The Girl from Silent Lake

by Leslie Wolfe

  He wasn’t greedy, and didn’t spend the hundred grand on a new Cadillac, although the pining thought had crossed his mind. He’d grown smarter than giving in to impulse, and had learned the value of delayed gratification and its exhilarating rewards. He even took student loans, to cover all the bases, if anyone would think to inspect his finances. But having a stash of cash as a safety net did wonders for his morale, for his peace of mind. It was the guarantee that he’d be able to finish law school, that he’d never end up living on the street again.

  He loved studying law, and enjoyed most of his time as a student, with the exception of those times when women judges or professors would challenge him in public, would chastise him for minor mistakes, for something he got wrong or for no reason whatsoever. Those times he struggled the most to keep his cool and abide by the self-imposed rule to not take another life until it would be safe enough to do so and he could savor the long-awaited moment.

  When he graduated from law school, his grades were so impressive and his experience as a forensic scientist so valuable, he had his choice of venues. But the choice, again, wasn’t difficult. After all, he only wanted money and power, with no thought given to employer or law specialty. And the legal profession held countless treasures for ambitious, young people like him.

  As soon as he passed his bar exam, he started treasure hunting with endless resilience and the mental acuity of someone who’d climbed to success through his own strengths. He had street smarts, stamina and a sharp, analytical mind, and he couldn’t be intimidated. He changed jobs often, every year or so, looking for that perfect mix of money, power and freedom that would bring him the ultimate satisfaction, the license to do what his entire body ached for.

  He sometimes visited his family home, staying hidden in the shadows across the street, watching his mother, his sister and his father go about their business and never wanting to speak to them again. But every time he saw them, he struggled not to lose control and yet he couldn’t stay away. He watched his family from a distance, silent, while his heart ached raw, the wound fresh, unhealed by the passing of time. While his monsters raged, locked inside his chest.

  After one such visit, he’d tossed and turned the entire night, morning finding him drenched in sweat and filled with rage, but he took a cold shower and went to work. He was delivering an opening argument that morning in a capital murder case and he had to be at the top of his game.

  The judge was a woman who took an instant dislike to him and chastised him every chance she got, sustaining every objection formulated by the opposing counsel with a hint of a smirk on her wilted lips, as if she knew exactly who he was, what he was. And right there, in the middle of a courtroom filled with people, he felt his old urge swell inside him, unforgiving, imperative.

  He’d anticipated that moment for years, dreamed of it, planned for it, and now the time had come. He knew exactly what he had to do.

  He’d smiled at the judge that day, accepting her hostile rulings with dignity and class, finished the session, and later found someone who could quench that bloodthirst.

  Thirty-Four

  Kids

  Kay didn’t waste any time; as soon as she finished delivering the profile, she found Elliot and pulled him aside, out of passing deputies’ earshot. He seemed a little flustered and avoided her glance.

  “You ran out of there faster than a jackrabbit,” he said. “I thought by now you’d be used to handling a bunch of hillbilly cops.”

  “I thought so too,” she smiled, a little embarrassed, yet relieved to see the tension between them was easing off. “Let’s start with the morgue,” she said. “We’ll come back and speak to the technician right after.”

  “Doc Whitmore just got his hands on that body two hours ago,” he replied.

  “Exactly,” she said with a quick wink, then headed for his car. “I want to hear his first impressions and spend some time with him at the morgue.” Elliot’s face was rigid, frozen in a grimace of nausea. “Trust me, it’s time well spent.”

  Dr. Whitmore disagreed, in tone of voice and body language. They found him bent over the body, face shield on, examining every inch of Alison’s skin under powerful lights. He let out a long sigh of frustration as they walked into the autopsy room, then propped his gloved hands on his hips and straightened his back.

  “I’d’ve thought you’d give me a few hours, at least, Dr. Sharp,” he said, probably singling her out because of their history together. “What could you possibly expect from me at this point?”

  “Any preliminary findings would be great,” she replied, speaking softly, trying to appease him.

  He sighed, this time sounding less frustrated than before, almost resigned. “I’d have to conduct a preliminary exam to give you preliminary findings, and I haven’t had the time to do that yet.”

  “No rush,” she said, “just wanted to see her, that’s all.” Kay approached the exam table and took the shield and gloves offered by Dr. Whitmore.

  Elliot kept his distance, but put on gloves and a face shield too, under Dr. Whitmore’s uncompromising scowl. “No one comes near her without gear on,” he explained.

  Kay studied Alison’s skin under the exam lights. She had numerous bruises around her throat, some recent, some yellowish. Petechiae were present on her face, around the eyes, and on her throat, where the pressure of the strangulation had caused capillaries to rupture. She’d been strangled multiple times, in a sickening game of strangle-and-release that must’ve continued for days.

  “May I?” she asked, pointing at Alison’s eyes.

  “Uh-huh,” Dr. Whitmore replied, continuing his detailed exam of her body.

  Gently, Kay lifted her eyelids to examine her conjunctive membranes and found more petechiae, some recent, some almost healed. “I think I know how she died.”

  “You do, huh?” Dr. Whitmore mumbled.

  “Same as the others, manual strangulation, forceful, filled with rage,” she said, feeling like an intern again. “I’m a little confused, because your message said something about a murder weapon being found?”

  “I should’ve said torture weapon, not murder,” he replied, sounding both apologetic and a little angry with himself. “This is why you should never rush a medical examiner.” He pointed at several cuts on Alison’s skin. “She was cut in various places, but these cuts were meant to inflict fear and cause pain, not death. They’re superficial, but not tentative. I counted thirty-seven of them, all done in the past twenty-four hours, all in locations bound to yield lots of pain but limited bleeding.” He inhaled sharply, then continued, “The bastard probably didn’t want her weakened by hypovolemia until he was done with her.” He studied one of the cuts with his gloved fingers, bringing his face close to the wound. “What’s remarkable is that he used a rusted knife, but that’s preliminary. I’ll have to confirm.”

  “Do these cuts match the knife you found?” Elliot asked, approaching the exam table.

  “At first glance, yes, but I’ll take a mold to be sure.” He lifted her arm and examined her ribs, her axillary region, and the underside of her arm. “By the way, I was able to lift usable prints off that knife,” he added. “There were several clear ones on the handle.”

  That was not the unsub she’d just profiled—organized, methodical, a perfectionist with knowledge of forensics.

  “Don’t you think he might be leading us on, Doc?” Kay asked. “He wouldn’t make such a blatant mistake.”

  “That’s for you two to find out,” he replied, shifting his attention to Alison’s left leg. “I call them as I find them.”

  Kay stared at Alison’s hair, carefully braided and tied neatly with leather hair ties adorned with small feathers. There was something familiar about her braids, about the way they ran the length of her chest, coming from behind her ears. Her hair had been parted perfectly at the center of her head, and the braids were executed well, without leaving loose strands anywhere. She’d seen Native braided hair on many occasions, from
TV and media to her personal experience growing up close to Native communities, attending powwows, visiting her Native friends and meeting their families.

  And yet, studying Alison’s braids under the powerful exam lights, she couldn’t stop thinking about the spiritual value Natives placed on their hair, the sacred meaning of it, the customs surrounding it. How was that relevant to the unsub? Did it have any meaning, other than trying to recreate the object of his rage in the women he abducted, tortured and killed?

  “Anything else you can share with us, Doctor?” she asked, getting ready to leave. She’d seen enough. Kay could visualize what Alison had gone through, just by looking at the wounds on her body, at the numerous marks her skin bore in testimony to what she’d endured. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear Alison’s screams.

  They’d been too late for her.

  But the unsub was about to take someone else, and they didn’t have a way of knowing when he would.

  “As with the other victims, there are signs of sexual assault, prolonged and forceful,” Dr. Whitmore said. “I’ll give you more when I finish the exam.” He left the table and peeled off his gloves, then discarded them into a sensor trash can and removed his face shield. “I have something else, though. It just came in, moments before you arrived.” He typed in his password and unlocked his computer, and two missing person reports were displayed on the wall screen. “IDs came back on the two Jane Does. The first one is Lan Xiu Tang, a thirty-one-year-old tourist from Seattle, traveling with her daughter Ann. The other one was Janelle Huarez, twenty-six, who was born here, in Mount Chester, but moved away as a little girl with her mother. She lived in San Jose, and, thankfully, had no children. She was traveling to close on her grandfather’s house, after he moved to the city to live with her.”

  “So, now, we have three kids missing?” Elliot said, his voice angry, tense. “Can’t we get ahead of this guy?”

  “We haven’t found any additional bodies,” Dr. Whitmore replied. “That means yes, there are three children missing. Ann Tang, eleven; Matthew Hendricks, five; and Hazel Nolan, eight.”

  Heavy silence engulfed the morgue, mixing with the chill in the air and the smell of death, sending ominous shivers down Kay’s spine. What was the unsub doing with the children? Had he let them go, and they just hadn’t been found yet? Or were the children part of a sick game he was playing, unwilling actors in his twisted fantasy?

  Thirty-Five

  Eye Candy

  The sound of a wheelie being dragged on the carpeted hallway woke Wendy up, but she refused to open her eyes and face the piercing rays of the sun. She clung to sleep, to the sweet numbness in her limbs, wishing she had time for more. After all, it had been after two in the morning when she’d finally dozed off, spent, satisfied and so alive.

  Opening her eyes just a little, she smiled as she disentangled herself from the sleepy embrace of the man she’d met the day before at the airport lounge, careful not to wake him. Her smile widened as she recalled last night. Who knew getting a flight bumped to the next day could be such a rewarding experience? The airline provided the hotel room, and the tall, dark stranger with fiery eyes and a smooth tongue provided the meal, complete with drinks and entertaining conversation. By the time they made it to the room, they were ready to rip the clothes off each other.

  She sat on the side of the bed and frowned a little when the man shifted in his sleep; she hoped she’d skip the morning-after conversation and just disappear. Looking at his sweat-covered body and remembering how that body had brought hers back to life after so many years made her feel grateful for the warmth she felt inside. If she weren’t booked on an early flight, she’d wake him up for another serving of feeling alive and living dangerously. Part of him was already awake, anyway.

  She placed a gentle kiss on the man’s lips, noting in passing she didn’t even know his name. He’d mentioned it, sometime last night, while they were waiting for the first round of drinks at the airport brewery near Terminal 2, but she’d immediately forgotten it. To her, he’d always be the guy from the LAX stopover. Unforgettable… why bother with names?

  Her life was just beginning.

  Screw the bastard, she thought, remembering her husband’s face when she told him she was leaving him. Of course, he’d been shocked to hear. He’d been taking her for granted for years.

  “Hey, baby,” the stranger said, stretching and reaching for her, and the memory of her husband’s face disappeared with the touch of his fingers on her skin trailing streaks of fire. “Why don’t you get us some breakfast, huh?”

  She barely contained the roar of laughter that was about to explode out of her chest. Instead, she smiled, caressing his naked thigh until she obtained the desired reaction, and said in a sultry whisper, “Sure, I’ll get right to it.” Then she stood and started getting dressed.

  Satisfied, the guy from the LAX stopover who was dangerously close to being remembered as the entitled asshole from the LAX stopover closed his eyes and dozed off.

  She looked at him one more time before leaving the room and almost thanked him for the memorable night. Laughing quietly, she rolled her wheelie out of there and headed for the airport shuttle terminal downstairs.

  Let the sexy bastard get his own damn breakfast.

  The second leg of the trip was short, and she’d barely had time to finish her coffee, lost in memories and plans for the future, when the descent to San Francisco began, and she avidly stared out the window at the city she’d always wanted to visit, at the blue ocean glimmering in the distance, and the snow-capped mountains she was about to see from up close, in only a few hours.

  She picked up her rental from Budget, a red Ford EcoSport that suited her new life. Small, compact, but quick on its wheels and responsive to her touch. She drove straight north, eager to feel the mountain air fill her lungs after having spent the summer in sweltering Phoenix. She couldn’t wait to feel free, young and beautiful, not just a household implement meant to wash, clean, cook and be yelled at.

  “Screw that son of a bitch,” she said, louder than the blaring music. Not fully satisfied, she opened all the windows, and honked long, stepping on the gas and shouting, “Woo-hoo! Screw you, motherfucker! Whew!”

  She drove with her windows down for a while, the feeling of the cold wind lashing through her long hair not something she wanted to part with too soon, and sang with the radio until she was out of breath.

  She was about an hour away from Mount Chester when she saw the Miramonte diner, a place advertising baked potato soup and outdoor seating on a highway billboard. What an irresistible combo!

  She got seated on the patio, even if it required her to unzip her wheelie and fish out a thick sweater. But it was worth it. The mountains were so close she felt she could touch them, the air so crisp she felt dizzy, unable to fill her lungs despite how hard she tried. She kept staring into the distance, at the snow-covered peaks, wondering if she could see the resort from where she was. She was so focused on the landscape, then on her phone looking at the map, she almost didn’t see the insistent gaze coming from the man seated a few tables away.

  He had an unusual intensity in his loaded stare, a sense of urgency that triggered an immediate response from her young body, but she decided to break eye contact and look away.

  He’s probably bad news, she thought. And, seriously, you’ve just had a slice of fun in LA. Pace yourself a little, woman. She repressed a smile that the stranger might’ve misinterpreted, and delved into the amazing potato soup. It might’ve been one of those nameless roadside diners, but it was awesome. Everything was awesome that very first day of her newly found freedom, even the unwanted attention from the man a few tables over.

  He seemed loaded, and a decent piece of eye candy. She gave him another passing glance and found him still staring at her, just as intently. Something unfurled in her gut, something beyond the delicious voice of her awakened body, something nameless and terrifying.

  Ignoring that chilli
ng uneasiness, she continued to feast on her soup, her eyes riveted on the distant, snow-covered mountain peaks. When she dared look again, the table was empty, and the stranger gone.

  She breathed with ease and leaned back in her seat, staring at the perfectly blue California sky.

  Thirty-Six

  Fingerprints

  “Howdy,” Elliot said, leading the way into the motor pool garage. That was the official name for a twenty-by-forty corrugated metal structure at the back of the sheriff’s office building, littered with tools and lined with tool cabinets and workbenches. At the center of the space and the service technician’s attention was Kendra Marshall’s rental Jeep, its hood missing, and the entire engine compartment taken apart. On a sheet of blue tarp laid down to the side, all the removed parts were neatly arranged, some with yellow Post-it notes affixed to them.

  “Right back at ya,” the technician replied, without lifting his eyes from the engine compartment. The rhythmic clicking of a torque wrench continued for a moment, then he finally looked up at his guests.

  If it weren’t for the sheriff’s office logo on the name tag he wore affixed to an oil-stained NASCAR shirt, Kay could’ve easily mistaken the burly man for one of the Tenderloin’s street residents. His salt-and-pepper beard and the hair escaping from underneath a dirty ballcap were long and untrimmed, more yellowish salt than pepper, with streaks of black where he’d run his greasy fingers through the rebel strands.

  “Ma’am,” he acknowledged Kay as soon as he saw her, his voice husky but hinting of a good nature and a sharp mind. “I’m hearing it’s you I have to thank for this,” he added, laughing quietly.

  She approached the Jeep, smiling encouragingly, and swallowed her immediate comeback that it was, in fact, the unsub’s fault for the added workload.