From the corner of my eye, I noticed Cait watching me. “Are you hungry?” I asked. “We could grab something to eat.” Normally I didn’t eat lunch this early.
“I could go for something light,” Cait said.
“There’s a great bistro by the bookstore. I think you’d like it.”
“Lead the way,” Cait said as she stood from the chair.
How many times had I gone to lunch with a co-worker? Too many to remember. So why was my heart suddenly in my stomach? Why was there sweat forming between my fingers? I certainly didn’t have romantic feelings for Cait. It would be impossible for all those feelings from twenty years ago to come racing back.
I grabbed my car keys off the desk and led her to the elevator. She followed closely behind, as if we were a packaged deal. Maybe as colleagues, we were. I tried not to think too much about her or why she was walking so close. It felt good to have her near me—like we were those same rookie recruits again, ready to save the world.
I pressed the “down” arrow for the elevator, and we waited in silence for the door to open. The commotion from the department’s chatter would have drowned out any conversation between us. I kept my eyes to the ground and watched her through my peripheral. She had the same cool demander she’d always had. She stood with purpose, as if being in her presence was more than a compliment—it was a privilege to be standing next to her. I didn’t detect a single insecurity in her demeanor, and I found myself feeling somewhat envious.
Where was that elevator? I pressed the illuminated “down” arrow again and nervously smiled at Cait. She didn’t seem to notice or mind that the elevator was taking forever. Maybe she didn’t feel awkward standing next to me. I assumed she saw me more as a temporary co-worker than an ex-lover at this point. That’s the way I saw her. So why was I behaving like a schoolgirl with a crush?
The elevator doors finally opened, and I quickly stepped inside. Cait took two steps in then turned so her back was facing me. My eyes slowly scanned her backside, not just to marvel at her athletic physique but also at her. She had accomplished a lot since I’d last saw her. I was proud of her—I was proud of myself too. We both had accomplished a lot in the past twenty years. If we had stayed together, who knows if we would be where we are in our careers now.
The doors slowly closed, sealing us into a private room of sorts. There’s something incredibly sexy about being in an elevator with someone you might be attracted to. It replicates the same type of closeness and proximity as sharing a bed. It’s hot and stuffy, even with cool air blowing around us. It was a lot like being tangled beneath the sheets with someone. The warmth of her body, the chill in the air….
I shook the thought from my head and pressed the button to the garage. As nice as it was to be that rookie recruit head-over-heels in love with Cait, that time in my life had passed. And I knew without a doubt there was no sense in being that naïve girl again.
CHAPTER | SIX
“WOULD YOU LIKE sit outside?” Cait asked.
“Sure.”
After ordering and purchasing our meals, Cait and I walked through the bistro to the small outdoor patio encased by a low wrought-iron fence. We each carried our red trays, with paninis and soft drinks, and sat at the only vacant table outside. The square, four-person table had recently been wiped down. Streaks of cleaning spray slowly vanished into the marble tabletop as the sun soaked up the solution.
The bistro was busy feeding hungry Labor Day shoppers. I was surprised the plaza was this busy. Shoppers gathered in groups and maneuvered around one another like passengers just let off a plane.
A cool breeze carried birds’ chirps and mild conversations through the air. As the sun bore down on us, I realized why this table had been vacant: absolutely no shade. Cait sat in the seat next to me, as opposed to across from me, and I assumed it was because she didn’t want to stare into the sun while she ate her lunch.
“Sergeant Evans?” A round gentleman in his late twenties approached me. He was carrying a backpack slung over his right shoulder. He looked down at me with goofy grin across his face.
“Yes?” I said with curiosity—although I knew what he wanted.
“I can’t believe it’s you!” He continued to grin. “You’re a hero,” he excitedly exclaimed. “I have every article written about you. You caught Lathan Collins.” His breath quickened with each word he spoke.
“Thank you.” I humbly nodded. Aside from the hero part, he was simply stating facts. Flattering facts, but facts nonetheless.
“If anyone can catch the Casting Call Killer, it’s you,” he said. “Are you close to catching him?” His wide-eyed grin grew two sizes bigger. News of the newest murders had traveled quickly, but I wasn’t surprised. With actual video footage to accompany the story, I was amazed there wasn’t someone selling bootleg copies of the videos outside every grocery store. They could set up a stand right next to the Girl Scouts and their cookies.
“I really can’t comment,” I said, which was true. Even if I did have any information, I couldn’t relay that to… “What your name?” I asked.
“Jimmy Coffer,” he beamed. His cheeks turned bright red, though I couldn’t tell if that was from blushing or from the sun beating down on us. “I have to get going,” he said and looked to his right. Three hundred feet from us was the Volume One Bookstore. I assumed he was here to get a copy of Rachel Sanzone’s book, given that his interest in me stemmed from Lathan Collins. “It was nice to meet you,” he said. “Wow. You’re just….” He paused as he looked me up and down. “My friend and I talk about you all the time.”
“Thank you,” I repeated.
“Wow. Lena Evans,” he mumbled to himself as he walked toward Volume One. By the time he turned around, I had already forgotten his name.
I watched him walk toward the bookstore to stand at the end of a line at least thirty people deep. Had I not known better, I would have assumed a new tablet or smartphone was being released today.
But I knew exactly what that line was for.
The poster-sized cover art of Rachel Sanzone’s book left no room for confusion. I remembered hearing on the news that she would be at the bookstore to sign autographs starting at six o’clock. It was hard to believe her book was in such demand that fans were willing to wait in line for more than four hours.
The line was roped off and being managed by a scrawny teenage boy with a clipboard. His khaki pants fit loosely around his hips, and his belt was more of a fashion statement than an actual way to keep his pants up. His white button-down shirt was tucked in his pants, and he paced back and forth as he greeted the customers patiently waiting in line.
A large van parked was parked on the sidewalk in front of Volume One. Written across the side of the van was WEST JOSEPH TOURS. I knew that van only gave one type of tour: driving past the homes of Lathan Collins’ victims, then bringing tourists to Mirror Woods for a walking tour of the “dump sites.”
From a marketing point of view, it made perfect sense to advertise in front of the bookstore. After all, that’s where Lathan’s biggest fans would be. But from humanity’s point of view, their business model was repulsive.
“Does that happen often?” Cait asked, her mouth still ajar. I could almost see the bruise forming along her jawline from when it hit the table in disbelief. The shock of my stardom stained Cait’s face as she waited for my answer.
“Not as much as it used to.” I shrugged. “They stopped asking for photos, so that’s an improvement.”
“What’s going on over there?” Cait gestured over my shoulder with a nod, and her normal demeanor resumed.
“It looks like a book signing,” I casually answered, avoiding the fact that I knew exactly what was going on.
“A book signing?” Cait paused. “Here?” she asked, ending her sentence with a high-pitched question mark. She tilted her head so that she could see the line behind me more clearly. I followed her eyes as she scanned the excited patrons. Her brows gathered as if she wa
s trying to decipher what famous author would come to West Joseph to sign books.
Her eyes suddenly stopped, and she slowly nodded. She must have seen the poster of the book cover. “The Face of a Killer,” she said quietly, more to herself than to me. I swallowed back a wave of jitters so filling that I no longer wanted my sandwich. She sat back in her chair then looked at me, her stare stricken with worry. “Do you want to leave?”
“I’m fine,” I said as I picked up my sandwich. Losing my appetite was irrelevant. I wasn’t going to let on how uncomfortable I felt.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Cait asked.
“No.” I cleared my throat.
Cait nodded and began to pick at her sandwich. She watched me take a bite, my teeth sinking into the toasted ciabatta. I bit off a chunk of roasted tomatoes with pesto and melted mozzarella, and I slowly chewed. Nothing was going to make this sandwich taste good, but I swallowed it back as if it was the best sandwich I’d ever eaten.
“You know I’m going to make you talk about it.” Cait bit into her sandwich and confidently ogled me. She made chewing look so easy. We locked eyes as my heart hammered away at her determined stare.
“I know,” I said as I set down my sandwich. I wasn’t going to bother to protest. It was typical Cait. If she wanted something, she rarely took no for an answer. It was annoying and endearing at the same time.
She wanted to talk about that line behind me. She wanted to talk about that book—and what had happened that night. She wanted to get to know me again. But the only way to do that was to relive what I had gone through the past year.
“How’d he do it?” Cait asked. “Get to all those women?” she clarified, followed by another bite of her sandwich.
“He was a mechanic. Owned his own shop. Collins Auto Garage,” I said. “He made a copy of his victims’ car keys and just waited. Sometimes a few weeks, sometimes a few months. He just waited to make his move.”
“Any history of violence?” she asked, taking bites of her sandwich between each question.
“Sure,” I said. “He was bullied in middle school and high school. And he was expelled for eventually attacking the kids who made fun of him. No arrest record once he turned eighteen, so his prints were never in the system.” I clasped my hands together as I waited for the interview to continue. Part of me expected to see Channel 10’s newscaster come out of the bushes with a microphone.
“Why did he do it?” Cait lowered her voice.
“Skin their faces?” I asked.
“Yeah….”
“The removal or covering of eyes, even in post mortem, means the perpetrator is ashamed of his actions. He doesn’t want the victim to see him, or his actions.”
“But he removed their faces,” Cait said, disgust dusting her voice. “Why?”
“Vanity?” I shrugged. “His victims were attractive—not gorgeous, but attractive in that girl-next-door way. Their faces were never found, so we don’t know what he did with them after removal.” I knew firsthand what he did with one of the faces, but it didn’t seem like appropriate lunch conversation to bring it up. “We searched his property. His auto shop, his house. Even the abandoned home in Mirror Woods—”
“Where he held you?” Cait interrupted.
“Yes,” I quickly answered. “We found nothing.”
I knew why she was curious. It’s natural for anyone, especially law enforcement, to want a motive for such a violent act. But I didn’t have the answers she was looking for.
“To answer your question as to why,” I said, “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows.” I paused. “We had a profiler working on the case. He said Lathan would be intelligent and good with his hands. As a mechanic, I assume both are true. The profiler also said Lathan would be a loner. So far, we haven’t discovered anything to indicate he had a partner.”
My knowledge of Lathan Collins, post death, was vastly limited. I didn’t want to know anything more about him than I already did. I was curious to know the reasons behind his killings too. But when it came to knowing him as a real person—his hobbies or favorite restaurants—I preferred to be in the dark. To see him as a human being, instead of the monster he was, made coping with his actions even more difficult.
Cait chewed on the end of her straw as if she couldn’t wait to hear the climatic ending. She looked at me, her face coated with a mix of empathy and sweat. “What was it like?” she asked. “Being that close—”
“To death?” I cut her off. I had been asked that question so many times by interested townspeople who lacked tact and manners. As if they felt I owed them an entertaining story. Talking to me was better than reading a tabloid. I was the real deal. I lived it. I breathed it. I was it.
“Yeah,” Cait said sympathetically, as if the need to fulfill her curiosity was greater than her guilt for asking.
It was a loaded question. Whose death did she mean? Killing Lathan? Or the fact that Lathan himself was death incarnate; he created death. Rachel Sanzone’s death was close too. None of Lathan’s previous victims had made it past day five, and I didn’t get the impression Rachel was special. So had I not been there—had I not gotten free and killed Lathan—Rachel wouldn’t be here right now.
I wouldn’t be here right now. And that was the other death: my own.
“If I could answer that question, I’d have my own book out right now.” I smirked.
Cait laughed. “Why don’t you? It would be a guaranteed bestseller,” she said, referencing the line behind me. In the five minutes we’d been sitting here talking, at least a dozen more people had lined up.
“I don’t want the attention,” I answered honestly. “The people in this town….” I paused. “People want to buy a book about a hero, not a bitch.”
“A bitch?” Cait cocked her head. “Who thinks you’re a bitch? Fluellen had nothing but praise when he told me about you. So did the other detectives in your department.”
Cait mentioning the department and our assignment sparked a question I was bound to stir over late at night.
“Did you know it was me?” I asked. “When you were given this assignment… did you know it would be with me?”
“I had a pretty good idea. There aren’t many ‘Lena Evans’ in West Joseph.” Cait smirked as she sucked on the end of her straw.
“So why’d you take it?”
“And miss the chance to work with the Lena Evans?” Cait joked as she set her drink down. “Everyone said I would be lucky to be working under you.” She raised an eyebrow with a grin. “I couldn’t pass that up.”
I stifled a laugh. A large cloud floated past the sun and cast a dark shadow over the table. “I’m not who this town thinks I am,” I said, returning to the initial conversation.
“You’re a hero to a lot of people. Why shy away from that?”
“Because.” I paused. Did I really want to get into this with Cait? She was eager to hear my story—not because she wanted to be entertained, but because she genuinely cared. “Heroes don’t fail. I feel like a part of me did.”
“How so?” Cait leaned forward.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “What I did—killing Lathan to get away? It robbed the victims’ families of the answers they needed. The answers they deserved. I took that away from them. We’ll never know why Lathan did what he did, or where the victims’ remains are. I failed them.”
“You saved them,” Cait said. “How many more victims would there have been if you didn’t stop him?”
Deep down, I knew Cait was right. But that didn’t matter. The families deserved closure. They deserved answers. And I took that away from them. “It was sloppy work on my part,” I said.
“No one expects you to be perfect,” she said. “Your department looks up to you. The victims’ families are grateful for what you did, I’m sure. Take pride in that. Not just anyone would have been so self-sacrificing. Even with a badge.”
“I appreciate what you’re trying to say. But I’m just not who this to
wn wants me to be,” I reiterated.
“Would you take a bullet for a stranger?” Cait asked. She sat up straight, as if prepared for a long interrogation.
“I would like to think so.”
“When your entire life is at stake? Everything you ever wanted to do. Giving it all up for a stranger?” Cait added as if she was trying to persuade me to say no.
“It’s my job to take the bullet,” I said.
A smile stretched across Cait’s face. “That’s why you’ll always come out the hero.”
“Any further questions, Agent? Or am I free to go?” I grinned.
“Just one,” she chuckled and then dropped into a serious tone. “Why did you go alone?”
As I stalled to answer the question, sunlight peeked past the edge of the cloud that floated by. The rays bounced off the table and soaked into my skin as beads of sweat gathered along the bridge of my nose.
“You’ll have to buy the book to find out.”
Cait laughed as I stood from the table. My hands had become sticky from the sandwich, and running cold water across my face was worth the pinball journey through the crowded restaurant to the restroom.
“I’ll be back,” I said. “Do you need to use the restroom?”
“I’m good,” she said. “I’ll wait here.”
A blast of cool air hit me as I opened the back door to the bistro. Large windows made up the majority of the walls. Customers sat at every table, their sandwich wrappers and drink cups waiting to be thrown away.
I walked through the maze of patrons as I made my way toward the back of the restaurant where the restrooms were. The smell of cleaning solution burned the back of my throat as I inhaled. I turned to the right and walked down the small, desolate hallway. The cinder block walls were painted dark red on the bottom and white on the top. A plastic rectangular sign fixed to the wall had “men” with an arrow pointing to the left and “women” with an arrow pointing to the right.
I pushed down the metal handle of the door, and it opened with ease. A soft squeak hummed from the hinges as it opened wide and revealed a small room the size of a studio apartment. A soft ambient light hovered over me, like a lonely streetlight brightening a dark alley. The rubber soles of my shoes squeaked against the white tile floor as I walked toward one of the two vacant hand-washing stations.
Skin Deep Page 9