by Mary Burton
GPS reactivated, he turned the car around, got back out on the main road, and this time allowed the GPS to take him around the block until he spotted the other side of Cox Road.
After a curve in the road, flashing blue lights signaled the collection of cop cars up ahead. He nosed his car in at the back of the line behind Shepard’s, shut the engine off, and got out.
He clipped his credentials to his waistband and strode toward the group of uniformed officers standing by a late-model Ford SUV that had slammed right into a collection of mature trees. The front end had taken a direct hit, totaling the car. Smoke and steam hissed from the engine, but there was no fire.
He squared his shoulders and headed toward a big burly man dressed in a brown-and-tan sheriff’s uniform. The officer was talking to Shepard and Jackson.
There was more salt than pepper in the sheriff’s hair. A paunch and deeply lined tanned skin placed him in his late sixties. Judging by the way the sheriff glared at the wrecked car, he was counting his days to retirement.
Shepard cleared her throat as she looked at Ramsey. “Glad you could join us.”
“Got turned around a bit,” he said with a slight grin.
“Ah.” She turned to the man beside her.
“Agent Ramsey, I’d like to introduce you to Sheriff Alan Jones.”
The sheriff’s scowl deepened as he took Ramsey’s hand.
The old man arched a brow in a way that was supposed to make Ramsey feel like a rookie fresh from the academy, an outsider, take your pick. Ramsey had seen it all.
“Agent Ramsey is working with TBI on another case,” Jackson said. “He’s here to offer his expertise.”
“Lucky for us,” Sheriff Jones said.
“Agent Jackson said something about a missing driver.” Shepard’s tone was crisp.
Sheriff Jones shook his head. “Correct. No sign of the driver. The minor has been transported to the hospital. The EMTs took the girl away about fifteen minutes ago. She suffered only minor cuts and bruises, but the EMTs wanted the doctors to do a full workup just in case.”
She glanced toward the mangled gray car. “How old is the girl? What’s her name?”
“She says her name is Elena Sanchez. Says she’s six but she looks younger.”
“Did she say who was driving the car?” Ramsey asked.
“She won’t say. We barely got her to tell us her name. She doesn’t seem to trust cops too much.”
He looked around at the cul-de-sac with the car jacked up on a two-foot-high stump covered in tall grass. The front section was molded around a big oak.
“Who called it in?” he asked.
“Neighbor closest to the crash,” Sheriff Jones said. “The woman heard a car screeching past and then a loud bang. She said they get a lot of traffic even though the neighborhood prevented the road being cut through to the other side. Mother with kids raised holy hell when the Department of Transportation started clearing trees because she didn’t want it to become a major shortcut to the interstate, which is blocks away.”
“This can’t be the first time this has happened,” Ramsey said.
Sheriff Jones nodded. “Neighbor said a half dozen drivers have tried to make it across in the last year alone. Forensic guys estimate the speed was at least forty miles per hour based on the damage done to the engine. Way I see it, the driver was distracted, complacent, and speeding. No surprise here.”
The other side of Cox Road led to the main highway. “Did anyone see the driver?” he asked.
“No.” Sheriff Jones flipped through a notebook. “The neighbor, Pam Piercy, said that by the time she reached the car, the driver was gone. The kid was crying so she shifted her attention to the child.”
Shepard removed a small notebook from her pocket, flipped to a clean page, and wrote down the name. “Which is her house?”
“The first on the right as you’re leaving. The street address is 2317.”
“Thanks. Mind if we have a look at the car?” Shepard asked.
“Be my guest.”
She crossed to the back of her SUV and fished out latex gloves. As she handed a set to him, he noted she kept the trunk of her car equipped with basic forensic equipment, MREs, flares, extra shoes, and rope.
Shepard walked past Ramsey, Jackson, and Sheriff Jones, her focus squarely on the vehicle. Her expression had shifted and sharpened with even more intensity. If the Key Killer case had been out of her wheelhouse, this one was not.
After looking inside the car’s driver’s side window, she circled around to the opposite side of the car. The airbags had deployed. The front passenger seat was covered in discarded fast-food wrappers, bags of half-eaten snacks, a few empty soda cans, and a few rumpled receipts.
A fine dusting of black powder on the steering wheel, door handles, and radio buttons told them the forensic team had started working the scene.
“Sheriff Jones, I see your guy has dusted for prints. Any luck?” Shepard asked.
“The steering wheel, dashboard, and door handles were wiped clean,” he said.
“What about the buttons on the side of the driver’s seat?” Shepard asked.
“Checked and also clean,” Sheriff Jones said.
He glanced back at the car seat. The harness was unhooked, done no doubt by Ms. Piercy or EMTs when the child was removed. Still, the driver would have handled the seat multiple times. “He should dust the sides of the car seat, as well as its underside.”
“I’m sure he did both,” the sheriff said.
“I don’t see powder on the car seat,” Shepard said. “Better check, Sheriff.”
“Will do.”
“Why not take the child?” Ramsey asked.
“Driver was injured and couldn’t carry the child,” Shepard theorized. “Maybe the girl was crying and making too much noise. Maybe the driver isn’t far from the scene now and is watching us. Or the driver is already at the hospital.”
“Hospital security is on notice to monitor incoming calls,” Sheriff Jones said. “We’ve also notified hospital staff to keep everyone other than immediate hospital staff away from the child.”
“Good,” Shepard said. “She’s alone, hurt, and frightened. She’s vulnerable to any kind of suggestion.”
Among all the clutter in the back seat were blankets, stuffed animals, and well-worn toys. In the car seat’s cup holder was a juice box with a straw. She touched the box, shaking it gently. It was still half-full and felt slightly cool to the touch.
“When was the crash called in?” she asked.
“Less than one hour ago,” Sheriff Jones said.
Shepard picked up a floppy stuffed dog covered in Goldfish crumbs. One of its eyes was missing, and the fur was worn off the ears. She brushed off the crumbs. “Sheriff, did your people find any signs of drugs in the vehicle?”
“A spent joint on the passenger-side floor,” he said.
“The driver was worried about the cops,” Ramsey said.
“Over a roach?” Shepard asked. “The driver was worried about something bigger than that. Sheriff, we’re out here because Agent Jackson said we needed to be. Time to tell us why we’re really here.”
“I heard you were a real charmer,” Sheriff Jones said. “What’s your nickname again? I forgot.”
“There are a few, but my favorite is Glinda, the Good Bitch.”
Jones sidestepped the comment and wrestled on a fresh pair of his own gloves and walked around to the driver’s seat. “We opened the trunk earlier, fearing someone might be inside. You never know. Once we determined what we had back here, we closed it right up.”
Tension rippled through Ramsey’s body as he braced. “Open it.”
Melina took a step back from the trunk and, out of habit, slid her hand to her weapon. She hated surprises.
The last time she had found a surprise in a car trunk, she was responding to a call from the Virginia State Police. A Staunton man had abducted his three children and was believed to be en route to Tennessee.
When she received word that the car had been spotted, she caught up to the deputies just as they pulled the man out of the vehicle. They then opened the trunk and discovered the three children, ages two, three, and four. All three girls were badly dehydrated and had to be rushed to the hospital. The youngest did not survive. To this day, she could still smell the combined stench of urine, vomit, and cheese crackers.
The latch popped and the wide trunk lid slowly opened. The large interior was crammed full of an assortment of junk just like the car’s interior. There were a couple of large black roller suitcases, a small red cooler, a few garbage bags, and what looked like a large jar underneath a quilted blanket. A strong chemical smell emanated from the trunk and was enough to make her raise her hand to her nose.
“It smells like formaldehyde,” she said.
“I noticed it as soon as I opened the lid.” Sheriff Jones nodded to his forensic tech and asked him to start snapping pictures. “Once I took a look under the blanket, I called TBI.”
The sheriff gingerly lifted the quilt soaked in the chemical solution. The jar lid was not screwed on tightly. Someone had taken the jar lid off and not replaced it properly. The sheriff carried the damp blanket to a tarp.
“As soon as the deputy got a peek in the trunk, he hustled the child away from the car and halted the investigation. I got a good long look before I called TBI.”
In the right corner of the trunk was a large old pickle jar with the label still attached to the front and back. The top lid was green, and the glass was clear. At first, she thought what she saw floating inside the jar was some kind of pickled vegetable.
The sheriff grabbed the jar and, turning his face away from the contents, held it up for Melina and Ramsey. The sunlight caught the jar and reflected off the dusty glass, forcing her to refocus. When she did, she realized why she was here, as well as the FBI.
“May I?” Ramsey reached out for the jar.
“Be my guest,” Sheriff Jones said.
Ramsey tilted the pickle jar back until the dusty glass caught evening light that illuminated the interior. The murky liquid made it difficult to identify what was floating in the jar until he leaned it forward and one of the objects settled on the glass.
It wasn’t filled with pickles. Floating inside were human fingers.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Jackson said.
“Sheriff, have you asked the child about the jar?” Melina asked.
“Not the kind of topic I want to bring up with a kid. That’ll be your job,” Sheriff Jones said.
“Got it.”
The digits appeared to be all ring fingers, and they floated as Ramsey moved the jar from side to side. Several were shriveled with a pale, ghostly gray color and appeared to be from different individuals. Only one had nail polish on it, and it looked relatively fresh.
“Six,” Ramsey said. “Six fingers in the jar.”
“Six females? Six males? Both?” Melina asked.
“The fingers are small and appear to be female, but DNA testing will confirm that,” Ramsey said.
“Are they trophies?” Jackson asked.
“That’s exactly what they are,” Ramsey said. “Some killers collect their victims’ jewelry, underwear, driver’s licenses, or shoes. This individual keeps fingers.”
Her breath trickled through her clenched teeth. She stepped back and looked at the car’s California plates. “Sheriff, have you run these?”
“Of course. The car was reported stolen sixteen days ago from San Diego, California. I’ve put a call in to the local San Diego police and have asked them to locate the owner.”
“We need to get the fingers to the medical examiner’s office and have them determine if there are any usable prints,” Ramsey said. “We might get a hit in AFIS.”
Identifying the victims was a vital first step, but her priority was finding the driver and talking to the child.
“What’s your impression, Agent Shepard?” Ramsey asked.
His deep baritone voice sounded professorial. She straightened, tightening her grip on the stuffed animal at her side. “At this stage, I don’t know what to think.”
“Come on, you have thoughts and impressions. I can see it in your expression. Any thoughts about the driver, the child?”
“The child didn’t lack for snacks. The food isn’t nutritious, but standard fare for children. Snacks keep a child quiet.”
“True. But I sense the driver has genuine affection for the child,” Ramsey countered.
When she’d been about six, she had been famous for her meltdowns. Her mother had quickly started carrying Goldfish crackers and juice boxes. Even to this day, her mother knew a handful of Goldfish made her happy.
“This driver abandoned the child,” she said. Something her mother had never done. “The driver values self-preservation over the welfare of the girl.”
“Assuming the driver knew about the pickle jar’s contents, he or she is familiar with violent behavior.”
“Cuts fingers off people, but is careful to keep the child fed.”
“Some violent offenders can care about family and friends and draw a line between their two worlds,” Ramsey said.
Yeah, it was called compartmentalization. Keep a firm line between light and dark. Some killers could manage it for decades. For others, a simple trigger shattered the illusion and was usually their downfall. “But even for the most hardened, those worlds often collide eventually.”
“Yes, they do.”
She hoped for Elena’s sake the wall had been firmly in place until the accident. “The driver’s sense of self-preservation trumps any of the snacks and toys. Cheap food is easy to come by. Freedom is not.”
“Did anyone see the driver run away after they heard the crash?” Jackson asked.
“No,” Sheriff Jones said. “We’ll check with the residents and see who has private security footage.”
“You might get lucky,” Ramsey said.
“I’ll put a couple of deputies on it,” Sheriff Jones said.
She stared at the jar of digits floating in the viscous liquid but discovered she had no words. Many of the victims murdered by serial killers were faceless, nameless women who worked in the sex trade. They were women who had left home a long time ago, and if they went missing, family rarely noticed, nor did they care.
“I want to get to the hospital and speak to Elena,” Melina said.
“I’ll follow,” Ramsey said.
“If we all go, she’s sure to clam up.” Melina looked at Ramsey and Jackson. “You both can be a little overwhelming.”
Ramsey and Jackson looked at each other.
“I can be charming,” Ramsey said.
“I have two kids of my own,” Jackson said.
“No,” Melina said. “I’ll talk to the girl.”
Jackson released his breath, seeming to concede to her on this. “I’ll escort the fingers to the medical examiner’s office.”
“I want to see the child,” Ramsey said. “She’s our only witness right now.”
“All right, but let me do the talking,” she said.
He attempted a smile as if to prove he could soften his image. “Done.”
“Don’t do that,” she said.
“What?”
“Don’t smile at the kid. It will terrify her. Just be quiet.”
“What’s wrong with my smile?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
“You’re the detective. You figure it out.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday, August 24, 6:00 p.m.
Melina lost sight of Ramsey as each drove toward the hospital, but she was not concerned. He was a big boy and perfectly capable of finding the right address.
His presence unsettled her, which was a rare occurrence. Since her rookie days, she had dealt with her share of tough cops who expected her to prove her worth. Those days were long past—until Ramsey, who was in a different league of cop. He noticed more than the average bear, and there was a hint of ruthlessness that wa
s keeping her on her toes.
For now, she was grateful for the time alone in the car. She needed to process the scene without enduring his scrutiny.
She arrived at the hospital and parked. As she crossed the hospital lot and strode toward the front doors, she spotted Ramsey approaching from her left flank. His long even strides ate up the distance quickly, and by the time she reached the front door, he was at her side.
“You made it,” she said.
He grinned and paused, allowing her to walk through the sliding doors first, but he was the first to reach the information desk and show his badge. She held up hers as he said, “FBI agent Jerrod Ramsey and TBI agent Melina Shepard. We’re here to see Elena Sanchez.”
The older woman with white curly hair wore a blue smock over her street clothes and sported a badge that read GINA, VOLUNTEER. Brown eyes widened as she checked her computer screen and then, squaring her shoulders, said, “Third floor. She’s on the pediatric wing.”
“Thank you,” Ramsey said.
They stepped into the car, and Melina pressed three. A tall man in a white coat entered the car and leaned past her to press four. The three stood in silence until the doors opened on the third floor.
“Remember, I do the talking,” she whispered as they stepped out.
“I’m here to not smile,” Agent Ramsey said.
“Exactly.”
At the floor station, she got the attention of a young nurse, Nora, and each showed their identification badges and made introductions.
“Any calls from family?” Melina asked Nora.
“Nothing.”
“Has anyone called the hospital about a young child brought into the emergency room?” It was not beyond the realm of possibility for the driver to worry about the child or, more likely, what she would say.
“No calls. You’re her first visitors.”
“That might change when the media gets this story,” she warned. “Just keep everyone off limits to the girl for her own safety.”
“Of course.”
Melina reached in her backpack and pulled out the stuffed dog. She straightened the crooked eye and arranged the ears so that they dangled neatly around its furry face.
