by Dea Poirier
I can’t deny that I love the idea. But do they really have enough going on up there to need two homicide detectives? I take a sip of my wine, letting the idea marinate in my mind.
“I’ll tell you what—I’ll apply after Munroe is arraigned and I know he’s not getting out.”
She stretches her hand across the table to shake mine. And I can’t help but laugh. “What, is my word not good anymore?”
“Oh, come on—just shake it.” She winks at me.
I shake her hand and take a sip of my wine. “So would this desire to move have anything to do with Lila?” I ask, raising a brow at her.
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t look back at me; instead she looks at the table. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m not going to lie—the distance helps.”
A few years ago, after Roxie and I first worked together, she admitted to me that she’s got a bad habit of fleeing the state after a breakup. Breakup sightseeing, she likes to call it. Before she joined the team in Detroit, she’d worked in DC. She’d gone back and forth from DC to Detroit for years and also lived in Washington and New York for a while.
“If it helps, and if you’re sure.” I just don’t want Roxie to do anything she’ll regret. I think she’s got a habit of running away whenever things get serious—or whenever she wants to make sure things don’t get serious, to be more accurate. Though I’m not one to judge: I run away before anything even has the chance to get serious.
Roxie eyes her bag on the floor and strolls over to grab it. In a fluid motion she unzips it, then pulls her laptop from inside. I watch her as she opens it and props it on the table, turning it to face me.
“Are you resorting to work to avoid talking about Lila?” I ask with a smirk.
She shakes her head at me. “I just remembered you’d asked me to look at the database for that MO.” For a minute, she types on the computer, and then she turns it toward me. The screen is filled with what looks like an old search engine. “One of my contacts at the FBI shares her log-in with me so I can cross-reference things if needed. This is their violent-crime database that stores MOs for killers spanning back to the fifties, maybe even before. I haven’t looked into much of the historical stuff.”
I scoot closer to her so I can get a better look at the screen. She’s got ligature strangulation and binding populated in the search field.
“I already looked for cigarette ashes or other debris left at the scene. There have been very few of those, and none in the past thirty to forty years. None of the killings where the ashes were present lined up with any other factors of the MO—most involved a stabbing or blunt-force trauma,” she says as she scrolls through the results.
On her screen I see there are multiple killings that don’t seem to be linked to my case, and then a listing with five victims catches my eye. “What’s that one?” I ask, pointing to the results.
She clicks on the listing, and I start to read. The page outlines five women killed in the Daytona Beach, Florida, area between 2005 and 2008. Each woman was found bound, strangled, and dumped naked in the woods. It was suspected that each woman had been sexually assaulted based on trauma to the bodies. While some of the items line up with our current murders, the MO is still vastly different. Dumping a victim in the woods shows that the killer doesn’t want to be caught. Dumping them in a motel? That screams that they want the attention.
“Did that one say anything about the faces being covered with a bag or plastic?” I ask as Roxie begins to scroll.
“No, nothing like that. They were all strangled with rope.”
Roxie clicks on several other listings, each with binding and ligature strangulation as the main keywords. Many are too old to likely be related to this killer, and some of the others vary far too much from the rest of the pattern.
We spend hours drinking wine and going through the database. Finally, we decide to call it a night, and she takes the couch. I crawl bleary eyed up the stairs toward my bedroom, my stomach so full of wine it practically sloshes. When I fall into bed, it envelops me. I close my eyes, thinking of Noah and what could have been, if only he hadn’t lied.
CHAPTER 11
Sunday morning, my head aches like it was split open and sewn back together while I was sleeping. When I glance in the bathroom mirror, my blonde hair looks like a rat’s nest, and dark circles hang beneath my eyes. There’s a thick film on my tongue, coating it completely in what feels like slime. I pop some Tylenol, brush my teeth, and head downstairs, expecting to find Roxie asleep on the couch. Instead, she’s cooking.
“Where the hell did you get bacon?” I say as I amble toward the coffeepot. I know I didn’t have any in the fridge. “And you made coffee? Will you marry me?”
She laughs. “I walked down the street to that little market, grabbed a few things. And don’t get used to it. I’ve got to eat and run.”
I sip my coffee slow, the heat of it tickling my lips.
“Going back to Detroit already?”
“Not quite. Heading to Bangor for an interview; then I’m heading into Vermont for a few days to see my sister.”
I was hoping she’d be here for a few days at the least, but I don’t plan to voice my disappointment. It was good of her to come here at all. And though I’m still not settled on what I’ll do about Noah, I at least know whichever direction it goes, I can get through it.
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,” I say.
“Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready.” She motions at the table with a spatula in her hand.
I grab a couple of plates first, set them on the counter, grab some silverware, and then retreat to the table with my coffee cup. Roxie dishes out bacon and eggs, then carries them over.
“Thank you for making breakfast. This is delicious,” I say as the first bite of egg melts on my tongue.
“We’ll have to do it more often if I get this job.”
Roxie and I make small talk over breakfast, and afterward I see her out. When I’m halfway through doing the dishes, my phone rings. But I ignore it. Chances are it’s Noah. But instead of vibrating with a voice mail a few seconds after the ringing stops, it begins to ring again. I dry my hands and grab the phone. Sergeant Pelletier’s name flashes on the screen.
“Sergeant,” I say as soon as the call connects.
“Claire, I need you to get to the station.” His words are slightly muffled, like he’s wedged the phone between his ear and his shoulder.
I wait for him to break the news. Did they have to let Dr. Munroe out? Was someone else found dead? When he doesn’t explain, I ask, “What happened?”
“Mrs. McConnel from the hospital is here. She says that she needs to speak with you about Dr. Munroe. I tried to question her, but she says that she wants to speak with you specifically. How soon can you get here?”
“It’ll likely be at least an hour because of the ferry, but I’ll get there as soon as I can,” I say, wondering what Vera has to tell me. It’s seemed that she’s been holding back information all this time, so what’s she been keeping to herself? I climb into my Mustang, weave through Vinalhaven, and wait impatiently for the ferry to arrive.
When I pull up in front of the station nearly an hour and a half later, my palms are sweating, and my heart is pounding like I’ve just run a mile. Relief washes over me as I realize I can focus on the case again and hopefully shed my worries about Noah for a while. I climb out of my Mustang, hands trembling as I enter the station. My mind spins as I consider what waits for me. As I cross the threshold, my guts clench.
“Where is she?” I ask as soon as I’m within earshot.
Sergeant Pelletier is wearing a wrinkled button-up and jeans that look like he pulled them off the floor of his bedroom. Dark bags hang beneath his bloodshot eyes. He steps toward me, away from his office. “Mrs. McConnel is in the interrogation room, waiting.”
I’m surprised that she was willing to wait this long to speak with me. What’s changed that she wants to open up now? Is she just trying to get one
of her doctors out of lockup, or does she really have something that she needs to share with us?
“Has she said anything?” I ask.
Sergeant Pelletier shakes his head. “No. She’s asked about Dr. Munroe a few times, though.”
When I open the door, Vera has her head bowed, staring at the metal table in the center of the room. Though I’d prefer for Austin to be involved in this, I can’t call her in right now. Vera’s got on a flowy white blouse with navy polka dots on it, along with navy slacks. Under the table I can make out her leather heels. I have to give it to her—she knows how to dress. She always looks incredibly polished, but I guess as a CEO those first impressions really matter. The business world is not kind to women. I walk in, slap a legal pad on the table, and take a seat in front of her.
“Good morning,” I say and take a sip from my coffee.
Her sleek hair parts around her face when she looks up at me, and her eyes are shadowed, like she hasn’t slept in days. Her eyes are dull, lips cracked. It’s jarring against the rest of her polished exterior.
“I want to start off by saying I’m not a bad person,” Vera says, eyes wide. “You’re going to think that, though, no matter what I say. But I’m not, okay?”
I nod, unsure where she’s going with this.
“Have you ever wanted something, thought that something would make you happy, and then when you got it, everything just turned to shit?”
My mind flashes to Noah. I want to shake my head to be rid of it, to cleanse myself of him, but instead I say, “Can you explain what you mean?”
She sighs. “I need to start over. I feel like I’m going to puke.”
“We can take a break if you need to.”
She shakes her head. “No, I just need to grow a pair and get this over with. Look.” She stops to take a sip of her water. Her eyes dart all over the room, looking at everything but me. “Ian, Dr. Munroe, I mean, couldn’t have done this. You need to let him go.”
Is she saying he couldn’t have done it because she did? She’s too hard to get a read on. Her body language is all over the place.
“And why is that?” I ask when she doesn’t explain.
“Because he was with me.”
“He was with you on February twenty-first, February twenty-fifth, and again on February twenty-sixth?”
“Yes,” she manages, her eyes glued to the table. Her arms rest on it, and she clicks her long red nails on the smooth metal surface.
“Why was he with you? How can you be sure he was there the whole time?”
“Because we’re having an affair. It’s been going on for six months. We were at the Carle Motel each of those nights. I know my husband would never be caught dead in that part of town.” She winces. “Sorry for the expression. I wasn’t thinking.” Her normally pallid complexion is splotchy, and beads of sweat cling to her brow.
“Oh” is all I can manage to say. It’s not often that something catches me off guard, but this sure does. “So you would testify to that fact in a court of law?” If they were there, that would explain how his hospital badge showed up in that parking lot.
“Might as well. I was planning on telling Aidan soon anyway. I’ve been lawyer shopping.” Vera offers a slight shrug.
“I see. And is there anyone else that can corroborate that you two were together?” This obviously isn’t the news I was hoping for. Now I’m back to square one. If she’s telling me the truth. Love can make people do stupid things. I know that firsthand. So is she lying because she loves him, or is she telling me the truth?
She bites her lip. “If you really need proof, I can provide it.”
“If you want us to cut him loose, I need to see the evidence.”
She grabs her purse, opens it up, and leafs through some papers. After a few moments, she holds a few out to me. I look them over, finding receipts for rooms at the Carle Motel on the twenty-first, twenty-fifth, and twenty-sixth.
“These only list your name.”
“If you call, they’ll confirm that Dr. Munroe was with me and that we were together in that motel while all the deaths took place. That’s where we normally go. If you need others, I have a few from several weeks ago. You’ll understand I’ve thrown the others out by now.” Though I expect her to look ashamed, she holds her chin up, defiant.
“Give me a moment,” I say as I rise from the table. I walk out of the interrogation room to find the station mostly empty. Both Zane and Blake are at their desks, though. I approach Zane. He glances up, smiling. “Detective.”
I hold out the receipts for him. “I need you to call and confirm an alibi for Dr. Munroe and Vera McConnel. They claim to have been staying at this hotel on February twenty-first, twenty-fifth, and twenty-sixth. Don’t lead the questioning by asking if anyone was with Vera. But if they mention anyone, I need a description and to know if the hotel staff saw either party leave between nine p.m. and two a.m.”
He nods. “Got it. Give me a few minutes.”
“Just knock on the door when you have it. Thank you.”
When I walk back to the interrogation room, Vera is sitting at the table with her hands laced together atop it, her manicured nails gleaming in the light. I take my seat again opposite her.
“Let’s continue. Another officer is checking on the alibi. Is there anyone at the hospital you can think of that would want to make it look like Dr. Munroe did this?” I ask, just in case he didn’t drop his key card. Someone could have planted it at the scene on purpose.
She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Nearly everyone. He rubs a lot of the staff the wrong way. Sometimes I think I’m the only one who understands him.”
As we wait for Zane, a thought occurs to me about the two men who broke into my hotel room. One of them worked at the hospital. I can’t help but wonder if Vera ever had interactions with either of the men.
“Do you happen to know Gary Ventura and Jarod Trevino?”
She lowers her chin, and one of her manicured brows rises at my question. “I can’t say that I do, no.”
“Gary Ventura worked at your hospital previously. He broke into my hotel room recently. Would you know anything about that?”
Her mouth drops open, but words have escaped her. Finally, she says, “Of course I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Vera and I continue to talk for a minute. Though I ask her if anything else suspicious has happened at the hospital, she rebuffs my questions. With each second that passes, she seems more edgy, like she’s dying to get out of this room. Sweat beads on her forehead as she picks at her fingernails. Finally, there’s a light knock at the door. I stand and open it to find Zane.
“Everything checked out,” he says, handing me the papers back. “They brought up that there was a man with Vera. They recognized him as Dr. Munroe, and they’d be willing to say so in court if necessary.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
After we’ve finished her statement, Vera stalks out of the interrogation room. There’s a hunch to her shoulders I haven’t noticed before, as if she’s so tired she can’t bear to stand up straight any longer. As she disappears out of the station, I turn back to Sergeant Pelletier’s office. He sits behind his desk, sipping from a coffee mug. When I approach the door, he looks up at me through the steam rising from his cup. He motions toward the chair in front of him, and I take a seat.
“What’d she have to say?” he asks. I’m surprised he didn’t watch through the one-way mirror.
“We need to cut Munroe loose. She’s his alibi. They’re having an affair,” I say.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, his voice low and scratchy. “Do you believe her?”
“I don’t know why she’d risk her career and her marriage to lie for him if she wasn’t. She seems very focused on her job and that hospital. I’m sure if she could jettison one doctor to save the reputation of the hospital, she’d do it. She doesn’t seem the type to stick her neck out for anyone. Zane checked out her alibi. The motel staff confirms that she w
as there with Munroe during the murders. No one saw either of them leave.” If Munroe didn’t do this, we’re looking for someone else in the hospital. And maybe the director of the hospital will be of more help.
He nods, clearly agreeing with my assessment. “What’s your next step?” he asks.
“I’m going to go to the hospital to speak to the director, Vera’s husband, after I check on the text messages Kenneth is looking into.”
“I’ll take care of Munroe in the meantime.”
I finish up with Sergeant Pelletier before walking back to Kenneth’s office. When I peek in, I find Kenneth in front of his three monitors with his headphones on.
“Kenneth,” I say, more loudly than I usually would to be sure that he can hear me over the noise.
He glances over his shoulder and then swivels his chair around to face me. “Detective, I’ve got some texts for you.”
Anticipation needles my spine as I step closer. He holds out the papers. This time they’re sorted differently: the burner 203 number is on top. I scan through the texts to the last one. Our perp actually mentioned the motel. All the other times there was a phone call, which I imagine was used to arrange everything. Now that it’s written out, though, if we can find who owns this burner phone, we have some solid evidence.
“The name was saved under T,” he says.
“Trystan it is, then,” I muse as I survey the texts. Under the pages containing the texts from T, I find more of the messages containing coordinates. No new messages, though. It looks like the last one arrived two weeks ago. So there have been no new bonfires since then? If the killer isn’t meeting them at the bonfires, why do all these girls have the same messages? I’m not sure if it’s a coincidence or if there’s another angle to this that I haven’t considered.
“Thank you for these,” I say finally.
“Anytime. I haven’t found anything of interest on any of the social media profiles of the victims. And none have sent any emails or arranged meetings with anyone within twenty-four hours of their deaths, minus the ones from the 203 number.”
