by J K Ellem
She had printed the report, because she wanted to show it to Ben as soon as he got back.
As she scanned the words again, Clare tried to visualise what the young girl must have gone through. It was unimaginable.
She placed the report aside and opened the other emails Reynolds sent her. The results were back on the forensic testing on the switchblade knife recovered from Molly’s store. The prints matched to a Freddy Myers, one of the suspects Molly had identified, and who had pulled the knife on Shaw. All three suspects were clearly visible on the CCTV footage recovered from the hard drive.
Clare called up Myers’s details again from the police database and looked at his photo. He had a rap sheet a mile long. Mainly petty crimes, no felons. She called up Micky Dent’s history and ran her eyes down the page. He was the main ringleader, according to Molly. He had no priors, and his file was clean apart from a DUI and a fight outside a bar in Memphis over twelve months ago.
The last of the trio was David McDonald. Like Micky Dent, McDonald had a clean sheet as well.
It made no sense. All three men had arrived in Echo Mountain around the same time and all started work at the logging camp together. Had they known each other before they arrived here? Were they some kind of team, stalking women like a pack of dogs?
Clare split the three pictures of the men on her screen. Three faces stared back at her. Three men who, from their expressions, looked guilty as sin, like hardened criminals—yet their records said otherwise. Either she was reading too much into it or the men were very clever and careful in covering their tracks.
Also, why was Ray Taggart protecting these men? Apart from their dates of employment, Taggart didn’t volunteer any other information about them. Fair enough, they were his workers, but Clare expected some cooperation from him. It pissed her off that her authority was being ignored, even ridiculed, and she was simmering about that.
She had requested warrants as soon as the fingerprints had come back, so she could interview them. She couldn’t wait to roll up to the logging camp with Reynolds and his men, and serve the warrants on Taggart. Smug prick. It was a matter for Denver PD to handle from now on, but she was looking forward to tagging along as sheriff. She wanted nothing better than to haul all three suspects into an interview room along with Taggart’s fat ass and interrogate them all. But that joy would be owned by Reynolds and his team.
It was a pity that the video footage cut out before Shaw turned up. She only had Molly’s and Shaw’s word that Dent, Myers and McDonald were about to assault her, and Shaw intervened. But she had Reed’s prints on the knife and that was good enough in her books. Reynolds thought so too. There must be a link there.
Clare’s cell phone chimed, she picked it up off the desk and looked at the screen. It was Molly. She wanted to come in tomorrow and give a formal statement about being attacked in her store.
Good.
Hopefully the warrants would be through by then, and Clare and Denver PD could wrap this up by tomorrow.
The bell above the front door jingled and Clare looked up.
Shaw walked in. He was covered in snow and was rugged up like an arctic explorer. He unwound his scarf and pulled down the hood of his snow jacket.
“Got the autopsy back. Take a look.”
Shaw sat down opposite Clare. She slid the report across the desk.
“Should you really be showing me this?”
Clare went to the coffee machine. “It’s fine. We’re working together on this.” She poured herself a coffee, black, no sugar and then poured a cup for Shaw, half and half, no sugar. She came back and placed the cup down in front of him then sat down.
She continued looking at the computer screen, at the three faces that stared back at her almost mockingly. Call it intuition, but Clare had a gut feel that these three men were hiding something. They seemed evil, especially Micky Dent. There was something about his eyes, cold and taunting.
Freddy Myers on the other hand had dead eyes, like a sociopath. David McDonald looked the least harmless, but he had a look of suppressed violence in his photo, like if needed he could be extremely aggressive.
Clare looked at Shaw as he read the report. He had no expression on his face, just a cold, clinical assessment of the words. She wondered how could he have taken down these three men by himself? Maybe he was the person she should be afraid of.
Shaw finished the report and gave it back to Clare.
“She suffered,” Clare said.
Shaw sipped his coffee and nodded. “A lot. Then strangled. A cruel and personal act. Someone got their enjoyment, then took it further by watching the life go out in her eyes.”
“From the speed of decomposition, taking into account the seasonal temperatures, she was killed between two to three months ago,” Clare said.
“In the fall, coming into the winter months.”
Clare placed the report in a manila folder. “What do you think?”
“She was kept for a few days, brutally tortured during that time. No traces of semen, so no chance of DNA being found from the killer. Not even trace DNA. Someone was really careful. Took their time. Planned it in advance. She wasn’t just a random victim grabbed off the street to satisfy some immediate urge.”
“Not a crime of opportunity?”
“No. The person saw her. Maybe even knew her, her habits, her routine. Then they made a plan, got everything ready, then snatched her.”
It was exactly what Clare has thought when she read the report. Shaw had given her validation.
“She was just a child.” The autopsy estimated the girl was aged between twelve to fourteen years old.
“I know. When will the DNA tests be back on her?”
She liked the fact that Shaw referred to the deceased as a person, not just a body.
“In a couple of hours, I hope. That’s if there’s a match otherwise, like the hand I found we have another unknown victim.”
Clare felt suddenly very tired. She just wanted to go home and take a hot shower, try and wash away the memories of the day.
“What about the person I saw today?” Shaw asked. “Could be him?”
Clare shook her head. “If the same person killed the girl, why would they still be hanging around months later? And why were they following you?”
“I don’t know,” Shaw lied, hoping Clare would tell him more about Emily Bell. She was the link, he was certain. Shaw had concluded they were only following him because of Emily Bell, but he wanted to find out more from Emily before he shared his theory with Clare. She wasn’t being upfront with him about Emily and that was fine. He was going to find out the answers one way or another.
“Maybe they left town and came back,” Shaw said.
“A travelling serial killer? On holidays like you said?” Clare asked.
“Maybe. I’d be checking any similar cases, look for victims that had evidence of torture, then were buried. Maybe check local motels for reservations made by single men in the last two weeks who haven’t checked out yet.”
Clare sat quietly for a few minutes making notes, trying to organise in her head into some sort of logical order the facts she had gathered.
“It’s one person, Clare.”
“So you think the same person tortured and killed the girl as well as another female belonging to the hand?”
“Correct.”
Clare looked at the three faces on the screen. “It could be two or three working together, like a gang, or a team?”
“One person, Clare.”
“Why?”
“I just get the feeling it’s a lone wolf. Less residue.”
“Residue?”
“It’s a term we used in the Secret Service when we assessed possible threats or were looking for potential assassins.”
The word assassins got Clare’s interest. “What do you mean?”
“A lone wolf leaves less clues, less tracks to follow. They travel light, small footprint. Whereas a team, say husband and wife working toge
ther to kidnap victims, or a team working together, leave more residue, more tracks for us to follow. Multiple bus, train or plane tickets, hotel reservations, car hire. More to coordinate, a larger footprint when they move.”
“So what do you think? Give me your best guess.”
Shaw said, “I think you have someone in this town who is a killer. I think they have only been here a few days, maybe a week or two at the most. They could have been here before and have now returned. They are patient, careful, and meticulous. They’re not local. They’re from out of town, but know the terrain. They prefer moving around at night, in the shadows, when they can’t be seen. I believe they’re looking for one person in particular. Maybe someone they have seen, selected, studied, or watched before. They’ve picked them for a reason and now they are hunting them. They’ll take their time until the moment is just right, before they strike.”
Clare closed the windows on her computer. The three photos vanished. There goes that idea. He was right, as much as she would also like to pin another crime on the trio from the logging camp.
Shaw stood up and stretched. The only question he didn’t understand was why had this person chosen Emily Bell to kill next?
25
It was the only ground floor window that wasn’t properly locked. He’d thought it would be pointless to check the windows, that the trip this close to the house was too risky.
He knew she was out, and so was the man who stayed in the room above the garage.
He had tried the back door hoping she was careless enough to leave it open. It was triple-locked. The front door wasn’t an option, too many eyes from the street could see him, but the sides and rear of the property were in shadow.
He was about to give up, walk away, back to his hiding place, when he saw the small sash window at the rear of the house. It was narrow and he had dismissed it before, and it was the only window he hadn’t checked now.
To his surprise he saw it had a window latch, not an actual window lock. Opening a plain window latch was easy if you had the right tools—and he had the right tools.
He didn’t want to break any glass. That would make too much noise even with the wind that howled around him as he stood in a dark wedge of shadow under the window.
He couldn’t believe his luck.
The lights were on in the house next door, but the blinds and curtains were drawn tight. He had kept low along the fence line, keeping within the shadows as best he could. He didn’t care about the footprints he left along the side of the house and around the back. The snow was falling heavily and they would vanish soon enough.
Habit made him look around one more time before he slipped a thin, flat piece of metal strip from the pocket of his snow jacket. He reached up and slid it under the edge of the window sill. It was malleable enough to bend and flex as it went under the frame, reshaping itself into the perfect angle. Using the end he carefully pushed the rubber weather strip out of its groove on the inside of the window. Then he bent the strip past the base plate until the edge reached the swivel lever. Very slowly he rotated the lever and the window popped open.
He slid the sash window upwards an inch.
No beeps, no siren.
The house had no alarm. He had established this fact during his first reconnaissance of the property a week ago.
Quickly he withdrew the metal strip, straightened it and returned it to his pocket.
He took one more look around.
Good. The curtains and blinds of the house next door were still closed.
He pushed the window open and climbed in, closing the window silently behind him.
It had taken less than fifteen seconds.
He found himself in the gloom of a small utility room. Shelves with detergents, a washer and dryer, overhead cupboards, laundry basket and buckets. Attached to the wall was a small indoor clothes rack with panties and bras pegged to it, shear, delicate, blacks and reds, frills and lace, the garments grouped by color with matching pegs.
Definitely OCD.
He pulled off a glove and touched an impossibly brief pair of panties, feeling the smooth silky texture of the fabric between his fingers.
Nice. But he felt no reaction. He was here with purpose, not indulgence. That would come later. He pulled his glove back on.
The lights were on in the passageway and somewhere in the house music played softly.
George Michael. Tasteful.
There was a pile of towels neatly stacked on the bench. He unfolded one and mopped up the water left from the melted snow on his boots. He didn’t wish to traipse footprints throughout the house. He then carefully spread out the towel on the floor, removed his boots and placed them on top. He would return here when he was done. Where he came in would be where he would exit.
He walked out of the laundry, his socked feet soundless as he walked slowly across the polished floor, his eyes and ears taking everything in, confident but still cautious.
On his right he saw the kitchen at the end of a narrow passageway, towards the back of the house. To his left the passageway led to the front door. A series of open rooms ran off on each side.
He moved left, past a living and dining room. Comfortable couches, soft pillows, tastefully decorated. The house had a warm, sombre feel to it with muted lighting, not harsh brightness. A compact CD player was in the lounge room on a sideboard, a plastic CD case next to the player.
He ejected the CD. The music stopped and he placed the disk back into its case.
He paused, thinking.
He gave a slight smile. He opened a drawer of the sideboard. Inside were CD cases, perfectly stacked, spines facing outwards. In alphabetical fucking order!
“Emily, Emily, Emily,” he muttered. “You definitely have too much time on your hands.”
He found a CD more suited to his taste, inserted it into the player and pressed play.
He nodded. “That’s better.”
He returned the CD case back into the drawer, but not before he pulled out a handful of cases, shuffled their order like a deck of cards then returned them to the drawer.
He moved to the front of the house. To the left was a set of stairs to the first floor and in thirty seconds he was in her bedroom.
Beautiful sheets, pillowcases and plump pillows, perfectly arranged, hospital edges, everything squared and tucked away, symmetry everywhere. One bedside lamp was switched on, the side where she obviously slept. On the bedside table was a novel, Jane Austin, frilly bookmark. He switched off the lamp and turned on the light on the opposite table.
He slipped out of his pocket the panties he had taken from the laundry and dropped them on the floor next to the bed.
Just then something brushed against his leg, startling him. He looked down.
A cat.
Feline eyes of topaz looked up at him
The cat curled around his leg, rubbing its head against his calf.
He looked at the cat thoughtfully.
26
Clare looked up from her computer and rubbed her eyes. Her neck was tight and she had a throbbing headache. To top it off she was pissed off that Shaw had put holes through her theory. She wanted desperately to pin more on Micky Dent and his friends other than harassment.
“Go home, Clare,” Shaw said. “Get some sleep.”
“I’m fine,” she replied, rubbing her neck now. Christ it was tight. “But first come downstairs.”
“Why?” Shaw stood up.
“You’ll see.”
“You’re not going to put me in a cell again?”
Clare looked at Shaw slowly, starting with his eyes, then working her way downwards. Her gaze got stuck somewhere just below his waist and she felt a hollowness in her throat.
Clare wanted to go home, call it a day, but there was something she needed to do, for her sake. She would feel better and would probably sleep better too. She got up and locked the front door. She looked at Shaw. “Don’t want someone walking in when we’re downstairs.”
&n
bsp; Clare led Shaw down the steps, past the holding cell and to a separate room with the gun safe. She unlocked it and stood back. “I think you should be armed.”
Shaw looked at the rows of weapons neatly stacked inside. “Are you planning on starting a war?”
“You obviously know how to handle a weapon.”
“Better than you.”
“So I prefer it, if you were armed.”
“I don’t have a licence for a handgun. Plus I got tired of carrying one for all those years.”
Clare thought it was a good idea. If there was killer on the mountain, she could use him as a backup. Two sets of eyes were better than one and if one of them should run into the killer she would feel better if he was armed.
“Look, I’ll be alright. I can look after myself. You’re the sheriff of this town.”
Clare shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.” She locked the gun safe. “Christ, I need a drink and a hot shower.”
“Here.” Shaw went to a small desk next to the holding cell and pulled out a swivel chair. “Sit down.”
Clare undid her utility belt and placed it down on the desk with a solid thud. It weighed about five pounds with all the equipment she carried around her waist every day. It held her handgun, two spare magazines, mini torch, two-way radio, a knife in a pouch, handcuffs and an assortment of things.
Her shoulders slumped as soon as she sat down.
Shaw stood behind her and first started massaging the back of her head, slowly but firmly.
Clare closed her eyes. My god it felt good. It had been so long since someone had done this for her. She felt tears well behind her eyelids, but quickly rubbed them away, not wanting him to see.
He tilted her head gently downwards so her chin touched her chest, then his fingers moved to the top of her neck, kneading the knotted muscles on each side of the vertebrae.
Clare let out a deep, slow breath. It was bliss.
He was good with his hands. She let herself go, giving in to the pleasure and release he was coaxing out of her sore and tight muscles.