Near You

by Mary Burton

  Helena, Montana

  Friday, August 20

  11:15 a.m.

  The hangover still lingered when Ann arrived at the Montana Highway Patrol offices in Helena. Out of the car, she tipped her face to the sun, drew in a deep breath, and slung her large purse on her shoulder.

  Inside the building, she was greeted by the hum of conversation blending with ringing telephones. Several officers came and went as she walked up to the thick glass window and showed her identification to the guard on duty.

  “I’m here to see Sergeant McCabe,” she said.

  “Wait a moment,” he said.

  She replaced her identification in her wallet and stood in the small glass reception area. She had minutes to wait until the elevator doors on the other side of the lobby opened and Bryce strode out. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, yellow tie, and polished black cowboy boots.

  He nodded when he saw her and quickly opened the door. “Good to see you.”

  “I made better time than I anticipated.”

  “Good weather always helps. Come on upstairs, and I’ll take you to the conference room. I’ve got the files set out there.”

  She tightened her grip on her purse strap, and she quickened her steps to match his. “Have you had a chance to go through the first murder book?”

  “I’ve spent the last couple of hours reading through it. I’ll let you do the same, and then we can compare notes.”

  “Fearing confirmation bias?”

  Sun-etched lines at the corners of his eyes deepened as he smiled. “I’ve seen men get killed because they locked onto a conclusion before they had all the facts.”

  Elevator doors opened, and inside he pushed the button for the third floor. Standing close to him in a confined space reminded her of his height.

  “How’s that fence going at the ranch?” she asked.

  “On hold for right now, but sooner or later I’ll get back to it.”

  “You’re planning to build out there?”

  “There’s a house on the land—it’s habitable, but it’s small. Means all my days off for the next decade are taken.”

  “But you’ll leave your mark on it, and that’s saying something.”

  “Nice to see a job go from starting line to the finish. That doesn’t happen in law enforcement all the time.”

  “I could say the same about teaching.”

  The doors opened, and he held them as he waited for her to exit the elevator. “How does Nate feel about being back in town?” He paused at a closed door, opened it, and switched on the light.

  “He seems to be adjusting. We went by the Beech Street house, where we used to live, so he could pick out what he wanted.”

  “How did that go?”

  “He’s not talking much. Plays his cards close to the vest.”

  “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “How so?”

  He paused in front of her, feet slightly braced. “You’re a hard one to read, Dr. Bailey.”

  “Maybe.” She set her purse on a long conference table and looked to the neatly bound case files. “These are the murder books?”

  “Yes. There’s fresh coffee in the pot, bathroom down the hallway, and you’ll have all the privacy you need. My office is two doors down on the right.”

  “Did you find out if your Jane Doe had been in Anaconda?”

  “I stopped by the two burger stands in town. I asked about a Caucasian woman in her late twenties and showed the picture. Neither place reported seeing anything that they considered odd.”

  “Nothing conclusive.” She opened the first book. “Then let me get to it.”

  Bryce strode toward the door, glanced back as if he had something to say, but in the end left her alone with the files.

  She filled a mug with black coffee, then pressed the warm cup to her temple before she sat and opened the first case file from Kansas.

  Bryce had been correct. The Kansas murder did not appear to match either the Knoxville or Montana cases and was easy to rule out. Not only did the police suspect the victim’s pimp, but they reported that her clothes had not been stripped off, the remnants of her wallet had been found on the passenger-side floorboard, and there’d been little facial mutilation.

  The Knoxville murder victim had been identified as Sarah Cameron. She had been twenty-eight and a Realtor. She had been summoned to one of her listings and had told her boyfriend she would be home by seven. She’d never made it home. Search crews had been dispatched within twenty-four hours, but the cops had focused originally on the boyfriend. Sarah and David Brown had been seen fighting in public several times. However, after several days of questioning David, the cops could not unearth anything tying him to Sarah’s disappearance.

  The cops put a trace on Sarah’s phone and alerts on her credit cards. They did get a hit on the phone four days after Sarah vanished, and her credit card was used to purchase gas. The strip mall and gas station were thirty miles west of Nashville, and the cops found the phone in a trash can in the gas station’s men’s room. The phone was wiped clean of prints, and its digital history revealed that whoever had taken the phone had made several nondescript social media posts while traveling to the current location. However, there was no sign of Sarah or her abductor.

  Two weeks after Sarah vanished, hikers in the Smoky Mountains near Knoxville found her partly decomposed body near a mountain path. Identification of the remains was made easy because of a bracelet Sarah had been wearing. No suspects were ever arrested.

  Sarah’s autopsy report showed she had been murdered thirty-six hours before the discovery of her body, suggesting she had been held for almost two weeks. There were no defensive knife wounds on her hands and forearms, implying she didn’t expect an attack. What caught Ann’s attention was the facial mutilation. The medical examiner wrote, “It’s as if the killer were trying to remove her face.”

  This case drew massive media attention. Young and pretty, Sarah had captured the press’s headlines, which focused primarily on the unknown assailant who had held her captive. Some reports tried to link her death to a robbery gone wrong, while others suggested a sex-trafficking ring was responsible. The theories were endless; however, the police never found the location where she had been held or dug up any substantial leads on her killer.

  Ann sat back in her chair, wondering if the killer had been paying attention to these news articles and enjoying the attention.

  She reread the Knoxville file and discovered a small detail she had missed the first time. Polaroid paper had been found near the body, but no fingerprints had been pulled.

  The delay between Sarah’s kidnapping and murder fit the profile of a first-time killer. She guessed murder had not been on this killer’s mind initially. Maybe the killer was stalking her. Maybe he got too close. Maybe she threatened to cause trouble. Whatever happened, the killer knew she could not be let free, so Sarah had been taken somewhere until the killer found the resolve to carry out his fantasy.

  She rose and made her way to Bryce’s office. She found him deep in thought behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear. When he saw her, he waved her inside.

  As he spoke to someone about a highway patrol matter, she had a moment to look at the wall where he displayed several service awards and a few military citations. There was also a picture of him with a group of men wearing fatigues, thick beards, and full military gear. She guessed by the terrain that it was Afghanistan.

  “That was taken about fifteen years ago,” Bryce said, rising.

  She looked quickly away, as if she had been caught staring, which was exactly what she had been doing. “How old were you?”

  “Twenty-four. A lifetime ago.”

  Fifteen years ago, she’d been a freshman in college. And by twenty-four she was a new mother trying to balance life with a husband, toddler, and a master’s degree program.

  “You miss it?” she asked.

  “Sometimes. But less and less.” He slid his hand into hi
s pocket. “Did you find anything?”

  “Wondering if you had that Polaroid paper tested for prints.”

  “It’s at the lab now. I called an hour ago, and it’s not looking good. The prints are badly smudged, but the techs are taking another pass at it.”

  “The Knoxville murder file noted that Polaroid paper was found near the body’s location.”

  “Really? I haven’t had a chance to read the file in great detail.”

  “If I’d not found the picture near the Anaconda scene, I would have missed it.”

  “What about the other case?”

  “I would say it’s not related. Too many inconsistencies, and the police believe they have a suspect.”

  “Your conclusion?” He sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms over his chest.

  She felt the full weight of his attention as she recapped her theories about the Knoxville case. “Also, Sarah Cameron’s quick identification and local prominence led to wide media coverage. Maybe the explosive scrutiny was overwhelming.”

  “It’s also exhilarating to be on the knife’s edge,” he said. “And it’s no fun if there’s no one to admire your masterpiece. Which sets up the current scenario. He sets them on fire so everyone knows exactly where they are but not who they are.”

  “Perhaps the victims share a connection he doesn’t want us to know about,” Ann said.

  “But I now have Sarah Cameron’s name.”

  “Find out about the people who appeared in her life shortly before her death. Also talk to the boyfriend. He might know something,” Ann said.

  “Sarah Cameron was attractive, and the woman in the picture you found is also good looking. I’ll wager the same on the woman in Helena. Maybe he’s not taking their identity when he mutilates them. His last act is simply to make them ugly.”

  “Maybe,” Ann said.

  Bryce reached for his phone and dialed. “This is Sergeant McCabe. What’s the status of those prints?” He frowned. “Only a partial. It’s something.” He ended the call. “The partial is being run through AFIS. With luck we’ll get some kind of hit.”

  She smoothed her hands over her pants. “Focus on Sarah Cameron.”

  Bryce rose. “Ann, what kind of monster are we dealing with? Is this guy a sociopath or psychopath?”

  “Both share traits. They both lie and lack remorse for the feelings of others. A sociopath or someone with antisocial behavior tends to be impulsive and irresponsible. But this killer is organized. And so far, he has not left behind any substantial forensic evidence, which takes planning and forethought. That leads me to believe we’re dealing with a psychopath. And for the record, both types of offenders represent less than five percent of the general population. In prison the rate is closer to sixty percent.”

  “What are we looking for in this killer?” Bryce asked.

  “This person is going to be charming, manipulative, callous, and he’ll require lots of stimulation mentally and physically.” She drew in a breath. “They’re harder to spot than you might imagine.”

  “What about physical traits?”

  “Anatomically, MRIs reveal irregularities in the brain specifically in the amygdala, located in the center of the brain. This portion of the brain should activate when the subject is faced with emotion or empathy. Not surprising, but it’s underactive in psychopaths.”

  Bryce held up his hand. “What about characteristics I can see?”

  “Psychopaths come in all kinds of shapes and sizes. There’s no way of looking at a person and telling.”

  Elijah pulled up to the house Ann was selling and spotted the red pickup truck in the driveway. He thought about the free spirit, Maura, and how good she had smelled. He wondered if her skin was as soft as it looked.

  He parked down the block and walked toward the house, knowing folks in this neighborhood normally paid attention to the comings and goings of people. He wagered they were on high alert after last year, and Ann had warned Maura about letting anyone in the house. Perhaps he should stay away. Had not his mother always said that when you go into the house of the dead, you risked stirring their souls?

  The last time he had been alone with Ann, it had been in the small two-bedroom she had shared with Joan Mason in college. They’d had sex in her foyer, and when he had left her, she had been panting and satiated, and he had been hopeful they might have something.

  Then the college house had caught fire shortly before graduation. Ann’s brother, Gideon, had rescued Ann, and Clarke Mead had barely saved Joan. The cops found the three incendiary devices. One had failed and not burned properly, leaving the torn shreds of a sweatshirt covered in Elijah’s DNA. He was in handcuffs before the embers cooled. The jury’s verdict had been as swift, and at the turn of the new year, he was in prison.

  But there’d been a reason that device had not burned fully. It had been meant to be found. The evidence against him had been a plant. He had been set up. And ten years had been stolen from him.

  Burying his anger, he got out of the car and strolled up the front walk, taking in the small house that backed up to a bank of woods. As he approached, music echoed from the interior. He tried the door, discovered it was unlocked, and opened it. Dust particles danced in a thick band of sunlight streaming in from the patio window.

  “Hello,” he said.

  The music grew louder as he walked toward the bedroom. He made his foot strikes louder, hoping to alert her that he was here. The last thing he needed was for her to panic and call the cops. His past record might have been expunged, but if the two speeding tickets he’d had in the last six months were any indication, the cops were looking for an excuse.

  He walked to the main bedroom doorway and saw the collection of overstuffed garbage bags. He peered into one and noted more of Ann’s clothing.

  “Maura!” he said. When she still didn’t respond, he knocked on the wall.

  The music went silent. “Hello?”

  “Maura. It’s Elijah.”

  She peered out of the bathroom, her expression a mixture of shock and happy surprise. She had changed into a light-blue dress that skimmed below her knees. The neckline scooped along her collarbone, and the sleeves floated above her elbows. She also wore three-inch beige heels and a gold, chunky bracelet.

  “You dress up like this to clean?” he asked.

  Nervous laughter bubbled. “God no.” Blushing, she leaned slightly forward, and he caught the aroma of lilacs. Ann’s scent. “These are Ann’s,” she said.

  The clothes fit her well and showed off the full curve of her breasts. “And she’s okay with this?”

  “She doesn’t want anything from the house. I checked with her. And as I was bagging up her closet, I came across a couple of really nice dresses. I thought I’d try a few on.”

  “And you decided to help yourself.”

  “I know it looks weird. But they’re all going to the thrift store anyway.”

  He had never seen Ann wear this dress, but he doubted he had seen her in anything from any closet in this house. She had left Clarke by the time he had been released from prison.

  “What do you think of the dress?” Maura asked.

  “It looks good,” he said quietly.

  She smoothed her hand over her flat belly. “Thanks.”

  He was smarter than almost anyone, but he lacked direct experience with women. The women who had reached out to him in prison wrote him sensual, exciting letters, but they were all distant. Even the ones who had visited him while he was behind bars had been separated by a thick glass partition.

  Now, all that stood between Maura and him was inches of air. It took control not to run his hand along her cheek. Was her skin as smooth as it looked?

  Her brows gathered as she moved a step toward him and then slowly turned with her arms outstretched. “What do you think about me in this dress?”

  “It’s hot,” he growled.

  She moistened her lips.

  How would Ann’s breasts fill out the dr
ess? Would her soft mounds strain against the delicate fabric? And the hem—would it skim above or below her knees? Ann had long legs, so he guessed several inches above.

  “How about dinner tonight?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  This was the mating dance, he supposed. He had never had much practice as a teenager, and now fast-forward ten years, and he was as clueless. One thing to read one of his Fireflies’ letters, process their words, and craft his response. Now here, with a woman so close, it wasn’t as easy.

  She fingered the soft folds of the dress’s skirt. “I’m working here until at least five. I can meet you. You like Italian?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s a place called Tony’s.”

  He knew the place. He had been there many times, mostly grabbing takeout, but he had gotten to know the owner, who did not care about his past. “Sounds perfect.”

  “Terrific. What about the furniture?”

  “I don’t want any of it.” He turned but paused at the door. “Wear the dress.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Missoula, Montana

  Friday, August 20

  6:15 p.m.

  Ann was ready to kick off her shoes and drink maybe a small glass of wine when she pulled into her driveway. It still felt odd not to have Nate, but for tonight, she was glad for the quiet. Time to process was rare these days. She fumbled with a large pizza box, her purse, and her keys.

  As she searched the ring for the new key, a car pulled up behind her. Tensing, she located her house key and opened the door before she turned.

  “Ann!” a woman shouted.

  She recognized Edith Scott as she climbed out of her parked car. Judging by the woman’s tight, defensive body language, this was not a social call. “Edith.”

  “I need to talk to you,” Edith said.

  “Can it wait until morning, Edith?” Ann asked. “It’s been a long day.”

  “It’s about Elijah Weston, and it cannot wait.”

  The sound of his name soured her mood. “What about him?”

  “Did you know he’s volunteering at the registrar’s office at the university?”

  She did not. There was no logical reason for him to take on a role like that. It did not pay anything, and given his recent settlement, the position was not worth his time.