A Killer's Daughter

by Jenna Kernan

  Nadine pointed at the three dots, four dead.

  “This is where they found Arleen’s first two victims, together. Then this is the ranger, Henderson, found in his jeep on a dirt road in the Ocala National Forest.” She moved her finger. “And this is where they recovered Lacey Louder. It’s a state park on the St. Johns River.”

  “Okay.”

  “But this is where she held Dents and Irwin. Miles downriver. And here is where they found Sandra and White. Inland, away from the St. Johns, the other drops and kill zones. Really outside her territory.”

  “Why?”

  “She changed jobs. This one had a private place with lots of outbuildings.”

  “We need to tell the FBI,” Demko said.

  “I tried. Everything I say is the opposite of what their profiler says. I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

  “Yes. You do.”

  She did. She knew she had this right. Why didn’t they?

  Demko called again, and this time got through. Maybe the trick was to call twice in close succession. Nadine watched as he relayed Nadine’s suggestions about the marinas. From him, the recommendation sounded more plausible. Before ending the call, he mentioned her geo profile.

  “He says they have a geo profile already. But they’ll add the marinas and mooring fields from North Port to Bradenton to their search area.”

  “How far is it from North Port to Bradenton?”

  “I don’t know. Fifty miles. Why?” he asked.

  “It’s twenty-two miles between Lido Beach in Sarasota and Robinson Preserve to the north. My mother’s range stretched only twenty-five miles.”

  “Too far?”

  “North Port is outside the probable geographic comfort zone. My mom lived in Ocala, she worked in Astor and hunted as far as Deland. Deland and Astor are only twenty miles apart.”

  Demko peered at her laptop and then lifted his gaze.

  “What else is inside that zone?”

  She studied the maps, side by side, on a split screen. There was something else here. Something she was missing.

  She stared at her work.

  “Torrin said they’re focused on apprehending Anthony Dun.”

  “Dun didn’t send Juliette to my house. And he didn’t plant that seltzer can.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then who did?” she asked.

  “My guess is the killer. Explains how it got there and fits your theory about an inside man who would have access to Juliette’s trash.”

  “She’s always drinking those things.” Nadine took Demko’s arm. “Clint, these missing people—Carla Giffin and Nick Thrasher from the restaurant—are still alive. If they won’t find them, we need to.”

  He nodded. “Where do you suggest?”

  She spent several minutes studying her map and then turned back to him. “Where’s Molly?”

  “At the pet sitters’. Why?”

  “Want to take her for a walk”—she pointed to the yellow band encircling the central red on her map—“at Myakka River State Park?”

  “I thought you said marinas,” said Demko.

  “FBI and our marine patrol have got those. And Myakka is a park inside the geographic comfort zone with outbuildings.”

  “All our homicides were on the coast.”

  “Not Pender’s.” She met his uncertain gaze. “And my mother used the state parks in Ocala Forest and remember—not all my mother’s kill sites were on the St. Johns River.”

  “The last four.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Okay.” He stood, gathering the trash from the table. “You think our next missing couple is there?”

  “I’d like to cross it off the list.” She had to do everything possible to find them, because each minute they were in the hands of this killer would be a horror.

  Nadine rose and tucked her laptop and charger into her bag. Then tossed out the lunch containers.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “You going to search the entire state park with a puppy?” he asked.

  “Yes. I want you to look at the park’s records. Cabin rentals. They are like the houseboat where my mother held Michelle Dent and Parker Irwin. She killed her boss from the marina, and the mechanic her boss was sleeping with, in a houseboat. She held them in private.”

  “RV rentals?”

  “If they do that, yes.”

  “I’ve been out that way. They have RV sites, cabins, primitive campsites and a riding stable.”

  The thought of a stable made her go queasy.

  “We can check the stable, too,” she said.

  Demko was aware that her mother had held her final victims, Sandra Shank and Stephen White, at the riding stable where Arleen worked. Why hadn’t Nadine seen the Myakka stable on the map?

  “Should we have backup?” she asked.

  “Not to check the camping records. And the governor’s visit and manhunt for Dun are pressing our limits. They’ll have no available units.”

  “Super.”

  They headed out, collecting Molly, and driving from the city past the long stretch of barbwire fencing and cleared fields of yellow grass. The Florida Scrub cattle stood in groups under live oaks, tails swishing flies. After twenty miles, the landscape changed, giving way to flatwood pine and marshes of tall green reeds dotted with hammocks of palmetto palms. She knew they neared the park when they crossed the bridge. Here the huge live oak and palm trees grew tall along the banks of the gently flowing river.

  Demko turned off first to the stables. There she waited with the boxer, presumably so as not to scare the horses, but, really, the idea of searching the property was too disturbing.

  He was gone so long that she ended up waiting in the shade, where the visitors gathered for their trail rides.

  Demko returned empty-handed, and they were off to the main park entrance, where the gate attendant directed them to the administration offices.

  He scanned the lists of registered campers as Molly explored, to the extent allowed by her leash. The park had a small museum with taxidermy creatures that made the dog work her nose like a bloodhound.

  “Nadine?” Demko said. Something in his voice brought her to full attention.

  She looked at the name written on the registry beside his finger.

  “Nathan Dun,” she said. “He’s here.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Sleeping dogs

  Demko did not approach the cabin rented by Nathan Dun. Instead, he called Torrin, got his voicemail, and then called the county sheriff’s offices and sent them to get ahold of the FBI. He and Nadine did a drive-by and were disappointed to see no vehicle at the assigned cabin. They finished the loop and returned to registration. With the north gate locked shut, this was the only way in or out of the park by vehicle. If Dun returned, Demko would be there.

  “Everyone in the state got our BOLO,” he said, referring to the broadcast issued to law enforcement. “Meanwhile, he’s here. Restaurant, camp store, cabins. Didn’t even need to be on the damn road.”

  Molly whined from the backseat, anxious to get out and explore. The cracked back window gave her only a tempting sniff of the wonders the old growth oak forest had to offer.

  “Soon, girl,” said Nadine, and petted Molly’s neck.

  “Right here the whole time.”

  Demko’s phone rang from the cradle on the dash and Torrin’s name appeared.

  “Takes over my damned investigation and won’t return my calls, but now he’s phoning me.” He glanced at Nadine and smiled as he let the phone ring again. “That’s because of you.”

  She felt a momentary zip of pride as he took the call on speaker.

  Thirty-one minutes later, the FBI arrived with the sheriffs and the highway patrol. Nadine and Molly waited near Demko’s vehicle as the sheriff’s office secured the perimeter, while they waited for FBI backup from Tampa. They were now in DeSoto County, well outside the city limits and Demko’s jurisdiction.

  As the after
noon rolled to evening, the crime techs van pulled in, but Demko did not return. She counted fourteen black SUVs. The FBI had arrived.

  It didn’t get cooler in the evenings, just darker and darker. Nothing was as black as a subtropical jungle at night. You couldn’t see the stars past the tree canopy. Gloom pervaded beneath the old oaks even before dusk, so the sheriff’s office had erected lights. Nadine saw them blazing from her location on the camping road.

  They must have found something. But the absence of an ambulance made Nadine sick. While she waited, she alternated between walking Molly, getting her water, and sitting in the running car with the AC blasting. She drew out her laptop and opened her geo profile, then added the park’s location, praying it was not a kill site. Nadine set the laptop on the dash. This spot didn’t correlate to her mother’s kill sites because, though it was well within the algorithms target territory of probability for this unsub, this location didn’t match the data points on her mother’s geographic map. For a match between the two, this couple’s capture and kill should have been in an easterly direction, but this site was directly west toward the Gulf. It was the wrong direction. Or was it?

  What was she missing?

  She saw Fukuda emerge from the woods, heading toward her. She rolled down the window. Molly stuck her head out of the gap and tried to lick the agent’s face. She was rewarded with a scratch behind both ears. Then he turned to her.

  “What’s happening?” she asked. “Did you find Dun?”

  “No. We’ve got a potential crime scene. Blood from two different victims.”

  Her heart sank. Oh, no.

  “How much blood?” She didn’t want to know and braced at his grim expression.

  “Too much.”

  Fukuda kept speaking and Nadine pressed her hand to her mouth and tried to focus on what he was saying instead of the screaming in her head.

  “… waiting for blood type information on Giffin and Thrasher. But we are proceeding as if it’s them.”

  “They’re not there?” Was there a chance they were still alive, or had the unsub just moved them to the dump site?

  “Techs say no one has been here for at least ten hours. It’s just the blood. They’ve got drag marks, spatter and footprints. Maybe we get lucky and get a partial palm or fingerprint.”

  “I’ve been working on my geo profiles,” she said.

  “Yes. Demko mentioned it. But we have a specialist doing that already.” He swatted at a bug.

  “Did they pinpoint this spot?” She met his glare with one of her own. She was sick of being ignored.

  “He’s already told us that the perpetrator likely lives in the county of Sarasota.”

  “I’m not looking for the unsub’s location. I’m looking for the victims’ locations by comparing my mother’s range and victims to this serial.”

  Fukuda’s brows lifted. “Ah. That could be useful.”

  Could be? His attitude only underscored her suspicions that her real job was not to help solve this case. Too bad for them, she was aiming to do just that.

  “We’re organizing a search team to locate the pair,” he said.

  “They aren’t here.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well, Dun’s car is gone. And all, but the ranger and last of my mother’s victims, were found on the St. Johns River. If Giffin and Thrasher are missing, it’s probable our suspect has dumped them.”

  “Where?”

  “A waterway somewhere.”

  “You think they’re dead?”

  She did, and felt the disappointment gnawing at the marrow of her bones.

  “My mother kept only her last victims for more than two days. If this killer is following the pattern, this couple is her third of four.”

  “You won’t mind if we look for them?”

  His tone and attitude fell on her like a slap.

  Fukuda stared at her, blank-faced. “Special Agent Torrin is curious how you knew to look for Anthony Dun right here.”

  “I wasn’t looking for Dun. I was looking for the missing couple using my comparison map.”

  “Is that so?”

  Fukuda cast a glance at the map and Nadine wondered again if asking her to make this comparison was just a way to keep her busy and away from the real investigation. The thought nettled.

  Funny that she, and not Molly, was now growling.

  “Torrin will want to speak to you about your thought process,” said Fukuda.

  Nadine narrowed her eyes at his retreating form. The implication, or just the chip on her shoulder, was that she may have had some prior knowledge. Perhaps she was working with Anthony Dun, still at large.

  She realized too late that her success in finding the kill site made her look like one of those people who throws a lit match into a can of rags soaked in gasoline and then yells “fire.” The Hero Syndrome, misnamed, feeding her need for attention and adulation. Only what she craved was exactly the opposite of someone with Hero Syndrome.

  Overlooked and underestimated. Her superpowers. Until now. Now the FBI saw her perfectly.

  Nadine left the vehicle to storm and pace as Molly trotted along. After another ninety minutes, Molly rolled to her back and Nadine noticed several bug bites on her pink belly.

  Finally, in frustration, she and Molly headed beneath the canopy of live oaks, the branches laden with clinging strands of sage-colored Spanish moss, along the beaten trail, through the undergrowth of fern and palmetto palm to the crime scene. She figured if they arrested her, at least they would transport her to somewhere with air-conditioning and a bed.

  Detective Demko found her on the path before she reached the cabin. A mosquito landed on his forehead and he slapped it.

  Molly became reanimated at his appearance, dancing about. He dropped to a knee and greeted his tired pup, cradling her head and accepting a lick on the cheek.

  He straightened, facing her.

  “Special Agent Torrin would like us to stop by tomorrow morning at their field headquarters at eight.”

  “All right. Would you like me to register for a campsite, or is someone planning on taking me home?”

  She’d had nothing to eat since lunch and being a feast for the bugs made her cranky.

  “That’s right. We came out together, didn’t we?”

  Nadine did not dignify that question with a reply. She just stared back at him as Molly snapped at a mosquito.

  “I’ll ask one of the sheriffs to drive you home.” Demko was glancing around. “Wait here.”

  She waited there.

  Another thirty minutes ticked by before he returned.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  “Are you?” She motioned toward the lights that flooded the front of the cabin and the crime techs crawling about like large white insects.

  “FBI has got it.”

  Nadine couldn’t interpret whether he felt this was a good or bad thing. Her gifts for reading character and expression had shut off for the night. She could see only that he was also hot and tired.

  He led the way back to his vehicle.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Hotel or my place.”

  “Hotel,” she said, weary to her bones.

  “What did you see in the cabin?”

  He hesitated and she braced, watching him consider his words.

  “They were held in the bedroom. Appears one was tied on the bed and the other to a chair facing the bed.”

  That would be the man, forced to watch, she thought.

  “The punctures in the mattress and the blood indicate multiple stab wounds.”

  “Through the victim?”

  He nodded. “From the amount of blood, my best guess is that he was killed in the chair. She was killed on the mattress.” He raked both hands through his hair. “We missed them by ten hours!”

  Nadine’s fatigue and thirst and his comment struck her like lead. She’d failed to find them in time and began to cry.

  He drew
her in. “Hey, hey. It’s all right.”

  “It’s not.”

  He nodded, the whiskers of his cheek scratching her temple. “No. It’s not.”

  Demko held her as she cried, further soaking his damp shirt. He smelled of bug spray and sweat. She nuzzled against him as he gently rocked back and forth. Their first slow dance.

  “You and your map have any idea where they’ll dump the bodies?”

  She drew back. The worst was still out there, and so was the killer.

  That night, she opted for the hotel, where she had clean clothing, her bathroom kit and no reporters. The following day, Demko arrived to take her to the FBI field office.

  Despite getting little sleep over several days, Demko looked pressed and smelled amazing. He wore khaki-colored slacks and a white polo shirt, with the police logo embroidered in blue over his left breast. His gun, badge and phone were clipped to his belt. His more casual attire made her feel overdressed in her low heels and navy suit, striped blouse and knockoff designer gold pendant necklace.

  He gave her an appreciative look and lingering kiss. Then said, “You look nice. Tired, but nice.”

  “Thanks. Any press out there?”

  “Nope.”

  Once they were in the vehicle, she asked, “They find Dun or the other two?”

  He shook his head.

  “How’s Molly?”

  “Scratching her bug bites.” He turned to her. “I’m sorry I left you two out there so long.”

  “We understand. Well, I do, anyway.”

  “Thank you for looking after her.”

  “She’s a good dog.” She stared out at the panhandler on the corner holding a cardboard sign that asked for money and reminded passersby that God was watching.

  Was he?

  “You think they’re both dead? Thrasher and Giffin?”

  His grim expression was answer enough. “Probably.”

  Her vision blurred, warning of tears, but she brushed them away, refusing to cry.

  “Any more thoughts on a dump site?” he asked.

  “Should be the coast, but my mom dumped Dents and Irwin in Lake Monroe, southeast of the river, so it could be a bay, inlet or lake. I was looking at all closest bodies of water to Myakka.”