Carved in Stone

by Julia Shupe

  Mr. Harlow turned his gaze on me. His eyes were rimmed red, his jaw tight as a drum. The hope and fear in his eyes was daunting. His gaze was an outright plea. Innocent people always had that look. I should know. I immediately dismissed him as a suspect.

  Breaking free of his stare, I sat at the edge of a chair and peered at the others. One of Angela’s sisters was dabbing wet cheeks. She was wearing an ivory sweat suit, the word Pink embroidered on the front in cursive letters. She’d shucked off her shoes and pulled her stocking feet beneath her. On the other side of her father was a much younger girl, gripping a mug of steaming tea.

  Leaning forward, I pitched my voice low. “When was the last time you saw her?” I’d directed the question to Angela’s father, and when he didn’t give me an answer, I glanced at Jacob. “I’m sorry if I’m asking the same questions, Mr. Harlow, but in cases like this, every detail is important. Details, though tedious, bear repeating. It’s important. Trust me. Please go over it again.”

  Mr. Harlow raised his hands to his face. “I get it,” he said weakly. “And no, I don’t mind.” With a sigh, he started his story again. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much too it. “I haven’t seen Angela since late last night. I work nights at Shadetree shipping, on Fruitville Road, and when I got home from work, I started cooking our breakfast. Angela’s alarm started beeping at seven-thirty, but she didn’t open her door. She didn’t come downstairs. When the alarm kept buzzing, I went into her room, and noticed she hadn’t slept in her bed. She never came home, detective. Her bed is proof of that. She never makes her bed. I do. I just stood there, staring at the bed, dumbfounded. For a moment, I considered that she might have left early, but…” He swallowed. “She didn’t. That was just wishful thinking. Because a few minutes later, the principal’s office called the house.” He dropped his head into his hands. “It was then that I knew what had happened.”

  “What, Mr. Harlow? What did you think had happened?”

  His voice wavered when he answered. “She’s been taken. That’s it, plain and simple. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense.”

  “Taken?” Gil leaned forward in his chair. “By whom? Why do you think she’s been taken? What information caused you to make such a leap? Couldn’t your daughter have run away? Maybe she’s rebelling. She’s a teenaged girl.”

  “No. That’s not it. That couldn’t be it.” This from the girl in the Pink monogrammed sweat suit. “She didn’t show up to Body Pump last night. And Angela never misses Body Pump. Plus, she wouldn’t do that to her dad. She wouldn’t scare him like that.”

  “Body Pump?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Body Pump Class.”

  What the hell was Body Pump Class? It had been quite a while since I’d last graced a gym. My job itself was a workout. It was the only one I’d ever needed. Besides, workouts didn’t fit into my busy routine. What would Scott think if I started working out? He’d accuse me of being a bad mother. That’s what. He could dance around the actual words, but in truth, it all boiled down to that. A gym membership? Perish the thought! Heaven forbid I do something for myself. Imagine the leverage that would give him.

  “It’s a weight class down at Sundown Fitness, and she hasn’t skipped it for a month. She wouldn’t.” The girl shook her head solemnly. “We’ve been challenging ourselves. We’ve been trying to get healthy. She was supposed to meet me there, but she didn’t show up. We’re supposed to be taking that class three times a week. We promised each other we wouldn’t skip. I’m telling you: something’s wrong. She’d never bail on me like that.”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “I’m confused. What did you do when she didn’t show up to class? Wouldn’t the two of you have driven home together? Why didn’t you report this last night?”

  The girls look confused before Jacob stepped in. “Janet isn’t Angela’s sister, Vanessa. She’s her friend.

  “Her best friend.”

  “Her best friend. So when she didn’t show up,” Jacob asked, “didn’t you text her?”

  Janet rolled her eyes at the stupidity of adults. “Of course I texted her, but like I said before: I didn’t think anything was wrong.”

  “But you did think something was wrong. You just said that.”

  “But I didn’t think anything was wrong at first.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Cuz she texted me back.”

  I caught Gil’s eye. “What time did that happen?” he asked, a pen and paper clasped in his hand. “What time was the class? When did she text you back?”

  The girl began wringing her hands. “When she didn’t make the 6:30 class, I decided to stay and take it without her. She must have gotten back to me just after seven o’clock, but I didn’t check my phone till almost eight.”

  “The phone,” Jacob said. “May I see it?”

  The sparkly pink object she handed Jacob no longer resembled a phone. Jacob took it from her hands like it was a stick of plutonium. After scanning the texts, he lifted his head. “So our time line begins at 6:58 PM. That’s when you received the text message.” He let his gaze linger on each of us. “That’s the last time any of you heard from her. Am I right?”

  “Wrong,” Janet said with a frown. “When I first got that message, I didn’t think anything of it. It was only later that I realized the problem.”

  “What was the problem?”

  She crossed her arms. “Angela didn’t send that text. That’s the problem. She wasn’t the one who wrote it.” Getting up from her chair, she walked around the table, and hovered over Jacob’s left shoulder. “Look.” she pointed out. “No pink geranium.”

  “No what?” Gil asked.

  She straightened. “No pink geranium. Angela’s signature flower is a pink geranium. She signs all of her text messages with it, at the bottom. It’s an emoticon. See?” She lifted the Pepto-Bismol-looking phone. “Look at all of her messages. There’s a pink geranium after every single one, except for the one last night. It’s not her.”

  “Her signature flower?” Gil mouthed the words to me. Pursing my lips, I gave a tight nod, then thanked the heavens I’d birthed a son.

  “Maybe she was just in a hurry,” Jacob reasoned. “Maybe she didn’t have time to send it.”

  “It’s not her,” Janet insisted. “I’m telling you. It’s not. And it’s not just the flower. Look at the words.” She made mocking air quotes with her fingers. “‘Sorry I can’t make it tonight. I’m not feeling well. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Who texts like that anymore? Who takes the time to write all those words?” Janet started typing furiously. “If it were Angela, she would have written this.” After a millisecond, she held up the phone for inspection. “See?” I squinted, and Gil leaned forward. “This is what she would have said. She would have typed this.”

  I read the words aloud to the room. “Can’t cum 2nite. Not well. CU 2morrow.”

  An image of a pink flower ended the string of jibberish, but Janet was probably right: teenagers were nothing if not conscious of being cool, and it was no longer cool to text proper grammatical sentences.

  “Maybe she met someone else,” Gil said. “Someone instead of you, like a boyfriend or something. Has she mentioned a new guy recently?”

  Janet peeked at Mr. Harlow before answering then crossed the room and sat down. “Angela had sworn off men,” she said quietly. “After Greg broke up with her, she decided to take a break.”

  “Greg?” I prompted. “When did they break up?”

  “A year ago,” Janet answered, dropping her head. “Greg broke her heart. Angela couldn’t get past it.”

  Mr. Harlow cleared his throat. “It was actually a year and a half ago. Angela took the breakup hard.” Sam Harlow clasped his younger daughter’s hand. “I lost my wife two years ago, February, and the combined loss was too much for Angela. That’s what the Body Pump classes were for. After she and Greg broke up, she struggled with depression and an eating disorder. She had finally started eating again, but was adamant abo
ut maintaining her workouts. The Body Pump classes were a compromise. If I let her take the classes, she promised me she’d eat.”

  “Was she seeing a therapist?” Jacob asked.

  He nodded. “For about six months. And she started getting better. She was finally putting on weight.”

  Jacob set his hands on the table. “I think we’ve got what we need, Mr. Harlow: a time line, names, places, routines. It’s a good place to start, but we’ll definitely need more. We’ll need to see her room, her car, her personal effects, her laptop computer.” He turned to Janet. “And I’ll need you to leave that cell phone with us.” She started to object, but Jacob was firm. “We’ll make a quick copy then give it right back. It won’t take long, Miss…”

  “Stein.”

  “Miss Stein. It won’t take long. I promise. We’ll pull the metadata, your text messages, and outgoing calls.” Janet pursed her lips, but begrudgingly handed it over. “You can sign the consent form before you leave the station.” Folding his hands, Jacob stared at each of them. “What I’m about to say next goes for all of you: I need you to follow my next instructions carefully. Stay close to home in case she calls. And remember: she’s only been gone for a day.” He turned to Angela’s father. “Sometimes, Sam, when people are depressed, they do things that seem ‘out of character’ for them. I’m still not convinced this isn’t something like that. We can’t be sure Angela didn’t run away. I’m not ready to rule that out.” Mr. Harlow opened his mouth to object. “I know. It’s difficult to imagine, and it’s unlikely for this particular family dynamic, but grief can affect people in ways we don’t understand. For better or worse, it can change who we are. Go home. Stay there. And try to stay calm. The best thing you can do right now is let us do our jobs. I’d like to send over a forensics team—this evening, if you don’t mind, and after that—”

  “Detective,” Sam Harlow interrupted, suddenly looking pained. “You need to understand: Angela wouldn’t do this. This isn’t just ‘out of character’ for her; it’s abnormal. It’s something she just wouldn’t do. Since we lost Elizabeth—Angela’s mother—we’ve become a very tight-knit family. Not that we weren’t before,” he added. “But you know what I mean. You said it yourself. Grief can do strange things to people. And for me, it brought me closer to my girls. Though we respect each other’s boundaries, we keep each other in the loop at all times.” For a moment he stopped, and then took a ragged breath. “Someone took my little girl, Agent. I’m absolutely sure of it. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

  Gil opened a file in his lap and lifted two black and white photos from inside. “Do any of you recognize either of these men?” First, he pointed to a young Carlton Tubbs, and then, to a age-progressed image of his face. “Look closely, carefully. Have you ever seen these men?”

  The three shook their heads in unison.

  “That’s your suspect,” Sam whispered. “That’s the guy who you think’s taking all of those women. Dear God.” His eyes immediately filled with tears. “You think he’s taken my Angela, don’t you? You think a serial killer has my daughter.”

  Beside him, Janet let loose a faint cry.

  “He’s a suspect,” Jacob lied. “Not the suspect. And we’re not sure of anything yet.” Taking a softer tone, he added, “Most missing persons cases turn out to be nothing at all. In most cases, the subject returns home in a day or two. Don’t let your imagination take you hostage. Try to keep your head. With these kinds of cases, we have to consider every angle. We’d be remiss if we didn’t show you these photos, Mr. Harlow, but the scenario you described isn’t likely. We’ll be starting our investigation at Oceantide Perks. We already know it has video surveillance. After that, we’ll be concentrating on Sundown Fitness. And you have my word, Mr. Harlow. Know this: we will make this case a top priority.”

  My leg bounced as I watched Jacob console a broken man. This wasn’t a normal missing person’s case. He knew it. I knew it. And I was fairly certain Mr. Harlow knew it too. It had barely been twenty-four hours since Angela first went missing. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t get a second glance. But these weren’t normal circumstances. A serial killer was besieging Sarasota, taking women and holding them hostage, torturing them, and then burying them in shallow graves.

  I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Angela’s time line certainly seemed to fit. Amanda Reed was the last girl buried at Cowpen Slough, and according to the ME, that was six weeks ago. If the CPD Killer took someone after Amanda Reed, and if women typically live one month in his dungeon, he’d likely taken another by now.

  Which meant, of course, that another had died.

  Chapter 33

  It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon. Where had the day gone, and what had we accomplished? We’d done our best to assuage Sam Harlow’s fears, while simultaneously gathering important data for our file, but I wasn’t sure either endeavor had been successful. Angela’s father was a ball of emotions, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was innocent. People, I had learned, could be full of nasty surprises. Some were masterful at hiding their true intentions from the world, and others at hiding them from themselves. There were many wolves among the sheep. Some were just harder to spot than others.

  Jacob had scheduled an impromptu meeting with the principal of Flushing High School, and we’d just pulled up, more than twenty minutes late. I let my gaze follow the clean lines of the building. Jennifer Hall had been a senior at this school. This was the place where she had cultivated friendships, broken young boys’ hearts, become a track star, and an excellent student. Had he seen her here? Had he watched her excel? Had he stalked these grounds from the shadows of the trees? How had she caught his attention in the first place? What kind of prey did he hunt?

  I had no answers for any of these questions, but I heard Jacob’s door slam shut and scrambled out of my seat. Gil, to save time, had gone to Oceantide Perks, to obtain copies of their video surveillance, and I, for one, was eager to review it—though I wondered if it would yield us any clues. This guy, Tubbs—or whoever he was—was smart. He always seemed to be one step ahead of the game. Would he frequent establishments with cameras mounted in the corners of the room? My pessimistic side didn’t think so. He was much too clever for that.

  I didn’t expect much from the school principal either, but Jacob had called ahead asked him to prepare, and the man had promised us lists of students, faculty, and maintenance staff, everyone connected to Jennifer Hall. Her immediate teachers would be interviewed and evaluated, and every detail of their whereabouts logged, which would later be cross-referenced with the employees at Pain-Free Dentistry. We were hoping to find an intersection of paths. We needed a fresh perspective on this. We were getting nowhere fast. Actually, we were running out of time, and we knew it. We’d gotten what little we could from the Halls, but it was nothing I considered helpful. Kids these days told their parents very little. I could only hope it was different for the teachers.

  “What are you thinking about?” Jacob asked me, his long legs matching my stride.

  I cast my gaze across the rain-glistened lawn. I needed to regain my focus. My thoughts would nest on the case for a moment, then flutter to Scott, to Danny, and then to Linda. We were crossing the campus to the school’s front door. The last of the storm clouds was sweeping across the Sarasota sky, carried west by the Gulf Stream winds. The afternoon was peaceful and the campus was lush, and despite our urgency, my mind wandered. My thoughts were nomadic and circular. Mr. Harlow’s despair—reminiscent of my own when my mother was taken—had struck an emotional cord within me. I knew his heartache would intensify with time. First came the disbelief. Next came the anger. After that, the desperate need to understand the “hows” and “whys”. It was human nature to ask these questions, to dig to the roots of weeds and pull them out. People have a desperate need to bring sense to senseless deaths. They need closure, and peace, for all the loose ends to be tied into knots. It’s the way w
e cope, they way we tidy our minds. I liken the human brain to a filing cabinet, to a place where impressions and images are stored. But when something doesn’t fit, it can drive a person mad. Those are the thoughts that become a poisonous fog. They rot and fester, or whip someone into a kinetic kind of frenzy. But that frenzy, I knew, could be a strange sort of high, which was sometimes better than the soul-crushing truth. In this case, the soul-crushing truth was devastating: if Carlton Tubbs had taken Angela Harlow, it was likely none of us would ever see her again.

  “I’m thinking about Sam Harlow,” I said. “About the victims, and about how our perp might be choosing them. Why did he choose Angela Harlow instead of Janet Stein? Both attended the Body Pump Class. And why Jennifer Hall instead of someone else? What made her stick out? What’s the defining characteristic?”

  “If I could answer that question, I could solve this case.”

  “I just can’t stop thinking about all those girls. We’re hamsters in a wheel, Jake. We’re getting nowhere. We’ve got nothing tangible, no way to connect them. And,” I said glumly. “He’s taken another. Another is sitting in his private dungeon, suffering. I can’t image what she’s thinking, or feeling. I can’t image the depth of that fear.”

  “This is your first serial case,” he said, and when I opened my mouth to object, he set two fingers on my wrist. “I didn’t say you were new to the game, but this is your first serial case. And I know what you’re thinking: the Serpent—I know. This is different. The Serpent wasn’t a normal serial case. David Beecher wasn’t even a serial killer yet. He was a baby back then. He was just getting started.” He touched the small of my back and I shivered. “Lighten up, Ness. We’ll figure this out. You’re being morbid. It isn’t like you.”

  “How would you know what I’m like anymore?”

  “Touché,” he replied, a frown passing across his face. “But seriously, it’ll all come together. You’ll see. A person can’t kill women for decades and not leave a trail. It’s impossible. We just have to find it.” Hip-checking me, he gave me a wink. “Lighten up. I’m serious. We’ll find this freak. Don’t think about the fear. It doesn’t serve you. Fear and frustration fog the brain. And,” he added, “They can make you constipated.”