Ever So Silent

by Christopher Little

  I load Stella into her pretty summer frock. Her dress is still damp. It won’t make any difference.

  I zip the stylishly attired and undamaged corpse into the body bag.

  My car is in the garage, which is where I will carry Stella and put her in the trunk.

  56

  “Wicked Little Girl”

  Pepper came to the front door in a frenzy of wriggling happiness. True, she hadn’t been out in a while. There was that. But her emotion was genuine. Emma appreciated her loyalty. It was especially restorative in times like these. She promised Pepper that she would take her out soon. She had something to do first as soon as she changed out of her wet clothes.

  In her basement, she found her old fingerprint kit. Wearing a pair of nitrile gloves, she carefully examined the button under a bright light and through a magnifying glass. She held the button by its edges. Even magnified, she couldn’t see a latent print, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one there.

  Using an old cop trick, she mixed some of the black powder with some white powder until the shade of the mixture was approximately the same as the gray-scale density of the button. She swirled her favorite brush, made from the hair of a squirrel’s tail, in a delicate circular motion. Using lifting tape against the surface of the button, she pressed out all the bubbles and bumps before removing the tape and sticking it to a white index card.

  “Omigod!” she exclaimed.

  It was Emma’s eureka moment. She could discern a print. It was a partial, but still …

  She didn’t readily know if it would be sufficient to get a match through IAFIS, the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, but she sure hoped so.

  Finally, she had a break, and, finally, the killer had made an error.

  The partial print was so important to her that she took the precaution of storing the card in her basement safe.

  Pepper, who was sitting next to the front door, whined and gave Emma the hairy eyeball. It was time to look after her. Emma needed some fresh air, too. The rain had stopped, the clouds were thinning, and she took Pepper for a long, head-clearing walk. The air smelled clean after the thunderstorms. Not a soul was out. They had the streets of the neighborhood to themselves. They had to avoid the many puddles.

  She decided she would call Caroline Stoner in the morning and ask her to run the print. It would be a big ask, but she hoped that Caroline would be willing to break the rules for her.

  When she arrived back at her house and while she was unlocking the front door, Pepper started acting strangely. The dog sniffed the crack under the front door. Her snout moved quickly back and forth along the bottom of the door.

  Suddenly, Pepper sat.

  Uh-oh, Emma thought. She’d left the Beretta on her bedside table before going out. She wished she hadn’t. She considered calling the cops for some backup, but she didn’t. She’d had enough of cops for one night. Besides, she had Pepper.

  She cracked the door, and Pepper pressed the door fully open with her head. She raced into the house. Emma made a split-second decision. She ran up the front staircase and retrieved the Beretta.

  Back at the bottom of the stairs, she called Pepper, who came immediately. The dog looked her in the eye and barked.

  Pepper was not a barker.

  If she’d had any doubt before, Emma knew that someone was in her house. Yet why had Pepper answered her call to return? Pepper’s training, when faced with a threat, was to strike, subdue, and guard a suspect until ordered to stand down. So, why did she come back?

  Holding the Beretta in front of her, Emma snapped up the safety lever and inserted her index finger inside the trigger guard. First, she cleared the living room; then, the dining room. There was no one in either room. She proceeded down the hall to the kitchen.

  The shock made her gasp. Having no more need for a weapon, she placed it on the dining room table. She kept her distance, but she knelt to get a better view. On the kitchen floor lay the body of Stella Weeks. A carving knife, which Emma recognized as one of her own, protruded from her chest at the level of her heart. No blood had pooled around the stab wound. Emma knew, intuitively, that Stella had been stabbed postmortem. And likely somewhere else.

  Most importantly, though, she had been stabbed with Emma’s knife.

  She checked Stella’s ankles. On her left ankle, the killer had written an X. Black Sharpie, naturally. For the first time, the letter couldn’t be read upside-down. Perhaps, it signified the last murder.

  Stella’s arms and legs were splayed away from her body like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Emma found another pair of disposable gloves. She reached out and attempted to move Stella’s left arm. As she suspected, rigor mortis. Emma knew that rigor occurred between two and six hours after death.

  Since she couldn’t prove when she’d left for Ella T. Grasso State Park, that would place Emma smack at the top of the suspect list. She couldn’t believe how ballsy the unsub was. The body had been dumped while she was walking Pepper.

  She stood and drew out a kitchen chair.

  As she had with Vanessa, Emma sat staring at the body. Jesus, she thought, two corpses in one night.

  She considered her future.

  She hadn’t forgotten that she had been summoned to headquarters for an interview the next morning. Nor had she forgotten that Skip and Buzz had not been subtle about their new-found suspicions.

  Pepper watched her carefully. The dog didn’t seem to know what to make of a dead body in her kitchen. Emma didn’t either.

  A moment later, Emma sprang into action. She went back upstairs to her bedroom and packed supplies. Clothes, toiletries, and ammo, among other items she would need. In the pantry, she packed dog food.

  She couldn’t imagine a scenario in which the Hampshire Police Department and the Connecticut State Police wouldn’t arrest her for Stella’s murder. That is what her nemesis had intended all along. If she were still chief, she would do likewise. Everything that had occurred in the lead-up to this night was a prelude to framing her for murder. Actually, four murders.

  If she wanted a chance to capture the real killer, she had no choice but to run. The only remaining question was where. She didn’t have many choices. Her two best friends were dead. She figured that Dave Mack would sooner spit on her than harbor her. She knew that Phil Masters would give her sanctuary, but it would put him in too much jeopardy. He could lose Group Therapy for hiding her. Mark Byrne came to mind. He would do it. He would be thrilled to have her. Bad idea, she thought. She would need to be much more desperate to further complicate her already messed-up life. On the other hand, Mark could be a big help. Besides muscle, she was convinced he was a good investigator. No, still a bad idea.

  She suddenly had a wildly impractical idea. What about Georgia Foster? It was true that Georgia didn’t like her very much. The feeling was mutual. But Georgia might be iconoclastic enough to say Screw everyone and let her stay. The more she thought about it, the more plausible the idea became. Georgia lived in a remote location. She didn’t appear to have any friends except her goddaughter, Sophie King, and her parents. Possibly Georgia’s dislike of cops was limited to her and Archie, but Emma had a hunch that her aversion extended to all cops.

  What’s the worst that could happen? Georgia could refuse. She could even report her to the police, but Emma would have time to get away. Then she would still be on the run, so what difference would it make?

  She loaded the supplies and Pepper into the car, and they drove away. She checked her watch. It was 9:30 p.m. She knew that the Staples in Lincoln was open until ten o’clock. She hurried there. Not too fast to attract the attention of a trooper, but fast enough to beat closing time.

  Staples was empty except for bored staff members checking their watches. She bought four disposable phones. Two could play the burner phone game. In the Staples parking lot, she pressed 911 on one of her new phones.

  She didn’t beat around the bush. What would be the point of that? She said, “There is
a dead body at Emma Thorne’s house.” She immediately clicked End.

  Keeping to the speed limit, she drove to a spot near Georgia’s house, where she waited to make certain that there was no untoward activity. In time, Pepper grew impatient. She took her for a walk in the woods. When she returned to her car, she still waited.

  Soon after 2 a.m., Emma pressed Georgia’s doorbell, fully anticipating an unpleasant reunion.

  They’d have to set their past troubles aside; Emma had punched her a couple of weeks ago.

  Georgia opened the door. She was dressed in men’s pajamas, but she didn’t look like she had been sleeping. She was carrying an iPad. To Emma’s surprise, she was grinning.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” Georgia said.

  Completely taken aback, Emma said, “What?”

  “Guess you haven’t seen the e-edition of tomorrow’s Hampshire Chronicle,” she said smugly. “Here.”

  Still standing on the threshold, Emma took the proffered iPad.

  Extra! Serial Killer on the Loose:

  Two More Murders in Hampshire

  By Virginia Hobson, Staff Reporter

  Responding to an anonymous 911 tip, police found the body of Acting Chief Stella Weeks, a veteran of the Hampshire Police Department. The body was discovered Thursday evening at the home of Emma Thorne. Ms. Thorne was recently called the “Heroine of Hampshire” by The Chronicle for her part in the rescue of abducted teenager Sophie King. Thorne was the Chief of Police until she was fired on Sunday, June 20, by Mayor Dick Wardlaw.

  Police are searching for Thorne, who was not at home when they arrived at what one officer described as “a grisly scene.”

  Earlier this evening, police were directed to Ella T. Grasso State Park, where they found the partially-decomposed body of Vanessa Mack, bound to a tree. Ms. Mack of 17 Highcroft Terrace was the wife of David Mack and two young children. It is reported that Thorne led them to the body before disappearing. Police are investigating both crimes.

  Lieut. Skip Munro of the Connecticut State Police Major Crimes Squad told this newspaper, “We are considering Emma Thorne as a suspect in the murders of Ethan Jackson, Deb Barger, Vanessa Mack and, tonight, Chief Weeks. A warrant has been issued for her arrest. If anyone has any knowledge of her whereabouts, please call the Hampshire Police Department. All information will be kept strictly confidential.

  After Emma finished reading, Georgia said, “Why you wicked little girl! What have you been up to?”

  To Emma’s further surprise, Georgia gestured for Emma to enter her house.

  57

  Presumed Guilty

  “I’ll bet you need a drink,” Georgia said cheerily, like she was hosting a party. “I know I do if I’m going to be harboring a fugitive.”

  Utterly confused, Emma watched her pour two massive whiskeys, no ice. Georgia handed her one. Emma had expected, and was prepared, to have to beg. She couldn’t understand her sister-in-law’s reaction to her arrival. Georgia had never hidden the fact that she despised Emma.

  After a sip, a gulp, really, of some smoky, expensive-tasting single malt, Emma asked, “Why are you helping me?”

  “I would do anything for Will.”

  Emma absorbed that explanation, but she was still puzzled.

  “Sister-in-law to sister-in-law,” Georgia said with teasingly arched eyebrows, “why did you do it?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Emma said. “How could you even think that?” As she said it, she realized that the whole town would be asking the same question. The cops, her former colleagues, would surely presume her guilt.

  “Until tonight,” Emma said, “the cops thought that your brother was the killer.”

  “I know.”

  Emma took notice. “How did you know?”

  “I’m a good guesser.” Georgia stood. She drained her whiskey and said, “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to. I’ve prepared my best guest room for you. The sheets are clean, and I laid towels out on the bed. It’s all ready for you. Let’s get some rest, and we can talk more in the morning.”

  “But how did you know I was coming?” Emma said, more perplexed than ever.

  She stared at Georgia. Her left eye had started its idiosyncratic tic, coupled with her strange grin.

  “Just a guess,” Georgia said. She headed for the stairs.

  Georgia showed her the way to the guest room, said good night, and left her alone.

  The tiniest of whispers told her to lock her door, which she did. Although she didn’t feel completely safe, despite having Pepper with her, she decided that she was as safe as she was ever going to be while on the run. She knew from experience that every cop in the state would be carrying her photograph. Cops took manhunts for serial killers seriously.

  The guest room was elegantly appointed. Georgia had already drawn the ceiling to floor curtains. The Persian carpet was anything but threadbare. Dominating the room was an antique, chestnut sleigh bed. It looked comfortable and inviting. A stack comprised of a bath towel, a hand towel, and a washcloth lay on the bed, perfectly folded at a meticulous forty-five-degree angle to the bed. She remembered a years-ago conversation in which Will had said how obsessive his sister could be.

  Emma kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed. It was comfortable.

  The full impact of the events of the night hit her, as did the deep sadness she felt for Vanessa. The image of her, savagely bound to that tree, would stay with her for the rest of her life. The same was true of Deb. What madness.

  There were so many, many voids in her life.

  How did Georgia know that the police had suspected Will? She must have a source in the department. Who? Emma remembered Georgia and Stella having a conversation at Ethan’s funeral and how chummy they had appeared. It wouldn’t shock her in the slightest if Stella was the leak. She had certainly leaked to Virginia Hobson. And how did Georgia know that Emma would show up at her doorstep for refuge?

  She concluded that Georgia knew way too much.

  Emma couldn’t risk using her own cell phone—the police would be all over that—which was why she’d purchased the disposable phones. Using one of them, she logged into her iCloud account and downloaded her texts before quickly logging out. She was shocked by how many there were, all time stamped earlier in the evening. She read them with mounting dread. Hampshire’s ether had been crackling.

  Come in, Emma. If you are innocent, it is the only way we can clear you. Lieutenant Munro

  If I ever see you again, I swear I’ll rip your heart out! Feel free to share this text with the cops when they catch your psycho ass. Vanessa loved you. Think about that while you rot in prison and wait for the electric chair. Snap, crackle, pop. Dave Mack

  Emma, Julian Jackson here. Damn you to hell for murdering my father. I’d like to torture you like you did those women. You will pay for this.

  Emma, I need to talk to you. We can meet someplace secret. I swear I won’t tell the police. Please? Sophie King

  I care about you, Emma. Running will only make matters worse. Contact me, and I can arrange for your safe surrender. Your friend, Caroline

  The strangest one of all was from Joe Henderson:

  Since you fucked up my life, I was glad to learn that your life is way, way more fucked than mine will ever be. I was a good influence on Sophie. She was just too young to realize it. Joe (Henderson, in case you’ve forgotten)

  Despite the kind words from Caroline and the odd request from Sophie, Emma was devastated.

  En masse, people had prejudged her. They hated her. They were convinced that she was guilty. She had half a mind to get in her car and drive to police headquarters.

  But she couldn’t.

  She reached for Pepper, but the dog was asleep. Emma knew she would get no sleep herself that night. She took all her clothes off, toweled herself off, and climbed into the crisp sheets of the sleigh bed. She tried to sleep, but she kept thinking about Georgia.

  Had she stupidly waltzed int
o the lion’s den?

  Was there a shirt with a missing button hiding in this house?

  Next, she thought about Joe Henderson, the man Lincoln Detective Dave Swanson suspected of running a “sex trafficking ring involving female minors.” Why was Joe texting her, and how did he know her number?

  58

  On the Lam

  Friday morning, Emma came downstairs to the smell of frying bacon. Georgia had a neat table set in the breakfast nook. Complete with ironed, linen napkins. A bay window framed her sunlit garden. As she had been the night before, she was bright and cheery. Emma couldn’t figure out what to make of this odd change in Georgia’s behavior.

  “I hope you like bacon and eggs. I have some scones, too.”

  Emma was too polite not to thank her. She added, “I do like bacon and eggs. Thank you. Listen, Georgia, we need to talk.”

  “What about?” she said. She drained the bacon on a paper towel and brought the bacon and eggs to the table. Pepper whined, and Emma shook her head, no. Forlornly, Pepper lay at her feet wishing for her own breakfast.

  Emma concentrated on Georgia as she said, “You need to know that I have not hurt anyone. I am only responsible to the extent that whoever has committed these vile acts seems to be targeting me. My sole goal is to find out who the killer is and stop him … or her.”

  Georgia’s face and body language betrayed nothing. She said, “It’s going to be a bit tricky to continue your investigation while every cop in the state is looking for you. Isn’t it?”

  Even her characteristic left eye tic didn’t erupt.

  Emma changed the subject. “You make a reasonable point. If I am going to continue, I can’t go around in my own car, and I can’t clear my name from prison. Can I borrow your car?”