Girl, Alone (An Ella Dark FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

by Blake Pierce

  “Finally,” Jenna said, adjusting her skirt. “Where have you been, woman?”

  “I can’t stay,” Ella said. “Work needs me to go on a trip. So sorry. I wish I could stay,” she lied.

  “Screw work. You’re always doing work.”

  “They need me. It’s a big deal.” Ella put her hand on the door handle to her bedroom, but stopped herself opening it at the last second. She turned around to her roommate.

  “Jen?”

  “What?”

  “There’s no one in here, is there?”

  Jenna took her drink back from the stranger. She bit her lip and made a worried face. “No. Well, I don’t know. You could try knocking?”

  Ella shook her head. She wasn’t about to knock on her own bedroom door. She burst inside, and unsurprisingly, found a couple getting acquainted on her bed. They both turned to her, looking like deer caught in the headlights. Ella recognized neither the guy nor the girl. Ella dropped her head in her hands and then pointed to the door. Both of them scrambled off the bed in record time.

  Jenna appeared in the doorway.

  “Oh, you didn’t use Ella’s bedroom, did you?” She addressed her question to the culprits, who hadn’t yet said a word. “That’s so annoying. I’m not happy with either of you.”

  Ella turned to Jenna and gave a look of disapproval. “Where in our massive duplex did you think they’d be? In the guest suite?”

  Jenna laughed. “Good one. Get out of here, you two.”

  They scrambled away, not making eye contact with Ella. “Go on, shoo.” She turned to Ella. “Where are you going, anyway?”

  “Louisiana,” Ella said. She pulled open her wardrobe and took out the first clothes she found. She found her bag and stuffed them inside.

  “Like, the south? Why? That’s miles away.”

  Ella thought of a believable excuse. “Training,” she said. She fetched her toothbrush, a few books, and a bunch of hair ties. She threw them in her bag alongside her laptop. The essentials. She assumed her hotel would provide the rest.

  “Sounds awful. When are you gonna be back?”

  Ella thought about it. She realized that she didn’t know. “Could be a few days, could be a week.”

  “A week?” Jenna asked, dropping her jaw for effect. “But what if I need you? What if I need to reset the security alarm again? What if I need you to fill out those forms for the gas and electricity?”

  Ella ran a quick check in her head. She had everything she needed to survive out in the wild. She wasn’t really listening to Jenna prattle on. “You’ll be fine. Just call me. I’m going to the south, not Mars.”

  Jenna put her hands on her hips. “Have you ever been to the south, El? It’s like going to the past. You won’t fit in.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Ella said, heading into the living area. She saw about ten people congregating on her sofa and her floor, almost none of them she recognized. In more than one way, she was thankful she was being sent on a case. She headed toward the front door. Jenna caught up with her.

  “Good luck and be safe,” she said, hugging her again.

  Ella looked beyond her to the gentleman Jenna been chatting with, still loitering idly in the hallway. “You too,” Ella said, moving her gaze from him to her roommate.

  Ella left her apartment and hurried down the hallway. The music gradually faded from her eardrums as she went out into the night toward her new life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  For her entire career, Ella had bought into the myth that all FBI special agents flew via private jet. But as her taxi dropped her off at the hustling Reagan Washington National Airport, she realized she’d been deceived.

  Things outside seemed much clearer than they had earlier. Despite the stiff graze of winter’s breath and the endless torrent of rain which soaked her from head to toe, Ella saw a somber beauty in the shadows, like the outside world had taken on a fourth dimension while she had been indoors.

  This was what she worked for, and god knows she was going to grab it by the horns.

  She collected her one-way ticket and headed straight for Gate 31. It was nearing 9:30 p.m., so security lines were minimal. But when she approached the back of the line, one of the airport staff pulled her aside and escorted her through without question. She’d never had the first-class treatment before, but it was a welcome perk. She was marched directly through the rickety tunnel and onto the aircraft, straight down into the glittering business lounge. Cream leather seats were perched up against long rectangular windows, positioned opposite each other with a gloss white table between them. Up ahead, she saw a marble table with a gleaming white coffee machine perched on the side.

  “Rookie?” a voice asked. “Are you the rookie?”

  Ella turned around to face the far corner. A redheaded woman, dressed in suede heels and a black suit, sat sipping from a miniature bottle. She had pale eyes and chiseled, distinguished features. She looked around early fifties, although her real age eluded Ella. She looked to be in incredible shape, like a yoga teacher, Ella thought. There was clear muscle definition in her legs and forearms, at least from what Ella could see. There were a few patches of dried skin on her cheeks and forehead, possibly the effects of nicotine or alcohol. Ripley didn’t strike her as a smoker, not in her line of work. When Ella saw that the miniature was straight bourbon, she had her answer.

  Ella was a little taken aback. She’d never seen Mia Ripley in person before.

  “Well?”

  “Yes, I’m the rookie, Agent Ripley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The stern woman returned her gesture, motioning with her other hand to join her on the seat opposite.

  Behind them, the rest of the passengers began to board. Ella parked herself on the chair while the rush of footsteps filled the rest of the plane. No one else joined them in business class.

  Ripley narrowed her eyes as she read something on her laptop, then she closed the case with a sudden jolt. Tales of Ripley’s heroism out in the field were common knowledge throughout the entire organization. She’d caught Iowa’s most famous and sadistic serial killer, Lucien Myers, after tracking him on foot through a rural farmhouse. When a kid in Florida had taken his schoolmates hostage, Ripley had been the one to talk him down. Most amazingly of all, at least to Ella, was that Ripley once drew up an offender profile so accurate she predicted they’d catch the killer wearing a double-breasted suit and black tie. A few days later, that’s exactly what happened.

  There was definitely something formidable about her. Ella wanted to initiate conversation but didn’t know where to start. Pleasantries? Ask her about the case? Ask her if all the stories were true?

  “So, who are you and why are we working together?” Ripley asked, locking her crystal green eyes with Ella’s. “Been out in the field before?”

  “Ella Dark. Twenty-eight. Intelligence analyst for the past three years.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve only worked from behind a desk, but I’ve dreamt of being a special agent all my life.”

  “Dreamt about it?”

  “Very much so.”

  “So why have you never done anything about it?”

  The question stumped her. The truth was that she didn’t have an answer. Sometimes fantasies were best left as just that.

  “I never really got the chance,” Ella lied. “It must be a fascinating job.”

  Ripley took a gulp of whiskey and pulled out a brown folder from her bag. She threw it on the table. “Before we get going, let me make some things clear. This job isn’t for the weak, and no, it’s not fascinating in the slightest. It might be fascinating to crime junkies who get off on gory details and live vicariously through the people who have to see this shit in the flesh, but to any level-headed adult, there’s nothing fascinating here. I’ve got two ex-husbands and two kids I never saw grow up, all because this job demanded my full attention. I’ve seen more colleagues die than you’ve seen episodes of Seinfeld. Don’t think this is a fr
ee trip around the country, because it’s not. You’re going to see horrific shit that’ll haunt you until the day you die. Okay?”

  A numb silence hung in the air. Ella nodded. “Understood. I’m here to treat things with the utmost respect and professionalism.”

  “Good,” Ripley said. “Now, I’ll be honest, I wanted to work this one alone. But Edis told me he wanted you to tag along. Another new scheme by the geniuses in Behavioral, or something?”

  “That’s what he told me,” Ella said. “This is completely new to me, too.”

  “I was a little insulted, but then he told me something about the Greenville Strangler. Care to fill me in?”

  Although she’d said nothing about her career, Ella instantly knew that all of the stories about Mia Ripley were undoubtedly true. There seemed to be a constant fire in her eyes, as though years of investigative work had blunted her enjoyment of life’s pleasures. Ella had seen a thousand cops in the same position. Depressed, frustrated, and ill-tempered. There was a reason police officer suicide rates were some of the highest of any profession.

  “Last year, an unsub was strangling women in South Carolina,” Ella began. “Disorganized sociopath. Reckless.”

  “I know who he was,” Ripley chimed in. “What did you have to do with it?”

  Ella quickly considered how much of the story to tell. Should she play herself up, or play it modestly? I’ll stick to the facts, she thought, nothing more.

  “When I was reading about the case on the system, I found out the Strangler gained access to his victims’ homes by smashing their windows. Yet, all his victims were strangled while they slept. Surely, shattering glass would wake someone up, right?”

  “Agreed,” said Ripley.

  “There was an obscure case in Japan in 1988 with exactly the same type of contradiction, so I pleaded with forensics to inspect the locks on the victims’ front doors. I personally believed they had the profile all wrong. He knew exactly what he was doing when he smashed those windows, but investigators read the whole situation wrong.”

  The plane went into pitch blackness for takeoff. An overhead light came on, drenching Ella and Ripley in a sickly yellow glow.

  “The truth was he broke in through the front door, then left the house out the window after locking the front door behind him. He then broke the window from the outside to draw attention away from where the real clue was—the front door lock.”

  Ripley sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. Her arms had been folded, but she now unfolded them to summon over a flight attendant. She motioned to bring them two coffees. Her body language change wasn’t lost on Ella.

  “Interesting,” said Ripley, “but how did that help catch him?”

  “Forensics swept the locks and found traces of nylon filament in every single one.”

  The plane rolled slowly along as it took its position on the runway. Ella took a deep breath and tried not to think about takeoff. In truth, flying terrified her, but she knew better than to mention it.

  “And, well, this reminded me of another obscure case. Mexico. A killer used guitar strings to break into people’s homes. He would bend them, like a paperclip, and thrust it into the lock. The string mimicked the shape of the tumbler, so he could turn it with ease.”

  “I see,” Ripley said. “Well, that’s news to me.”

  Ella picked up her stride. She was in her element. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t talked about her input on the Strangler case to anyone. This was her first time relaying the facts to someone, and it felt incredible.

  “Guitar strings are made with nylon filament, but it needs to be a real thick string to work. A bass string, in fact. Forensics narrowed down the type of material to a very specific bass string, then investigators went through all the music shops nearby who sold that same item.”

  “And?”

  “CCTV footage did the rest. The police’s greatest ally.”

  Ripley blinked several times for effect. “Quite impressive. You must have really done your research.”

  Have I won her over? Ella thought. Not yet, I need to go further.

  “Not really. The Japan and Mexico cases came from memory. I’ve studied every serial murder case in existence. I started doing it twenty years ago and haven’t stopped. Any killer, any victim, any country in the world. I can tell you victimology, methodology, times, dates, locations. If there’s a pattern of history repeating itself, I’ll know it.”

  Ripley motioned to the brown folder on the table. “What do you make of these?”

  Ella inspected each photo one by one, silently hoping she’d said enough to impress her new partner. The first picture showed a woman lying on an autopsy table covered in a white sheet. It showed the jagged cut where her head used to be.

  “Christine Hartwell. Forty-two years old. Assaulted and murdered in her store around six p.m. this evening. The local PD think the murders might be related to two others in the past week.”

  Ella took the information in. She nodded. “Were they similar?” she asked.

  “No. The first victim was a teenage girl, abducted and dismembered. The second victim was an old woman, killed while she slept. And now this.”

  Ella didn’t have to think hard. “All female, but completely different ages and M.O.s.”

  “Exactly. If you ask me, they’re not connected, so let’s focus on this recent victim for now. Any thoughts when you look at these pictures?”

  Ella wasn’t a stranger to gruesome images, not by a long shot, but something about the photographs was more real than anything she’d seen before. This was a real person, who only five hours ago had been contemplating life and dreams, and now she was an exhibition to be scrutinized.

  Ella stayed silent. The truth was she saw nothing but a headless carcass. She breathed deeply, praying that she’d find at least something to contribute.

  “In addition to her being shot, the lacerations along her neck look almost identical to the pattern of the cuts on the Villisca Ax Murderer’s victims, so I’d guess he used to ax to decapitate her. The amount of blood at the scene means she was murdered on site, and the fact he came with two weapons means that this was premeditated. He’s not impulsive. He knew exactly what he was going to do.”

  She moved to the next photograph. A pool of dried blood.

  And then she noticed something in the corner of the photograph. She felt a brief spark behind her eyes, like two pieces of electrical wire momentarily touching.

  Beside the mutilated body, she saw a sign which read Tungsten Tip Screws $0.99.

  “The victim ran a hardware store?” Ella asked.

  “Correct.”

  She thought back to earlier in the evening.

  Norman Bates.

  Psycho.

  A gun, an ax, a hardware store. It was all there.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  Ripley caught her eye. “What is it?” she asked. “I can see the cogs are turning.”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t hide from a profiler. Come on, out with it.”

  Even in total darkness, the Washington, D.C., skyline zigged and zagged with elegant poise. And then it was gone, replaced with brief whispers of clouds and stars.

  Ella brought the crime scene photo up to eye level. “No, it’s nothing,” she began, “it’s just a lot to take in.”

  However, what Ella didn’t say was she was certain she’d seen this exact scene somewhere before.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Around two hours and three whiskeys into the night, their plane landed at Monroe Regional Airport in Louisiana. Ella stuck to coffee, but Ripley hadn’t been quite so reserved.

  Despite Ella’s questions, she realized that she hadn’t learned much about the woman in front of her. Ripley’s exterior was impenetrable, like that one schoolteacher who never smiled and never let slip any comment that wasn’t related to the school curriculum. Whether Ripley liked or hated her was a mystery she’d have to wait a little longer to solve,
if ever an answer came.

  Midnight dawned. It felt as though days had passed since she was at the shooting range back in Washington. Whether it was jetlag, excitement, tiredness, or a nameless emotion Ella was only now experiencing for the first time, she didn’t know. She fought off sleep, not wanting Ripley to think she couldn’t handle a little exhaustion.

  Once the hum of the plane’s engine disappeared, Ella and Ripley were the first to be called off. The runway was alight with a string of orange lamps that formed a path into the airport. The air felt different. Colder than back home, but fresher. It was what her aunt would have called brass monkey weather if she was still around. Ella never cared to look up the origin.

  Ripley marched on ahead, long black woolen coat with a satchel over her shoulder. Even in her robotic determination to reach the airport lounge, she had a weird elegance about her. Ella put her backpack on both shoulders, and after seeing Ripley’s near-empty satchel, worried that she might have packed too heavily.

  “Where to first?” Ella called out. “Hotel?”

  Ripley led the way, clearly having been here before. “Hold up your passport,” she said.

  A yellow-vested airport steward motioned for them to follow him. He opened up a side gate in the security area and waved them through. They passed the baggage area, where conveyor belts whirred devoid of any contents or crowds hustling around. Ella found it eerily quiet, with only the automated voice overhead providing any background noise.

  All passengers for the twelve-forty flight to Washington, D.C., please board now.

  In the lounge area, a row of glass windows overlooked the airport parking lot. In front of them, a solitary figure stood gazing out.

  “Sheriff Harris,” Ripley called out.

  The gentleman turned around. He wore a tweed jacket, both his hands in its pockets. A cigarette was tucked behind his ear. He had short black hair, receding somewhat violently. He reached his hand out to Ripley.