjoy looking at the tall redwoods. The woods smelled fresh and seemed untouched by mankind. I almost forgot why I was there. We approached a sign stating the trail was unsafe and hikers needed to turn around.

  “What’s wrong with the trail?” I asked.

  “Nothing. We were instructed to keep people from trampling through or near the crime scene during the investigation. We didn’t think draping the area with yellow tape was a great idea. An unsafe trail works better as a deterrent; people won’t think there’s something exciting to look at and sneak in for a peek. The location is up ahead and off to the left.”

  We walked another thirty feet, and then Finch led me off the trail and around a large boulder. We traversed the uneven ground for about fifteen feet before we spilled into an open area. It was beautiful, perfect for a private picnic.

  “I take it this isn’t part of the trail.”

  “It’s not. She must have noticed it during her hike.”

  “I wonder how many people know about this spot.”

  “Not many. There is virtually no wear and tear on the ground.”

  How on earth did Agent House stumble upon this place? I knew at some point I would need to hear the story straight from her. I scanned for anything unusual as I walked the area. I stopped when I came upon the area where the victim had died. The leaves on the ground were still stained with her blood. I noticed a few boot prints. There was no mention of them in House’s report, so I figured trampling law enforcement had left them.

  I turned to Finch. “Did you see the body while it was still here?”

  “I did.”

  “What were your first impressions?”

  “That it was a terrible thing to have happened to that young lady. Agent, I’ll be honest with you.” He shoved both hands into the back pockets of his trousers. “Dead bodies aren’t something we find around here. Even with the extensive hiking, the trails aren’t difficult and there are no dangers of falling off a cliff. The most we’ll encounter is a twisted ankle. I could splint the heck out of a limb better than I could solve a crime.”

  I was beginning to understand the finger pointing, at least from the perspective of the Park Service.

  “Do you think it’d be easy to kill someone on one of these back trails?”

  “On a few of the trails, yes. But most of them have a good amount of traffic.”

  “What about this one, Fern Creek?”

  “It’s one of the many trails that can lead a person into and out of the park. Right where we’re standing is the edge of the park boundary. We have a couple of backdoors into the park. The Lost Trail is one of them. Keep following Fern Creek and you’ll run smack into that trail. She could have found her way in via that route. But to answer your question, yes, someone could have easily done this without being seen. This is a popular trail, but some days, there are only a handful of people on it, even on a weekend.”

  “So someone mi
ght have passed Piper on the trail.”

  “Yes. I imagine if the news stations picked up the story, you might find someone. I think most people would remember a girl like that if they passed her by.”

  I had to agree with Finch. Six-foot tall model types may not stand out on the sidewalks of New York, but they would on a hiking trail in Marin County. “Piper was a tourist on her first visit to Muir Woods. Seems a little fishy that she somehow found herself in this spot.”

  “You think someone forced her to this location?”

  “It’s possible, but they’d first have to make their way along the busy main trail. I don’t see how you can force someone through that crowd.”

  Finch nodded.

  Piper most likely came to the park with someone she had met in San Francisco. I knew she had left the hostel alone but it was apparent that she had hiked with someone. I didn’t believe Piper was the victim of a random crime. She went to the park with someone else that day, and that person was opportunistic.

  9

  A couple of days had passed since the Carlsons had read the riddle. Jerry was eager to get on with their next task, but for that to happen, he needed to figure out what the message meant. Vicki wasn’t as good as Jerry when it came to deciphering the clues, and he suspected part of her lack of ability had to do with the fact that she didn’t want to rush things and leave the city.

  Jerry sat quietly in the hotel room while drinking coffee. He and his wife had spent the day shopping and were back for an afternoon nap. She was the only one occupying the bed. Jerry chose, instead, to take advantage of the quiet time and the fresh pot of brew he had ordered from room service to think through the riddle.

  Good fortune comes in many forms. Find the right one for your next clue. Jerry repeated that thought while he sipped the hot and black. Every riddle they had received thus far had something to do with San Francisco, particularly the city’s Chinatown neighborhood. No other instructions were included; figuring stuff out was part of the process. They knew each riddle would lead them to a specific location where they would receive the answer to unlock their next task.

  Fortune… fortune…

  His body jerked and his eyes widened. It’s so obvious: fortune cookies. Every Chinese restaurant serves them after a meal, but which one?

  Jerry moved over to the desk and searched for popular Chinese restaurants on his laptop. He scanned the results, hoping something from the name or location would jump out at him, but nothing did. There has to be a better way of narrowing it down.

  He revised his search for restaurants only in the Chinatown area but it didn’t help much. Most of the same restaurants appeared. He tried adding “delivery” to his search, but nothing about the results told him anything useful still. Frustrated, Jerry looked at his wife; his sleeping beauty lay calmly under the covers, unaware of his irritation at not having a sounding board to help.

  Maybe I’m coming at this wrong, he continued with his thoughts. Many forms… Flavors? There are different flavors. I’ve seen chocolate-covered ones. Still, the problem was who and where. And that’s when he realized it wasn’t about all the places that served fortune cookies.

  On a hunch, he typed “manufacturing fortune cookies in San Francisco” into the search field. Bingo! The Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory popped up, and it was in Chinatown. That’s it! It’s gotta be. Jerry mentally patted himself on the back for his cleverness before draining the last of the coffee from his cup. It was time to wake his lovely up.

  As soon as he had figured out their destination, Jerry had dragged Vicki out of bed and into Chinatown. This time, he also wore his disguise: a pair of glasses and a mustache. It was important to Jerry that he and Vicki conceal their identities when meeting with their contact. She said he was being paranoid, that it didn’t matter, but he insisted. As they walked north on Grant Street, she monitored the map on her phone. “We need to make a left on Jackson, and then it’s the next left after that.”

  They continued to the intersection, turned left and walked half a block uphill where they found themselves looking at an alley. “Is it on a street? I would think a place of business would have their front door facing the street.”

  Vicki frowned at the phone. “Well, it says it’s the very next left. It doesn’t say if it’s a road or alley.”

  Jerry ignored the alleyway and told her to follow him as he continued up the hill to Stockton Avenue. He made a left and started looking for the Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory.

  “We passed it,” she blurted. “According to the map, it’s back where we were, in that alley.”

  “Let me see that phone,” he ordered. But to his surprise, the map clearly showed they had passed it.

  “I told you so.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes these maps have the wrong information and—”

  Vicki didn’t wait for her husband to finish his sentence. She turned around and marched back down the street. By then, Jerry had caught up. In the alley they passed a florist and a small fruit market, even a print shop.

  “See? There are businesses here.” They kept on walking until they reached the other end on Washington Street.

  “Well, I didn’t see any giant factory,” he said smugly. “Think about it; how could a factory fit in such a small area?”

  Again, Vicki ignored her husband and retraced her steps. This time, he didn’t follow. As far as he was concerned, she was wasting time. He pulled out his own phone with a plan to call the factory for directions, but before he could dial, he heard a big laugh coming from the alley.

  He looked up and saw his wife waving her hands over her head. “It’s right here. We walked right past it.”

  Can’t be. Jerry headed to where his wife stood, and sure enough, above a single glass door where one wouldn’t think to look, there hung a red and yellow sign that read “Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory.” The glass door was dirty and covered with smudges, which helped camouflage what was behind it. The nondescript entrance looked more like the backdoor to someone’s apartment than what Jerry had pictured in his head.

  Vicki pushed open the door, and the smell of baked vanilla and caramel flooded her nostrils. “Mmmm, it smells delicious.”

  The space was tiny, no larger than a long narrow apartment. Bags of fortune cookies for sale overflowed from the shelving near the entrance. Down the middle of the factory were three women sitting behind tables with metal contraptions that resembled waffle irons. They were busy making fortune cookies.

  Jerry leaned in toward his wife. “You mean to tell me these three women make all the fortune cookies?”

  “I guess,” she responded.

  A rope prevented the Carlsons from venturing any farther inside. Nearby, an old man sat in a chair and smiled at them. Next to him, in shaky handwriting, was a sign that asked visitors to pay fifty cents to take a picture. Vicki immediately opened her purse, fished out two quarters and turned them over to the old man. She then stood next to the closest woman making cookies and smiled. Jerry snapped a picture on his phone and on Vicki’s camera, for which the old man asked for another fee.

  Jerry started to grumble.

  “Just pay the man,” Vicki ordered. “It’s only fifty cents.”

  Jerry grabbed a bag of cookies, handed the man four dollars and fifty cents and then whispered, “Chasing Chinatown.”

  The old man nodded, stood up and walked to the back of the factory. A minute later he returned and handed Jerry a red fortune cookie. Jerry cracked it open and read the fortune before turning to his wife with a grin on his face. “We have our answer.”

  10

  The neighborhood I called home, North Beach, had the nickname “Little Italy” thanks to the large number of Italian immigrants who had settled there long ago. It’s still home to numerous Italian restaurants and delis, my favorite being Fanelli’s on Columbus Avenue near Washington Square. We lived a couple of blocks away from the square in an old Victorian on Pfeiffer Street. I liked the area. It was qui
et, and the neighbors were nice and respectful. It felt like home to me.

  I parked my Impala directly outside our house, like I always did. Before I made it to the front door, I could hear Lucy laughing inside. I looked at my watch: 8:00 p.m. She should be getting ready for bed.

  I opened the door and spotted my little one sitting on the stairs in her PJs.

  “Hi, Mommy,” she said as she waved.

  I brought my left wrist up and tapped at my watch. “Shouldn’t someone already be in bed?”

  “I was waiting for you to come home.”

  That’s all she needed to say to have me ditch the tough Mommy attitude. I put my purse down and climbed the stairs with my arms out to give her a long hug. “Mommy’s missed you. Have you been good?”

  “Yes,” she said with exaggerated nods.

  “Did you finish all your dinner?”

  More exaggerated nods.

  “Have you brushed your teeth yet?”

  That time she grinned and shook her head. “Nooooooooo.”

  I pointed to the top of the stairs. “Get moving.” I patted her behind. “Brush your teeth. I’ll come by later to tuck you into bed.”

  I watched her scramble up the stairs until she rounded the corner before I headed into the kitchen, where I knew I would find Po Po.

  “Oh, you home. Good. I made noodles for dinner. I warm some up for you.”

  My mother-in-law practically lived in the kitchen. Having her bedroom next door only encouraged it. I knew it was nearing her bedtime, so I told her not to worry. She had already changed into her nightwear. Maybe. I should really learn the difference between that blue dress and that blue nightgown.

  I usually try to get home by 5:30 p.m. On days I’m running late, which I try very hard not to do, I call and give her the heads up. Being late means I most likely missed out on walking the kids—well, Lucy anyway— home from school. On days I was able to meet them at school, Ryan took the opportunity to walk home with his friends. If work was hectic, I would text him, and he had the responsibility of walking his sister home before he could hang out with his friends. It would be that way until Lucy was eighteen.