Before Evil

by Alex Kava

  “Her father might have sensed something was wrong. Maybe he saw a vehicle parked in front. Whatever he did see, it concerned him enough to send Katie down the cellar while he checked it out.”

  “You think he interrupted the killer?”

  “Or the killer saw him when he was finished and on his way out of the trailer. Her father made a run for the river.”

  “And he shot him before he got to his boat.”

  Cunningham nodded.

  “Here’s the odd part.” He pushed his plate to the side then leaned his elbows on the table. “Neither of the victims in the trailer was shot. They were both stabbed. It looked and smelled like a slaughterhouse in there, because the killer turned the heat up full blast. It looks disorganized, like he didn’t bring anything with him. We think he may have used a kitchen knife. He even used electrical cord to tie them up, so he didn’t think to bring rope or flex-ties. And yet, he was carrying a gun.”

  “Inside the trailer was personal,” she said. “Outside he was just taking care of business.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “So where was Katie if she wasn’t in the cellar?” Gwen asked.

  “She had to be in the backyard. Maybe behind the trees.”

  “Do you think she saw the killer?”

  He pushed up his glasses, sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I think it’s possible,” he said.

  “But he didn’t see her.”

  “No. She wouldn’t be alive if he had seen her.”

  “If he didn’t see Katie then he has no reason to believe she exists. So why have the deputies outside her room?” she asked.

  “Because there’s no way I’ll be able to keep it a secret for very long that she does exist.”

  23

  Maggie could smell ashes, something burning. No, the fire was already out. It wasn’t smoke she smelled but singed hair and burnt flesh. She searched but couldn’t see through the fog. Where was the smell coming from?

  Then she saw it.

  Another boat was floating on the river. She kept her eyes fixed on the boat while she pointed at it.

  “Row up a little closer,” she told Cunningham without looking back at him.

  He didn’t say a word, but obeyed.

  Closer. Just a little bit closer.

  The fog grew thick. Now she wasn’t sure if it was fog. Or was the air filled with ashes?

  Suddenly the boat appeared right in front of them. Too late to stop. Their rowboat crashed into it. Only it wasn’t another boat.

  It was a casket.

  Smooth, dark wood, polished with brass rails and soft, tufted fabric peeking over the edges. The lid was gone but Maggie hesitated to look inside. Her stomach felt sick again. She was shivering from the cold, damp air. She could hardly breathe without sucking in the thick ashes.

  She didn’t want to look. She felt like she was twelve years old again. She already knew what she would find inside. It was the same every time, and she didn’t want to see her father lying there in a crisply pressed brown suit that she’d never seen him wear before.

  She couldn’t bear to see the side of his face where the mortician had painted over his burned flesh in an attempt to salvage what skin remained. She remembered the crinkle of plastic under his sleeve when she touched him. She remembered how his hair was combed all wrong. She had reached up to brush it off his forehead and snapped her hand back when she saw the blisters and the Frankenstein scar that the flap of hair had been hiding.

  “I told you not to touch him,” her mother scolded her.

  But how could she not touch her father?

  And now this casket was floating here in the river. It couldn’t be her father’s. That was ridiculous.

  Maggie stood up in the rowboat. She braced herself and leaned over the edge of the casket to see inside.

  Empty.

  “It’s empty,” she told Cunningham, relieved and able to breathe again.

  Then she turned to look at him. But Cunningham was gone. Her father sat in his place. He smiled at her, dressed in the brown suit with his plastic-wrapped hands gripping the oars.

  Maggie jolted back so suddenly that her feet slipped. She fell backwards over the side of the boat.

  Falling with arms flailing. Nothing to grab onto.

  Falling and falling.

  Where was the water?

  She jerked awake. Sat up and searched the dark surroundings. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her breathing came in gasps. Sweat drenched her body. In the shadows she searched for the boat, searched for her father.

  Then finally she recognized her own small living room. She heard the familiar hum of the refrigerator behind her. Smelled the air freshener Greg insisted they use. She eased herself back down on their worn, but comfortable, sofa. The afghan she had covered herself with was in a tangled ball at her feet, and she pulled it up now that she was shivering.

  Her pulse still raced as she tried to calm her breathing as she tried to remember.

  She had gotten home late last night. All she had wanted to do was wash the smell of that trailer full of death off her body. She wanted the water and the steam to return some warmth deep inside her. She wanted the smell gone. After a hot shower she snuggled down on the sofa under the afghan, not wanting to wake Greg.

  Truth was, she didn’t want to talk to him about any of it last night. She was too exhausted. And he’d have questions, which he’d be sure to follow up with a lecture. She already knew he wouldn’t be happy that Cunningham had taken her to such a bloodbath for her first real crime scene.

  She was so tired and wanted to give in to the exhaustion. Closed her eyes. Tried to think about something other than the crime scene or the body hanging from the ceiling or Katie’s father bobbing just under the surface. But her dream hadn’t included any of those images. Instead, it had been her father, his casket. Her father replaced Cunningham in the boat.

  She needed to just shut off her mind. She could do that. She used to dream about her father inside his casket.

  Used to. It had been a while.

  Had Cunningham’s questions about him prompted the nightmare’s return?

  Or was it Katie?

  Maggie could relate to the girl’s loss. Earlier that feeling of vulnerability, of fear—all of it had been palpable.

  She kept her eyes closed. Concentrated on her breathing. If she tried hard enough she could conjure up images of good times with her father. Saturday afternoons watching college football. Or Sundays if there was a Packers game on.

  Her mother didn’t have the patience to learn the rules. She’d go shopping and leave the two of them in front of the TV. They’d have popcorn. Sometimes they’d order a pizza. If Maggie thought about it hard enough she could even smell the Italian sausage and Romano cheese. Her dad’s favorites became her favorites.

  She used to wear his old Packers jersey as a sleep shirt until Greg complained. She needed to find it. She no longer cared what Greg thought or said.

  That decision made, she started to fall asleep as she tried to remember where she might have packed it away. Like counting sheep, Maggie opened and closed drawers in her mind. She unfolded and folded, looking for the jersey. She knew it was here. Maybe at the back of the closet. There was no sense of panic. Instead, it became a quiet and lulling search. Comforted by its softness and the memory, even if it no longer smelled like her father.

  She had drifted off into a deep sleep until the banging of pots and pans woke her up. Behind the sofa in the kitchen she could hear a skillet pulled from the hanging rack. The refrigerator door opened and closed. A metal whisk click-clacked against a glass bowl. Fresh brewed coffee filled the air.

  Greg never made breakfast. He even picked up coffee on his way to work. But of course, he would make breakfast this morning. And she realized
she hadn’t avoided anything despite going to great lengths to not wake him last night.

  Instead, she had only made things worse. He was upset. She hadn’t avoided his lecture. She’d only just delayed it.

  24

  Stucky heard the whispers in the hospital hallways. He had gotten close enough to hear pieces of the conversations. No one seemed to notice a middle-aged, slightly overweight janitor with a mop. He was practically invisible. He’d even been inside the little girl’s room to empty the trashcans.

  In and out, just like that. No questions. Hardly a nod from her captor outside the door.

  From what Stucky had learned, the man in the river was the little girl’s father. Apparently he had tried to run away and Mr. Law Officer shot him in the back.

  Brilliant sense of justice.

  Interesting how this asshole had convincingly funneled his rage into his authoritarian job and no one had noticed. Or perhaps they noticed and didn’t care. The bully had found a safe haven.

  But this—this was another major screw up. Another amateur mistake.

  There were all kinds of ballistic tests they could do on that bullet once they pulled it out. The poor bastard couldn’t just throw away the gun. How would he explain to his superiors that he’d lost his service revolver?

  Or was that exactly what he had done? Perhaps he had another gun no one knew about. How easy would it be to borrow one from evidence? Or never report it when he made an arrest? If a police officer took an unregistered gun during a traffic stop would anyone complain?

  Whatever the explanation, he didn’t seem too alarmed. He certainly didn’t look frantic.

  Stucky heard the elevator doors then the click-clack of high heels and a soft tap of flat-soled shoes behind him. Without looking he simply moved his bucket out of the way and off to the side.

  “Thank you,” he heard the woman say.

  He nodded and kept his head down, so that she’d think he was being humble and polite when he was actually admiring her legs. The pretty redhead returned—actually strawberry blond and that was a better description because it sounded as yummy as she looked in that short black dress. She was with the FBI guy from the trailer, the oldest of the three FBI men. Lucky bastard and he hardly noticed the way she looked at him.

  That’s when Stucky realized he had forgotten all about Susan Fuller.

  25

  Devil’s Backbone State Forest

  It had rained off and on since Susan left the shed. Three times she had followed overgrown paths battling the branches and shrubs that poked and grabbed at her. And three times those overgrown paths led right back to the shed.

  Without the sun, she had no idea what direction she was going. The pine trees rose high above and were cluttered so close together she could barely see the sky—or rather the clouds. The pain in her knee was overwhelming. Even the sturdy branch she found to use as a makeshift crutch didn’t alleviate the pain. She had bitten her lower lip until it bled. Her arms and face were scratched from twigs. She’d given up swatting at the mosquitoes. Her shoes were mud-caked and heavy. Her clothes, soaking wet, stuck to her skin. At times she heard her teeth chattering from the chill that had settled deep inside her.

  When darkness started taking over the woods Susan planted herself close to the shed. She discovered she was afraid to leave the familiarity of this area. And the longer she remained exposed to the rain and the chill and the bugs, the more than she wanted to return to the shed. Still, she hid up in the trees where she could see the front door, the only door. He hadn’t come back. In her circular journey she hadn’t seen anything that looked like a road. If he did come back, Susan was certain of one thing. He’d have to return on foot.

  Sometime during the night—numb from being wet and cold and now hungry—Susan had sneaked back down to the shed. The soiled mattress and the scratchy blanket would feel luxurious. She left the door open at first, comforted by the flickering of lightning. If he did come back she wanted to see him in the doorframe before he could see her in the dark corners. She even moved the mattress to the other side of the room where it would be in shadows.

  By accident, she discovered one of the grocery bags in the corner of the shed. Whether he left it by accident or on purpose, it didn’t matter. She scavenged through it like a wild animal, sucking down a bottle of water and gobbling one of the bruised apples all the way to the core. Inside the bag—now torn from her overenthusiasm—was a smorgasbord of damaged fruit and packages flattened from her body being thrown on top of them. She ripped open a box of smashed crackers and began shoveling the crumbs into her mouth.

  Thunder rumbled closer, so close she could feel the vibration. The rain was coming down hard. From the vent in the roof she could feel the mist.

  Surely, he wouldn’t come back in weather like this.

  She tried to convince herself as she curled up on the mattress and pulled the scratchy blanket up over her aching, wet body. She didn’t mind that it smelled of body odor. Someone else’s body odor. How many others had he brought here?

  Stop it! Don’t think about it.

  She needed to rest. She needed to warm her body and heal the aches and pains.

  Just for a few hours.

  That’s all she wanted. She’d stay here through the storm, until the rain stopped. Maybe until it started to get light. Then she’d be strong enough to head back out. She’d find a road. Find someone. Yes, she’d be stronger after a rest. After some more food. And a little more water.

  But right now, she needed to rest. She was exhausted, and her head felt too heavy to move from the mattress. She started thinking about the little pastry shop where she worked. In her mind she mixed flour and powdered sugar, eggs and milk. She rolled out dough and pressed out pieces until she could almost smell the scent of freshly baked cookies and scones and turnovers.

  And somehow Susan Fuller managed to lull herself to sleep.

  26

  Quantico

  When Maggie arrived at the forensic lab she realized she shouldn’t be so relieved to be at work instead of at home. But she felt like she had dodged a bullet this morning. She had made it through breakfast and managed to switch the conversation quickly from her first real crime scene to Greg’s upcoming trial. His law firm was taking on a mega lawsuit and Greg would be the lead attorney.

  When they met in college he couldn’t wait to get into a courtroom. They used to laugh about how Maggie would hunt down the criminals, and Greg would put them behind bars. Somewhere along the way he decided to take on the bad guys in corporations instead of killers and rapists.

  Actually she was glad he enjoyed what he was doing. She only wished he felt the same way about what she was doing. These days, too many of their conversations turned into yelling matches. If he wasn’t lecturing her, he was trying to convince her to come work for his law firm as an investigator.

  “Seriously, Maggie, wouldn’t you rather be digging through computer files than Dumpster-diving for body parts?”

  Maybe something was wrong with her, but the thought of spending hours going over cell phone records and credit card statements, hunting for indiscretions of a scandalous nature seemed mind numbing to her. And yes, as crazy as it sounded and as nauseated as she felt back at that double-wide trailer, she would not trade places.

  Thankfully, this morning Greg was more anxious to share his good news than he was about sharing hers. And she almost got out the door when she saw him notice her hands. She had treated the cuts and scratches but she knew they still looked a bit raw.

  “What happened to your wedding ring?”

  Of course, that’s what he would notice. Not that her hands looked like she had fought off a rabid raccoon, but that one finger was missing a ring. She knew he would be angry. Maybe less so, if the reason was something he already expected.

  “You know, you were right. I should have been more care
ful.”

  “Oh Maggie, for God’s sake! I told you a dozen times.”

  “I know. At least a dozen.”

  “What am I always telling you? Take it off when you’re washing dishes or you’ll lose it down the sink.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t more careful.”

  On the drive to Quantico she wondered why she wasn’t more upset about losing the ring. Yes, she was sorry she hadn’t been more careful. But why wasn’t she upset? In some ways she wondered if losing the ring was just one more piece of their relationship that had slipped away.

  She walked into the lab and saw that Keith Ganza had already started without her. Pieces of evidence were lined up on the counter—at least those that didn’t require refrigeration.

  He nodded at her as she gloved up. Yesterday had been her first visit to a real crime scene, but she had been working with Ganza on evidence and trace for several years. The law enforcement departments that sent in crime scene photographs for her to analyze also included bags of evidence. The two of them would work the puzzle pieces.

  She valued his expertise even if he looked more like an aging drummer for a rock band than a forensic scientist. Tall and lanky, he slouched a bit and appeared out of sorts in the long white—more gray than white—lab coat. Underneath, he had on jeans and a black T-shirt emblazed with a white skull and crossbones graphic. He kept his stringy hair tied in a ponytail. Sometimes he wore a just soul patch. Lately he extended that to a full goatee.

  “Heard you won a trip to your very first rodeo yesterday.”

  Immediately, she felt the heat flush her face, but Ganza remained bent over a slide he was preparing. She shouldn’t have been surprised that the news would already be making the rounds.

  “So you heard about me flipping my cookies.”

  Now he looked up, wire-rimmed eyeglasses almost at the tip of his nose.

  “No, I didn’t hear about that.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Turner just said what I just said—that you won a trip to your very first rodeo.”