by J. M. LeDuc
Sin hung up the phone and stared into the eyes of Fletcher and Garcia. “What are you two smiling about?”
“The question you asked in the diner,” Fletcher said, “I think you just answered it for all of us.”
Sin opened her mouth to respond when she heard Ashley’s voice booming in the hall.
“I don’t understand why we were dragged back here. We answered all the FBI’s questions and more. Unless they have a reason to hold us, I’m heading back to Delray.”
Sin met the three of them in the hall. “Good morning, Counselor.” She eyed the Stoklers. “Ashley, George, thank you for indulging me one more time.” She stepped aside. “Please come in. Can I get you a cup of coffee or glass of water?”
“No need,” Ashley said, “I don’t plan on being here that long.” She stood, arms crossed, tapping her foot while staring at Sin with laser-like intensity. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“If that’s the way you want to play it, fine,” Sin responded. “First let me introduce you to Agents Fletcher and Garcia.”
Everyone nodded.
“Before I begin, everything I tell you is confidential. If the media gets hold of any of this information, I will know where it came from. Is that understood?”
“You have my assurance that we will hold all information in confidence,” Anthony Freitas answered.
“We assisted in a mission last night to take down drug traffickers. The mission took place at Water’s Edge Academy.”
The words Water’s Edge seemed to spark Ashley’s attention, causing her to take a seat. Until this point, George had sat quietly.
“The Academy?” he said.
Sin stared at him. “Why do you sound so surprised. That was what the other agents went to ask you about, wasn’t it?”
He nodded. “They asked if I had any information about the school since its closure. I told them I hadn’t been back since I graduated. I didn’t know anything.”
“While we were there,” Sin continued, “I checked out the building that held the mortuary school. I found plenty of evidence of Joel’s recent presence.” She flashed a weak smile at George. “Thanks to your information we are one step closer to finding him.”
Ashley was quick with a retort. “Good for you. Again, what does this have to do with us?”
“Someone left me a note,” Sin said. “I want to know if the handwriting looks familiar.”
She slid the envelope over to Ashley. Her expression told Sin that the answer to her question was yes. Ashley didn’t reach for it, she just stared.
“Is that the same stationery that was found with the victims?” Her attitude was gone.
“It is. Why?”
“May I?” Ashley said. Her eyes moved from the envelope to George and back to the envelope.
“Please,” Sin said, pushing it a bit closer.
Ashley’s hand shook as she reached for it. She ran her hands over the raised parchment, remaining silent. Finally, taking a deep breath, she pulled the letter from the envelope and read.
Immediately she dropped it back on the table as if it was burning her fingers. “If you’re asking if this is Joel’s handwriting, it’s not.” Her voice cracked with every word.
“What does it say?” George asked.
“Nothing you need to see,” Ashley responded, staring at the letter.
George quickly grabbed the letter before Ashley could stop him. “George, no!”
The color drained from George’s face. “It can’t be,” he mumbled. “If you’ll please excuse me. I need to leave.”
Sin was about to say something when he darted from the room.
“Let him go,” Ashley said. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. “I can answer any questions you have.”
“I’ll go check on George and make sure he’s all right,” their attorney stated.
Sin stared at Ashley, waiting for her to explain what just happened.
“I was telling you the truth when I said that the writing isn’t Joel’s.” She looked up at Sin with a tear-streaked face. “That’s Miranda’s stationery…and her handwriting.”
Sin leaned forward, placing a gentle hand on top of Ashley’s trembling one. “How can you be so sure?”
“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life,” Ashley responded. “That’s how she corresponded with us when we were in trouble—when she requested we attend one of her art classes.”
“Holy shit,” Fletcher said. “Are you telling us that she’s still alive?”
“Now hold on, everyone,” Sin said. She stood and paced. Turning back to Ashley, she said, “You and your brother both said that Joel was very close to Miranda. Couldn’t he have the same paper? Couldn’t he have even copied her handwriting? Doesn’t that make more sense than Miranda’s resurrection?”
“Anything is possible. I’m only telling you what I see.”
Sin sat back down and changed her thought process. “How did Miranda die?”
“She had been drinking, like she did most nights,” Ashley said, “and when she ran out of booze, she grabbed her keys and left. The next thing we knew a police officer was at our door telling us that she had died in a car accident.
“Later, the officer told me that she was driving erratically and when he went to pull her over, instead of slowing down to stop, she sped up. He said she was driving north over the causeway, and lost control. Her car crashed through the guard rails and into the water.”
“What about her body?” Sin asked. “Was it recovered?” Sin already knew the answers to her questions from having read Miranda Stokler’s file, but she wanted to hear it from Ashley.
Ashley stared blankly at the letter and shook her head. “It was a sixty foot drop to the water. They searched, but…” Her hand shook as she reached for a cigarette. “They said that it was impossible for anyone to have survived that crash.”
Anthony Freitas came back in the room, winded. “I found George down the street,” he panted. “He was a mess. He wouldn’t come back with me and said that he needed to go home. Considering his condition, I grabbed him a cab and let him go.”
Sin wasn’t happy, but she understood.
“Ashley, one more question,” Sin said. “Was it the paper and handwriting that freaked out your brother?”
“Maybe. Partly. But I think it was the message more than anything.”
“What about the message? It was only two words.”
Ashley took a deep breath. “You’re next are the exact words she would say when we were about to be punished.”
CHAPTER 46
Before Ashley and her attorney left, Sin had her promise to check on her brother and report back.
Checking her messages, Sin found one from Charlie. His message was brief. “We need to talk, but you need to be at my place when we do. Text me as soon as you get there.”
On the way down, Sin sent a text, “Why the Keys?” She wondered why they couldn’t just use the laptop he’d given her.
His reply was direct. “I didn’t give away all my secrets.”
Two hours later, they were sitting in the library of the Johnson place, texting Charlie.
Sin pulled up the Vincent Ash files as well as those on Miranda Stokler/Joanna Ash in anticipation of Charlie’s call. Fletcher and Garcia were engrossed in the files when Charlie’s landline rang.
“What took you so long,” Sin quipped.
“It’s great to hear your voice also, Sinclair.”
Hearing Charlie say her name had a soothing effect. Her posture relaxed, and she slouched in the overstuffed chair. “I miss you too, old man. When are you coming home?”
“Soon,” Charlie answered. “Who’s with you?”
“Fletch and Garcia.”
“Put the phone on speaker. You all need to hear what I have to say.”
Sin pressed the speaker button and placed the headset on the cradle. “We’re all ears.”
“Fletch and Fidel, it’s nice to know that the three of you ha
ve reunited.”
“What exactly are you thinking, Charlie?” Fletcher said.
“Before we get too deep into it, Sin, I need you to pull up a file. It’s heavily encrypted so you’ll need my help to access it.”
Sin sat behind the desk and placed her hands on the keyboard. “Ready when you are.”
Charlie directed her through a series of files, all with long alphanumeric access codes. “When you open the next, you’ll get a warning telling you to shut down or all of the data on the computer will be erased in thirty seconds.”
“Great, as if I’m not nervous enough using your equipment,” Sin said.
“Just do as I say and there won’t be any problems.”
“How long is the code?”
She heard a small chuckle come through the speaker. “This one shouldn’t be an issue.”
Charlie gave her the access code and when she tapped the enter key, a large skull and crossbones filled the screen with the warning; a clock began to count down from thirty.
“I’m in Charlie, what’s the code?” Sin’s voice was harried.
“Calm down, Sinclair. You have time. I want you to type in your full name, no caps or spaces but with the apostrophe in O’Malley.”
Sin methodically typed sinclairrachealo’malley as Charlie directed. “Okay, now what? We have thirteen seconds and counting.”
“Just tap the enter key.”
Sin did and the clock immediately stopped. The skull and crossbones disappeared, and a greeting came up on screen. “Welcome, Sinclair.”
“How did you know I would need these files?”
“I didn’t. This was made a few years ago, and it’s updated automatically.”
Sin was confused, but Charlie was always good at that. The monitor filled with hundreds of files.
“What is all this, Charlie?”
“Most of the files you’re looking at contain the most sensitive information I have uncovered in all my years of digging and untangling conspiracies. But there is one case that I haven’t been able to untangle.”
“The Vincent Ash case,” Sin said, already knowing.
Charlie continued his instructions. “Type ash case notes into the search bar.”
Sin did and one lone folder appeared: Vincent Ash.
“Open it,” Charlie said. “You’ll find a list of dates. The dates of all my notes on the case. Not the official notes, mind you, my notes. The ones no one wanted to listen to back when this case was active. Scroll down to the final date, May 27, 1971.”
“That was a long time ago, Charlie. Why do you remember that date so well?”
“Some things you just don’t forget.”
Sin understood what Charlie meant. She snuck a peek at Fletcher and could almost see his mind at work. I’d bet my life he remembers the date his wife died…the day his world ended.
“Minimize everything on the monitor, sit back, and listen,” Charlie said. “I need your undivided attention. You can read the notes later.”
Sin did as she was asked, and the three of them waited for Charlie’s next words.
They heard Charlie clear his throat, and then he began speaking. “I’ve seen a lot of death and violence in my years, but—”
“This was your first case.” Sin finished his sentence for him. She suddenly connected the dates with Charlie’s career. “You would have been a rookie in 1968.”
“Yeah. I was stationed in the Des Moines, Iowa field office. You never forget your first.”
A clear picture of a young girl lying dead in the mountains of Nicaragua flashed through Sin’s mind. “No, you don’t,” she whispered.
“Even if it wasn’t my first case, I don’t think I could ever forget the Vincent Ash case. The Midwest Slasher was not someone you ever forget.”
“Slasher?” Sin said. “I thought his moniker was the Midwest Mauler. Didn’t he strangle all of his victims?”
“That was how he killed them, but what was kept out of the official files was what he did to them before he killed them.”
“He cut them?”
“More than that,” Charlie said. “These are my private files, Sin. I took meticulous notes. Every nuance was written down. I also took pictures. I have photos taken of the girls before their capture and photos of them when their bodies were found.”
Charlie had Sin maximize the folder on the monitor and choose a file named, Slasher photos. “The first picture you’re looking at is of Melissa Linton,” Charlie narrated, “a twenty-one-year-old college senior from the University of Iowa.”
When Sin pulled up the photo, she leaned in. “She looks a lot like the Painted Beauty Killer victims.”
Charlie ignored the comment and continued, “The next photo you’ll see is of her body when she was found.”
The next picture that filled the screen startled Sin. She tried to exhale, but the bile that filled her throat made it difficult. She reached for a glass of water and sipped. “Dear Jesus,” was her only comment.
“Even Jesus couldn’t help these girls,” Charlie said.
Sin could hear Charlie take a deep breath. “Tell me what you see.”
“You know damn well what I see, Charlie.” She looked over at Fletcher and Garcia, “what we all see.”
“I’m serious, Sinclair. I have never been able to look at any of these pictures with an objective eye. When I look at these girls, all I see is the look on their parents’ faces when they identified the bodies of their children. I still hear their parents’ cries in my sleep. I need you, all of you, to tell me what you see.”
Sin’s mouth felt as if a sudden sandstorm had blown in. It was so dry she had trouble forming words. In all the years she had known Charlie, she had never heard him sound flustered. She paused long enough to take another sip of water. “Okay,” she said. “I see a girl who has been cut. Not just cut. It looks more like she was slashed in a violent rage. If I hadn’t seen the before photo, I’d have had a hard time identifying her. The killer also cut a message across her chest. The word Slut is carved into her skin.”
“What does all that tell you?”
Fletcher entered the conversation. “It tells us that Vincent Ash was a sadistic bastard that liked to inflict maximum pain before choking the life from his victims. But what does any of this have to do with our case?”
“Stay with me, Fletch, for a few more minutes, and I promise to bring this full circle,” Charlie answered. “Sinclair, have you had time to review the Ash files?”
“Of course, why?”
“Vincent Ash was not a big man.”
“I know,” she replied, calling up the information in her brain. “Slight build, five-seven, around one hundred thirty pounds.”
Charlie continued, “And he was a professor of poetry in Iowa and Illinois. He was a good looking young man and had a personality that attracted the ladies.”
Sin nodded at her team. “He had a weakness for sleeping with his female students.”
Charlie continued through the speaker. “Exactly. And from the file, you know that he slept with all of the victims. You have to remember that this was the late sixties/early seventies which were all about sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
“Vincent was our first suspect. He was also the first one we checked off our list. Killing these girls wasn’t who he was. Even if he did kill them in a drug induced, lover’s quarrel, he never would have cut them like what you’re looking at.” There was a brief silence. “At least that’s what we thought. With every new development in that case, the evidence kept pointing back to him. And it all came to a head on May 27, 1971.
“Vincent moved a lot. His positions at the colleges were always temporary. Somehow, we lost him until we got an anonymous phone call on the morning of the twenty-seventh.”
“Charlie,” Sin interrupted, “I thought the file stated that fingerprints found at the scene of the last victim were what led the Bureau to Vincent?”
“That’s what they put in the official file,” Charlie a
nswered. “You have to remember the time. There was a lot of turmoil and competition between the FBI and the CIA. The Bureau thought it sounded better if we solved the case without outside involvement.
“Anyway, back to May 27. The caller said that they had seen a newscast that showed Vincent as a person of interest and that he had been spotted in downtown Davenport, Iowa. He was living in an old, four-story mansion that had been converted into apartments. The house was located near a couple of community colleges and one major university, so it made sense. My partner, Raul Sanchez, and I, responded to the call.”
“I noticed from the official files that Mayor Sanchez was your partner,” Sin spoke. “Are you the one who requested my involvement in this case?”
“No, that was Raul. He was a fairly new agent, like myself. A smart, intuitive agent. The Ash case was not his first, but close to it. After it was over, he asked for a transfer to Miami and left the FBI shortly after.”
“Getting back to the case,” Sin said.
“Yes,” Charlie said. “You mentioned that one of Ash’s vics showed a resemblance to the Painted Beauty case.”
“The before pictures match in every way,” Sin said, “but the after photos are all wrong.”
“How’s that?” Charlie asked.
“Besides the obvious mutilation, there is no ‘artistic flair’ when it comes to Vincent Ash’s killings,” Sin said. “No staging. No makeup.”
“And what does that tell you?”
Sin swept her hair from her eyes and raised an eyebrow. “Are you being the master or grasshopper? I’m getting confused.”
“Stop being a wiseass and answer me.”
“It tells me a few things. If we were looking at the same perp, which we’re not because yours is dead, we’d be looking at progression in the MO. Over forty years have passed since he struck the first time, so it would make sense that he had learned a few new things. If we are dealing with a new perp, which makes more sense, then we are dealing with someone who has been under the influence of two people—your original killer and someone else.”
