by Cat Connor
Four
Into The Night
My phone rang at seven in the morning. Welcome to Tuesday. A warm arm snaked around me and pulled me back under the covers. I listened to the caller tell me there was a new crime scene, possibly linked to yesterday’s.
“Send the address to my cell, I’ll be there soon,” I said and hung up. I dropped the phone over the side of the bed and curled into Mitch. “I have to go.”
“Soon,” he said, kissing my neck as his fingers caressed my thigh. Warmth trailed slowly upward across my hip and onto my stomach. For a split second, I saw our future: bright and happy. Everything I’d denied myself thus far in life.
“Hey,” he said. My eyes opened as his thumb brushed moisture off my cheek. “What’s wrong?”
I smiled and brushed away another rogue tear. “I just …” My voice crumbled. I tried again. “I just never knew I could love anyone as much as I love you.”
He leaned over, his warm lips touched mine. No words. His kiss grew firmer and deeper. I wrapped my arms around his neck. Safe. Loved. Protected.
Mitch placed a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me and a fork in my hand. Orange juice, coffee and eggs. Breakfast.
The radio announced traffic building up on the Beltway. I pushed the eggs around my plate. Mitch talked about the day ahead of him. Meetings, contracts, tenders, and all the things he was working to resolve before our wedding and honeymoon.
“You’re quiet,” he commented, refilling his coffee. “And slow. You’re usually on your second cup by now.” He replaced the pot and ate more eggs.
I pushed another forkful of eggs around my plate.
Mitch looked up from his breakfast. “Not into eggs today? I could make you some toast?”
“I’m not very hungry.”
Everything stopped. I saw my words flashing neon pink, orange, and green, as they hung over the table. Mitch lowered his fork, letting it rest on the edge of his plate. I watched him thinking. The words slipped from the still air and splashed into my OJ and coffee.
He smiled.
Life began again.
“I’m not surprised. You’re working too hard.” His gentle tone tugged at my heart. “Eat a little?”
I forked scrambled eggs into my mouth and willed them down my throat. Counting in my head to distract myself and not touching the juice or coffee. That really would be pushing my luck. In less than twenty-four hours coffee had gone from being my drink of choice to a roasted bean concoction from the devil himself.
Mitch touched my hand. “What you said this morning – was the nicest thing you’ve ever said.”
I grinned. “Yeah, I kinda got that from your, ah, reaction.”
“And she’s back ...” he said with a laugh.
“And she’s gotta catch a killer.” I stood up. Breakfast settled.
“Take care out there today,” Mitch said, hugging me tight.
I wished I could stay wrapped in his embrace or take his hug with me. Tears threatened.
What on earth?
Five
Burning Bridges
Another bathroom and a new, yet familiar crime scene; neither of those things ideal. My mind skipped over the lifeless body of the latest victim. My eyes scanned the room. The great start to the day overshadowed by death. Stepping back to the doorway, I made a call.
“We’ve got another crime scene,” I said as Kurt answered his phone.
“Same?”
“Yes.”
“Send me the address and I’m on my way.”
I texted the address to Sam, Lee and Kurt. Meanwhile, Serena Sorensen needed someone to talk to. Dropping my pack on the floor, I crouched down by her head.
“I’m sorry this how your life ended, Serena.” She said nothing. “I’ll need your help to find the person who did this.”
Serena didn’t make a miraculous recovery to aid me in my quest. Her cloudy eyes stared at the shower wall and gave nothing away. I scrunched lower until our heads were level and looked around the room. A small piece of white poking out from the woven cane of the laundry hamper alerted me to a possible note. I stood up, with care. Not feeling a hundred percent I knew that standing up too fast wouldn’t help. The thought of having to explain how I contaminated a crime scene was less than appealing. From my pack, I took an evidence bag and pair of disposable forceps. With care, I extracted the piece of folded paper from the weave.
Same writing as on the previous note at the last crime scene. ‘It wasn’t easy.’
Bagging the note, I hoped that meant she fought back. A quick visual inspection of her arms didn’t show defensive wounds; two fingernails were broken and jagged. No water on that hand. Chances are DNA might be under the broken fingernails. Using a larger paper evidence bag, I slipped it over her hand, securing it at the wrist with paper tape.
“Serena, I’m going to leave you for a little bit,” I said. “Try not to dislodge that bag, yeah?”
Probably a good thing she didn’t respond.
A police officer waited by the front door of the apartment. “Ma’am?”
“Secure the scene, officer. No one but FBI goes inside the building.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll be back.” I gave him a quick nod of encouragement and left him standing guard.
Waiting in my car for Delta, my phone rang. Mitch’s photograph beamed at me from the screen.
“Hey,” I said, catching sight of my reflection in the rearview mirror. Pale. I plastered a smile on my face hoping it would make a difference.
“Thought I’d see how it’s going?”
“It’s going. Just waiting on the team. Same Unsub struck again.”
“You okay?”
“Yep. Trying not to let this ruin my day.”
“Certainly started well …”
“Hold that thought … it might end well too.”
“I like the sound of that.” Mitch’s voice sounded a little husky all of a sudden. “Call me later?”
“Will do. Gotta go, M, I can see Kurt walking toward me.”
“‘Bye.”
My door opened.
“Conway.”
“Henderson.”
Kurt smiled. “Good morning so far?”
“Crime scene, what do you think?”
“I think the answer is yes, someone has a sparkle in their eye.”
“Yeah, yeah. Shall we?”
Kurt stepped aside, letting me alight from the vehicle, then gave the door a firm shove.
“This way,” I said, leading the way into the house. “Let’s do this.”
I stood in the bathroom doorway of death number two or possibly three; I considered the Winchester death to be the first. I flipped open my notebook. “Serena Sorensen, twenty-seven, federal employee,” I said.
“Again?”
“Yeah. Serena worked for Department of Treasury in admin. The lock on the back door was forced.”
Kurt inspected the scene while I waited by the door. “Did you cover her hand?”
“Yes. Hoping we can get some DNA from under some broken nails.”
He nodded.
Soft deep voices alerted me to Lee and Sam in the hallway not far from me, waiting. “Grim” best described the collective mood. I watched Kurt as he crouched down by Serena’s body. A few minutes later, he straightened up and joined me.
“Any poetry links with this one?”
“Not that I’ve found,” I replied, pleased that the book hadn’t surfaced twice. “I did find a square of paper, just like the previous crime scene.”
“And it said?”
“‘It wasn’t easy.’”
“I see shower gel in this bathroom. She has several types. Do you think anything is missing?”
“Not that I can tell.”
Kurt summarized, “So, we have two women, both federal employees, both killed in the shower possibly while showering and in both cases, the water left running. Violent attacks, multiple stab wounds. It looks like death
by exsanguination Fatal wounds to Jane Daughtry’s wrists. Serena’s fatal wound on her inner thigh.”
Sounded right to me. Except there were three deaths, counting Violet in Winchester.
“Sam, Lee, door to door, please. Utilize the cops out front. Someone had to have seen something,” I said.
Lee and Sam left.
“Kurt, the woman, Violet, from Winchester was a federal employee. Park Ranger.”
“Three federal employees then …” Kurt said more to himself than to me. “That could be part of the MO.” He paused and eyed Serena again. “Or is federal employee a signature thing for him, can he only get his rocks off by killing people in government jobs?”
Could be. That felt like a broad brush stroke. A signature tended to be things not necessary for the murder but which the killer needed for whatever reason.
“The stab wounds,” I said. “A form of mutilation – we’ve viewed it twice now. Signature?”
“Yes.”
“The notes, signature?”
“Yes.”
“The missing sleeping tablets in the first case here and in Winchester, signature?”
“Any missing here?” Kurt replied.
“Not that I found.”
“Then MO. This one may have fought back but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t partially incapacitated by some sort of drug.”
“If he needs to subdue the women before mutilating and killing, couldn’t that be signature?” I asked resting my shoulder against the doorframe. Playing devil’s advocate was fun.
“Depends on why he needs to do that. If he doesn’t have the strength to subdue the women, then it’s probably MO and that might evolve as his experience or confidence grows. If he can’t kill unless they’re semi-conscious, because it’s some kind of ritualistic thing, then signature.”
More to think about.
“They’re all naked, all in a shower, all mutilated, all died from exsanguination, and every scene had a note on white memo paper,” I said.
“Why is there a two-month window between Winchester and Fairfax?” Kurt asked. “Where was he?”
My eyebrows rose.
Kurt grinned and with a shake of his head he said, “Yes, I said he.”
“Let’s keep gender out of it for now. We can’t afford to narrow our focus that much.” I smiled. “As for where the Unsub was … Jail? Hospital? Out of state working, or on vacation?”
It wasn’t much but we had something to work with. Someone left Winchester after Violet’s murder and eventually arrived in Fairfax after a brief interlude somewhere undisclosed. I opted to start with jails. Or rather I opted to let Sandra start with jails. I am all about sharing the love.
My phone rang. The vibration rattled the bones in my hand as I pulled the phone from my pocket. The name on the screen made little sense. Mike Fisher. I showed Kurt before answering.
He grinned as an eyebrow rose. “Better find out what he wants.”
I frowned at the screen and answered the call. “Mike, always a pleasure getting a call from you.”
“Glad you feel that way. Lunch?”
Now that shouldn’t be possible. He’s supposed to be in Los Angeles, filming a new television series, not out here on the East Coast.
“You’re in town?”
“This woman I know is getting married in two weeks. Thought I’d fly in early. Try to change her mind?”
“Sure you did. Lee know you’re here?”
“Not yet. I’m still at the airport. If you can’t make lunch, have you got time for a coffee this afternoon?”
Doubtful.
“I’ll call if I can get away, no promises, though.”
“You sound stressed. Take five minutes, it’ll do you good,” Mike said.
I chewed my lip and kept my knee-jerk response in check. “We’ve got a tough case. It’s time sensitive.”
“Dinner, you and me?” He paused for a microsecond. “There is spaghetti Bolognese in our future.” I heard amusement ring in his voice.
Not in my future, buddy.
“You, me, Mitch, Lee and Tara,” I counter-offered.
“Way too many people at that table …”
“Smooth, Mike. How’s the widower thing working out for you?”
“Wearing off.”
“Sorry. Wish I could help.”
Kurt attracted my attention and pointed to a man standing in the shadow of a large tree on the curb. I peered out the window. Offenders sometimes like to watch the mayhem they cause.
“Well, that was five minutes. Gotta go, Mike.” I hung up and followed Kurt. He went left. I went right. Neither of us looked at the man, doing our best to ignore him until we’d skirted around the area and could approach without him seeing us until we wanted him to.
About ten feet out, he turned toward me. Startled he broke into a run, in the opposite direction.
Damn!
Without warning, a bass rhythm pounded in my ears. I raced after him. He ducked to the left. My fingers caught the fabric of his shirt, tearing it as he pulled away. Lunging at him, I managed to grab an arm. He stumbled and tried to shake me off. I stuck a foot in front of him and pushed. Thud. He hit the grass verge. A hand shot around my ankle. I tripped, landing heavily on my left side, my lungs emptying in a rush. Unsuccessfully trying to inhale, I kicked the hand off my ankle. My boot connected with something hard. The guy yelped.
Must’ve been his head?
“FBI,” I groaned, dragging my badge from my belt, twisting and shoving the badge in his face. He tried to scrabble away but couldn’t. The bass came back; this time, I heard words and recognized the song: Ace of Bass “I Saw the Sign.” Not a song I wanted stuck in my head.
A shadow fell. I looked up at Kurt. Unimpressed by the man’s behavior, Kurt cuffed him, sat him up, and then helped me to my feet.
The song played on, lyrics bounced across the road and up onto a car roof.
What did it mean? What sign?
“Conway?”
“Yep,” I replied, still trying to catch my breath. “Winded.”
“Take it easy for a minute.” Kurt turned his attention to the male. “Name?”
“She kicked me!”
“Nice name,” Kurt quipped. “She kicked me who?”
A smile edged across my lips. Unlike Kurt to play with people; that was more my thing.
“That’s not my name,” the guy said.
“She kicked me. That’s not my name,” Kurt repeated with a straight face. “Your parents must’ve hated you.”
“I thought FBI had no sense of humor?” the guy complained. “Just my luck to meet a comedian.”
“Yeah, you’re lucky,” I said. “Why are you outside this apartment?”
“My ex-girlfriend lives there.”
I looked at Kurt. The guy seemed familiar.
Why?
Kurt took a step back. By the look on his face, I figured he thought so too.
The song came back, louder, more insistent. Serena was happy living without him. Whatever she saw made her leave him. I didn’t need much more than that to determine he was bad news and his presence outside her home now wasn’t without meaning.
“You are?” Kurt asked.
“Matt Collins.”
Imagine? What were the odds of him being the same man I wanted to talk to about Jane Daughtry? Coincidence? I preferred to think of it as fate.
“You’re coming with us, Matt,” I said. “Helping us with our investigation.”
“What happened in there?” He inclined his head to the crime scene tape and police lights near Serena’s home.
“Nothing good,” I replied. “Walk toward that black Suburban ahead of you.”
If he was the same Matt who’d been dating Jane, he now had two dead ex-girlfriends. I’m not a fan of coincidences.
“I haven’t done anything,” he said, trying to shake Kurt’s hand off his arm.
“Never met anyone who did,” Kurt replied, opening the back door of his car. �
�Mind your head.”
“I’ll go back to the scene and make sure we have a forensic team on the way,” I said.
I saw Sam and Lee approaching from across the street.
“Keep Lee with you, Conway. Sam can come with me,” Kurt replied, closing the door firmly on the complaining passenger.
“Yo,” Sam said, rounding the back of the Suburban. “Transporting?”
“Yes. Matt Collins,” Kurt replied. “You’re with me.”
“All righty. Let’s get Mr. Collins back to the office.” Sam peered through the tinted windows. “He don’t look happy.”
“Anyone ever look happy in the back of our cars?” I replied. “Apart from us, that is.”
Sam shook his head. “Nope. It’s disheartening how many people don’t like us, Chicky Babe.”
“Take it easy, you two. Lee and I will be along soon.”
Kurt stepped next to Lee, facing away from me so I couldn’t see or hear him when he spoke.
Intentional. Unnecessary. Over-protective crap.
With a wave, Kurt climbed into the driver’s seat and Sam in the back with Collins.
Lee and I walked back to the house.
“You get hurt?” Lee asked.
Yep, definitely over-protective crap.
“I got winded that’s all.”
“Kurt said,” he replied, lifting the tape that surrounded the area near the front door.
“Get anything from the neighbors?” I ducked under crime scene tape.
“Nothing unexpected. Quiet, not a party girl. Worked a lot. No strange cars in the area that anyone noticed.”
Not helpful. There had to be something ‒ Collins definitely ‒ but I had a feeling there was something else.
I stood in the bathroom doorway and closed my eyes. Lee standing behind me was comforting as only the presence of Delta A can be. A video played in my head. Serena had the starring role.
Swirling images encompassed the entire room, swallowing me until Serena and I were one. Using her eyes, I searched the room for signs of the Unsub. Nothing. Serena stepped into the shower and stood under the hot water. Her eyesight blurred, eyelids became heavy. She reached for the shower control and missed. The door opened. Her head turned toward the rush of air. Steam raced from the shower. For a moment, he was there.
