Skin Deep

by Michelle Hanson

  Cait let out a shallow breath as she looked around the empty room and pushed my hair behind my ear. For just a moment, she was no longer Special Agent Porter, and I was no longer Sergeant Evans. We were Cait and Lena—two women enjoying the excitement of a new relationship. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “I’m good.” I tilted my head so it could land in the palm of her hand. She caressed her fingers against my scalp, and I was completely helpless to her touch. I always felt my best just after a session with Dr. Tillman, but with the added bonus of being with Cait, my distress level was at a twenty out of one hundred—the lowest it’s ever been since that night with Lathan. “Are we done here?” I asked when Cait let her hand fall from my head.

  “Yeah. We searched every room before you arrived. There’s nothing here,” she added. “Flu’s going to keep an officer stationed outside the door as a precaution.”

  “I’ll drive us to the station,” I said. “If Rachel was abducted, it’s probable that James Coffer knows by whom.”

  With a trusted nod, Cait followed behind me as I walked out of Rachel’s apartment. I noticed Flu speaking to Rachel’s mother. I had met Mrs. Sanzone the night of Lathan’s death. She had introduced herself in the hospital hallway and thanked me for saving her daughter. Dark circles had made a permanent residence under eyes, and although she had been emotionally exhausted, she was also ecstatic that her daughter was alive.

  Mrs. Sanzone appeared to be rather upset with Fluellen. Her white hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and bug-eyed sunglasses hid her eyes. She was a petite woman with a frail frame, and I was sure that her already-bruised heart couldn’t handle another disappearance. As she spoke to Flu, she wiped away tears that slid under her sunglasses. She dabbed a crumpled tissue at her reddened cheeks as Flu spoke.

  Given the current circumstances, I decided to avoid Mrs. Sanzone. I didn’t want her to see me, in case I would only remind her of Rachel’s first disappearance. Seeing me might make her regret thanking me for saving her daughter—because maybe I really hadn’t saved her. Maybe I had only postponed the inevitable. If Rachel was abducted a second time, there was only one reason for it: someone wanted to finish what Lathan Collins had started.

  As soon as Cait and I returned to the station, she went to I.T. to review Rachel’s phone records. I stayed in my office to read the log notes that detailed James Coffer’s behavior while in custody.

  He still wasn’t talking to officers, but that didn’t matter. His actions said almost as much as a confession would have; he had been calling the same phone number that Pamela Westlake had called before she was reported missing. Presumably, it was the burner phone that belonged to the man in the videos with the distorted voice. West JPD had also called the number several times early in the investigation but received the same outcome James received now: disconnected.

  I had been sitting at my desk for almost ninety minutes waiting for Flu to get back from Rachel’s apartment. The anticipation ate away at my skin. We were wasting valuable time. If James Coffer knew something about Rachel’s disappearance, we needed to act fast.

  “Evans,” Flu said when he finally tapped on my office door. “I see you got a copy too.” He motioned toward log notes I had been reviewing. “What do you make of it?”

  “It isn’t enough to charge him,” I said. Any decent public defender would argue that the phone number was circumstantial at best, and the case would be dismissed. We needed something more than a smoking phone number to pin four murders on James Coffer. “Have you spoken to him?” I asked Flu.

  “Not since yesterday when I showed him a picture of Novak to gauge his reaction, to see if Novak looked familiar to him….”

  “And?”

  “He acted as if he’d never seen him before.” Flu shook his head and stepped inside my office. He sat in the vacant seat across from my desk and draped a few sheets of paper across his lap. “We got the profile from the Feds,” he said. “The one I requested on the Casting Call Killer.”

  “Is that why you wanted us to wait to talk to James?”

  “Yes,” Flu said, “but I also wanted to talk to someone close to him before we made another attempt at an interview,” he added. “I’ve been on the phone with James’ mother for the past half an hour.”

  “Any luck?”

  “She was informative.” Flu nodded. “She said he’s been rather aggressive and that the behavior started about a year ago. She said it’s manageable for the most part, but he’s easily irritated—punches walls or kicks furniture when he gets upset.”

  “Has he displayed that behavior here?” I scanned the log notes.

  “No,” Flu said. “His mom’s concerned, but she didn’t seem surprised that we were holding him. Most moms say, ‘It can’t possibly be my son, he’s such a good boy,’ but not her.” Flu paused as he gathered his thoughts. “She also said everyone calls him Jimmy.”

  “Is that all you got out of her?” Skepticism scorched my tone. Flu didn’t come in here just to tell me his nickname.

  “No.” Flu paused. “When I asked her about his interests, she said that Jimmy talked about Lathan Collins a lot. He printed off articles about the murders, went on the site tours almost every weekend and….” Flu sighed as he took another pause.

  “And…?”

  “And Jimmy talks a lot about you too,” Flu finally said. “His mom also added that his most prized possession is Rachel’s book. He was so excited to have her sign it.”

  “Jimmy Coffer,” I repeated to myself. That name sounded more familiar than James Coffer did. His face seemed vaguely familiar to me, but it wasn’t until Fluellen mentioned Rachel’s book signing that I remembered exactly why I recognized him.

  Jimmy Coffer had approached Cait and me outside the Bistro on Labor Day. It was the same day that Rachel was having her book signing at Volume One Bookstore.

  Anger growled through my body. Not just at Jimmy Coffer, but at myself too. Approaching me was just a game to him. He had stared me in the eye, a fake smile slapped on his face as he caressed my ego with false intentions. He had acted star struck as he saturated our short conversation with adoration. He even had even gone as far as to ask about the Casting Call Killer. Little did I know he was actually asking about himself—or at least someone he was working with.

  “Anything else?” My jaw clenched.

  “He doesn’t have a lot of friends,” Flu continued, “except that he hangs out with a guy named Michael.”

  “We should question Michael.”

  “We should. But Jimmy’s mom didn’t know Michael’s last name,” Flu said. “She said they’ve known each other for about a year. She said Michael’s a nice kid, in his late twenties, and is also obsessed with Lathan Collins.” Flu crinkled his forehead and exhaled quickly as if he had just made a sudden connection.

  “What?”

  “Something Mrs. Sanzone said this afternoon,” Flu answered. “Rachel’s boyfriend. His name is Michael.” Flu paused. “Could be something—could be nothing,” he added. “Anyway, I’ve read over the profile.” Flu held up the stack of papers on his lap. “Something just doesn’t sit right with me. All the physical evidence points to Novak, and I’ve come to terms with that. But the profile doesn’t fit.”

  “Profilers have been wrong before,” I said. “The profile for the D.C. Shooter was way off.”

  “I know.” Flu nodded as his shoulders fell into an unsettled demeanor. “The profile has the unknown subject listed as a white male, early twenties to late thirties, outgoing but doesn’t have a large social circle.” Flu paused. “Novak is in his sixties and had more friends than he knew what to do with.”

  The part about the unknown subject’s age bothered me too. It would take a physically fit person to be able to move a dead body from one crime scene to another. Even if the perpetrator had help—from someone like Jimmy Coffer, for instance—it would still require a great deal of agility and stamina to move a body. Novak wasn’t in the best physical sh
ape. Thirty years as a detective can take its toll.

  “What else does the profile say?” I asked.

  “He is, or once was, a local resident of West Joseph,” Flu muttered.

  “That fits Novak,” I chimed in, followed by a dirty look from Fluellen.

  “Higher education, probably in electronics.” Flu looked up from the profile. “Novak could barely turn on a computer, let alone hack into somebody’s web cam,” he defended.

  “Could Jimmy Coffer be the one in charge of the electronics?” I asked. “We’re not just dealing with one killer—we have two,” I reminded him.

  “The profile was very clear that the offender is organized. Has a stable work history, likely to have served in the military. Jimmy Coffer’s work history is scattered at best. He works at a menial job—”

  “At a building owned by Novak,” I interrupted.

  “Jimmy lives with his mom, lacks social skills, and has below-average intelligence. The profile doesn’t match either one of them—at least not enough to convince me we have all the players involved,” Flu said.

  “So we’re looking for a third person?” I asked incredulously.

  “I don’t know.” Flu shrugged, and fatigue clouded his eyes. “Read over the profile and meet me in the interview room in twenty minutes.” Flu stood from the chair and walked out of my office.

  The profile was exactly ten pages long. Each page explored a different part of the unknown subject’s psyche. As I read over what Flu had already summarized, parts of our conversation whispered in the back of my mind.

  Both Rachel and Jimmy were associated with a man named Michael—last name unknown. The name Michael was also associated with the case. “Alfa Mike” was a possible alias for Novak. But Jimmy’s mom said Michael was in his late twenties, and I doubted that Rachel would date a man Novak’s age.

  Fluellen also stated that Jimmy’s aggression started a little over a year ago—the same time he started his friendship with Michael. Something else about “a year ago” stuck with me. That’s when Lathan Collins was killed. If Jimmy were as big of a fan as he seemed to be, it would make sense that that could be the cause of his aggression. Losing a role model, even one as disgusting as Lathan Collins, was a lot for someone to deal with.

  Bile brewed in my stomach as that thought festered. If Jimmy was demented enough to consider Lathan Collins a mentor, then West JPD had to proceed with extreme caution. He may not have displayed any violent tendencies while being detained, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t in the near future. It would just take one trigger for the real Jimmy Coffer to surface.

  Rachel’s boyfriend, Michael, also lurked in the back of my mind. It wasn’t exactly unheard of for a young woman to date a much older man. Novak was very charming and friendly. I wouldn’t be completely surprised if he caught the attention of a beautiful young woman like Rachel.

  If Rachel was dating Novak, it was possible she had called the same number that Jimmy had been calling—the same number that belonged to the Casting Call Killer. I slid my chair back as I stood from the desk. Cait was in I.T. going over Rachel’s phone records. If Rachel did call that burner phone, there would be record of it.

  As I walked out of my office and toward I.T., I thought about the traits listed in the unknown subject’s profile.

  It was likely he had a military background. But neither Ryan Novak nor James Coffer had been in the armed forces.

  The suspect was believed to be outgoing yet without a large circle of friends. Novak was very outgoing but had a very large circle of friends—at least he did while he was with the department, and I found it hard to believe he was friendless in Florida. Jimmy Coffer only had one friend, according to his mother, but he wasn’t outgoing at all.

  The profile also mentioned that the subject would have a post-secondary degree, most likely in electronics. As far as I knew, Novak’s one and only degree was in criminal justice. It’s possible he could have studied electrical engineering in his free time, but I wasn’t convinced. And the brief interactions I’d had with Jimmy didn’t exactly give the impression that he could build a computer.

  I walked into I.T. and saw Kevin on the left sitting at his desk and Cait on the right sitting at Abram’s desk. The I.T. department looked more like a dorm room than an office. Kevin and Abram had their separate sides of the office, with their desks facing opposite directions so that their backs were to one another. Posters filled with computer humor were affixed to the cinder-block walls.

  Kevin had his dark brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail. A half-eaten sandwich sat inside a plastic container on his desk. I lightly knocked on the door as not to startle either of them. Both Cait and Kevin were in their own worlds as they worked independently.

  “Cait,” I said as I approached Abram’s desk, which was less cluttered than Kevin’s desk but which may have been due to the fact that Abram hadn’t been here all week.

  “Yeah,” Cait said as she peeled her eyes from Rachel’s phone log.

  Before I could ask her about the burner phone, I saw something next to Abram’s desk that I had never noticed before. It could have been pinned to the wall for months; I hadn’t visited the I.T. office since I came back to work.

  Tacked to the wall behind his monitor was a poster of a military soldier’s silhouette. The soldier was facing an amber sunset as he held his rifle high in the air in a victorious pose. To the left of the soldier, just beneath the glowing sun, was the military phonetic alphabet.

  “He’s ex-military,” Kevin said as he wiped the crumbs from his mouth.

  “Oh.” I nodded. A fact about Abram I didn’t know.

  “You okay?” Cait asked as I continued to stare at the wall behind Abram’s monitor.

  “Yeah…,” I said slowly, my eyes glued on the poster.

  A for “Alpha,” B for “Beta,” C for “Charlie.” It wasn’t until I reached the letter M that my heart sank. M for “Mike.”

  I glanced back at the letter A, just to verify what I already knew. A for “Alpha.”

  Alpha. Mike.

  Alfa Mike.

  I closed my eyes as the fear of what was becoming so blatantly obvious rose inside me. I knew the phonetic alphabet. We had learned it at the academy and used it in dispatch. How could I have missed this? How could I have let a careless mistake counter twenty years of hands-on experience?

  “Sergeant?” Kevin turned and stood from his chair.

  “Lena, are you okay?” Cait repeated.

  “Yes.” I opened my eyes. “Where’s—” My voice went hoarse. “Where’s Abram now?”

  “He took the week off,” Kevin said. “He called on Monday to say he was using a few vacation days. I don’t blame him. That guy works his ass off.”

  Abram Myers had taken a sudden vacation the same week that Rachel had gone missing. It could be a coincidence, but the coincidences were piling up against him. Aside from his initials being A.M., the profile fit. Military background, organized offender, outgoing personality, late twenties, higher education in electronics.

  As clear as my suspicion felt, I couldn’t just blurt it out like I was playing a game of Clue. I had to be certain. I had already accused Novak of the murders; adding Abram would only make me look like a mad woman desperate for a lead.

  “Are you close with Abram?” I asked Kevin.

  “For forty hours a week, I guess we are.” Kevin shrugged. “We don’t do anything together on the weekends.”

  “What does he do on the weekends?” I followed up.

  “He goes bowling, spends time with his girlfriend,” Kevin answered.

  “What’s his girlfriend’s name?” I was more afraid to hear the answer than I was shocked to learn that he actually had a girlfriend.

  “He doesn’t talk about her much. It starts with a P, I think. Maybe an R? I don’t really know. Paula, Ruth, Rose….” He rambled off random names. “Rachel….”

  “Does he hang out with anyone else?” I interrupted.

  “
Not since Novak moved to Florida.”

  My already sunken heart collapsed further into my chest. “He’s friends with Novak?” My voice shook.

  “Kind of.” Kevin shrugged again. He was clearly oblivious to the vital information he was privy too. “He and Novak didn’t really start hanging out until Novak’s retirement party.” Kevin chuckled to himself. “Novak came in to turn in his badge, and the two started talking about Novak’s boat and all the fishing he was going to do. I think they went out for drinks afterward,” Kevin said. “It’s too bad Novak moved—they really got along. Abram kinda looked up to him, ya know?”

  A symphony of static noise filled my head. It sounded as if a radio was trying to tune into a station. Slowly, the static subsided as my thoughts arranged in my head. Flu had mentioned there was a possible third suspect. Someone who was the brains of the operation. Someone who fit the parts of the profile that Novak and Jimmy didn’t.