Stolen Daughters

by Carolyn Arnold

  When Amanda and Trent got out of the department car at Chris Ingram’s house, located at 603 Bill Drive, it was going on four o’clock in the afternoon.

  Across the street, a piece of yellow crime scene tape had snagged on a bush in Fox’s front yard and flapped in the breeze. She looked toward 532 and saw a growing memorial, but there was no police car.

  “Just a minute,” she said to Trent as she pulled out her phone and called Malone. Received voicemail. “On Bill Drive following up that lead you gave me and noticed there’s no uniform on five thirty-two. Why? Please call me back.” Once she finished leaving the message, she noticed a man standing in the front window of Ingram’s house.

  She and Trent headed up the walk, and the front door was opened before they climbed the stairs and reached the landing.

  A man in his forties was studying them.

  Amanda held up her badge, as did Trent. She announced them. “Detectives Amanda Steele and Trent Stenson. Are you Chris Ingram?” He looked just like his DMV photo, but it was always best to confirm identification.

  “That’s me.”

  “You provided a statement to Officer Wyatt. We have a few follow-up questions we’d like to ask.”

  “Come in.” The offer was extended on a sigh, but Chris stepped back to allow them room to enter.

  The house smelled strongly of pine cleaner and gave Amanda an immediate headache.

  “Do you have somewhere we could sit?” Trent asked.

  Her pounding head was making it hard to fully concentrate. She did note a living room to the immediate right of the entry, though. Zero clutter and the basics: a couch, a chair, a couple of coffee tables, and an entertainment stand. But in place of a TV, there was a fish tank. Maybe that’s what the cleaner was trying to cover. Fish could be peaceful—or boring—to watch, but their tanks could stink if they weren’t cleaned regularly.

  “Here fine?” Chris gestured toward the sitting area.

  “Perfect.” Trent smiled politely.

  Chris sat on the chair, and Amanda and Trent shared the couch.

  “You told Officer Wyatt that you saw a man jogging across the street around five thirty yesterday morning.” Amanda knew that from reading the officer’s interview on the way here.

  “That’s right.”

  “I know you provided a description of the man to Officer Wyatt, but could you tell us again, in your own words?” Amanda asked.

  “In his thirties, early forties maybe. He had dark hair, trimmed short. Average build and height.”

  That matched the statement the officer took and was generic as hell. “Had you ever seen him before?” Again, she was aware of what the interview had said but wanted to hear it for herself.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Amanda glanced briefly at Trent, as if to instill a teaching moment, but said to Chris, “You told Officer Wyatt that you hadn’t seen him before.” Changing stories or memories that resurfaced were why she always questioned things that came from a third party.

  Chris’s gaze flickered just slightly, as if annoyed. “If you know everything I told him, why ask me?”

  “Just now, you said that you didn’t think you’d seen him before. A lot less definitive than you were with Officer Wyatt,” she pointed out. “I’ll ask again.”

  “I might have. I’m not sure. He wasn’t jogging the other time, though.”

  Trent and Amanda both inched forward on the couch. He asked, “When and where?”

  “Just walking down the street… with a woman?”

  She hated it when eyewitnesses responded with a question like they were unsure, but she had to take what she was given. “He was with a woman? Can you describe her?”

  Chris took a deep breath, let out a funky moan, and said, “She was blond. Probably about your height.”

  Amanda was five nine. “Did you get a good look at her face?”

  “Nah, it was dark out.”

  “Early morning or night?” A valid question as the sun didn’t rise until closer to seven these days.

  Chris rubbed a hand down his face. “I’d been drinking, so it must have been night. Don’t ask me the time. Heck, probably why I’m not even sure if I saw him.”

  She was just going to ignore his self-doubt. “When was this? Recently? A while back?”

  “I’d say recently.”

  “Within the last couple of days?” She was really hoping to narrow the timeline down a tad.

  “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  And there was the gold nugget that Amanda had been looking for—a possible connection to Ashley Lynch. She had been murdered two days ago and was about Amanda’s height. Was she the woman Chris was talking about? There was the matter of Chris saying that he saw them at night, and Ashley’s time of death was pegged between four and five thirty in the morning. Did that mean the killer had spent time with Ashley before killing her—and doing what? It hadn’t been sex because Rideout had found zero evidence of that—consensual or otherwise. But maybe Amanda was getting carried away to think it was Ashley and her killer that Chris had seen. “How old would you say she was?”

  “I didn’t get a good look.”

  Amanda continued to mull over the implications of the woman being Ashley and the man her killer. Had he walked with her to 532 Bill Drive? How had he gotten her cooperation? Drugs? Maybe something different than he’d given Shannon Fox, or a smaller, non-lethal dosage? And if the killer had chosen the house, did the geography mean something to him? Was he from this neighborhood? It would allow him to blend in more.

  “How did they seem to you?” Trent asked. “Like were they friendly with each other or did she look in distress?”

  “She was fine, I guess. Laughing a bit. Unsteady on her feet.”

  That could be the result of drugs. Whatever the case, Amanda had this strong feeling in her gut that the woman was Ashley. She considered showing him Ashley’s computer-rendered photo, but feared he’d easily fall prey to the suggestion and jump on Ashley being who he’d seen with the man. Besides, he had said he didn’t get a good look. She was curious, though, why Chris hadn’t said anything about the duo when officers would have gone to his house after the fire. Had he simply minimized the importance of a man and woman walking down the sidewalk? She supposed it wouldn’t have stood out at the time. But then, when he saw that same man again, jogging on the morning of—and in the vicinity of—a second murder, it came back to his mind. That was plausible.

  “You seem awfully interested in this man and the woman from the other day…” Chris eyed them studiously. “Do you think this man is a murderer?”

  “Far too soon to say.”

  “Well, there was a young woman found in the fire,” he said. “Then Ms. Fox and what happened to her. I read an article that she’s the one who called the fire department. Is that why the killer targeted her?”

  “These are open investigations, Mr. Ingram, and I’m not at liberty to discuss them with you.” Goosebumps spread across her flesh. People liked to play detective, but she was getting a bad feeling about Chris.

  “It had to be because she called nine-one-one.” Chris mentioned the call again, sounding quite confident it was what had gotten Shannon Fox murdered.

  Tingles spilled over the back of Amanda’s neck and down her arms. Their killer wanted attention, and he’d sought her out… What if the story of a jogger had been a ruse to lure them here? Then the additional story of a man and woman to toy with them? Could they be sitting across from the killer they hunted?

  “How can you be so sure Ms. Fox was killed for placing the nine-one-one call?” Amanda pushed out.

  Chris’s gaze flicked to her, to Trent, then to the floor. “I heard her tongue was cut out.”

  His words didn’t relax her. He could claim he’d heard it when he’d actually been responsible. But his soft, almost timid demeanor, calmed her. “Who told you that?”

  He tugged on the sleeves of his shirt. “Everyone around here knows.”

  �
�Not a direct answer to my question, Mr. Ingram.” She leveled a glare at him.

  He turned a deeper shade of crimson. “It’s just the scuttlebutt in the hood.”

  “Who did you hear it from?” She was one step away from hauling his butt to the station if he didn’t start talking.

  “Uh, some guy down the street, lives next to the house that was burned down.”

  “Name? Number?” Trent inserted, probably sensing her impatience.

  “I dunno. He’s in his forties and has a bad comb-over. That help more?”

  “That it does.” She got to her feet and pressed one of her cards into Chris’s hand. “See anything suspicious, call me anytime.” Depending on how things shook out, they might be back for his alibi just for due diligence.

  “Ah, sure.”

  She left the house and trudged down the sidewalk.

  Trent caught up. “Ted Dixon?”

  “Sounds like it, but I’d like to know how he found out.”

  She walked up Ted’s path and banged on his front door like his place was on fire. She was mid-knock when he answered. She lowered her hand. “We need to talk to you, Mr. Dixon.” She made a move past him into his house.

  “Hey, what the— What are you doing?”

  “You don’t want anyone to see you talking to the cops,” she said. “Just honoring your wish and saving us some time.”

  Trent came inside, too, and Ted closed the door.

  “You better have a good explanation for barging in like this.” He thrust out his chin and put his hands on his hips.

  “We’ve heard you’re spreading rumors about Ms. Fox’s murder.” She laid out the more innocent explanation, giving him the benefit of the doubt that he was just a gossip.

  “You’re going to have to give me more to go on here.” He swallowed, his throat bulging like a whole rat was going down.

  “Really?” She angled her head. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  His peacocked stance started to crumble apart; his shoulders sagged, and his head bowed slightly forward. “I might have heard that her tongue was cut out.”

  “You heard it, or you did it?”

  “What? No!” he burst out. “I swear to you. I just heard about it.”

  “Who told you?” She hadn’t exactly confirmed the mutilation had happened in so many words, but the subtext of the conversation was serving to unnerve Ted.

  He rubbed at the back of his neck and worried his lip.

  “Mr. Dixon, if you don’t start talking, I’m going to assume that you killed Ms. Fox, maybe even the girl from next door. Did you?” she pressed.

  “I’d swear on the Bible, no.”

  “Then where did you hear that Ms. Fox was mutilated?”

  “I shouldn’t say.”

  “You absolutely should.” She pulled her cuffs out, the threat of arrest implied.

  Ted held up his hands and waved. “No, I’ll talk. I heard it from a friend of mine.”

  “You’re going to need to get far more specific than that.” She snapped the cuffs, and Ted twitched.

  “Fraser Reyes,” he rushed out.

  That name was one she was very familiar with. He was the journalist who wrote a piece a couple of months ago that had gotten her in shit with the LT. “Where did he hear it?”

  Chris’s forehead beaded with sweat, and he swiped it. “I dunno. Some source. You know how journalists are about things like that.”

  Source… Her heart was racing. No one outside of law enforcement should have had access to that information—although there was the neighborhood rumor mill and Bethany Greene. But what motive would she have to disclose tidbits from her friend’s murder to strangers or the press? It had to be their killer behind this. Had he wanted his story out so badly that he did what he could to make that happen? She hadn’t seen the news or read any, but surely if the mutilation had gone public, she would have heard. “Someone told Mr. Reyes?”

  “Ah, yeah.”

  She was ready to hunt down Fraser Reyes, but she couldn’t leave without asking Ted another question. She pulled up the photo of Ashley Lynch, justifying this move because he’d mentioned squatters and maybe he could put to rest whether Ashley had stayed at 532 Bill Drive or was randomly taken there. She angled her screen for Ted to see. “Does she look familiar to you?”

  Ted leaned in, his eyes squinting. Then he shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “That’s how you want to play this?” she slapped back.

  “I’m not just going to say something because you want to hear it, Detective.”

  “This girl is dead, Mr. Dixon.” She stamped home the somber reality.

  “Fine, yeah, I saw her around before.”

  “Squatting in the neighboring house?”

  “Maybe.”

  Amanda took a deep, staggering breath and put her phone back in her pocket. She swung the front door open and spun to say, “Just do us a favor. Stop spreading rumors, and if you hear anything, use the number on the card I gave you.” She didn’t speak the threat, but if she had to see him again, she’d be taking him in.

  Ted mumbled something argumentative, but she didn’t have time to deal with him.

  She and Trent left. Once they reached the sidewalk, she turned to him. “We’re going to talk to Fraser Reyes.”

  “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

  Thirty

  Fraser answered his door in dress pants and a collared shirt, no tie. “Can I help you, Detective Steele?” He danced his gaze over the two of them.

  Smug and cocky, and Amanda despised both qualities, but she’d adhere to the adage of getting “more flies with honey.” Instead of bulldozing him and accusing him of withholding information from the police, she’d go about matters slightly more diplomatically. “We need to ask you some questions about Ted Dixon. We understand he’s a friend of yours.”

  “All right, but I was just getting ready to go out, though.”

  “We won’t be long.” She smiled as genuinely as she could muster, and it had the reporter welcoming them into his home.

  A simple apartment but tastefully appointed. He led them to a seating area with six chairs laid out in a basic circle, no couch in sight. He dropped into one wingback, and she and Trent into two others.

  “How can I help the PWCPD?” Fraser asked, clasping his hands in his lap.

  Interesting question. He hadn’t helped them back in January when he’d accused the PWCPD of playing favorites in a murder investigation. All the finger-pointing had landed in her direction and had her facing off with Lieutenant Hill. In response, Amanda’s temper had flared, and she’d almost walked away from being a cop for good.

  “We understand that you may have come into some information about a recent murder case.” She scanned his face, curious if he’d volunteer his knowledge or make her dredge it from him.

  “I’m not sure what this has to do with Ted. You said you had questions about him.”

  Amanda shrugged. “It got us in your door, and Ted’s really how we came to be here talking to you.”

  “I’m not understanding.”

  “I think you do, but I’ll make it clearer for you. A woman, more specifically Shannon Fox, was murdered in her home on Bill Drive,” she said.

  “Okay.” His face was stoic.

  She was ready to abandon the whole “flies with honey” thing. It hadn’t lasted long, but at least she’d given it a shot. “We know that you found out that her tongue was severed.”

  “Ah, sure. You read my article?”

  “What article?” Her core rushed with molten lava.

  He grabbed a tablet from a side table and swept his finger across the screen. “This one.” He held it up for Amanda and Trent to see.

  The headline read: “Murder and Mutilation in Dumfries.”

  She shot to her feet and grabbed the device from him and scanned the article. Shannon Fox’s name was there, along with the details of the mutilation. She took a few minutes
to compose herself and cool her anger, then said in an even voice, “Where did you get this information?”

  Fraser glanced from her to Trent, then rubbed his chin. “Ah, a source.” Stated calmly with no shame or remorse.

  “The PWCPD’s Public Information Office is the only source you should be listening to right now. And they aren’t saying anything.”

  “Uh-huh, exactly.” Fraser was the epitome of put-togetherness.

  “Let me see if I understand your point,” she began. “The police aren’t talking to you, so you wrote your own story based on some source?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’s your source?”

  “I’m not going to tell you that,” he scoffed. “The press has constitutional rights, and the public deserves to know what’s happening in their city.”

  “The police have rights, too, just as Ms. Fox has the right to justice. No one but the victim’s friend, the police, investigators, the medical examiner, and the killer knew about the dismemberment. Do you gather where I’m headed with this?”

  He sighed dramatically.

  Amanda pressed on. “You’re hiding behind your source.” She added finger quotes. She longed to jolt him into speaking. “But maybe you’re the source. Did you kill Ms. Fox?”

  “That’s absurd!” he exclaimed.

  “Where were you between four and six Friday morning?” she asked. Fox’s time-of-death window.

  “I submitted a piece to a newspaper around five that day. I can get you proof of the submission.”

  “We’re going to need that,” Trent chimed in and stole Fraser’s gaze.

  The reporter shrugged. “Hey, I didn’t know it was a huge secret.”

  “Sure you did. That’s why you put it in the paper. You wanted admiration for providing that tidbit before anyone else.” She paused and scanned his face, and he showed no signs of being bothered by what she was saying. “You need to take that article down immediately.” She nudged her head toward the tablet in his hands.