by Alex Ander
A wide smile formed on her face. “It’ll be tough, but I’ll try to control myself.” She turned on the radio. “I believe someone wanted to listen to a little music.” Instead of music coming through the vehicle’s speakers, an announcer was rattling off sports scores. She moved her hand to the tuner.
Ashford wrapped his hand around her wrist. “Hold on. The Capitals played the Penguins last night. I want to find out who won.” Since moving to Washington, D.C., he had gone all in on Washington teams, especially the Capitals and the Redskins.
“Are those hockey teams?”
He looked at her as if she was from another planet. “Of course they are,” he answered before remembering she was a football fan. “Oh, that’s right. You’re still clinging to the hope the Cowboys will have a winning team again.”
Having grown up in Texas, Cruz was a lifelong fan of the Dallas Cowboys. This past season had been brutal. The Cowboys only had two victories, finishing the season at two and fourteen. Recalling both victories and the team they had beaten, she smiled. “Well, at least we seem to have the Redskins figured out.”
Bearing the weight of the playful verbal jab, Ashford grabbed his chest as if he had been stabbed with a knife. “Ouch, that hurts.” He would have gladly accepted the teasing for the remainder of the drive if it meant keeping her mind off her troubles.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Chapter 10: Youngstown
12:07 p.m.
Clearing the Interstate 80 overpass on Churchill Hubbard Road in Youngstown, Ohio, Ashford and Special Agent Cruz saw the patrol car blocking traffic. He tapped his brakes and eased the SUV to a stop.
A young patrol officer approached, leaned over and put his gloved hand on the door. Puffs of air shot out of his mouth and nostrils when he spoke through the open window. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to turn around. There’s a crime scene up ahead and the road is blocked.” He pointed toward the direction from which Ashford and Cruz had come. “If you just head back—”
Ashford opened his FBI billfold. “I’m Special Agent Ashford and,” he motioned toward Cruz, “this is my partner. We’re here for that crime scene.”
The officer glimpsed the badge, cocked his head and spotted Cruz’s credentials. “All right, you can go on through. It’s crowded up there. You’re probably going to have to park along the road and hoof it the rest of the way.”
Ashford hit the button for the power window. “Thank you, officer. We’ll manage.” He maneuvered the SUV around the officer’s vehicle and accelerated. Coming upon the cadre of emergency vehicles, he pulled to the side of the road and shut off the engine.
Cruz opened the passenger door and stepped into a ten-inch snowdrift. She was grateful for the quick shopping trip to the department store back in Clearfield. Twenty minutes after entering the store, she emerged wearing a black pair of knee boots over her blue jeans. The boots were snug over her calves, while the opening flared enough to keep it from rubbing on the back of her knee. At three inches, the heel was a little higher than she would have preferred, but the chunky block style was much better than a pointed stiletto. Having purchased another pair of socks and adding long underwear under her jeans and sweater, Cruz felt prepared for whatever Mother Nature threw at her.
Slamming the door, she swung her black knee-length overcoat around her shoulders, flipped out her pony from inside the jacket and overlapped the lapels. She scanned the area. To her right were a few homes. The owners had ventured into the road to see the commotion. Across the road was an open field. Farther up the road, on either side of the police vehicles were wooded areas. She trudged through the snow, her right boot sinking deeper into the upward sloping snow bank. Rounding the front of the SUV, she joined Ashford.
He had changed his wardrobe, too, exchanging the dress pants and shoes for jeans and brown six-inch high cross trainers. He kept his suit coat. He may not have been a fashion statement, but he would not be slipping in the snow.
Striding toward the scene, they were stopped by another officer, who let them pass under the yellow crime scene tape after seeing their badges.
Cruz turned back to the officer. “Who’s in charge of the investigation?”
He pointed and said, “That would be Detective Brinkman.”
Cruz and Ashford headed toward the detective. She reached into her pocket for her identification and hailed him, her voice rising, “Excuse me, Detective Brinkman.”
Brinkman kept his head down, writing in a notepad. “You’re a long ways from home, aren’t you deputy?”
Cruz shot a look toward Ashford. Deputy? “We’re not deputies.”
Brinkman pointed with his pen toward their SUV. “Does that mean you stole a patrol vehicle from the Huntingdon County Sheriff’s Department?”
Cruz shook her head and removed her hand from her coat pocket. “We’re with the FBI.”
Brinkman raised his head, squared his shoulders and glared at her. “I suppose you’re here to pull that jurisdictional B.S. and take over this case. What kind of a stake does Uncle Sam have in this anyway?”
Cruz breathed deeply and sighed. This interaction with local law enforcement was familiar. Most lieutenants, detectives, sheriffs got upset at the prospect of a case being taken away from them. Throughout the years, she had suspected that many of them did not even want the case to begin with; however, take a case away from them and they would brawl with anyone to keep it.
Detective Brinkman was in his early forties. He had brown hair, tinged with sporadic gray patches. His face was pocked and his nose was crooked, possibly from being broken earlier in life. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip, the ends of the strands curling into his mouth when he spoke. He seemed to be physically fit, but it was difficult to verify through the bulky winter coat he wore.
“No, detective, we’re not here to take over your case. We’re investigating a murder in Huntingdon. We heard about this one and discovered some similarities.” Cruz spotted a black tarp near the tree line. Assuming it was covering the body of the victim, she pointed toward the tarp. “Do you mind if we have a look?”
Brinkman countered with a question of his own. “What similarities?”
Ashford answered. “No head and no hands.”
Brinkman grunted. “Do you have any leads on who did it?”
Cruz shook her head. “That’s why we drove all this way. This is our only one. Can you tell us if you found anything on the body?”
Brinkman rotated his upper body. “Hey, you,” he shouted. When three officers turned to face him, he pointed at one of them and the man ambled over to the detective. Brinkman went back to writing in his notepad. “Show these two the body and give them whatever details we have at this point.” Walking away, he grumbled, “I’ve got important things to do.”
Before the officer was within earshot, Ashford smirked. “Ah, yes, Youngstown’s finest at work.”
“Whoa, hold on.” The officer made sure Brinkman was gone. “Don’t lump us all into his category.”
Realizing the officer had not been out of earshot, Ashford apologized. “I’m sorry about that.”
“I’m Officer Jeffers.” He stuck out his hand. Cruz and Ashford shook it. “Some of us still take pride in our work. What can I do for you?”
Cruz motioned with her head. “For starters, I’d like to see the body.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Chapter 11: Body
Officer Jeffers drew back the tarp and revealed the headless and handless body of a black man. “A snow plough driver spotted the body just before sunrise. Unable to stop, he ended up tossing a mound of snow over it. Fortunately, he stopped his truck and called the police. Within thirty minutes, several officers were here. We were able to locate it in no time.”
Special Agent Cruz observed the body, made the sign of the cross and closed her eyes. May God have mercy on your soul and bring peace to your loved ones. The snow around the body was deep. She had to lift her leg into the air befo
re taking a step.
Jeffers had seen the body, but the sight disgusted him each time he pulled back the tarp. “What kind of sicko would do something like this?”
“What was found on the—” Cruz stepped and sunk in deeper than she expected. The snow rose to within an inch of the top of her boot. Her upper body wobbled.
Jeffers grabbed her flailing arm, keeping her from toppling to the side. “Easy, there,” he said. “It’s deeper than it looks.”
“Thank you, I’m good now.” She would have to inspect the body from her current vantage point. “What was found on the body?”
Jeffers gestured toward the naked remains. “As you can see, there were no clothes. The only thing recovered was a picture or photograph of a woman in a bikini.”
Cruz gawked at the officer. “Let me guess. There was a crown scribbled above the woman’s head, along with the word ‘winner’ written on it.”
Jeffers frowned. “Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Lucky guess,” chimed Ashford. “Any chance we could see it?”
“Sure.” He waved his hand at the body. “I’ll get it for you as soon as we’re done here.”
For the next few minutes, Cruz bent over, squatted and leaned, trying to glean any shred of evidence she could from the corpse.
Ashford used his camera phone to snap a few pictures of the man’s remains from different angles. Not learning from Cruz’s exploits, he almost fell on his butt when he stepped into a deep snow bank.
She stood. “I think I’m done here.” Struggling to free her feet from the white stuff, she pushed off with her back foot and lunged forward, only to sink further into the snow.
Jeffers locked hands with her, as if they were going to arm wrestle, and pulled. Ashford came from the other side and grabbed her free hand. Once she was standing on manageable drifts, Jeffers let go. “I’ll be right back with that picture, ma’am.”
Ashford tilted his head toward the body. “What do you think?”
Cruz brushed the snow off her boots and the bottom of her overcoat. Standing, she let out a visible breath of air and rubbed her hands together, drying and warming them. “It has to be our man who did this. The condition of the body is the same as our woman in Huntingdon. The photo will be our lynchpin.”
Jeffers returned and held out a plastic bag with a picture inside. “Here you go.”
A few seconds later, Cruz and Ashford confirmed it was the same image found with the first victim. She gave the evidence to Jeffers and thanked him for his time. After he had left, she and Ashford made their way to the road. She panned her head from right to left, starting with the restaurant at the edge of the tree line. Beyond the yellow crime scene tape, a few dozen onlookers were blowing into their cupped hands, braving the cold weather to get a glimpse of the brutality.
Ashford followed her gaze and seemed to know what she was thinking. “What is it with people and gore? They don’t get enough from television and movies. They need to see it firsthand, up close, live and in person.”
“People have become desensitized to violence, Ash. They have to keep upping the dose. Seeing a violent death…as you say, ‘up close and in person’ certainly accomplishes that.”
… … … … … … … … … …
Thirty minutes later, Cruz and Ashford had gotten as much information as they were going to get from the officers. Statements from people who may have noticed something and the autopsy report were hours away from being completed. They found Detective Brinkman, thanked him and headed toward their vehicle.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.” Ashford regarded his partner. “What do you say we grab a bite and plan our strategy?”
Cruz’s stomach had been growling for the better part of an hour. “Yeah, that sounds good.” She glanced over her shoulder and spied the crowd, which had grown in the last half hour. Turning back, she stared at the snow, while she walked. Ashford’s words had kept returning to her mind, gnawing at her subconscious.
“What about pizza?” He had his cell phone in hand. “It says there’s a joint not too far from here.”
She reached the front bumper of the SUV, stopped and whirled around. Squinting, her eyes darted left and right, scrutinizing every face in the crowd.
Ashford broke away from his search and saw the look on her face. He had seen the expression many times. More importantly, he knew what the expression meant. “What’s up, Cruz?”
She raised a finger and wagged it at him. “They need to see it firsthand.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s here.” She bolted toward the crowd, her unbuttoned overcoat flaring like a cape. Skidding to a halt, she ducked under the yellow tape and took off running again. Seconds later, she came to a stop, standing in front of the mob. The people formed a semi-circle. Her head pivoted left and right and back again. Retrieving her cell phone, she opened the camera and started taking pictures.
Ashford came up behind her. “What are you doing?” Catching his breath, two large clouds of air escaped his mouth. “Talk to me.”
Cruz pivoted and touched the phone’s screen…snap. “The killer…he’s here. I can feel it.” She rotated her upper body…snap. “Some of these serial killers need to return to the scene to see their work firsthand.” She took several additional pictures before studying the individual faces in the crowd, hoping the killer would somehow magically reveal himself.
“That’s a longshot, Cruz.” Ashford snapped his head back and forth, not knowing what or whom he was trying to find. “Besides, he’s already seen his work.”
“Yeah, but he was alone then. Now, he has an audience. Anyway, at this point, longshots are all we have.” Spinning her head toward the restaurant, her eyes settled on a man. He was watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood and she shivered. He was wearing a black ski hat and dark blue puffer coat. Dark sunglasses concealed the upper half of his face. A crooked grin formed on the lower half. The sun, directly behind him, was obscuring her vision. She took a step toward him, but closed her eyes and jerked her head away when the door to the restaurant swung open and the sun’s rays reflected off the glass, blinding her. Sticking out her hand to block the sun, she spun her head back toward the man. He was gone. She whipped her head back and forth, trying to spot him. The tingling in her neck traveled south. Despite the cold, she was perspiring. She was certain she had stared into the face of evil.
“Did you see something?” Ashford was standing behind her, staring along her line of sight.
“I don’t know…maybe. Do you see a man in a black hat and blue coat…sunglasses?”
Ashford spied the people. “No, I don’t.” Continuing to study the faces of the bystanders, he motioned toward her phone. “What do we do with those pictures…turn them over to the analysts at the Bureau…see what their facial recognition software comes up with?”
She re-collected herself, shaking her head back and forth and blinking her eyes. She spun around and locked eyes with her partner. “I don’t think we have that much time.” She took a couple steps toward the SUV, stopped and peeked over her shoulder. “We need to get creative if we’re going to catch this guy before he kills again.” Cruz tapped the screen on her cell several times. “Sheriff Decker, this is Special Agent DelaCruz. I need your help.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Chapter 12: Starving
2:02 p.m.
“Thank you, Sheriff. I really appreciate this. Please send the files to Agent Ashford’s phone.” Special Agent Cruz listened. “That’s the right number. I’ll let you know if we find anything new…thank you.” She disconnected the call and stuck out her finger. “He’s sending you video footage and several still shots of the parking lot.” She took another bite of the pizza slice, dropped the crust onto a paper plate and wiped her fingers with a napkin.
Ashford finished his third slice and cleaned his face and hands before picking up his phone. “I hope you’re right about this.” He tipped b
ack his soft drink and took three big gulps. “If it doesn’t pan out, we’re right back to square one.”
After leaving the crime scene, Cruz and Ashford had rented a hotel room off Interstate 80 and ordered out for lunch. They had missed breakfast and were starving. The pepperoni, ham and mushroom slices had been greasy, but they filled the void in their stomachs. Cruz knew the food would sit in her belly like a rock; however, a home-cooked meal was not possible under these conditions.
Cruz had contacted Sheriff Decker and asked him to send the video from the crime scene in Huntingdon. After he had reminded her that the area around the dead body was dark, she told him she wanted the footage from when he had arrived on the scene to when the body had been taken away. Her plan was to examine the people from the crime scenes in Huntingdon and Youngstown, hoping to find someone at both locations. In the last hour, she had studied all the pictures on her phone, committing them to memory. She was especially interested in the one she snapped of the man in the black ski hat and puffer coat. Seeing his face multiple times had made her skin crawl, but she forged ahead.
Ashford’s phone sounded. “I just got the files.”
“Good. We’ll work from here.” Cruz stood and cleared the table she had been using for lunch. She crossed the room and dragged a second chair to the table, moving her discarded boots to the side. “What did he send you?” She sat and leaned to her left to get a better view of the videos.
“It looks like I’ve got two long videos and more than two dozen picture files.” He slid his finger across the screen several times.
Cruz brought up the first picture on her phone. “Let’s start with the stills. They’ll be easier to cross off the list.” She held up her finger. “Before we do anything, we should forward all this to someone at the bureau. That way, we’ll have more eyes on this than just ours.”