Their Frozen Graves: A completely addictive crime thriller and mystery novel

by Choudhary, Ruhi

  “Yeah, we received copies of those photos.” He opened the envelope and rifled through them. “I was looking over them last night and found something.”

  Mackenzie’s muscles constricted in hope. She crossed her arms and leaned forward. John showed her the picture of the shed from the outside. “Do you see this cross section of the chopped down tree?” It was situated next to the shed. One of the angles captured the tree rings. “The height and diameter are small, but the rings are broad in the center and then progressively become very narrow.”

  “So it’s a really old tree?” Nick raised an eyebrow.

  “One of the oldest you’ll find in Woodburn Park. It’s a western red cedar. Like the ones around it. I know where this is.” He tapped on the picture.

  “What are we waiting for? Let’s go now,” Mackenzie said.

  Thunder rumbled so loudly that Mackenzie was convinced the ground underneath her shook. Her feet snapped over the remnants of ice and snow. The day was gray and gloomy. Leaves further restricted sunlight from pouring into the woods. The temperature had dropped drastically from the previous day, floating around a cold thirty-seven degrees. She shivered, following John, who seemed to know the way as they veered off the trail into the forest thicket.

  “How’s the kid?” John asked Nick.

  “Getting too curious about my job.”

  He laughed. “Maybe she should start her training now. A future detective.”

  Mackenzie grinned and eyed Nick. He had paled at the prospect. But she knew him. If that was what Luna wanted, he wouldn’t discourage her. He would just suffer alone in silence, start smoking again, and sneakily tail her on the job.

  “There it is.” John pointed ahead of him.

  A shed was concealed behind the growing trees. This part of the woods had relatively even ground—no protruding roots or moss-covered branches. It was cleaner but cluttered. The trees were huddled a lot closer, forcing them to maneuver with greater difficulty.

  “This is probably one of those illegal constructions Jenna was talking about,” Nick said.

  As they approached, Mackenzie realized that the shed was bigger than expected, the size of a studio apartment. There was no other structure. It stood alone.

  Isolated and terrifying.

  They took out their gloves and examined the structure. It looked exactly like it did in the pictures. A clandestine shed with chipped paint, rusted iron, and dated design. Concealed in a tiny nook of the woods.

  John circled it.

  “No visible footprints,” Nick noted.

  “Rain and snow took care of that,” Mackenzie mumbled, inching closer to the door.

  A sudden gust of wind whooshed around her. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She extended her hand in front of her. A spooky sensation coiled around her neck.

  Her fingers brushed against the icy cold handle. She twisted it and opened the door.

  It was dark inside.

  She left the door wide open and entered the space. Her hand searched for a switch. Encountering one, she flicked it.

  Bright light flooded the room. It was blazing enough for her to squint and moan.

  “What the hell?” Nick cursed behind her.

  It looked nothing like its exterior. If outside it was rickety and shady, then inside it was modern and clean. The walls had been freshly painted. The floor tiles were gray stones.

  A makeshift operating table in the middle—somewhere between an actual table and an inclined armchair. Mobile surgical lights. A glass cabinet with sterilization equipment. A shelf with disposables and consumables like gloves and biohazard bags. Surgical tools and accessories—like in Bella’s pictures. Mirrors mounted on walls.

  In Bella’s pictures, the lights weren’t turned on. It was a dimmed view and didn’t reveal the level of sophistication.

  “It smells like burning hair.” Nick scrunched his nose.

  “Because there isn’t enough ventilation.”

  “What case is this?” John whistled. “Dr. Frankenstein?”

  Nick pressed a handkerchief over his nose.

  Mackenzie looked around for anything out of place. But this entire clinic was out of place. “No personal belongings.”

  “Bella probably wasn’t kept here,” Nick said. “No bed. No restroom.”

  “The killer could have gotten rid of anything of hers.”

  “I’ll call the CSI, if that’s okay? Figure you guys are looking for prints and DNA,” John offered.

  “Yes, please. Thanks, John.”

  Mackenzie was mesmerized by the room. She located the shelf containing vials and bottles. Some she recognized as prescription painkillers and antibiotics. Others she had never heard of before.

  “Some of these instruments look older just by visual inspection.” Nick picked up scissors.

  “That’s strange,” she said. “Some of the stuff is new, so they clearly had access to it. Why work with old instruments?”

  Nick sighed. “Maybe it’s expensive? I doubt we’ll find usable prints. This place looks scrubbed clean.”

  Mackenzie bit her lip. There was a little trash can next to the stool by the instrument tray. She opened it, expecting to find towels and gloves. There was some bubble wrap and one piece of paper, half-burned.

  Nick smiled. “Let’s pick this place apart. Hopefully we’ll catch a break and get this bastard’s DNA.”

  Fifty-Four

  The air in the conference room was brittle. The cappuccino machine made a grating sound as Nick poured himself a cup, wearing a thoughtful expression. Mackenzie sat back on her chair, clicking her pen, staring at the pictures of the shed. There were plates with piles of muffins and donuts. Sully’s greedy eyes kept flitting toward them, the tip of his tongue reaching out to lick his lips. But seeing Lieutenant Rivera read the case files with utmost seriousness, he turned his attention to his copy and tried to concentrate. Justin slurped his coffee and pulled a face. It was too watery—a common complaint for the last few days.

  “Is Jenna going to be joining us?” Rivera asked.

  “She’s on a case with Dennis, but we have everyone’s reports.” Nick took his seat next to Mackenzie.

  Rivera put on her reading glasses. “Let’s get started then.”

  “The tattoo on Bella’s body led us to this shed, where we believe that her cosmetic procedures were performed,” Mackenzie said. “She took photographs and left a trail to them on her body, in case something went wrong.”

  “Rightfully so,” Sully said, stuffing his face with a muffin. “It was creepy enough in the first place.”

  “Any security footage from the bank?” Rivera asked.

  “She was picked up at the bank but the car was out of view.” Nick pursed his lips in disappointment. “On the one hand, she was collecting evidence and, on the other, she was able to get around town pretty freely.”

  “And she waved at whoever came to pick her up,” Mackenzie added. “Casts doubt on her innocence.”

  Rivera flicked through copies of Bella’s pictures. “We should ask Dr. Preston. He knows to expect your call around this time, right?”

  “Yeah, we warned him earlier today,” Mackenzie nodded and dialed him, putting him on speaker. “Dr. Preston? Can you hear me?”

  “Hello, Detective Price. How are you doing?” Preston’s voice sounded tinny through the phone.

  “Good.” Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you for your help. I’m sending you an email with photos of a makeshift cabin.”

  “No problem. I’m glad to be able to help. Okay, got it. Yes, I see face-lift scissors and retractors. The labels on the medicines aren’t very clear, so I can’t help you there. The laser machine looks old, but that cauterizing instrument kit is new. As is the procedure chair and floor lamp with rolling base. I have the same ones in my practice, actually.”

  “Are these instruments consistent with the work done on Bella’s face?” she asked.

  Preston made an agreeing sound. “Definitely.”

/>   “Thanks. Really appreciate it.”

  “Anytime, Detective Price.”

  “We’re looking at someone with knowledge and access,” Nick concluded after she’d hung up.

  Rivera tapped her finger on the pictures. “This is in Woodburn too, right? I thought there was a team looking through the woods. How come they missed this?”

  Mackenzie unrolled a map of Woodburn Park—the dense woods with the Westley River flowing through the middle. She took a Sharpie and made a circle. “The woods in Woodburn are notoriously difficult to access. This is where Katy and Bella’s bodies were recovered by the fishermen in Crescent Lake. Bella and Alison were asked to meet at Woodburn, in different locations though.” She marked the spots. “Both locations are more than five hundred meters from where the bodies were found. But it still leaves a large area and not enough data points to narrow it down.”

  “And the weather has slowed the search right down, too,” Nick pointed out. “The shed is out of the way from the trail, hidden in the thickets.”

  “Robbie Elfman.” Rivera pursed her lips in distaste at his mugshot. “What’s his status?”

  “He’s still in lockup. His arraignment date is coming up. No way he’s making bail with the trafficking charge and his history,” Nick said.

  “Katy was in Woodburn to collect money from Derek Lee to give to Kim.” Sully burped and pushed the empty plate away. “Where is his cabin?”

  Mackenzie checked her phone and marked the map. “Over here. South of the shed, around two hundred meters.”

  “That’s close.”

  “Yeah, we estimate that Katy entered the park through the trail up north.” Nick trailed his finger on the map. “Because that’s the side she’d encounter from home. Almost all the cabins are situated along the trail, including Derek’s.”

  Mackenzie’s eyes caught the post-mortem photographs peeking out from the files. Her mind buzzed with a thought. She flipped through them to find the pictures of the bottom of their feet. Bella’s feet had a lot more abrasions than Katy’s. “Becky identified the abrasions at the bottom of the feet to be antemortem. There are some postmortem as a result of being carried by the river. The antemortem abrasions are reddish-brown in color rather than yellow, have raised scab, and inflammatory cells.”

  Mackenzie assessed the photos. Bella’s feet had plenty of reddish-brown abrasions, her milky soles barely visible, whereas Katy’s feet had only three yellowing injuries. “Look at the difference between the bottom of their feet. Katy doesn’t have any antemortem injuries, but Bella has several.”

  Nick stroked his chin. “She was running in the woods and cut her feet.”

  “Or maybe she was being chased,” Mackenzie said. “Maybe he or she caught her snooping.”

  She imagined how it played out. The chilly Saturday morning with a storm right around the corner. A terrified Bella, running away from the shed, bumping into Katy, who was heading in the same direction to meet with Derek. The killer caught up with them and had no choice but to kill them both. A remarkable coincidence, with tragic consequences.

  “Let’s talk about the ads,” Rivera said. “All the ‘subjects’ are local community heroes, always female. Much like Katy, Carrie was a well-known face back then, but after the suicide, she kept a low profile. She was a schoolteacher and spent all her time volunteering.”

  “The woman in the latest ad, the one who looks like Alison, provides free legal services,” Mackenzie added. “The other three women in Seattle are all successful women in their thirties.”

  “All respectable professions too,” Nick chimed in. “Nurse. Firefighter. Head of an institute to help children with special needs. He isn’t targeting them based on salary or ethnicity or age.”

  Rivera brooded. “This man takes vulnerable women addicted to drugs and gives them the faces of inspirational women. Ideal women.”

  Her observation made Mackenzie’s blood freeze.

  “He thinks of himself as a savior,” Rivera continued, her words sending shivers down Mackenzie’s spine. “It explains why none of them demonstrates any signs of abuse. He doesn’t want to hurt them. He thinks he’s making them better.”

  “Anything new on the women from Seattle?” Sully asked.

  Nick directed them to the page with the copies of the ads. “Detective Ethan Spitz from Seattle PD confirmed that there is an African American woman missing who looks like the woman referred to in the third advertisement. Her sister reported her missing.”

  “Steven Brennan, formerly Steven Boyle, has dementia. It’s definitely not him,” Mackenzie emphasized. “But maybe someone connected to him? His research on perfection and ugliness is accessible to anyone, really. We’re looking at links between him and the clinic, but we haven’t found any yet.”

  “Where is he keeping them?” Sully voiced the heavy question.

  “The crime scene investigators are going through the shed?” asked Rivera.

  “Yes. We hope to find some DNA or prints, but it will take at least a week. Maybe more.” Mackenzie noticed Nick brooding at the file. His thick eyebrows drew together and his eyes tapered. “Nick? What do you have?”

  He presented a close-up picture of the half-burned piece of paper. “It’s a customer copy of a receipt, found in the trash can.”

  Mackenzie analyzed it. “Looks like they sell makeup?”

  “Yeah, it shows a partial list of products purchased.”

  “Foundation, concealer, bronzer, lip balm… and then it cuts off. Someone tried to destroy evidence but did a sloppy job of it.”

  “Bella had been to the shed,” Justin pointed out. “It’s possible that this belongs to her. She was moving around freely enough to go to the bank. Could have gone shopping.”

  “Check out the date, though.” Nick stood up and placed his hands on his waist.

  “November twenty-third,” Mackenzie whispered, then looked at Nick. “A few days after Bella’s body was found—and nearly a week after she was murdered.”

  “And more than three weeks after Alison was last heard from.”

  They had been monitoring Alison’s bank account. Her credit card hadn’t been used, nor had any money been deposited or withdrawn from her account. She could have used cash, but why would she go shopping but not contact her mother and child? She had promised in her letter to get in touch in around two weeks. The date on the receipt was way past that.

  Justin scratched his jaw.

  Sully bit his nails.

  Wind slammed into the window, rattling it against the hinges.

  “What does this mean?” Sully asked. “Bella didn’t buy it, and it’s highly unlikely Alison did, which means it’s the doctor working out of this shed, right?”

  “There was also no sexual assault, which is uncommon when you have someone collecting women. I’d say it’s likely that we’re looking for a woman,” Rivera announced.

  Fifty-Five

  Mackenzie tossed the stress ball in the air and caught it. A few hours after the meeting, she was still in the office, salvaging facts about Elisa James. The nurse had just rocketed up their list of suspects, but whatever scraps of her life Mackenzie could find didn’t reveal any link to Steven Boyle.

  “She has a couple of parking tickets to her name,” she said to Nick. “She had a DUI and paid a fine. Barring that, her record’s OK. Not nearly as messed up as Robbie’s.”

  Nick’s head was tilted back with a wet cloth covering his face. “We should check her employment history again.”

  Mackenzie was on it, typing away on her computer. “Like we already know, she worked for a facial cosmetic surgeon from 2009 to 2011. Her focus was on anti-aging fillers and injectables. Then from 2011 to 2013, she worked at an outpatient surgery clinic for a plastic surgeon specializing in liposuction, face-lifts, and body contouring. Another short stint at a private practice before her current job at the laser hair-removal clinic. She’s a certified aesthetic nurse specialist, which is offered through the Plastic Surgical
Nursing Certification Board.”

  “What’s the difference between cosmetic and plastic nurses?” The cloth fluttered above his mouth.

  “Cosmetic treatments are more in-office, as opposed to plastics, which are the more invasive and surgical aspect of things. Plastics isn’t purely cosmetic—it covers reconstructive surgery as well. But Elisa’s jobs have been on the cosmetic side. Nurses assist in procedures and are mainly responsible for post- and pre-op care.”

  Nick removed the cloth from his face and blinked rapidly. “But Elisa could have picked up the skills needed to do this.”

  “And she has access to medicines and equipment.”

  “Hmm. And her link to Steven?”

  “His area of research is only a Google search away.” Mackenzie tapped a pen against the edge of her desk to a random rhythm, her mind connecting the dots. “Maybe that’s why she moved to Lakemore? She was emulating Steven’s career?”

  “Yeah, Lakemore isn’t the kind of place you move to,” Nick snorted. When Mackenzie gave him the stink eye, he shrugged. “Hard truth, Mack.”

  “Why would she idolize Steven in the first place?”

  Mackenzie had read Steven’s articles in her free time—his take on “beauty” and “perfection” could imply a man with a God complex. Someone who might want to “fix” his wife by turning her into Carrie Breslow—an accomplished, confident, and bright woman. His ideal woman. Though there was no hard evidence.

  Could Elisa James have continued what he started? Might they have encountered each other professionally?

  “She must be as crazy as he was,” Nick said, sounding disgusted. “Like some sick fan. That’s why she’s using his name on the dark web. I’m going to have Jenna tail her.” He took out his phone and started thumbing a message. “We still don’t have enough for a warrant to go through her electronics and financials.”

  Mackenzie clicked her tongue in disappointment and inspected the picture of the receipt closely. The words “customer copy” were printed at the bottom. The total price came to one hundred and sixty dollars—a significant amount of money to spend. The partial list of products was clear but the others were lost from the paper, being partially burned. The top part was concealed by soot sticking to the paper and a brownish stain. She fished out a magnifying glass. But she could only make out random letters: “H,” “D,” “T.”