Where the Truth Lives

by Mia Sheridan

  He glanced at her, his face going serious. In response, hers did too. He looked back at the road. “I’m not perfect either.” He paused for a moment, his thumb rubbing the stitching on the steering wheel. “You might be surprised to know my father was a serial killer.”

  He felt her eyes on him in the dim light of his car but didn’t look her way. “Are you . . . joking?”

  Reed let out a huff of breath that he’d intended to be a laugh. “Sadly, no.”

  “How . . . I mean . . . you were raised by a serial killer?”

  “No. I was raised by loving parents right across the bridge in Kentucky. My biological father kidnapped and brutalized my birth mother for close to a year. I was the result, and she gave birth to me shackled to a basement wall in an abandoned building.” Liza stared, mouth falling open in shock. Hell, the words still shocked him. The stark truth of them. The atrocity they conjured. It still shocked him that he’d been there, though he obviously had no memory of it. “My birth father took me from her and gave me to the couple who raised me. Josie, my birth mother, found me later but signed away parental rights.”

  Liza looked forward as though processing what he’d told her. After a minute, she asked, “When did you find out?”

  “When I was fourteen. They’d told me I was adopted before that, but sort of skated around the circumstances of my birth. They thought I was mature enough to handle the full truth when I was fourteen. I met Josie—my birth mom—when I was eighteen. She’s . . . remarkable. She sacrificed everything for me, so I could have a normal life. A loving home.”

  “Wow. That’s . . . a lot to process.” She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. Outside, the rain dwindled to little more than mist. “Is that why you’re as noble as you are?”

  “How do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “You’re completely different than your birth father. If he was the quintessential bad guy, you’re the polar opposite. You’re the good guy, Reed Davies. And I think somehow that’s . . . important to you.”

  He pretended to grimace. “Ouch. A good guy. Don’t they always finish last?”

  Liza laughed, and shook her head. “Not you,” she said, and there was something soft in her voice that he hoped he’d hear again.

  All right, so she was a good detective herself. She’d read him right, seen that need in him to somehow counterbalance the sins of his father. It was important to him. Although he came up short, again and again. “I’m not so noble,” he murmured.

  “Yes, you are,” she said, and there was a smile in her voice right before she brought her hand up, covering a big yawn.

  “You’re tired,” he said, as the light they were sitting at turned from red to green and he pulled through the intersection.

  “Yes,” she said. “And I have noticed that you’ve been driving in circles around the downtown area. Did you have an actual hotel in mind?” She raised a brow and smiled over at him.

  He smiled back. “Yes. I’m taking you to one near my apartment so if you need anything I can be there quickly. I was just enjoying spending time with you. Talking.”

  “Me too,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

  He pulled into the parking garage of a large downtown hotel, driving up the ramp and pulling into a space. He shut off the engine and turned to her. “Can I ask you one last question? It might be sort of personal.”

  Liza gave him a slight smile. “All right. I asked you a few personal questions. I guess it’s only right that I offer the same.”

  “Look who’s noble now.”

  She laughed and Reed’s stomach gave a small jolt. God, what was it about her laugh that got to him the way it did? “What is it, Detective?”

  “That scar,” he said softly, his gaze going to the pale pink line across her throat, barely visible in the low light of the parking garage. “Does it have anything to do with losing your sister?”

  Her hand fluttered there as if unconsciously, but just as quickly she seemed to become aware of the movement, her hand dropping to her lap where she laced her fingers together. She swallowed, nodded. “My brother he, uh, he killed my father. He . . . tried to kill me too, but I survived. He didn’t quite cut deep enough.” She swallowed again, her eyes drifting off behind him as though seeing into the past. “He set the house on fire and my sister died inside. I tried to . . . save her. I tried, but the fire was too hot . . . too . . . intense. There was so much smoke. I . . . couldn’t see.”

  Oh God.

  “I’m so sorry, Liza,” he said, his voice hoarse as though he’d somehow breathed in some of that smoke she spoke of.

  She gave him the ghost of a smile. “Thank you.” She reached over and touched his hand. A frisson of electricity passed between them. He felt it and he saw by her conflicted expression that she did too. Her eyes met his as she drew her hand away. “For everything. You’ve been . . . nicer to me than I deserve.”

  “You deserve more than you think you do.” Their eyes held for a few moments before he looked away. “Anyway, you’ve gotta be exhausted. Let me help you up to a room and then I’ll leave you to get some sleep.”

  Fifteen minutes later, key card in hand, they boarded the elevator to the floor her room was on. They rode in silence, Reed remembering the first time they’d been in an elevator together. Her eyes darted to his, cheeks flushing, and he thought she was probably thinking about the same thing. When the door opened, he held out his hand. “After you,” he said, his voice deeper than he’d intended, threaded with the recollection of that night.

  He walked her to the door of her room and stood back as she opened it. She turned suddenly. “Reed, you . . . believe me, right? That someone was in my apartment tonight?”

  “Of course I believe you.”

  Liza licked her lips, nodded. She blew out a breath.

  “I’m going to do some checking tomorrow, see if there were any other break-ins in the area, things of that nature. Give me your cell number and I’ll call you with any updates.”

  “Okay.” She reached into her purse and brought out a business card with the Lakeside Hospital logo on it. “The after-hours number listed is my cell number,” she said as he took it from her. “Thank you, Reed, for . . . everything.”

  He nodded once. “Go on in and lock the door. I’ll wait until I hear the chain engage.”

  “Okay.” She began to turn.

  “Wait,” he said, leaning a shoulder on the doorframe. “Just one last question.”

  She turned back, a small line between her eyes. “Yes?”

  “Where’s the lake?”

  For a moment she appeared confused, and then understanding lit her expression and she laughed. She brought her fingers to her lips as though wiping the smile away, and gave him a concerned look. “You didn’t see the lake, Detective?” She tilted her head, tapping her finger on her lips. God, you’re pretty.

  “No. I didn’t see the lake.”

  “Hmm. Very concerning. Maybe you should make an appointment in the morning.”

  Reed grinned, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step back. Their gazes held. “Maybe I should. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight. Sleep well.” She ducked inside.

  He waited until he heard the click of the lock, followed by the chain sliding into place, and then walked back toward the elevator. He didn’t want to leave her, could feel her pull even from a descending elevator car, and dammit he’d enjoyed making her smile for a moment there. But he knew he had to go, knew it was for the best.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Everyone, have a seat please.” Sergeant Valenti walked to the front of the room, turning toward Reed, Ransom, and the three other detectives who had gathered to go over the murders of Steven Sadowski, Toby Resnick, and Margo Whiting.

  “Detectives Davies and Carlyle are managing these cases, but we’re going to need several hands on deck to do the footwork necessary to check into any and all leads. This case could escalate fast and we want to get ahead of it if we can.”


  “Sir, are we thinking we have a serial killer on our hands here?” Detective Rob Olson asked.

  “Maybe. We usually hesitate to name a suspect a serial killer until there are three victims, but despite that the MO on one of the victims”—he pointed behind him where the victims’ names and photos and all relevant information to each case were hung up, tapping on the photo of Margo Whiting—“is different, the brand they all share links them to the same killer. And we are dealing with someone who is experiencing abnormal psychological gratification through his murders.” He looked around. “For now, internally, we’re going to operate under the assumption that the killer is one person, and that he is in fact progressing in his crimes. We are going to assume he will strike again.”

  There was a small murmuring in the room. Detective Jennifer Pagett raised her hand and the sergeant nodded in her direction. “Sir, is there any indication the three victims are connected in some way?”

  The sergeant looked over at Reed, gesturing that he should join him, and Reed stood, answering Detective Pagett’s question. “As of now, we don’t have any fact-based evidence to support a definitive connection. However, what we do know is that Mr. Sadowski worked in the mental health field, Toby Resnick somehow obtained medications generally prescribed to those with mental health conditions, and Margo Whiting had a prescription for an anti-depressant present in her apartment. There’s a link to the mental health field there, though it’s nothing direct.

  “Any other questions about what we have so far?” Reed asked.

  “Why the different methods of killing?”

  “We don’t know. We’re assuming there’s something different about Margo Whiting, than there is with the other two victims killed by strangulation. But we can’t rule out the possibility that Ms. Whiting jumped to her death as she attempted to escape the suspect, or that he accidentally pushed her.”

  “Same assumption—that something makes her different—regarding her eyes still being in her head?” Detective Olsen asked.

  There was a murmur of laughter that dissipated quickly. “Yes. Same assumption. Although again, that could be circumstantial or accidental. If her death did not occur in the way the killer intended, it’s possible he wasn’t able to carry out the enucleation.”

  The door opened and everyone in the room turned toward Zach Copeland. Reed smiled at him and waved him forward. “I’m sure you all know Lieutenant Copeland. I’ve asked him to come here today to talk about the profile of the person we’re looking for.”

  Sergeant Valenti shook Zach’s hand quickly as he passed him, Sergeant Valenti leaving the room. Zach met Reed at the front and turned toward the other detectives, greeting them. He leaned back against the desk at the front and crossed his arms as Reed continued. “Lieutenant Copeland has a master’s in forensic science, and he was the lead detective on more than a hundred and fifty cases during his career, several of which dealt with serial killings.” Reed didn’t flinch as he said the words, though internally, his heart sped up. Everyone in the room was very aware of Zach and Reed’s connection, and he was sure they were all thinking about the fact that one of those serial killers was Reed’s birth father. “I think he’ll be able to help us understand who we’re looking for.”

  “Thanks, Detective Davies,” Zach said, turning back to the other detectives. “I’ll get right to it. We’re working with a highly organized suspect. The fact that he’s been able to avoid leaving DNA, and evade cameras, even while placing his victims in specific locations, indicates his crimes are carefully planned and strategically mapped out. He’s likely been working on this for months. He is of above average intelligence, employed, perhaps even in a technical field, well-educated, and very controlled.” He paused, glancing around. “These criminals are usually friendly, even charming, and are in possession of social graces.”

  “Sounds like my entire list of Facebook friends,” Detective Olson said.

  Zach chuckled. “Yes, with the exception being that this particular person kills people and removes their eyes. But you make a good point, and that’s why these suspects can be so difficult to find. They blend in. They’re very careful about blending in, cunning even.”

  “That’s the scary part,” Detective Pagett said, shaking her head and making her braids dance, the beads on the ends clinking together.

  Reed didn’t disagree. His own birth mother had trusted his birth father before he’d abducted, raped, and tortured her. He’d been her friend.

  “Now as far as the crimes themselves, from what we know now, the killer’s MO may be different. However, in the two cases where he strangled the victims and removed their eyes, it would be necessary for him to have a private location in which to carry out this mutilation. If he’s married or cohabitates with someone, this could be somewhere on his property only he goes, or perhaps a work facility of some type.”

  “So the brand is part of his MO, like the enucleation?” Detective Olson asked. “Any idea behind the reasons for those things?”

  “Those are actually signatures,” Zach said. “While the killer might refine his MO if he determines something else works better, he will almost certainly not change his signature. The signature is part of the killer’s fantasy and it serves a deep emotional or psychological need. Fantasies develop slowly over time and begin long before the first killing.”

  “What sort of fantasies might surround the removal of eyeballs?” Ransom asked, reaching forward and plucking one of the donuts from the box in the middle of the table and demolishing half of it in one bite.

  Zach uncrossed his arms and put his hands down on the desk behind him. “Well, it’s more than that, though, right? Do you have a photograph of one of the enucleated victims? We should have as many visuals as possible up on the board.”

  “I do,” Reed said, opening the case folder in front of him and handing a large eight by ten to Zach. Zach walked around the desk and attached the photo to the board. They all took in the gruesome photograph of Steven Sadowski’s eyeless face, black paint pooling in the sockets and dripping down his cheeks.

  “Jesus,” Detective Olson muttered.

  “This killer’s fantasy not only involves removal of the eyes.” Zach tapped on the photo. “This black paint signifies something important to him too.”

  “Black tears,” Detective Olsen murmured.

  Zach looked over at him. “Maybe. Whatever the case, this paint means something vital to this person. He’s telling you a story. You have to figure out what that story is.”

  The room was silent for a few beats as they absorbed that. “This is definitely a man we’re looking for?” Detective Pagett asked, looking between Lieutenant Copeland, Reed, and Ransom.

  “Almost certainly,” Reed said. “The strength necessary to strangle two grown men from behind would have to be considerable. While Sadowski was not a large man, Toby Resnick was. And with the addition of adrenalin, he would have been even stronger. Plus, both men were placed in specific locations, different than wherever they were murdered and enucleated. That would mean that the suspect had to carry or maneuver their deceased body at least some distance.”

  “So he’s a big motherfucker,” Ransom noted.

  Zach smiled. “I don’t mean you’re looking for Sasquatch. I just mean that if you came face to face with him, you’d be well-matched, Detective Carlyle.”

  Ransom grinned, holding up one arm to showcase his biceps.

  “Any more questions for me while I’m here?” There were a few murmurs but no one spoke up. “Okay. If you think of anything, feel free to contact me. I’m happy to brainstorm.”

  They all thanked Zach, and Reed stood, walking him to the door. “Thanks a lot for making time to come down here,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Zach took it, wrapping both hands around his as he smiled. “Anytime. I’m always available.”

  “I appreciate it. More than you know.” He nodded at Zach and Zach turned, heading out the door.

  “Are
we saying anything to the media about this yet?” Olson asked as Reed walked back to the front of the room.

  “Not yet,” Reed said. “We’re hoping we don’t have to, but if we do, we’d like to be able to give the public something more solid.”

  “In terms of?” Olson asked as the door opened in the back and their sergeant walked in the room.

  “In terms of what to look out for, who this guy is targeting, etcetera.”

  “Unfortunately,” Sergeant Valenti said, as he moved quickly to the front of the room, “we may have to go public with this sooner rather than later.” He looked at Reed. “We just got a call. Another dead body in a parking garage downtown, same MO as the two dead men on that board.”

  “Shit,” Ransom said, standing, placing his notebook under his arm, and grabbing a napkin and two donuts. “I was really hoping I’d never have to look at another DOA fitting those descriptions again.”

  “No such luck, my friend,” the sergeant said, his expression grim. “No such fucking luck.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The deceased was sitting upright against the concrete wall in a corner of the parking garage, black eye sockets trained straight toward Reed and Ransom.

  “Goddamn,” Ransom muttered. “I’m getting real fucking sick of this shit.”

  “I’m sure this guy shares your sentiment, Detective,” Lewis said, sparing a glance up at Ransom.

  Reed and Ransom squatted down next to the criminalist.

  Lewis glanced at them as he dropped what looked like a piece of lint into a paper evidence bag. He confirmed for them that the victim had been garroted just the same as the other two male victims, and there was a fresh brand on the back of his neck.

  “If he’s like the first guy, the eyeballs are down his pants,” Ransom said as they stood. Lewis gave them a curious look. “Didn’t want you to be surprised,” Ransom explained, though Reed had never seen the guy anything other than as cool as a cucumber, even now as he leaned over an eyeless corpse.

  “Wasn’t planning on checking, but thanks for the warning.”