Next Girl to Die

by Dea Poirier

  I shove the key into the ignition and throw the car into drive, and halfway down the street I swear I can still feel Noah’s eyes nearly burning a hole in the back of my skull. With the frustration and questioning behind me, I head back to the station and dig back into the interviews of Emma’s friends, family, and classmates.

  CHAPTER 5

  Minutes or maybe hours after falling asleep, I bolt upright in bed. The house is cold. Frigid air seeps in with every breath of wind. It doesn’t help that this place doesn’t feel like home. I’m cast adrift here. Being on this island feels like I’m intruding on someone else’s life. It’s like staying in a house you’ll never quite feel welcome in. To be honest, I felt this way about Detroit at first too. It wasn’t mine; it didn’t belong to me. It took a long time for me to become accustomed to the sights, the smells. On this island, the sound of the waves, the chatter of the gulls, and the low billowing of the boats move through my veins like blood. In Detroit, at first my teeth were on edge with every car horn, every shout, and every single siren that split the air. I thought I’d grind my teeth to dust in a month. Eventually, though, I was folded into Detroit, enveloped into the madness like I belonged.

  One thing keeps echoing in my mind. You don’t belong here.

  Temporary, I tell myself again. I want to get that word tattooed on my arm. It’s the constant reminder I need. As if future me is whispering in my ear, It gets better; hang on. I’ll solve this, and I can get out of here.

  On the windowsill, my phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the night. My toes curl against the cold wood floors as I shuffle to answer it. The blue glow from the screen illuminates the dark room, and I squint against it.

  “Yeah?” My voice is rough, as gravely as the old roads winding through the island like rocky veins.

  “Claire?” Sergeant Michaels’s voice booms from the phone, loud enough that I flinch.

  “Yes, it’s Claire,” I confirm. I don’t know who the hell else he thinks is going to be answering my phone.

  “I need you over at Grimes Park, ASAP,” he says, and I realize he doesn’t sound as tired as he should for this time of night. His voice is clear, firm, like he’s been awake for hours. I try to wish away the adrenaline-laced, feverish beats of my heart. My mind drowns in thoughts that try to convince me that it’s nothing. Of course being dragged from bed at five a.m. by your boss can’t mean nothing. Especially not in that park. The park where Rachel and Emma were both found.

  My stomach pitches, and my heart thrums as I drag my suitcase on top of the bed and unpack an outfit. “Of course. What’s wrong?”

  He clears his throat. “There’s another body in the park,” he says and then ends the call.

  Every horrible scene that could wait for me slithers from the recesses of my mind. Automatically, I think of Rachel, but I can’t do that. I can’t let my emotions drag me back there.

  I throw on slacks and a T-shirt. It takes a few minutes, but I snap out of my exhaustion by brushing my teeth and then my hair. Dark circles hang beneath my gray eyes, but I know I had them long before I got here. Detective work is just time spent counting down to my next sleepless night. I throw on my coat and head out the front door. A burst of cold air hits me the moment I step outside, forcing me to suck in a sharp breath. Fat gray clouds, illuminated softly by the dying moonlight, are so low in the sky that they look like they’re feet from dragging across the building tops.

  I drive down Main Street, my window open, the cold air hitting my face, serving to wake me up. I roll through the abandoned streets downtown. Another death in this park makes my skin crawl, and a bad feeling makes my stomach roil. I’m not stupid enough to believe in curses, but if I did, that’s the kind of word I’d use to describe Grimes Park. They should bulldoze it and build a gas station in its place.

  For a while after they found Rachel there, no one called the park by its name; it was just that park. Then, by the time I turned eighteen, people would say its name, but only in hushed tones, like if they said it too loud, more horrible things would befall the island.

  I wonder if they ever started saying it without whispering.

  I’m the first officer to arrive, which isn’t all that surprising. Sergeant Michaels lives at the northernmost edge of the island. It’ll take him about twenty minutes to get here. I draw my flashlight and click it on to survey the scene. The park is a wide-open space, lots of grass, room for dogs to roam. On the right side, near the tree line, there’s abandoned, rusting playground equipment with a small pavilion next to it. Thick evergreens ring the whole park, cutting it off from the rocky shore that surrounds us. Though the trees keep me from seeing the beach, they don’t stop the sound of lapping waves.

  In the middle of the park, amid the sprawl of yellow-brown grass and pockets of snow, there’s a young girl’s body. I pull out my phone to snap pictures, first from a distance, then more as I step closer. Long blonde hair is splayed out on the ground. The grass and snow around her aren’t disturbed, and it strikes me immediately that there isn’t a single blade out of place, no footprints. There’s no dirt around her, on her. This girl wasn’t killed here. She was placed here. I focus the camera on her face, and that’s when it hits me—that’s when I see her for the first time. Madeline Clark. Emma’s friend, the girl I interviewed less than twelve hours ago. It crushes me like a ton of bricks. My chest is heavy, and my mind screams, Why? How?

  Purple polka-dot Chuck Taylors point toward the sky. Her outfit, a tank top and jeans, tells me either that she wasn’t planning on being outside for long or that she left her coat somewhere. Her skinny jeans are still belted into place. Other than mud on the knees and sand around her ankles, the pants are in good condition. She wasn’t sexually assaulted, or it’s not likely, anyway. Neither was Emma. I’m not sure about Rachel; no one ever told me. I’ve never looked at her file, and I could barely get my parents to say a word about her after she died. A dark smudge on Madeline’s shoulder sticks out against her pale flesh—blood, but there’s no blood around her. A gold necklace with a calligraphy M hangs loose from her bruised neck, the chain cascading across the hollow of her throat. The tip of the M dusts a pocket of snow under her shoulder and head. Other than the bruise on her neck, she doesn’t look injured. Emma was also strangled, though, a detail that’s making a warning take root in the back of my mind.

  Madeline’s young enough that she’s still got a cherub’s face, a bow of a mouth. Her big blue eyes stare toward the sky. Purple marks circle her neck—hands much larger than mine snuffed the life out of Madeline. That tells me this was personal. Someone angry, someone focused on her. It takes a long time to strangle someone, longer than you’d think. Four to six minutes at least of staring someone in the eye while you kill them. Someone had to hate her to do that.

  As I secure the crime scene, Jason pulls up and nods at me as he climbs out of his cruiser. Mrs. Holt, the woman who found the body, is still lingering in the parking lot. Thankfully Sergeant Michaels told her to stick around. I give Jason a quick update, and he takes over securing the crime scene so that I can question the woman.

  “Thank you for your patience,” I say.

  Mrs. Holt starts to say something, but it just comes out as a strangled squeak. She’s got short brown hair, a nose that reminds me of a bird’s beak, and a pointy chin. All her features are very angular. A small dog prances at her feet, desperate for my attention. She picks the dog up and makes a shushing sound as she clutches it to her chest.

  “Do you mind answering a few questions?”

  She’s bundled up in a thick coat and pants that look like they were made for skiing. While the cold is already creeping up my sleeves, it hasn’t even pinkened her cheeks. “Gotta make it quick. Markey gets cold,” Mrs. Holt says as she gestures to the dog.

  “What time did you head down here?”

  “Around four thirty. That’s when Markey usually wakes me up for his walks.”

  “Did you see anyone here when you got to the park?�
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  “In the park? No. I saw fishermen downtown as I was coming, though. But they’re always at the café around four.”

  “So no one going to or from the park? Did you notice any cars on Main Street as you walked?”

  She shakes her head and glances toward the body. “No, I don’t remember seeing any.” I sidestep a bit, hoping to block her view some. In a town this size, there’s no chance that she didn’t know Madeline. Everyone knows everyone here, whether they like it or not.

  I think she’s too distracted to give me much else, if she even saw anything at all, that is. “If you think of anything else, please call me at the station. And if you would, try not to mention this to anyone in town yet. Not until we’ve notified the family.”

  The flash of a camera catches my eye. My gaze snaps to the photographer, and anger rises inside me so swiftly I barely have time to process it.

  What the fuck is he doing at my crime scene?

  Noah stands a few feet from the body with a large camera clutched in his hands. I need to get him away from here before he contaminates the scene. Jason turns toward me, then to Noah, but he’s too far away to get to him before I do. There’s another flash as I stalk after him. I have half a mind to tackle him and make him eat that camera.

  As I close in, I growl, “You take one more goddamn picture, and you’re going to have to drag that camera up from the bottom of the bay.”

  “Freedom of the press—ever heard of it?” He throws the words at me like daggers.

  “Contaminating a crime scene—ever heard of it?” I snap back through gritted teeth.

  “I didn’t contaminate your crime scene by taking a few pictures.” He snaps another picture. “I’m not about to let another small-town police department mess up another murder investigation.”

  “What exactly is that supposed to mean? And you don’t think you’re going to contaminate it? Silly me, I thought your business card said journalist, not crime scene investigator. I’m glad you’re so sure you didn’t compromise my investigation.”

  “I would never do anything to jeopardize any investigation.”

  “Well, thank God, I’ll keep that in mind as my perp walks free because you didn’t mean to.”

  He furrows his brow. “I’m not trying to get in your way. I’m not trying to mess this up.”

  “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” I say as I look down and shake my head. “I need you to go. The least you can do is email me those pictures. I need to enter them into evidence.”

  “Sure, if you give me that interview.” He clicks the cap on his lens.

  “Extortion and crime scene contamination before six a.m.? I hope you put that on your résumé.” I fire the words off at him like bullets.

  “I’ll send you the pictures.”

  “Thanks,” I say, the hard edge still clipping my words.

  He nods, slings his camera strap over his shoulder, and starts to walk away.

  “Hey, Noah,” I say before he gets too far.

  He stops and looks over his shoulder at me, his eyes gleaming in the low light.

  “If you show up at one of my crime scenes again, you’ll end up in cuffs.”

  He says nothing and gives no indication that he heard me before he stalks off.

  “What else do you need me to do?” Jason asks as I approach.

  “Scan the park and the coast. Bag anything that could be potential evidence.”

  It takes a long time for my rage to simmer. Seeing Madeline like this, knowing that another girl lay here a month ago, and Rachel fifteen years before that—it makes a bad feeling coil in my gut. A thought circles in the back of my mind: Could it be a serial killer? A copycat? Jason clicks on his flashlight and heads toward the edge of the park.

  As he goes to check for other evidence, I put in calls to the CSI team and medical examiner. But there’s nothing they can do until the ferries start running. Frustration needles me. Everything is going to take ten times longer than it would in Detroit.

  Sergeant Michaels rolls up a little after five thirty, half an hour since he called me out here, parking his car beside mine. He’s got on a bulky coat thrown over a button-up. I’m pretty sure he was wearing the same one in the office yesterday. He pulls a cigarette from between his lips, stomps it out, and strides over. I catch him up and let him know when the CSI and ME teams will arrive.

  “Thanks for handling this,” he says as he nods toward me. He glances at the body and shakes his head. I can tell the moment his eyes spot the bruising ringing her neck, and his fist clenches at his side. “Did you call the mayor?”

  “No, we need to get the body out of here first. In Detroit we usually have the family identify after the evidence has been processed, preferably at the morgue. But we may run into some trouble with that anyway. That journalist was here taking pictures of the body.”

  “The mayor already knows about the murder. I didn’t realize it was Maddie. Vince called him after it was called in to the station. It’s protocol.” He scratches his jaw. “That journalist better stay out of our way.”

  Another car pulls up beside Sergeant Michaels’s in the small parking lot, but I don’t recognize it. Maybe it’s Allen’s or Vince’s. I eye the car, waiting for one of the guys from the station to climb out. But when Mayor Clark throws the door open, my stomach leaps. He jogs forward and freezes, his eyes locked on the body behind me.

  “Is it Maddie? Is it her?” he shouts so loudly his voice cracks. My heart nearly shatters for him, but I have to hold it together. My mind keeps skipping back to Rachel, but I can’t let it. He jogs toward us, and I hold my hands up automatically.

  “Mayor Clark, this is a crime scene. You cannot come any closer.”

  Tears stream down his red cheeks. His eyes are glassy, grief and terror swimming in them. “She’s not home. Maddie’s not there.” He looks around me—the cloth over her face shields her, but there’s nothing I can do about the shoes poking out the bottom.

  The passenger door opens, and a tiny girl with brown hair slips from Mayor Clark’s car. She jogs toward us; the girl can’t be any older than fourteen. She’s got the same nose and chin as Madeline, but her hair and her eyes are like her father’s. Mayor Clark drops to his knees, sobbing, and the girl freezes, staring at him. “Oh God,” she chokes out and covers her mouth to stifle her sobs.

  My heart aches with a fresh wave of grief. I know their pain; that very same agony is etched on my soul. I glance at Sergeant Michaels and gesture at Mayor Clark, trying to wordlessly urge him to help me get him off the ground. Together, we each put an arm under his and help him up. We steer him back toward the edge of the park, to his car. The girl follows us, her trail of sniffles letting us know she’s close.

  “Mayor Clark, I’m so sorry for your loss. I really am. I need to keep this crime scene secure, though, so we can catch who did this,” I explain as gently as I can manage.

  He glances at me, and the light has gone out of his eyes. That gaze—I know it well. I saw it in the mirror for years. It’s what teaches you that while some losses you can rebuild from, with others, no matter what you do, you’ll never be the same. Some impacts are too great to heal from.

  Jason calls behind us, and I leave Sergeant Michaels to the Clarks when he waves me off. In his hands, Jason’s got several bags, each marked with scribbles.

  “What’d you find?” I ask as I take the bags.

  “Gloves and a pillowcase in the water. At the edge of the woods over there”—he points toward the tree line—“I found that gold cross.”

  “She was wearing that yesterday.” She had it on while I interviewed her. I know it has to be the same cross because it’s unlike any I’ve ever seen. It’s got gold ivy growing around it.

  “What do you make of it?” He glances toward the sheet.

  “She wasn’t killed here. There’s no sign of struggle. If she’d been strangled here, there’d be marks on the ground around her. She was killed elsewhere and placed here.” My gues
s would be that the body was brought through the trees surrounding the park, which back up to the beach; otherwise, the killer would have had to bring the body through downtown to get here. But I stay silent about this fact since I have no evidence to back up my theory yet. I think back to all the conversations I had with Roxie about intent and psychology as it related to murder. “Putting her here means they wanted her to be found. They wanted someone to know what they did. The method makes me think this was personal, though. Whoever did this knew Madeline well.” My mind rushes to try and connect the dots between the deaths. These three girls look nearly identical, all found in this park, all strangled.

  I don’t want to say it. Hell, I don’t even want to think it, but I’m afraid if we don’t figure this out fast, more girls will die.

  He shakes his head. “This isn’t the kind of thing that happens here.”

  I want to tell him it is, but I can’t. Once is a fluke. Twice, three times: that means it does happen here. Copycats can be dangerous. If they’re committed enough, that is. This might only be the beginning, or it could be my imagination desperately searching for a connection to Rachel.

  I look back into the night, toward the heart of the island. This is the last thing I wanted for my homecoming.

  I know deep down that I brought this darkness back with me.

  CHAPTER 6

  The sun edges above the horizon, and finally I let out the breath I feel I’ve been holding for hours. It’s been a long night, made longer still by waiting in the cold for the team from Augusta and the fear that Noah might sneak back onto my crime scene to take more pictures. Around eight, the CSI team comes and combs the scene. I stick around to see if I can gather any information from them, but CSI guys don’t like to speculate or point fingers. They only talk when they’ve got facts.

  I steel myself inside the station. I’ve got to question Mayor Clark. This fresh—straight after her death—I might not get anything other than sniffles and sobs, but this is the most vital time. It can make or break an investigation. After I inform the sergeant of my intentions, the stress and fatigue of the morning really start to take their toll. I’m going to need some caffeine to make it through the questioning.