by Dea Poirier
I pop open my computer, plug in my mouse, and scan through the list of names. One toward the top of the page sticks out to me. Dr. Aidan McConnel. My heart pounds, the blood whooshing in my ears.
I pull my laptop closer and google his name. I find pages of results. Everything recent, on the first page, is from Maine. All stuff from the past few years. After I’ve gone through several pages, I alter my search to Dr. Aidan McConnel + Tennessee, and old results fill the page. One catches my eye.
Local Doctor’s Wife Reported Missing
I click on the link as my heart pounds. The story from nearly sixteen years ago loads.
Dr. Aidan McConnel’s wife, Elizabeth McConnel, was reported missing in the early hours of October 13. She’d gone out for an early-morning run, as per her usual routine, and has not been seen since. Despite several searches of the surrounding area, no hints to Elizabeth’s whereabouts have been uncovered. At this time, Maryville police are asking that anyone with information please come forward.
We have reached out to Dr. McConnel for comment. We hope that he knows the whole town is praying for him and for Elizabeth’s safe return.
I go back and look at the dates. Elizabeth’s death was fifteen years ago, but Dr. McConnel moved shortly afterward. A few more minutes of digging reveal that he moved to Florida, where he remarried. Three years later, that wife died in an accident. She drowned in their pool.
“Noah,” I say, my hand trembling.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“I found something.” My voice rises and my heart pounds, but I try to rein it in.
He looks up from his laptop at me.
“The director of the hospital in Camden is on this list.” I quickly explain what else I’ve found about the two dead wives.
His eyes go wide at this news. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting it. Maybe he didn’t think we’d find any hits on this list. “Elizabeth was the victim that Cameron told me about. Those are the remains they found.”
I pull up Aidan’s bio to see where else he’s worked. Tennessee, Florida, Savannah, Atlanta, and now Maine. “I need you to look around Halifax Hospital in Daytona Beach, Florida, between 2005 and 2008 to see if there were any serial killings there. I have to keep looking into this. There’s got to be another stretch of time after this.” My mind flashes to the deaths in Daytona that appeared on Roxie’s search of the FBI database. Could those be related to this?
He nods. “On it.”
It looks like Aidan was honest about one thing—he was in Georgia after living in Florida. It appears that after living in Daytona Beach, he moved to the Savannah area and lived there for two years, then moved to Atlanta. I’ll have to call one of those precincts tomorrow to see if any of their homicide detectives remember anything. Or maybe Aidan was someone they looked at.
Noah and I go over everything again and again, until I feel like my thoughts are swirling in details about these cases. I may not know for sure yet, but in my mind, they’re already linked.
Though it’s early and I know I’ll likely wake up Austin, I call her cell phone and warn her about what we’ve found. As soon as she assures me she’ll call if she sees Aidan, I call Vera. All I have is a work number for her, and I know I can’t leave the message I need to on her voice mail, so I tell her that there’s an urgent matter I need to speak with her about. My next call is to Sergeant Pelletier to fill him in on what we’ve found. The phone rings several times before he picks up.
“Detective,” he says, his words thick.
I fill him in on what I’ve found on Aidan and how I haven’t been able to get through to Vera to warn her.
“I’ll try to call the hospital and see if I can get her cell phone number,” he says.
“We need to suggest that she go stay with a friend until we can investigate more. But it’s looking like McConnel might be the one who was working with Trent.”
“Good work, Detective. Let’s catch up on this later in the morning.”
After getting off the phone, I put in a breakfast order for the two of us from room service and go to get ready, and by the time I’m dressed, there’s a knock at the door.
Noah pushes up from the bed to go to the bathroom, showing off his cut torso and muscled arms as he passes me. There are other things I’d like to stay shut up in this room doing with him, but none of that’s going to happen until I solve this case. I dish out our plates of food, dive into mine, and pop open my laptop. The bathroom door creaks open behind me, and Noah approaches, kissing me on the top of the head as he grabs a plate and the coffee.
“Thanks for ordering this,” he says and takes a bite of his bacon.
“It’s the least I can do. You’re helping me with this case,” I say.
“I’m thinking that we’re helping each other. It’s looking more and more like we’re after the same guy.”
And I can’t say that I disagree. With everything the research on Aidan has revealed so far, I’m getting concerned for Vera. Though I have worries about Austin, too, my hunch says his wife is more at risk, since he’s never targeted a police officer before.
“What did you find out on Florida?” I ask.
He takes another bite of his food before speaking. “There was a rash of serial killings in 2005. Five women were killed. All had some kind of link to sex work, except for one. They were all strangled and dumped with their arms bound in wooded areas.”
“Tina and the other victims in Tennessee weren’t dumped in wooded areas, were they?” I ask, to be sure I remember correctly. It’s so easy for the details of the cases to become jumbled.
He shakes his head. “Just the last victim, Elizabeth.”
A few years ago, I would have thought it impossible for this to be the same serial killer. But if my case last year taught me anything, it’s that sometimes killers will change MO if the circumstances don’t fit their usual needs. While it’s true that most serial killers do stick to their routines, something may have prevented this killer from strangling his victims again. Did he decide that dumping his victims in the city risked too much exposure? Did he turn to the woods because it was easier? Then again, maybe the killer just got bored.
If this was all the work of one guy, we’re looking at twenty to thirty victims—possibly more. The thought makes my stomach sour. I can’t blame law enforcement for not catching this guy. Sometimes law enforcement can be blamed, like with the miscarriage of justice I uncovered in Vinalhaven last year, but this is different. Taking off before he can become a suspect. If that’s what’s happened here, he is a detailed and focused killer.
I pull out my phone and dial Sergeant Pelletier. I fill him in on what I’ve found and ask him to put a car on Aidan’s house. Just in case. We need someone watching him. It’s the only way we can be sure that he doesn’t kill again.
After Sergeant Pelletier assures me that he’ll put someone on Aidan watch, I feel like I can finally breathe again.
Snow skitters across the street as I pull out of the hotel parking lot. I didn’t bother to let my car heat up, so the cold remnants of the morning still cloud my breath. Pink light dusts the horizon, streaking the sky. Traffic is light, and I question whether I’ve forgotten a holiday.
The station is nearly empty when I pull up. I climb out of my Mustang, and tiny snowflakes tick against my leather jacket. My boots crunch in the layer of crisp snow that’s frosted the parking lot. When I walk inside, the receptionist desk is empty. It’s too early for her to be in yet. She normally shows around nine.
A couple of the guys from the night shift are still hunched at their desks like they’re ready to knock off. I nod to each of them before I sling my jacket over the back of a chair. I make my way to the empty coffeepot. As I brew a fresh pot, I think about what I’ve got on my plate for the day. I have to call the precincts that would have dealt with any serial murders in Savannah and Atlanta. Though it’s still early, I decide to put in a call to Savannah. If I can get ahold of someone before they’re too busy, I have
a better chance of getting some information out of them.
I search online for the number, grab the desk phone, and dial. Anxiety prickles in the pit of my stomach. The phone rings several times before someone picks up on the other end.
“Lieutenant Anderson.” A woman’s voice, deep and hoarse, cuts through the line.
“Hello, Lieutenant, this is Detective Calderwood of the Camden, Maine, police department. I think that a homicide suspect of ours lived in your neck of the woods for a while, and I wanted to see if you have any cold cases that fit the MO.”
A chair squeaks in the background, and I can imagine her sitting up straighter. “Who is the suspect?” she asks.
“Dr. Aidan McConnel.”
“A doctor? Angel of death MO?” she asks, her interest clearly piqued.
An angel of death is typically someone who works in a field where they care for others. Doctors, nurses, caregivers for the elderly. These killers justify their actions, their murders, because they believe that they are putting their victims out of their misery. They usually kill silently with medications, and because they’re so rare, they’re also difficult to track. Their body counts can reach the hundreds.
“There are actually two identified MOs for this suspect,” I say.
“Really?”
“We’ve established strangling or suffocating and dumping victims either in the woods, in the middle of a city close to a hospital, or in a motel. This guy was in the vicinity when three murder sprees were taking place, so we’re trying to determine if those murders can be traced back to him or not. It’s a little too coincidental, if you ask me.” I wouldn’t normally volunteer this level of detail, but for a lieutenant, I’ve got to make a damn good case if I want any real information.
For a long moment, she’s silent, and I’m afraid that I won’t be able to get anything from her. But finally, she asks, “What locations?”
“Camden, Maine; Maryville, Tennessee; and Daytona Beach, Florida.”
“What time period would Dr. McConnel have been here?” she asks, and I hear typing in the background.
“2008 to 2012, around then. It appears he moved to Atlanta in 2013.”
“Serial-killing world tour.” She lets out a dry, humorless laugh. And I can’t deny that I had the same thought.
“With the vics we’ve identified so far, it appears all had sex not long before they died. In previous instances, Florida and Tennessee, he went after women who had a history or suspected history of sex work. All vics were dumped near a hospital, usually within a five-mile radius.”
“Let me look into this. I’ll see what I can find, and I’ll give you a call back by the end of the day.”
I pass her my contact information, thank her for her help, and end the call. After I hang up with Lieutenant Anderson, I call the Atlanta Police Department. The call goes about the same. I give a sergeant the information I have, and in return they promise to give me a call back.
By the time I’m done with the calls, the clock is close to eleven. I glance toward Austin’s desk. She’s still not there. I walk over to Sergeant Pelletier’s office and catch him up on the calls I made.
He nods thoughtfully. “Thanks. Let me know what they say.” He takes a sip from his coffee mug. “I’ve got Blake watching Dr. McConnel. The last update I’ve got is that he went into his house at eight p.m. He hasn’t left there since.”
If Blake is watching McConnel’s house, am I overreacting about Austin not being in yet? I glance back over my shoulder. I’d rather have Sergeant Pelletier check in with Blake just to be sure. “Have you heard from Austin today? She’s usually in by now.” A bad feeling curls inside me, like a shark circling prey. She hasn’t texted, called, or even sent me an email. Nothing.
He shakes his head. “She’s still not here?”
“No, and I haven’t heard a word from her today.”
He grabs his desk phone and starts to dial. His brows furrow, creating a fissure between them.
“It’s going straight to voice mail.” He slams the receiver down, his cheeks draining of color.
My stomach shifts with unease, and my palms slick with sweat. My mind buzzes as thoughts, mostly horrible ones, linger there. “I’m going over there.”
“I’ll call Blake and make sure that McConnel is still there, but it doesn’t hurt for you to go check things out. Call me as soon as you know anything,” he shouts after me as I sweep out the door.
I weave between the bull pen desks, grab my leather jacket, and head out. Though the sky is still a blanket of gray, for now at least, the snow has stopped. Everything glitters, covered in ice, as I pull out of the parking lot. My heart pounds, as if urging me to drive faster, but my car isn’t built for this weather. I’ve got to drive slowly. With every passing mile the silence seems to build. Every eventuality trickles through my mind. This isn’t like her. Not at all.
It takes twenty minutes to reach Austin’s trailer park. I pass a row of single-wides and turn into Austin’s driveway. Her car is pulled under the carport, Harper’s toys still strewed alongside. I scrutinize the house, searching for any signs that something might be wrong. But nothing is out of place. All looks right. But that doesn’t settle the snake slithering through my guts.
As I shut my engine off, I say a silent prayer that she’s okay. I throw open the car door, climb out, and slam it. Wind whips against me as I walk to the house, but my mind is so focused on what’s inside that house that I can’t feel it. It could be minus fifty, and I’m sure all I’d feel is the panic needling me. I climb the stairs, open the storm door, and knock. My heart nearly stops as I wait. I listen, trying to hear any signs of life inside the house, but there’s nothing. Not so much as a footstep. No TV droning, no little girl babbling—it’s as silent as the dead.
I knock again, this time harder. Hard enough that the side of my hand aches. But still, only quiet meets me. There’s something wrong. Seriously wrong. I shift gears. I need to get inside the house. I try the handle, but it’s locked. I lift up the welcome mat, searching for a spare key, but there’s nothing.
“Dammit.” I hop off the steps, eyeing the front flower bed, but there’s nowhere for a key to be hidden. Sweeping along the exterior of the house, I make it to the back door and find it open a crack. Carefully, I pull out my service pistol from the holster and creep up the porch stairs, remaining as silent as possible. The back door leads me into a long hallway. In front of me is a laundry room; to my left, the kitchen and living room, which I’ve seen before.
From my vantage point, the rooms appear to be clear. Darkness swallows me as I step inside the hallway, turn right. One door down from the laundry room, I find a bathroom decorated in light blue, a cartoon snowman grinning from the shower curtain. The empty silence sets me on edge. The air is so thick with it I can taste it. The room beyond the bathroom is clearly Harper’s. The walls are a soft yellow; cartoon dinosaur decals stick to them. I flip the light on, and that’s when I see something pooled in the center of the room. Blood. The puddle is too large. Whether it came from Harper or Austin, it’s enough to be fatal. My mind roars, but I shut the thoughts down. If I panic, it won’t do any good. I have to focus, to find them. I grab my phone and call for backup.
I scan the room quickly, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, but there’s no sign of Harper. With the light from the bedroom spilling into the hall, I can make out red droplets along the wood floor leading to the back room. My fingers tighten reflexively around the weapon in my hands as I creep forward. Halfway to the room, I glimpse a pale leg atop the bed.
My breath catches when I see her. She’s splayed on the bed, naked, congealed blood pooled on her chest. A sob rises up inside me but gets caught in my throat. I can’t let it escape. My eyes sting, burning from the emotion I’m desperate to contain. It’s as if I’ll be lost to anguish if the tears bottled there get out. I stay focused, because I have to—for them. Anger flares inside me until my vision darkens at the edges, my rage ready to boil over. This
shouldn’t have happened. He’s never targeted a police officer before. He’s always targeted young, vulnerable women. Austin shouldn’t have fit his MO. I sweep the room to make sure it’s clear, then call a bus and Sergeant Pelletier.
“She’s dead,” I manage to choke out while I try to keep my hands from shaking.
“Fuck,” he breathes. I hate to do this. I hate passing along information like this.
“Sergeant, her daughter is missing. I’m going to search the house again, but we need to be ready to issue an Amber Alert,” I say.
“Daughter? Do you mean her sister? Never mind. You can explain to me later. Go look for her—we’re on our way.”
Though the scene needs to be secured, finding Harper is of paramount importance. Preserving life will always come before evidence. The thought of finding that little girl is the only thing that keeps me going, that keeps me from breaking down. Adrenaline burns in my veins, my guts roiling as I start to search, considering where exactly a five-year-old might choose to hide. Because I can’t allow myself to think that she’s dead or that Aidan has her.
I check under Austin’s bed first, then her closet and bathroom, but come up empty handed. When I walk back into Harper’s room, I refuse to look at the blood on the floor. I check the closet first and find a wealth of toys but no Harper. She’s not under the bed either. As I search the laundry room, sirens in the distance capture my attention. They’re almost here. Back in the living room, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Something shifted behind the sofa. I put away my service weapon, snapping it back in place, and step closer.
“Harper, honey, is that you? It’s Claire, your mom’s friend from work. Do you remember me?”
She doesn’t answer, but I see movement again, a shadow shifting along the wall. I take out my flashlight and peek behind the couch. Harper is huddled against the wall, her hands and the front of her nightgown stained red with blood. My stomach twists, and a wave of nausea punches me in the gut, but I fight against it.
