by Dea Poirier
The texts go on like that, but it seems they met up a couple of times. There’s a mention of meeting up, then an outgoing call. But no confirmation via text. One of these messages occurred the night Melanie died, though there’s no mention of the motel. There’s no way to track whoever has this burner phone. And based on the research I’ve done, the area code of the phone is of no significance at all. Burner numbers from any area code can be assigned to any phone.
My phone vibrates on the table, and I scoop it up, hoping it’s Noah. But my brows furrow when it’s a Maine number on the screen, not his.
“Detective Calderwood,” I say automatically.
“Hi, Detective, it’s Brenden. You gave me your card.”
It takes me a moment to place the name; then I remember the person I interviewed at the motel the first day, the son of the owners. “Yes, how can I help you?”
“One of our housekeepers just informed me that while cleaning up, they found . . .” He pauses, and my heart creeps into my throat, adrenaline burning my veins.
I straighten on the bed, hoping that they’ve found some evidence that could help with this case.
“We’ve discovered another woman’s body,” he says, his words shaky. I can imagine him trembling.
I swallow hard. At first, I think I’ve heard him wrong. But in the space of a breath, my instincts take over. “Keep everyone out of that room. I’ll be there as soon as possible.” By the time I hang up the phone, I’ve already got on one of my shoes and am scanning the room for my coat. As I pull on the other shoe, I call Sergeant Pelletier and inform him of the body. He offers to coordinate with CSI and the ME. My next call is to Austin. I tell her to meet me at that motel as soon as she can.
I climb into my Mustang, knowing time is of the essence. Not only do I need to get there to secure the scene, but I have to know what happened—if the circumstances are the same. Is this going to be like the last time? My mind races as I turn out of the hotel and floor it toward the Millay Inn. Snow sifts softly from the gray clouds above me, peppering the black asphalt. The trees huddling on the sides of the road are thick with snow and ice, their limbs so heavy they look frosted. When I climb out of my Mustang fifteen minutes later, the parking lot is nearly empty, and I can only hope that everyone has kept out of my crime scene.
My feet are unsteady on the ice as I head toward the office. A sharp wind blows, rustling the trees around the parking lot. As the frost-laden branches shift in the breeze, they crackle, icicles snapping and crumbling to the ground. Inside the office, I find Brenden sitting wide eyed behind the desk. His hair puffs out awkwardly, like he’s been tugging on it. He’s paler than usual, making the dark bags beneath his eyes stand out.
“What room is the decedent in?” I ask.
“Room thirteen,” he says, shoving a key across the desk toward me.
“Stay here. I need to ask you some questions after I secure the room.”
He nods but says nothing. Back at my car, I grab tape, some plastic gloves, and markers. I’ll need to cordon this place off as best as I can. It doesn’t help that a cleaning crew already entered the room; they could have brought in trace evidence and contaminated part of the scene. My heart hammers as I head toward room 13. I snap the gloves on before I unlock the door.
The scene before me makes my heart lurch. A young woman’s body is bound naked to the bed, her arms tied to the headboard, her legs to the footboard, limbs splayed wide. Over her head a plastic bag is taped with silver duct tape. Her pale flesh is feathered with gray across the torso, and I’m so distracted by the rest of the scene that it takes me a minute to process it—more ashes. This one has been left with the cigarettes, ashes, and debris on her again, though this time there aren’t as many ashes. None of the victim’s belongings are anywhere obvious in the room. But I step carefully toward the bed, checking to see if a purse was placed beneath it again. Sure enough, I find it. I look over her ID. The picture shows a young woman, age nineteen. Her coloring is startlingly similar to the first victim’s.
I try to process it all. It’s technically too early to rule this a serial killer, since by definition a serial killer requires at least three victims with a cooling-off period between them. However, based on how similar this homicide is to the last, it’s screaming serial to me. If the killer is this careful and has such a fully developed MO, I’m sure our perp has done this before. The crunch of tires out in the parking lot catches my attention. I walk from the room and block off the scene with the tape. Sergeant Pelletier is first to arrive. He climbs from his car, his square jaw set, his mouth a grim line.
“CSI will be here in an hour. They’re leaving Augusta now,” he says. He crosses his arms as he glances into the room but doesn’t enter. Instead he keeps his distance, hovering just outside. “Looks the same.”
“It’s identical to the first scene, sir. This is methodical, laid out the same way. Body types of both victims are also similar,” I say as I take it all in.
He glances into the room again.
“Can you handle this? I need to go speak to the motel manager again. I’ve got some questions for him.”
“I’ll make sure everything is secure,” he says.
As I walk toward the motel office, Austin pulls up in her Fiat. She scans the lot, and then her eyes settle on me. She stalks over, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Her long hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and she’s not wearing her beat cop uniform. Instead she’s got on a button-up and jeans.
“What’s the scene like?” she asks as she motions in the direction of Sergeant Pelletier.
“Same as the last one, identical. I’m thinking we might have a serial on our hands,” I say, my voice low. There’s not anyone out here to hear me, but I can’t be too careful. As we approach the office, a van pulls into the lot. At first sight, I think the CSI team has arrived quickly, but then I see the logo on the side. The news.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “How did they get here so fast?”
“Sergeant Pelletier had to use the radio to get people out here. I’m sure they’ve got scanners.”
“Goddamn ambulance chasers,” I say as I yank open the office door.
Brenden is exactly where I left him. It looks like he’s been frozen with shock, his eyes still wide, staring. I step toward his desk. He’s got a couple of chairs in the office. I grab one and motion for Austin to do the same.
“What can you tell me about the woman who was in room thirteen?” I ask.
He glances at his computer, clicks several times, then looks back to me. “Her name is Asha Weber.”
“Did she check in alone?” I ask.
“No one else came in with her,” he says.
“What time did she book the room?”
He looks at the screen to verify before speaking. “Nine fifty-seven p.m.,” he says.
“So you didn’t see anyone lingering outside like last time?” I ask. You would think after the first death here they’d pay more attention. Then again, I’m sure they didn’t think it would happen again.
He shakes his head. “No. Since it happened, I’ve been watching everyone, trying to look out for anything suspicious. I thought she was alone.” Tears well in his eyes, and I think he’s seconds from breaking down. “I didn’t want this to happen again. I’m sorry. I should have”—he throws his hands up—“I don’t know, noticed something.”
“This isn’t your fault,” Austin says. “It’s okay. You didn’t do this.”
His shoulders shake as tears brim in his eyes. He avoids my gaze. I halt the questioning to allow him to compose himself. Once he’s caught his breath and calmed down a bit, I continue.
“Did she seem to be in distress, scared? Did you get any sense from her at all?”
“She seemed happy. She smiled at me. I didn’t think she was scared. She didn’t give me any reason to believe there was anything wrong.”
Again, this leads me to think that the victim knew her killer. Most women this age would not bring a com
plete stranger to a motel and be comfortable with it—especially so soon after another woman was killed at this very establishment. In a town this small, word has gotten around. Asha must have heard about what happened to Melanie. Though Melanie didn’t tell anyone her plans, I hope that Asha spilled to someone where she was going and who she was meeting.
“Did she have a car here?” I ask. There are no cars in the parking lot, and there weren’t when Melanie was found either.
“She did arrive in a car. I don’t know if she was driving it. I saw it pass the office and park further down.”
“Could you give me an idea of make, model, color?”
“It was dark. I couldn’t really see. But I think it was a sedan, a larger-size sedan.”
I note that down. There are lots of sedans around here, so that isn’t going to help much.
“Is there anything else that you can think of that might be of help?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, I just—I need this to stop. I can’t have people dying at my motel. Everyone will stop coming here.”
We do need to start having an officer do nightly patrols around here. I don’t want to stake out a cop full-time. We don’t have the resources. But if I have someone drive by a few times a night, they can keep an eye out for sedans.
“If you see any more women that age check in here alone, you call me. Got it?” I say.
“I will.”
As I head back out to my car, Austin beside me, I notice that the parking lot is now infested with news vans, as if they’ve multiplied since I’ve been inside. There’s no way I can make it to my vehicle without passing them. Instead of avoiding it, I stride forward, head held high. When I’m halfway to my car, a man heads toward me and shoves a mic in my face. He’s got a huge meaty brow that shadows his eyes, making them look like black pools. When he looks at me, I get the feeling he’s trying to smile, but his face is too Botoxed to pull it off.
“Bruce Beckette with the Channel Seven news. What can you tell me about the scene? Is it true that the second body in less than a week was found here at the Millay Inn?”
“I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation,” I say.
“So there is an investigation?”
The woman from the ME’s office, Lillian Landry from the Pen Bay Pilot, strolls forward, standing level with Bruce. She’s got on a pencil skirt and a black peacoat; the outfit is stylish but far too cold for this weather. Not a single hair is out of place in her sleek dark bob.
“Is Noah Washington helping you work this case?” she asks when I don’t answer Bruce.
Austin steps in front of me, putting herself between me and the mic. She does it so swiftly it’s like she’s taking a bullet for me. “We can’t tell you anything about what’s going on here. But if you reach out to Kelsey Tucker, she’s the press officer for Camden PD. We won’t be taking any questions.” Her voice is steady as she says this. To be honest, I’d thought Austin would shy away from attention from the media, but she’s facing it head-on. I’m impressed.
Two other reporters approach us, mics in hand, but we’re able to duck into my car before they get a chance to come within five feet of us.
Four hours later, after the body is picked up, I’m stationed at a spare desk in Camden, making a list of interviews I’ll need to conduct for the new victim. I’ve had a preliminary conversation with the ME, and she’s ruling this death asphyxia as well. This time there was no obvious trauma on the body outside of the wounds sustained during death. The phone on my desk rings, startling me. I grab the receiver, and Sergeant Pelletier barks in my ear, “I need you in my office.”
I walk over, noting that he easily could have just called for me, since my desk is all of fifteen feet or so away. When I pop my head in, he’s hunched over his keyboard, eyes focused on something I can’t make out from here. I rap my knuckles gently on the door.
“Sir,” I say.
He looks up at me, his dark eyes worn. Sergeant Pelletier has never struck me as the lively type, but right now, he seems even more muted than usual.
“The family has been notified, and they’d like to speak with you today to do the interview. Her father, James, wants to get it over with so they can move on with planning her funeral.” There’s an edge to his voice, like he doesn’t think this is a good idea.
If he’ll let me jump into this right away, I’m going to. “I’ll grab Austin and head over there now.”
“Just please go easy on them,” he adds. “This is a small community. If we don’t treat people right, it’ll get out, and it’ll come back on us.”
Frustration needles me. I don’t know why he’d think I wouldn’t handle this with sensitivity. I may have a hard edge in the office, but I know how to talk to families, victims. But I don’t say anything. Instead I just give him a tight-lipped smile and turn back to my desk. I grab my bag and coat and signal to Austin that we’re going. The moment her eyes meet mine, she pops up from the desk and follows me out through the bull pen.
I shove the front door open, a blast of cold air greeting me as I step outside. The frigid wind howls as it whips around the building, and from farther down the street, the call of gulls fills the air. We climb into my Mustang, and I type the Webers’ address into my GPS.
“Where are we headed?” Austin asks.
“We’re going to interview the Webers. The dad wants to talk to us today,” I explain.
She raises a brow as I back out of my parking space, gravel crackling beneath my tires. I turn onto Main Street, going left as I follow the directions of the robotic voice on my phone.
“They want to talk to us already?” she asks.
“Apparently so.”
“Doesn’t that seem . . . odd to you?”
“It does.” It’s not often that I have a family of a victim wanting to get their questioning over with or, in this circumstance, calling to rush it along. Most of the time I have to chase down family members, talk them into having the first interview. Usually they’re angry, hysterical, shocked, and sometimes paralyzed—all things I expect. But no matter what their actual emotions are, they’re usually far too busy coping with their grief to call us over.
I turn down a street lined with wood-frame houses, smoke spiraling from chimneys toward the gray sky. Towering oak trees stand in most of the yards, looming next to the large houses. I pull to a stop in front of a cape cod–style house that’s daisy yellow with black trim. It reminds me of a bumblebee.
I climb out of the car and slam the door. Austin and I glance at the house before approaching. My whole body feels rigid with tension. Questions build in the back of my mind, and I can’t get the idea that this is a serial case out of my thoughts. I need to figure out what connected these girls, and fast, before this killer finds another victim. I ring the doorbell and appraise the engraving on the door. Light floral relief is etched into the wood, which has been painted black. Floors creak behind the door before it opens. A woman leans against the edge of the door. Her eyes are raw, red, as they scrutinize me.
“Y’all the cops?” she says, glancing between us.
“Yes,” I say and then introduce myself and my partner.
“I’m Yvette. James is in the kitchen.” She sweeps her long brown hair over one shoulder before waving us inside. I climb up the steps into the house, realizing that I’m actually a few inches taller than Yvette, something that doesn’t happen to me often. She’s got on a long, billowy dress that shifts around her as she walks. She reminds me of a younger Stevie Nicks.
We follow her through a living room that’s packed to the gills with antique wood furniture, a plush sofa and chairs, and a china cabinet filled with small glass figurines. The dining room isn’t as well decorated as the living room. It’s got a buffet on the wall alongside the simple rectangular table. A man with broad shoulders and a worn, haggard face is hunched in a chair close to the window. His shoulders are pulled so far forward it’s like he’s folding in on himself, as if the weight of his daughter�
��s life is dragging him down.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” I say. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I know that this is an incredibly difficult time, so if at any point you decide that you want to take a break or have us come back at another time, just let me know.” I take Sergeant Pelletier’s words into account while speaking. I know I don’t have the best bedside manner usually, so I make an effort. This is his city, and I don’t want to make any waves.
James looks up at me, his eyes sharp, an intensity behind them, as if those blue eyes are veiling a simmering rage that he’s barely holding on to. I can’t tell if the anger is aimed at me or if it’s a side effect of everything he’s been through in the past twelve hours.
“Please, take a seat,” Yvette says, motioning toward the table. “Do you all want anything to drink, or are you okay with coffee?”
“I’m fine with coffee, thank you,” I say.
“Me too,” says Austin as she takes a seat. I slide into the chair next to her, a few feet from James.
He rests his hands atop the table, his fingers woven into one another, both hands clenched together tightly. I can’t help but notice how muscular his arms are. His hands are huge, with thick fingers.
I take my notepad from my pocket. “Do you mind if we dive right in?” I ask, still on edge about the look that he’s giving me.
“Let’s get on with it,” he says.
“How old was she?”
“Nineteen.”
They’re in a fragile state after the shock of losing their daughter, so I want to ease them into the questioning.
“When was the last time that you both saw Asha?” I ask.
“Last night, I saw her around seven when we had dinner. Then she went up to her room. I thought she was going to do her schoolwork and then go to bed like she normally does,” James says.
Yvette finally sits next to us, placing cups of coffee in front of Austin and me before taking up her own cup of tea. Steam slowly spirals from her mug, curling in the air in front of her. “I saw her around nine. She had gone into the bathroom while I was going down to get something to drink. I passed her in the hall.”
