Stolen Daughters

by Carolyn Arnold

  The fact the world hadn’t yet acknowledged him made him feel cheated and vengeful. But his mother, in one of her better moods, had told him, “Focus on the good.”

  He’d dwell on how killing made him feel powerful, in control, visible.

  He looked down at his phone again and refreshed the search—and finally!

  The headline read: “Arson Suspected in House Fire that Claimed One Victim.”

  No! They’d gotten it all wrong. He had killed her, not the fire. When would the truth come out?

  His phone pinged a reminder. It was time for him to go and do the job he was paid to do. Then he’d head home and plan his next act as The Merciful. He couldn’t take them all out, but now that he was awakened to his real purpose in life, he would kill as many girls as he could.

  Seven

  Amanda retrieved Trent from his desk, telling him she’d received the 911 recording, and they headed for the conference room.

  “How did you make out on the property records?” She glanced over a shoulder at him as they made their way down the hall.

  “The property was repossessed last August by Woodbridge Bank. It used to belong to a Glenn and Susan Burke. He’s living in an apartment in town. Susan’s in Madison, Wisconsin, where she’s been since September. Regardless, I pulled her background and his. No record on either of them.”

  “Did you get a contact name at the bank?”

  “Aiden Adkins is the one in charge of the property, and we have an appointment with him tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. That was the soonest I could get.”

  She pulled out her phone and checked the time. It was half past three in the afternoon, and most banks around there closed at five. “Why not today?”

  “Mr. Adkins is off.”

  “All right.” Not that she was pleased.

  They reached the conference room, and she entered first.

  She proceeded to bring up the email with the 911 recording.

  She turned her media volume up all the way and hit Play.

  The house across the street is on fire.”

  “Please tell me who I’m talking to,” the dispatcher replies.

  “Shannon Fox. Please get the fire department here.”

  “I see you’re calling from six-oh-two Bill Drive. Is that right, ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  The dispatcher verifies Fox’s phone number, then asks, “What are you seeing?”

  “I told you. The place is on fire. You going to get someone here to help?”

  “When did you see the fire?”

  “Just a minute ago.”

  “What’s the address on the burning house?”

  “Five thirty-two Bill Drive.”

  “Is anyone in the house that you know of?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “I’ve dispatched local firefighters and emergency response units to that location. Please keep your distance from the house, ma’am.”

  Amanda noted that the dispatcher had been calm and professional, asking the necessary questions, such as where, what, when, and who. Fox had sounded more annoyed than panicked, but Amanda picked up on something else. “When the dispatcher asked if anyone was in the house, Fox said she didn’t think so. Makes me wonder if she had seen people go into the place before.”

  “She could give us a lead on the squatters, which could possibly end up getting us Doe’s identity and some insight into who may have killed her. Just one thing, though. If Fox was aware of their existence, why not warn the dispatcher that people could be inside?”

  “Let’s go ask her.”

  Eight

  The emergency vehicles were gone except for a police cruiser parked at the curb. But the pall of death was energetically tangible, and a small memorial on the front lawn of 532 Bill Drive was a visual testimony to the loss of life. Bouquets, candles, and cards were set with care. Rest in Peace was scrawled with black marker on poster board.

  They’d need to have it all photographed and cataloged just in case their killer had decided to leave a message. But that didn’t mean the thought felt right. It would be like they were desecrating a sanctuary.

  The memorial was still on Amanda’s mind several minutes later when she and Trent were seated across from Shannon Fox in her living room. Shannon was a trim and petite brunette with short-cropped hair, brown eyes, and sculpted brows. Her background, which they’d checked before coming, told them Shannon was forty-three, single, rented the house she was living in, had no criminal record, and worked at Prince William Medical Center in Manassas.

  “I never saw anything.” Shannon had been adamant about that fact and repeated her claim several times since she’d let them into her house.

  “You obviously saw fire to call it in,” Amanda said.

  “Ah, sure. I saw flames through the window in the front door.”

  “We listened to your nine-one-one call, Ms. Fox,” Amanda began. “You sounded rather calm.”

  “I work as a nurse at Prince William Medical Center. I see worse things most days.” Shannon rubbed her cheek against her shoulder.

  “Okay, fair enough,” Amanda conceded. “What had you up this morning?”

  “I was getting home from a night shift. I got off work at five, but by the time I actually left, it was about quarter after or so. I also stopped for a coffee and a donut on the way home.”

  That would explain the passing of fifty minutes, even though the driving distance was thirty minutes at most—and in the early morning, probably less. Out of due diligence, they’d confirm Shannon’s statement about working. Amanda would keep in mind, though, that Sullivan had said firebugs don’t usually call to have their fires put out. And what would have a nurse deciding to kill a young woman? Amanda was about to ask a question when Shannon spoke.

  “Did someone die? I saw the…”

  “The memorial? And yes.” Amanda wasn’t going to tell Shannon outright they were approaching the death as murder, but no doubt the woman could piece that together.

  Shannon got to her feet and looked out her front window to the street. “I’m happy that I don’t have to go to work again until Sunday night. I need time to process what happened… right across from me.”

  Yet, she’d claimed to have seen worse in her job as a nurse. Amanda joined her at the window. They’d covered that Shannon hadn’t seen anyone suspicious that morning. That had led to the repeated, “I didn’t see anything.” Amanda would try another angle.

  “We understand the couple who used to own the house moved out last August. Have you seen anyone going in and out of the house since then?”

  Shannon rubbed her arms. “Yeah, kids hung around the place. They probably crashed there sometimes, but I haven’t seen them in a few days. And I swear that I didn’t know anyone was in there at the time of the fire.” Her eyes beaded with tears.

  “You couldn’t have known for certain.” Amanda felt the desire to ease Shannon’s guilt, and she highly doubted the woman before her was a murderer. “The fire isn’t what killed the victim.”

  “What did?”

  “I can’t get into details, but I’d like to know why you didn’t at least mention the possibility of squatters to the nine-one-one dispatcher?”

  “I should have, I guess. I just didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. And, now, that’s all I’m saying.”

  Amanda studied the woman. Given the faraway look in her eyes, she would guess Shannon may have spent time on the street herself. She thanked her, and Amanda and Trent saw themselves out.

  She felt drawn to the memorial and went toward it. The closer she got, the heavier her legs became. She could handle murders—even the grisly ones. But when the victims were young, it was much harder to compartmentalize and remain detached. It was one thing to do this at a crime scene, but when faced with something like this memorial, it was even tougher. Looking at it made death much more real. Visceral. Choking. Suffocating.

  She became engulfed in a wave of emotions
and imagery. Of her husband’s casket and her daughter’s tiny coffin being lowered into the ground… She stopped on the sidewalk in front of the makeshift altar, Trent beside her.

  Before she’d lost Kevin and Lindsey, Amanda had found it strange how people liked to commemorate the location of a tragedy. In the months following the accident, she’d found herself returning to where it had happened, as if by being there she could find out why they had to leave her. But she’d come to realize how ridiculous that was, how foolish. They weren’t there, and their spirits weren’t there—even if they had survived death in some form. She still wasn’t sure where she stood on the matter of the big man—or woman—upstairs, and the concept of an afterlife was wrapped up with it.

  Trent was taking photos of the items. He was quiet and solemn, likely feeling the impact of loss himself. It would be impossible not to.

  She looked up at the house, thinking of the girl, intending to find her justice while being plagued by uncertainties. They didn’t even know who she was. How could they ascertain suspects or pin down a motive for murder?

  Her phone pinged with a text message. She read it and shared the gist with Trent. “Rideout’s conducting the autopsy at six thirty.” That gave them less than two hours. It would have been nice to have a little more notice, but they had time to make another stop first. “We’ll swing by and have a talk with the former homeowner, Glenn Burke, and then we’ll head up.”

  As she spoke, Trent hadn’t made eye contact with her. He was staring at a bouquet of daisies like he was locked in a memory. She’d ask, but they weren’t that close, or at least she didn’t want to be. There was an advantage to maintaining a distinction between the personal and professional worlds. Blur that line and trouble followed. People got comfortable, too comfortable.

  She returned her attention to the memorial, and her gaze landed on a card without an envelope. It was simple with a dragonfly on the front. She gloved up and cracked it open. All that was inside was a drawn heart, followed by “Always,” signed off by C and a doodle. “Trent, what does that look like to you?”

  He put his phone away and studied the drawing. It took him less than a second to make a conclusion. “A dragonfly.”

  “Looks like that to me too.” She flipped it closed and pointed out the image on the front. “Our Jane Doe had a dragonfly pin. Seems a little too coincidental to me. Whoever left this card, I’d bet they knew our victim well.”

  “Killer or friend?”

  “Too soon to know, but we’re taking this with us.”

  Nine

  The next stop was Glenn Burke. While Trent drove, Amanda called Prince William Medical Center and confirmed Shannon’s shift. They should probably check with the coffee shop to verify that part of her story, but Amanda doubted Shannon was really behind the fire or the murder.

  Glenn Burke, on the other hand, may have more motive than she’d originally thought. He’d managed to downgrade from the rundown Bill Drive—and that was saying something. He kept his apartment tidy, but an air diffuser pumped a floral perfume into the room periodically, and it battled with a musty smell. He was in his early forties and in good shape, about six foot on the mark, with black hair and thick eyebrows.

  Amanda and Trent were at his kitchen table, a round pine number with enough seating for four. The introductions behind them, she went for the meat.

  “Your old house on Bill Drive was set on fire. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

  “No.” Glenn looked from her to Trent and back to her, his brow furrowed up. “Why should I know something? I haven’t lived there in months.” He got up and went into the kitchen, which was right next to the dining area and visible from where Amanda and Trent sat. Glenn stuck a pod in a coffee machine and set it to brewing.

  To Amanda, it felt like a strange time to get up and start a coffee, like he wanted to avoid the conversation. Was it because he was uncomfortable and embarrassed over losing his house, or something more sinister?

  “We understand that you lost the property to the bank,” she laid out, exploring the first option.

  “Yep.” He paused as the machine gurgled. “I lost my job of ten years, and I was already in hock with credit card bills. The bank worked with me for as long as they could, but they probably told you that.”

  “We still need to speak with your banker, Mr. Burke. When did the bank reclaim the property?” She liked to hear things straight from the source when possible.

  “Six months ago.”

  She counted back in her head. August was closer to eight months ago, but Glenn could have lost track of time. He also could be trying to make them think losing his home hadn’t been a big deal. She’d poke and see if there was a scab to pull. “That must have been hard, losing your home.”

  “Yes and no, but in the end it was just a house, ya know.” He opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of cream, dolloped some in his cup, and stirred in two teaspoons of sugar. He returned to the table and sat down. “It was much harder on Susan. That’s my soon-to-be ex-wife. She’s filed for divorce.”

  Amanda was planning to bring up Susan, but Glenn had beaten her to it. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Nah, don’t be. It was a long time coming even before we lost the house. But things have a way of working out. It took me a bit to realize it, but I’m better off without her.”

  His admission seemed sincere, but Amanda was still interested in getting a better feel for the couple. “She lives in Madison, Wisconsin. Has been there since September, right?”

  “That’s right. It’s where her folks are, but she nested up with some dentist out there. Apparently, they used to be high-school sweethearts. He’s got lots of family money too. She’s not looking back. Trust me.”

  It would seem Susan Burke was off the suspect list, but Glenn Burke remained, even if not at the top. He was holed up in some horrible apartment, in debt, with a marriage about to be dissolved. It was time for Amanda to be a little more direct. “There was a young woman found in the house. She had been murdered.” She watched him for a reaction but didn’t get any. She wished she had a picture of Jane Doe to show him, but typically it was frowned upon to show photos taken at a crime scene to civilians—even if they were suspects. “Could you tell us anything about her?”

  “No, how could I— Oooh.” His eyes widened as the implication sank in. “You think that I… that I—” He rubbed his jaw.

  “You could have been angry with the bank, the direction of your life,” Amanda put out there. “You could have finally had enough.”

  He swallowed roughly, and his facial expression soured. “And what? Killed some random girl? And tell me, do killers usually vomit in their mouths?”

  She made a show of considering, even though she had to admit that the likelihood Glenn was the person they were after was slim.

  “They do?” Glenn blanched, seeming to jump to a conclusion from the silence.

  “Uh, maybe you could just tell us where you were this morning from, say, four until six?” Trent asked, covering the time-of-death window and then some.

  “I was in bed.”

  “Can anyone verify that?” Trent looked ready to write down a name and number.

  Glenn shook his head and frowned. “Unfortunately not. My date last night didn’t exactly go according to plan.”

  She gave Glenn her card and said, “Call me once you solidify your alibi.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Just speak with your neighbors, Mr. Burke. Maybe someone can confirm you were home.” She got up and stepped into the hallway with Trent.

  He closed the door behind them. “I don’t think he did it.”

  “Me neither, but sometimes we need more than our gut feelings.”

  “What we need is to make some headway,” he mumbled. “So far, we’re not making much at all.”

  “That’s how it works sometimes, but we keep asking questions and talking to people, and if we’re doing it right, eventual
ly we get to the truth and we catch a killer.”

  They got into the department car, and the clock on the dash told them it was quarter to six. The autopsy was in forty-five minutes, and they had a thirty-minute drive to get there.

  “Take us through a drive-thru for something to eat. We’ll chow down on the way, but you’ll need to step on it if we’re going to make it to Manassas in time.” Her phone rang and caller ID came up as Alibi. Otherwise known as Logan Hunter. Long story made short, he’d been her alibi in a previous murder case. Someday she’d get around to renaming the contact. “Detective Steele.”

  “Detective. I’ll never get tired of hearing you say that.”

  Her belly fluttered, and her core flushed hot at the sound of his voice. Logan was her new… Whatever he was, he was good in bed. “I’m working a case. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Ouch. So cold.”

  She laughed at his mocked offense. “Don’t be so sensitive.”

  “Easy for you to say, you’re a bad-ass cop.”

  Trent glanced over at her, and she pushed closer toward the door, as if the extra half inch would give her the privacy she wanted. “I can’t talk right now.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll figure out what to do with this prime rib steak all on my own, then.”

  All on my own… Then her mind cleared. It was Thursday night, and he was supposed to be cooking them dinner at her place. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I completely forgot.”

  “It’s okay. Really. You got a case. It happens.” He talked like he was a cop and understood the job, but he worked in construction.

  “I really am sorry.” Her stomach was grumbling. She’d only been seeing Logan for the last few months, but he was an amazing cook. “I’ll take a rain check if you’re handing them out.”