She started up the path to the house, but then stopped, looking down at the ground. Leading away from the front door, there were footprints in the snow, slightly covered by drifts. With another glance at the front door, she turned and followed them around the house, thankful she had worn boots.
On the side of the house, the footprints stopped next to the indentation of a snow angel. She remembered being young, before TCK, before her childhood stopped, when she would rush outside after a blizzard and sink into the flakes, eagerly swiping her arms and legs up and down to create angelic shapes in her backyard.
Dr. Stevens had a child—or maybe a grandchild, considering his age. That shifted something in Elle’s brain, and doubt swept through her. Maybe she shouldn’t be here. It looked like Dr. Stevens wasn’t even home, and she wasn’t sure what she would ask him if he was. He might loosely fit Danika’s description, but so did a bunch of the other men in the faculty. He wasn’t even fully bald; his picture showed a dark ring of hair around his head. A power donut, as Tina had called it, making Elle laugh until she cried.
Still, it had to mean something that both Leo’s murder and Amanda’s kidnapping investigations had now led her here. She had to at least knock on his door. Otherwise, it would always be an incomplete task in her head.
“It’s just ticking a box,” she murmured to herself, walking back around the house. She knocked on the front door.
After a minute, a woman about Elle’s age answered. She opened the main door, leaving the screen shut, and stared at Elle through it. “Yes?” she asked.
Her hair was a wild mess of wispy blond. Shadows carved gray spaces underneath her watery eyes. She wore only a T-shirt and cotton shorts, despite the freezing weather.
“Um, hi. My name is Elle Castillo. I’m wondering if I can talk to Dr. Stevens.”
“He’s not here.”
Elle’s eyebrows drew together. Strange that he hadn’t mentioned this woman when Elle came here before, asking about Luisa. They must have already been together by that time, if the man trusted her to be in his house alone. Then again, if he was having an affair with one of his graduate students, it was understandable he’d want to keep that quiet.
The woman started to shut the door.
“No wait!” Elle held out her hand. “Please, just give me a minute of your time. Can I come in?”
The blonde shook her head, eyes wide. “No, he won’t like that. I really can’t talk to you.”
Something crept along the back of Elle’s neck when she saw the fear in the other woman’s eyes. It was something she had seen far too many times, doing follow-ups for CPS after police informed them of a domestic violence report in a house with children. Not abject terror, but guarded, like self-defense.
This was a woman protecting herself from even the prospect of her partner’s anger.
Elle put her gloved fingers against the screen, hoping she’d take it for the gesture of empathy that it was. “Are you okay?” she asked.
Whatever emotion Elle had seen in her expression quickly shut down. “I’m fine.” She tacked a smile on her face.
“Are you . . . are you safe, in this house?” Elle looked at her arms, her thighs, her wrists—all the places she would expect bruises if there were any to see. There were none. He might not hold on to her physically, but he had a grip on her.
“What kind of question is that?” the woman asked. She crossed her arms against the cold wind blowing through the screen, her body tense and leaning away from the door. “Of course I’m safe.”
Elle tried to recalibrate. “How long have you been seeing Dr. Stevens?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“When will he be home?”
“When he gets here. He’s a college professor; he doesn’t exactly get weekends off.”
“And you?” Elle tilted her head to catch the woman’s gaze. “It looks like I woke you up. Do you work nights?”
“I’m a PhD candidate,” she snapped. “I was up all night working on my dissertation. What’s your excuse for looking like you haven’t slept in a week?”
The woman started to close the door.
“Wait, wait!” Elle dug into her purse, pulled out a business card and stuck it in the crack between the screen door and the frame. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. If you ever have anything you want to tell me, please contact that number. I’m not a police officer or anything, but I’ll help you in whatever way I can.”
With a sneer, she took the card and slammed the door in Elle’s face.
When Elle got back to the car, she started the engine and shivered as she waited for the vents to produce heat. Picking up her phone, she turned it back on and gasped when she saw the screen. She had missed nine calls from Martín. Ignoring the other messages that popped up, she called him back. He answered on the first ring.
“Elle, there’s something you need to know about Amanda’s autopsy.”
“What? What’s happened?”
“She was smothered, but we found something in her stomach. It looks like castor beans.”
* * *
At the morgue, Martín paced back and forth in his office. When he saw Elle, he rushed over and threw his arms around her, burying his face in her neck. She sank into his body, absorbing the relief of him for a few selfish seconds. It felt like a hundred years had passed since they found Amanda Jordan’s body in the wee hours of that morning.
“I’m so glad you’re safe. I’ve been going out of my mind trying to reach you.” He put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s distance, as if to be certain she was really there. “I thought . . . I thought he might have come after you.”
“You really found castor beans in her stomach?”
Martín turned and picked up an evidence bag from his desk. Inside, there was a sealed plastic container with some wet, brownish material. She swallowed the buildup of bile in her throat. It had Jordan, Amanda: Stomach contents written on the side.
“I’m ninety percent sure,” he said. “We’ve been doing tests here all afternoon, and from what we can tell, that’s what it is. And, she showed signs of gastrointestinal distress and dehydration that we’d expect to see from ricin poisoning. We’ve sent a sample to another lab with more expertise than ours. They should have results later next week.”
“By next week it won’t matter.”
Martín closed his eyes and pressed a thumb and finger into the corners, rubbing the sleep away. “I understand, but we have to confirm before we can put anything in the official report. I’m too close to this case—our office can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
“I know, you’re right. I don’t want this to come back on you.” Then she shook her head. “I told Ayaan about the harassment we’ve been getting when she interviewed me this morning. I sent her all the information, but I haven’t had any time to check my messages to see if they’ve found anything. Did Sam tell you their theory? That it’s a copycat?”
A shadow passed over Martín’s eyes. “No, he didn’t. So, you don’t think it’s the real TCK anymore? I hoped the castor beans would help you prove it was.”
Elle looked at the bag of stomach contents again, tears blurring her vision. “The copycat theory makes sense, even with the castor beans in her stomach. He had copied TCK’s countdown patterns, why not try his method of killing too? The smothering could have been a mistake, or maybe whoever it is just lost his temper.”
Martín nodded. “Maybe. But we know TCK lost his temper and killed before. It’s not outside the realm of possibility, but you’re right; this does feel messy, considering what we know about him.”
Elle tore her eyes away from the plastic container to look at him again. “Ayaan thinks that my podcast inspired him. That he got the idea to copy TCK by listening to me detail his methods on Justice Delayed.”
“That’s—”
“Don’t.” Elle cut him off, meeting his gaze. “Maybe I have sensationalized this case too much. I have been focusin
g on the villain more than the victims this season. I let my personal connection to this case cloud my mission, and now we’re paying for it. Amanda’s parents have paid the ultimate price for it.”
“But that’s just a theory, Elle,” Martín said, hands on her shoulders. “It could still be the real TCK; it could be that he always intended to target you, to get revenge for your escape.”
“It doesn’t matter!” Elle shouted. Then she laughed, feeling on the edge of hysteria. “Really, it doesn’t matter who he is. Whoever has Natalie, we need to find him and stop him before he kills her, and I have no idea when he will. Amanda died early, so there’s no reason to believe he will stick with the pattern now. I have turned this over in my head from every possible direction, and I still have too many questions and no answers.”
Tears ran down Elle’s cheeks. “I failed her. I’ve been weak, fragile.” A memory leapt into her mind like a deer running onto the road. He had called her fragile, while he wiped her brow and pretended to nurse her back to health. He seemed so caring then, so far from the man who had ordered her to polish his shoes with her tears.
Martín’s deep brown eyes were glassy as he took her hands in his. “Okay, you’re right. But you’re not fragile, mi vida. You have not failed her. You know everything there is to know about TCK, and even if this guy is just an imitator, you can beat him. You have beaten the real deal. Isn’t that what you said on your podcast today?”
Blinking, Elle looked up to meet his gaze. Martín gave her a wry smile and held up his phone. “I know you were probably going to tell me tonight, but I’m afraid about a thousand people beat you to it. I’ve been getting calls and visits from reporters at reception all day.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry. I should have called.”
“You know, I’ve always encouraged you to tell people who you really are,” he said. “I understood that you thought it would make other people think you were weak or damaged, but for me it’s the opposite. When you first told me what you had been through, I saw clearly how strong you really were. I was only surprised you put it out there like that.”
She squeezed his hand. “After Ayaan told me the killer might have been inspired by me, I just snapped. As soon as I saw the news was reporting Amanda’s death, I recorded it and told Tina to publish it right away.”
“Can you understand why I’m not thrilled about you going on your podcast to challenge a serial killer in front of hundreds of thousands of listeners?”
Elle bit the inside of her cheek. “I see your point, but it’s not like he doesn’t know where we live already. I wanted him to know that I’m not afraid of him.”
Martín sighed and shook his head. Then he put a hand on the back of her head, drawing her in for a kiss. “You’re very brave—no one could deny that. But there is a difference between being brave and being reckless.”
“How would you classify this?” she asked.
“I’m not sure yet.” He paused for a moment, studying her face. Then he asked, “So, do Ayaan and Sam know about you now?”
Elle shifted on the desk, looking at the floor. “I haven’t told them directly.”
“They’re going to find out eventually. Even if they don’t get a chance to listen to the episode, it’s already everywhere online.”
“I know. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
In her coat pocket, Elle felt her phone vibrate. Tina’s name flashed on the screen, and she swiped to answer it. “What’s up? Did something shake loose with one of the guys from Mitchell?”
Tina’s voice sounded strained. “No, nothing that I could see. But I thought you should know . . . Elle, I finally tracked down the IP where a bunch of the threatening emails came from.” She took a breath. “It belongs to Simple Mechanic. Duane and Leo’s auto shop.”
Elle’s eyes flicked to Martín, who could clearly hear through the phone. His face paled. The memory struck her then, the reason the words in that message she’d sent to Ayaan nagged at her so much.
Careful what you wish for.
Duane had said the same thing when she and Sam interviewed him in the shop.
“I think Duane might be your copycat.”
39
Elle
January 19, 2020
When Elle got to the station, Sam’s office was empty. Ayaan’s wasn’t. The commander was leaning over her desk with her head in her hands when Elle walked up to her open door. She hesitated. Ayaan’s fingers rubbed slow circles on her temples, as if she had a headache. Her black blazer was rumpled, flecked with white cat hairs. It was jarring, seeing her anything but perfectly put together. Finally, Elle knocked on the door frame, and Ayaan looked up with a start.
“Oh, Elle. Hi.” The commander waved her in, and Elle took a seat across from her. “Did you call me? Sorry, I haven’t checked my messages.”
“I tried, just to make sure you were still here. Glad I caught you.”
“What’s going on?”
Elle fidgeted in her seat. The list she and Martín had put together back at the morgue grew damp in her hands. It was all the evidence they could think of linking Duane Grove to Leo’s and Amanda’s murders, as well as Natalie’s kidnapping. Tina had promised to forward the IP information she had found to Ayaan.
“I think I know who the copycat is.” Elle put the paper on the desk, slid it across to Ayaan. “Duane Grove. He was the main person of interest in Leo Toca’s murder, the guy I saw standing over the body. Sam said they never had enough to hold him on, and that he was captured on a gas station security camera a few minutes before the murder, but I think that can be explained. He’s criminally sophisticated enough to have gotten away with running a chop shop for years without getting arrested, so I’m sure he knows how to fake an alibi. If he knew Leo had called me and I was coming over, he could have committed the murder, gone to the gas station so he would be on the camera, and then returned to the crime scene to be ‘discovered’ by me.”
Ayaan studied the paper. “And the kidnappings?”
Elle pressed on, ignoring the doubtful expression on the commander’s face. “You already know that the chop shop got rid of the van that we think was used to kidnap Amanda. Eduardo was friends with Duane and Leo—he could easily have made up the story about the person at the university giving the van to him as cover for Duane. Plus, Duane matches the physical description given by Danika: a bald white man. But the biggest thing is this, Ayaan. Tina, my producer, found out a bunch of the threatening emails we’ve gotten came from the IP address used by Duane’s auto shop. I looked back; he’s been sending a few a day since I found Leo’s body.”
Ayaan’s gaze flicked to hers. “Where’s that information?”
“She said she’d forward it to you.”
The commander turned to her computer, swiping the mouse to wake up the screen. She scrolled and clicked. After reading for a minute, she looked at Elle again. “See, the thing is, Elle, we already suspected Duane. The connection between the likely abduction vehicle and his chop shop makes him an even stronger suspect. Sam has been interrogating him about this all day, but he insists he doesn’t know anything about the kidnappings. We searched his property, both his apartment and the auto shop. There’s nothing there. No evidence of Natalie or Amanda.”
“Then he must be hiding her somewhere else,” Elle said. She looked at her notes on the desk, all the clear thoughts she and Martín were so sure pointed to Duane. “It has to be him, Ayaan. He hates me, hates the podcast. Leo said the person he suspected had the Majestic Sterling tea in his house. Did you look for that?”
Ayaan shook her head. “No, but even if he did, that wouldn’t prove anything.”
A rush of nerves blew over Elle, like a drift of snow covering the highway. She held steady. “It would be more evidence he was obsessed with the Countdown Killer. He has to be the person Leo suspected, and that’s why he was killed. Leo saw all the warning signs and assumed he was the real TCK, not just someone who idolized him. So, he wrote
in to the show. Duane found out somehow and went over to kill him, because he wanted to start killing like TCK did and he knew Leo would mess up his plans.”
“That’s a good theory, but it’s all circumstantial. And there’s another problem. We recovered a long black hair at the crime scene for the Toca murder, and the DNA results came back today.” Ayaan turned her screen to face Elle and pulled up a report, alongside a mug shot. “Luisa Toca, his ex-wife, whom he supposedly hadn’t seen in months. She’s in the system because of a DUI a few years back. We haven’t been able to track her down, but her car was found last night at an abandoned house outside Shoreview. We think she must have ditched it there and left with someone, probably the new boyfriend her coworkers told us about.”
Elle stared at the woman’s picture, brown eyes glowing with defiance. “It wasn’t her. I don’t know where she is, but Leo was killed because he wrote in to the podcast about TCK, I’m sure of it.”
“Elle . . .” Ayaan looked over Elle’s head.
Sam stood in the doorway of Ayaan’s office, his cheeks blotchy and red. “You really think you know better than everyone else, don’t you, Elle?” he said, taking a step toward her. There were gray circles under his bloodshot eyes, and exhaustion made his voice hoarse. “We have actual DNA evidence pointing to a suspect who’s on the run, and you’re still thinking about your stupid podcast?”
“I’m sorry, but not twelve hours ago, you were the ones telling me this was about my fucking podcast!” she snapped. “I don’t know why Luisa’s hair was in Leo’s house, but it seems like there could be a whole host of reasons. Like, it could have stuck in something he moved from their old house. Or maybe she went to his house to make up with him. Or maybe Duane planted it there to throw you off the track.”
Sam shook his head, letting out a sharp laugh. “Not everyone has a master plan, no matter how much you seem to think they do. I guess that makes sense, seeing how you’ve spent all this time lying about who you really are.”
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