by Lara Lacombe
“Oh, it’s a heck of a lot more than just some kid stuff,” Beau said before adding, “unless you want to count what that fool’s ugly talk is doin’ To my kids...”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done for me, but whatever kind of feud you two have going,” she continued, too overwhelmed by thoughts of Russell and of Jeremy to ask questions, “I can’t afford to end up in the middle of it.”
Beau frowned and shook his head. “You’re absolutely right. That’s not your worry—and it’s not the reason I came, either. I’m here because a man died on my land today, a young man who was part of a team—your team—that I personally signed off on working on my property, Dr. Copley.”
Surprised by his use of the honorific, she said, “You—you saw to that personally? I’d just assumed some assistant or ranch manager—” Maybe your wife, she’d been about to add, recalling the reference to his children, but she hadn’t seen a wedding band, nor even a strip of paler skin to mark where he had worn one.
“That was me, before my father’s death this past April. Which made me feel I ought to be the one to come today.”
“That’s very kind of you, but what happened here—it’s not your fault.”
“I know it’s not my fault,” he said, his dark eyes studying her so intently that she began to feel self-conscious. “Do you know it’s not yours?”
A flush of heat engulfed her, making her want to drop her gaze. Instead she faced him squarely, her heart stuttering at the question she hadn’t yet dared to ask herself.
“Why on earth would you ask me that?” She sounded more than a little defensive, even to her own ears. How on earth did he guess I’m to blame?
Reaching down to scratch her dog’s ears once more, he stood there looking at her, the saddest smile she’d ever seen contrasting with the warmth of his bronzed skin. “I could tell you it’s because he was your student. But the truth of it is that guilt’s written on your face as plain as day for anyone to see...or maybe only anyone who’s been there.”
Copyright © 2020 by Colleen Thompson
Keep reading for an excerpt from Ten Days Gone by Beverly Long.
Ten Days Gone
by Beverly Long
One
Tuesday, May 10
She’d been killed like all the others.
A.L. McKittridge squatted down to get a closer look at the body. The woman, already stiff, had likely been dead for hours. The coroner had not yet arrived, so there was no official cause of death. But a damn rookie could figure it out. And neither he nor his partner, Rena Morgan, had been rookies for a long time.
But they’d never seen anything like this, either. Four dead women in forty days, each killed ten days apart.
They’d started their shift over seven hours earlier, and as each hour had passed, they’d gotten more and more anxious, knowing the call was going to come, not having a clue what to do about it.
They’d had to wait until Jane Picus’s husband had gotten home from work and found his wife. Naked. Dead. And one pillow missing off their bed.
“He’s going to...” Rena’s voice trailed off. She likely did not want the photographer, the sketch artist and the evidence techs who were doing their thing to hear. She looked tired. They all were. “He’s going to make a mistake,” she said quietly.
The asshole hadn’t thus far. The three other victims, ranging in age from thirty-two to forty-eight, had all been found naked, with their clothes folded neatly in a pile next to them.
No signs of struggle, in their houses or on their persons. No robbery. No sexual assault.
No fucking physical evidence, not even a little skin or blood under their fingernails. Just some cotton fibers, as if their killer had made them wear gloves while he killed them. But those were never left at the scene. Nor was the pillow.
With so little to go on, they’d looked for connections between the three women. Had come up dry.
Now they’d dissect the life of this new victim and try to figure out what led to her ending up stone-cold dead on her kitchen floor. They’d hope like hell they could find something to link her to the other women. Then, just maybe, they’d catch the murderer.
If they didn’t, there’d be another dead woman ten days from now.
A.L. stood up when he heard the front door of the house open. Carrie Stack, the medical examiner, walked into the room, her cloud of perfume preceding her. She wore too much, but nobody ever complained. The smell of death was a worthy opponent. And most of the male detectives had a permanent hard-on when she was within fifty yards, so they weren’t about to bitch that their eyes were watering.
Carrie Stack was stacked. And beautiful. And he’d taken a ride on her merry-go-round more than once. It was an arrangement that suited them both.
“Detective Morgan. Detective McKittridge,” Carrie said, greeting them both. Her tone was neutral. She was a cat in bed, but on the job, she was always professional. And very good at her job. She stood in the doorway and carefully pulled on booties over her shiny black heels. “I was, unfortunately, waiting for the call. Where’s the husband?”
A.L. pointed outside. Terry Picus was in the back seat of a patrol car, his face partially turned away from the house. Five minutes earlier, he’d been bent double in the yard, losing his lunch on the rosebushes.
“Press is behind the line,” Carrie said. “Can’t wait to see the headline.”
The first murder had not gone unnoticed by the Bulletin. But it had been a reasonable four paragraphs—above the fold, of course, because, after all, murders were a rare occurrence in Baywood, Wisconsin. And if it had stopped after the first one, the victim would have been easily dismissed as that poor woman who was smothered in her own kitchen.
But then the second murder had occurred ten days later. It had been the lead story for three days running. The television folks in Madison, sixty miles southeast, had picked up the story.
The headline after the third murder had been expected. Baywood Serial Killer Strikes Again. So far they’d been able to keep most of the details under wraps, simply offering up the cause of death, the absence of any sexual assault and the location in the home where the bodies had been discovered.
But the press was getting antsy to find out why the police weren’t releasing any more information about the crime scenes. No one just lies down in their kitchen and waits to be smothered. That had come from James Adeva, the crime reporter at the Bulletin who was probably smarter than most.
He was right. Mostly. A victim might start off compliant. Yes, Mr. Bad Guy, I’ll be happy to take off my clothes and lie on this cold floor. Of course, she’d be hoping to get the upper hand at some point, or that her attacker would have a change of heart when he saw how accommodating she was. Maybe the killer had told the victim that it would be fast and painless if she didn’t struggle, but long and torturous if she did.
But no matter how it started, when it came right down to it, once the air supply got choked off, victims would instinctively put up a fight. The will to live was strong.
While Carrie did her thing, A.L. and Rena walked around, pointing at evidence that the techs needed to tag and bag. The clothes on the floor, the cell phone on the counter, the computer on the small desk in the kitchen.
After the second murder, they’d asked for resources from the state. A.L. had worried they might get in the way, but instead, they’d been helpful, especially with the computer and online activity analysis. The Picuses, like the other three families, would have no secrets by the time they were done.
The money trails they’d helped uncover had yielded a few coincidences, as one might expect. Baywood wasn’t that big, after all. Didn’t have that many grocery stores or nail salons or gas stations that their three previous victims hadn’t overlapped at times. Now, they’d find out just how much in common Jane Picus had with any or all of the others
. And regardless of how slight the connection might be, it would get followed up on.
He and Rena stood back while Carrie saw to the loading of the body into the ambulance. Then they followed her outside and watched as she walked over to Terry Picus. The two spoke briefly.
Carrie was good about remembering that while her focus was on the dead, the living couldn’t be ignored. It wasn’t possible to pretty up the indignity of an autopsy, but she would, at the very least, convey to Terry Picus that while his wife was in her custody, she would be handled with the utmost care.
She walked back to them. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m done,” she said. Then, looking at Rena, she asked, “What about Friday?”
Rena shook her head. “I’m pretty sure we’re canceling it. I’ll let you know. Nobody feels like celebrating these days. It’s not fair, but it just feels wrong.”
He waited until Carrie was gone before turning to his partner. “Another jewelry party?”
“Baby shower for Violet,” she said.
Maybe that was why Rena looked tired. Violet O’Brien was popping out her fourth kid in about as many years. And Rena and her husband had been trying for a while with no luck.
“She’s been on maternity leave more than she’s worked as the department’s secretary,” he said.
“I guess. We should talk to the husband again.”
“Yeah.” They’d exchanged basic information with him already. The guy had made the 911 call and had been waiting on the front steps when the first patrol car arrived. He and Rena had been just minutes behind. Mr. Picus had been pale and sweating, but he’d managed a few coherent sentences before his stomach had taken over.
Jane Picus had worked at the floral shop on Division. Today was her day off. She’d made him eggs and toast this morning before he’d left for work at the food plant at the edge of town. She’d still been in her pajamas. He had not talked to her or communicated with her in any way during the day. That wasn’t unusual. They’d been married for twenty-one years.
It was that last sentence that had sent him running for the rosebushes.
At some point, Jane had changed out of her pajamas into a white denim skirt and a blue T-shirt. That’s what had been neatly folded less than two feet from her dead body.
Rena knocked on the window of the patrol car before she opened the door. “Mr. Picus. I know this is a very difficult time for you, but can you answer a few more questions for us?”
The man licked his dry lips. “Our daughter is at college in Milwaukee. I...need to tell her.”
It wasn’t the kind of news a daughter should get over the phone. Unfortunately, because of the lightning speed of social media, there wasn’t a better option. The Picus family lived in a nice, middle-class neighborhood, and several neighbors were already gathering. Some idiot had probably already taken a photo and put it on Facebook. They weren’t going to be able to keep this under wraps.
A.L. saw that the man had a cell phone on his belt. “Call her. Tell her what has happened, and then we’ll have someone drive you to Milwaukee,” he said. “Before you do that, however, can I ask you about the following names and whether they mean anything to you?”
Picus nodded.
“Leshia Fowler. Marsha Knight. LeAnn Jacobs.” He didn’t need to refer to a list. He’d been dreaming about these names almost every damn night.
Picus shook his head. “They’re the other women who got killed,” he said, his voice flat. “Jane and I had read the articles in the newspaper. Had talked about the three women. How horrible it was.” The man swallowed hard. “I don’t think either one of us realized,” he added, his voice barely audible.
When had Jane Picus known that she was number four? And why the hell hadn’t she fought like a crazy woman? No. It seemed as if she’d simply gotten undressed, lain down and let the bastard smother her.
“Does your daughter have a good friend at school?” Rena asked.
“She and her roommate get along great.”
“Do you have her roommate’s phone number?” Rena followed up.
The man nodded. “In case of emergency,” he said.
A.L. was pretty confident this hadn’t been the type of emergency that Picus and his wife had been anticipating. Having a daughter close to the same age, he had an idea of how tough it might be for the kid to hear the news. Rena had been smart to think of getting some on-hand help.
“We’ll take that number. Once you’ve talked to your daughter,” he said, “we’ll contact her friend, ask her to stick close to your daughter until you can get there.”
With shaking hands, the man pulled the number up on his phone. Rena entered it into her phone. “Call your daughter, sir,” A.L. said.
Picus pressed a button, held the phone up to his ear. “Hey, honey,” he said softly. “It’s Dad.”
A.L. and Rena drifted ten feet away. There was no dignity in death, but the man deserved a little privacy to deliver the news.
“Guess I’ll make that call, then,” Rena said.
“I can do it,” A.L. said. He’d had some practice with emotional teens.
“I’ve got this,” Rena said, already dialing.
A.L. nodded and listened while Rena explained the situation briefly, providing just enough detail that the girl understood the gravity of the situation.
Rena hung up. “She’s at the library, but she said she’ll find Hailey Picus and be there until Mr. Picus arrives.”
“Good. We should try to talk to the neighbors.” They walked to the house on the right. Knocked sharply. No answer. Maybe not home from work yet.
They crossed in front of the crime scene tape and walked up the sidewalk to the house on the left. Before they could knock, a voice behind them said, “That’s my door.”
The woman, very Scandinavian-looking with her blond hair and fair skin, had a much darker-skinned baby on her hip. The kid had a pink headband wrapped around her mostly bald head.
“Detectives McKittridge and Morgan,” he said. Both showed badges. She barely glanced at them. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Reese Holden.”
“Were you home this afternoon, Mrs. Holden?”
“Ms. Holden,” she corrected. “I’m not married. And yes, I was home.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual?” Rena asked.
The woman shook her head. “I’m a graphic artist and I work out of my house. My office is in the basement, on the back side.”
“Have any knowledge that Mrs. Picus was having trouble with anybody, that anybody would want to harm her?” Rena continued.
“Jane is delightful,” she said. “Was. Was delightful.” The woman nervously straightened the headband on her kid’s head. “It’s like those other women, isn’t it?”
No woman was feeling safe in Baywood anymore. “We can’t comment, ma’am,” he said. “You don’t happen to have any exterior security cameras, do you?”
“No. But I might think about getting one,” she said.
He understood. No doubt, others were probably thinking about going to the sporting goods store and picking up a shotgun. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, we’d appreciate a call,” he said, handing her a card. Rena did the same.
They were walking away when Rena turned. “How old is your baby?” she asked.
“Seven months,” Reese said. “I adopted her when she was twelve days old. I wanted a baby but didn’t want the husband that generally comes with it.”
Rena nodded, her eyes thoughtful. “I get that.”
A.L. rode shotgun while Rena drove. He liked to look around, to study the landscape. Jane Picus had lived within the city limits of Baywood. The fifty-thousand-person city bordered the third largest lake in west-central Wisconsin, almost halfway between Madison and Eau Claire. Generally peaceful, that many people in a square radius of thir
teen miles could do some damage to one another. Add in the weekend boaters, who were regularly overserved, and the Baywood Police Department dealt with the usual assortment of crime. Burglary. Battery. Drugs. An occasional arson.
And murder. There had been two the previous year. One, a family dispute and the killer had been quickly apprehended. The other, a workplace shooter who’d turned the gun on himself after killing his boss. Neither had been pleasant, but they hadn’t shaken people’s belief that Baywood was a good place to live and raise a family. People were happy when their biggest complaint was about the size of the mosquitos.
Now, for-sale signs were popping up in yards. There would likely be more by next week. Four unsolved murders in forty days was bad. Bad for tourism, bad for police morale and certainly bad for the poor women and their families.
In less than ten minutes, they were downtown. Brick sidewalks bordered both sides of Main Street for a full six blocks. Window boxes, courtesy of the garden club, were overflowing with petunias. The police department had moved to its new building in the three-hundred block over ten years ago. Even then, it hadn’t been new, but the good citizens of Baywood had voted to put some money into the sixty-year-old former department store. There was too much glass for A.L.’s comfort on the first floor and too little air-conditioning on the second and third. But it beat the hell out of working in the factory at the edge of town.
Which was where his father and his uncle Joe still worked. The McKittridge brothers. They’d been born and raised in Baywood, raised their own families there and had never left.
A.L. had sworn that wouldn’t be his life. Yet, here he was.
Because of Traci. His sixteen-year-old daughter.
He and his ex-wife, Jacqui, hadn’t done much right together, but Traci was the exception. And he didn’t intend to leave Baywood until she graduated from high school. She was changing. Maybe it was just hormones. But he was worried. She didn’t confide in him anymore, didn’t share her secrets or dreams. Maybe thought he wouldn’t understand. Maybe thought that he’d never had any of his own.