Her Last Whisper: An absolutely unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Katie Scott Book 2)

by Jennifer Chase

  “You got it.”

  “I have several meetings to get to. And I don’t have to remind you how much your parents would have been so proud of everything you’ve accomplished,” he said. “I still feel like they’re here in spirit.” He paused for a moment, and then he was gone.

  She retrieved her briefcase from the hall, shed her suit jacket, and stood alone in the middle of the large musty office. It was time to get to work bringing closure and justice to as many victims’ families as possible.

  Two

  He traveled through the crowd with confidence, causing people to make way for him as he walked. It always gave him a thrill; the brush of a shoulder, the light graze of a fingertip, the distinct odors that proved everyone was truly unique.

  Sweet perfume.

  Day-old Scotch.

  Fresh laundry.

  Sweat.

  All were part of the fantasy he held close; his personal collection of what made each individual who they were. Their truth. He felt the tension of the lunchtime crowd—hunger; desire; loneliness; hatred; longing; wanting—and craved the unadulterated reality they hid from everyone else. Their most personal secret.

  He smiled at a pair of women as they casually passed by him. One smiled back and the other, more interesting to him, looked away. Curiosity burned inside. What was she hiding? What did she dislike about him so much? What did she dislike about herself? The questions piled up, but he knew how to keep his insatiable curiosity in check.

  Standing in line for a coffee, he noticed ahead of him a brunette with honey-colored highlights clipped into place with an elegant gold barrette. He watched her lips, doused with a carnation pink lipstick, move gently as she ordered her drink. Leaning closer, he took in her dark gray suit and pale pink blouse, unbuttoned to give a little hint of what was underneath. He inhaled. Lilac. Clean oatmeal soap.

  He heard the coffee kiosk employee call her Tess.

  Tess, beautiful Tess. I wonder what deep dark secrets would come tumbling out of you at the right time?

  He shadowed her as she walked away, careful not to draw attention to himself. Following. Learning. Finally on the hunt again…

  Tess…

  Three

  Monday 1300 hours

  Looking around at her new office space, it dawned on Katie that with no windows, there was no sound or natural light. The room was in desperate need of something living—perhaps a couple of plants would help. She wondered if the forensic division—John and his two technicians—minded her taking up space in their area at the police department. It was somewhat unorthodox, but she felt that it was going to work out well for her. She was a bit of a loner, so the quiet suited her just fine. In fact, she felt rather at home.

  Sitting at her desk, perching on the edge of her too-big leather chair, Katie felt she needed to do something physical to calm the flurries in her stomach and slightly shaky hands. She rolled her chair back and swiveled toward the two towering stacks of boxes. A mismatch of sizes and styles, the boxes looked ready to fall at any moment. Splitting them into four smaller stacks, she noticed that a couple of the boxes had the distinct musty smell of old paper. It saddened her that these were some of the oldest cold cases, those that had little hope of ever being solved.

  The quietness of the basement wrapped itself around her. No voices. No whoosh of air conditioning above her head. No sound of cars rattling outside. The only noise she could hear was her own breath as she adjusted the furniture in the room to better suit her needs.

  She turned the two five-foot desks to face one another—that way she could use the extra space when she opened evidence boxes. She pushed the ink board over to the other corner where it would be easy for her to begin making her notes and wouldn’t take up any more precious space than necessary.

  Along the back wall were long Formica counters and a sink. Originally designed for a forensic technician, they were now cluttered with yet more cold-case boxes. She opened the cupboard beneath the sink and found some paper towels to wipe away the heavy dust around the room. The old cupboards had a sharp sour smell as if they hadn’t been opened in a decade.

  When everything was set up, Katie decided to start by getting all her new employment paperwork out of the way so she could get to work on the case files without interruption. She quickly initialed each page to indicate that she understood the regulations of her duty as a police detective. It included the insurance coverage, back pay, vacation time, overtime, and union information. She recorded her previous work experience as a patrol officer at Sacramento Police Department as well as her time in the military. Most sheriff departments required a minimum of four years’ law enforcement experience to apply for a detective position, but her previous experience, college degree, and military time were more than sufficient. It also helped that the department had received glowing letters from her previous supervisor at Sacramento PD, her co-workers, and even the mayor for her dedication and hard work on the missing girl case.

  Just as Katie’s vision was beginning to blur from tedious box checking, there was a knock at her door.

  Chad Ferguson appeared in the doorway and walked directly into Katie’s office. His infectious smile, light sandy hair, and his immediate warmth made him the center of attention in any room.

  “Hey there,” said Katie as she rose from her chair to greet him. She had known Chad since they were eight years old and he was her closest childhood friend. There were very few childhood memories that he wasn’t in. They had dated in high school, but then life had taken them in different directions. Both had left Pine Valley for a while and had returned recently at around the same time. She wasn’t exactly sure how to define their relationship now.

  “I wanted to see you,” he said.

  “I’m glad you did.” She couldn’t keep his constant gaze. Since seeing him again, after the last terrifying outcome with a serial killer, she still felt a surge of attraction.

  “Interesting office…” He gazed around.

  Katie laughed. “It’s different. I was just trying to rearrange it so that it didn’t feel like I was in someone’s basement.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you from your work.” He glanced at the well-worn boxes. “I wanted to say congratulations in person and invite you out to dinner tonight.”

  Katie leaned against her desk, taken aback. She had wanted to keep things between them unromantic until she’d settled in to her new job and civilian life a bit more. And even then, she wasn’t so sure if she should jump into a serious relationship.

  “I can see you’re hesitating. Maybe we can go out to dinner another time?”

  “No, no. Dinner sounds nice,” she countered, trying not to let her voice rise another octave.

  “Well, actually…”

  Katie knew that look, had seen it many times when they were growing up; his blue eyes twinkled irresistibly and signaled that he had something really important to share. “Spit it out,” she said. “C’mon, how long have I known you? You have something important on your mind.”

  “I thought we could celebrate both of our new jobs.”

  “What? You finally were hired full time?”

  “Yep, you are looking at an official full-time firefighter for Sequoia County. No more picking up short gigs here and there,” he said with some relief to his voice.

  “That’s great. I’m so happy for you.” She gave him a quick hug.

  “So that means we both have something to celebrate,” he said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Pick you up around 7.30 p.m.?”

  “Uh,” she hesitated. “Sure. See you then.”

  He walked slowly to the door, barely turned the corner, and then leaned back into the room and said, “Detective Scott, I think this job agrees with you. I wouldn’t have left here with anything except a yes for dinner.”

  Four

  Monday 1745 hours

  Katie had lost track of time as she piled her large work desk with thick file organizers and corresponding b
anker’s boxes, sorting everything by urgency and solvability. She not only wanted to read through the top cases pulled personally by the sheriff, but also familiarize herself with the kinds of cases that generally went cold. It wasn’t only homicides; there were sexual assaults, burglaries, missing persons, and one arson case that took place when she was a teenager.

  As she scanned the case overview notes, she realized that there were some significant problems and stumbling blocks with almost every case. It made them extremely difficult, especially some of the older ones, which had missing evidence and insufficient detective notes, and where many of the prime suspects and witnesses were deceased or missing.

  She turned on her desktop computer and waited for it to warm up, instantly recognizing the database that she had spent time updating when she had returned home from the military and her uncle, the sheriff, had suggested she fill in at the records division until she figured out what she wanted to do. She had been assigned to enter all types of police data from investigation files, patrol reports, crime reports, warrants, and various traffic citations, so she was one step ahead when it came to learning the ropes.

  After careful consideration, Katie decided that she would create a streamlined spreadsheet for the overview of cases, and it would make it easier for her to write weekly updates for the sheriff. She quickly created a system using her own version of abbreviations, solvability rates and key case information and got to work.

  In the first box she opened, the ones suggested by the sheriff, there were several files she skimmed through. The first case involved a missing person from ten years previous: Sam Stiles, thirty-four years old, who worked at Palmer’s Auto Repair, left work early feeling unwell one day and was never seen again. The sheriff had made a notation that Stiles was known for fighting in bars, usually over card or pool games. There were a few leads from friends, co-workers, and patrons at the bar he frequented regularly, but all leads petered out and then the case eventually went cold. No forensics. No eye witnesses. Sam Stiles never resurfaced; the family still checked with the sheriff’s department every year on Sam’s birthday to find out if there were any new leads.

  Katie sat back in her chair and mulled over the facts of the case. Ten years was a long time, but perhaps a fresh look would pull up something now the dust had well and truly settled. Or, perhaps not. She put the folder aside for now and opened another file for a kidnapping and assault case from only six months ago.

  Six months and a cold case already?

  Katie read the brief overview of the case to make sure that it hadn’t been misfiled. There was a note inside that read: undetermined—victim uncooperative—cold case. Not something that she had ever seen before.

  Her interest piqued, she began to read the account carefully. The original report was typed, double spaced, and sorted neatly into sections of a special file folder. It had been written by Deputy Karl Windham, one of the two officers who had discovered the victim that night. Katie didn’t know the officer personally, but was impressed by how thoroughly the report was written and the detailed recording of events. There were even some initial photos.

  The victim was Amanda Payton, a thirty-one-year-old nurse working for First Memorial Hospital, who had run out into the road in the middle of the night, scarcely clothed and was almost hit by a patrol car. The two officers, Deputy Windham and his partner Deputy Miller, were the ones who had first contact with Amanda. She’d been disoriented, covered in dirt and blood, and had difficulty conversing with the officers. She kept repeating the phrase, “I told the truth.”

  Reading through the rest of the report, Amanda claimed she had been kidnapped from her car at a grocery store, held for over a week by a man whom she never saw, then escaped that rainy night and was luckily picked up by the police. After taking Amanda back to the station to warm up and make a full report, the deputies went back and thoroughly searched the area she had cryptically described, but they never found anything to corroborate her claim of kidnapping and being held against her will. The deputies looked at houses with blue doors and white trim, near large tree landmarks, for evidence of the bedroom, of restraints, or anything to indicate someone had been imprisoned. There was nothing; none of her remaining clothes, blood, or paraphernalia of the perpetrator was found. The deputies had taken extra efforts to search for anything that indicated any type of criminal activity and anything confirming Amanda’s story, but their attempt came back negative.

  Amanda was later admitted to the South Street Psychiatric Hospital for a seventy-two-hour hold, which was routine observation for any victim who had shown severe anxiety, unable to sufficiently explain what had happened, and unable to assist in the investigation surrounding their circumstances. Deputy Windham had made the call to take Amanda to be checked out.

  Reading on, Katie saw that there was little investigation into her kidnapping claims due to the lack of evidence corroborating her story except for her injuries. It made Amanda’s case almost impossible. There were some follow-up phone calls to Amanda’s place of work, to her supervisor Dr. Jamison, and to Amanda personally after she had been released from the psychological evaluation—but she wouldn’t cooperate further with police because they were asking so many questions and she sensed they didn’t believe her. She claimed that she just wanted to put the horrible incident behind her. The investigation was left at a standstill and was ultimately shuffled into the backlog—then into the cold cases when no more leads materialized. Katie looked up from the file, trying to take it all in.

  She thumbed through the photographs that the hospital and deputies had taken of Amanda. The lighting was poor, but it was clear there were dark bruise marks around her wrists and ankles consistent with restraints over a period of time. Her neck was scratched in a way that could possibly have been caused by some type of restraint. The toxicology report was clean—no drugs: prescription or otherwise.

  After the photos, there was a notation that the rape kit had not been used to test Amanda for signs of sexual assault. Katie shuffled back through the original report from Deputy Windham where Amanda had specifically told the officers that she wasn’t raped. Flipping back to the forensic evidence reports, it had been reported that the hospital had taken her remaining clothing, bra and panties, and packaged them to be transported to the forensic division at the sheriff’s office. The report didn’t have test results or proof that the clothing ever arrived.

  Were they misplaced? Backlogged?

  Katie looked at the photos again and studied the injuries and wondered if they could have been self-inflicted. But the more she stared, the more she was convinced by the angles and depth that someone else had perpetrated those injuries. It was possible that the injuries were sustained in another way—even consensual. But if Amanda didn’t want to further cooperate, there was nothing the police could do to move forward.

  Katie wanted to talk with Amanda to hear what happened in her own words, to see for herself if she was telling the truth. The last thing she wanted was a case like this to fall through the cracks, leaving a violent perpetrator on the loose. She knew firsthand that women were often reluctant to report attacks and sexual assaults. She had seen cases when she was a patrol officer; and in the army, she had heard about women raped and assaulted with little investigation. There was no way she would let that happen with Amanda Payton’s case. She would make some enquiries and if it proved that there was more to Amanda’s story, she would keep digging.

  Looking at the personal information that the deputies had gathered from Amanda at the time, Katie called the phone number listed. The call immediately went to a recording announcing that it was no longer a working number. She called it again to make sure, but with the same result. Out of service.

  Katie wrote down Amanda’s last known address: 1127 Brickyard Street, apartment #14. It was almost 6 p.m. and the block was on her way home. Grabbing her briefcase and the office keys, she left.

  Five

  Monday 1815 hours

  Katie dro
ve her assigned police vehicle to the downtown area and looked for Brickyard Street going northeast. Traffic was heavy, but as she drove steadily through the inching sets of cars, weaving in and out of the lanes occasionally, she realized that it felt a bit peculiar and somewhat freeing to be moving through her first investigation on the first day. She felt a little rush of independence break through her nerves.

  It had been only six months since the suspected kidnapping and it was likely that Amanda still lived at the same residence. Katie composed some questions in her head, running them through as she drove. She needed to be compassionate about her approach; kidnapping or not, it was obvious from the photographs that Amanda had been through some type of trauma. If what she told Deputy Windham was true, the case needed a much closer investigation and Katie wanted all the facts before deciding one way or another.

  She slowed the sedan and made a right turn from Main Street onto Brickyard Street where many remodeled old and quite large residences had been turned into apartment complexes. Pine Valley had been growing significantly over the past ten years and always pushed to accommodate more people. Mature trees dotted the sidewalks giving shade to the flowers blooming from low-lying bushes.

  She drove another block until she found number 1127: a two-story development painted dark brown with white trim. She searched for a parking spot on the street, driving around the block twice until she found one. Most of the cars parked along the street and in designated parking spaces were small compacts to mid-size SUVs. It was clear that the neighborhood was made up of the average working force mixed with young families.

  Getting out of the car, Katie watched as cars sped down adjacent streets, racing to get home. Several teenagers rode down the sidewalk on their bicycles talking and laughing with one another. She kept walking until she stood at the gate entrance to Amanda Payton’s apartment. Quickly surveying the area, she noticed the bushes and flowering vines had been trimmed recently but the steppingstones were cracked and some were missing. Someone had left a roasting pan filled with water as a makeshift birdbath.