by Tony Urban
“Glad to see you’re as chauvinistic as ever.”
“Old habits, I suppose,” he said. “So will you help me?”
“That depends. Are you willing to pay my day rate?”
“Carolina, I’m the sheriff of this county. As small as the department might be, it has a healthy annual budget and I have full discretion on how those funds are spent. I’ll pay you whatever you want if you help me catch this fucker.”
She nodded. “Then I’m in. Now where’s that damn waiter?”
Chapter Eight
The Hopkins County Sheriff’s Station seemed almost comically oversized considering its small staff. It was filled with new office furniture, state-of-the-art computers, and was so clean you could have eaten off of the floors.
Having a tax base with actual jobs and profitable businesses makes a world of difference compared to Dupray, Carolina thought.
Of course, in Dupray they had a good man as sheriff. There were tradeoffs everywhere.
Hank led the way, offering up introductions. First up was O’Dell Clark, a geriatric man with a handlebar mustache and a mop of hair, both as silver as a half dollar. He looked like a low-rent Sam Elliot, so tall and gaunt he might break in half in a strong wind. He held out a frail hand and, as Carolina accepted it, she could see every vein and phalange beneath the thin skin. She gave a polite, gentle shake, afraid to grip too tightly.
“Nice to meet you, O’Dell,” she said.
“Call me Odie. Everyone does,” he said with a broad smile, one that revealed his dentures. “It’s real good to have you on board.”
She shot Hank a look and he responded with a dismissive shrug. “I may have mentioned why you were coming.”
“A little presumptuous, don’t you think?” she said.
“And yet, here you are,” Hank, ever the confident one, said. Again, she was reminded how he was able to bullshit his way through work and life.
“That’s Leigh Benner,” Hank said, pointing to a woman in her mid-twenties.
Leigh flashed a dopey grin. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said. “It’s an honor!”
Carolina was sure the woman was only being polite, but she felt a little like the president of a sorority meeting a new pledge. She didn’t need or want anyone fawning over her. “Wait until you know me better before saying shit like that,” Carolina said.
Leigh’s big, over-eager smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. She was in the bottom half of her twenties, wore studious glasses, and had wavy blonde hair which she kept under control by pulling it back in a ponytail. If it weren’t for the uniform, Carolina would have thought her a college student or understudy to the local librarian, not a deputy sheriff.
Leigh was also a solid girl, definitely no twig, and Carolina wondered if that was another reason for Hank’s dismissive attitude toward her. From what she recalled, the man was a horn dog of the first order.
Hank waved his hand and the three followed him into a large conference room. At the far wall was a cork board with crime scene photos and images of the victims, both pre- and post-murder.
Carolina stepped to the board, studying the images. Then she stepped back, trying to see just the ‘before’ photos, most of which looked like driver’s license ID shots. The women were of similar ages, all white, average to pretty in appearance, but unremarkable in any obvious way. One was a bleached blonde, the other three blondes of the sunnier variety. One wore glasses.
“Tell me about them,” Carolina said. Their names were listed under the photos, but she wanted to know who they were in life. Not just their names.
“Stephanie Harlowe is the one on the far left,” Leigh answered. “She was the first to go missing.”
Carolina looked at the image of Stephanie, her hair draped over her shoulders. She smiled, but in that awkward sort of way that you do when you hate having your picture taken.
Leigh continued. “Twenty-six years old, single. A Millpine native. Went to the local community college where she earned her degree in Accounting. She put that to use by getting a job at Zimmerman’s Paper Supply.”
Carolina looked back at Leigh and realized she wasn’t reading from a notepad. And the descriptions she gave weren’t out in the open where she could find them. It was all from memory. Maybe the woman wasn’t as hopeless as Hank had insinuated.
“Go on,” Carolina said.
“Erin Tuccaro is next up. Twenty-eight, divorced with no children. She was a cashier at the Food Lion grocery store. She played the piano at Grace Baptist Church every Sunday. Very talented. Then we have Betty Sue Corian. Twenty-six, married but no kids. She sold handmade jewelry online. Pretty stuff, too, from what I saw.” Leigh added the last part with melancholy in her voice.
“Via a website or one of those Craigslist kind of places?” Carolina asked. After her ordeal with her sister’s abduction, she’d become somewhat educated about online marketplaces and was hoping she could bring something to the table.
“Christ, McKay, what does that matter?” Hank asked, not bothering to mask the annoyance in his voice. “Are you in the market for an anklet?”
“I’m trying to decide if she was meeting up with strangers to sell her jewelry. If she did, that might be a lead to follow up.” She stared him down. “But if you don’t want me asking questions, I can just fuck off back to West Virginia and leave you to it.”
Hank broke eye contact and stayed silent, something that must have taken a mountain of self-control after getting a tongue lashing in front of his subordinates.
Leigh was the one to break the awkward silence. “On Etsy,” she said. “All mail-order.”
“Shit,” Carolina muttered. “Okay, go on.”
Leigh did. “The last is Phyllis Arthurs. She vanished the week before last. A twenty-seven-year-old teacher’s aide at the elementary school. She was engaged to be married and volunteered at the local animal shelter as a cat cuddler.”
That’s a thing? Carolina thought as she studied the images further. Then she pointed to Erin Tuccaro. “What about her ex? What did you find there?”
“Kenny Tuccaro,” Leigh said. “He’s--”
Hank cut Leigh off, taking over by using his best I’m still in charge here tone of voice. “Works for a logging outfit in Oregon. Hasn’t been home since the weather broke back in April,” Hank said. “I gave the news to him over the phone. Even though they’d been divorced going on three years, he took it bad. But I spoke with his site boss anyway, and he confirmed that Ken’s been working seven days a week.”
Satisfied, Carolina looked to Victim Number Three. Hank beat her to the punch.
“Betty Sue’s husband was out of town on a business trip in Tallahassee, Florida. Airtight alibi, hotel receipts to prove it.”
“And Phyllis’s fiancé?” Carolina asked, but she could tell Hank, for all his faults, had done a thorough job. Her hopes of finding an obvious mistake or oversight were already gone.
“He’s the gym teacher. Also coaches the baseball team. No alibi, at least, none that can be confirmed by anyone else. He told me he was at home watching game tape the night she went missing.”
“I want to talk to him,” Carolina said.
“I already did,” Hank answered.
“Yeah, you mentioned that. But I need to start somewhere.”
“The man is a pillar of the community.”
Carolina shot him an if looks could kill glare and his bravado slipped.
“I guess I brought you in for a reason,” he said. “But I’m going to be there when you talk to him. I won’t have you browbeating one of my finest citizens.”
She almost shot back a snarky comment, one about Hank being the guy who excelled at beating. But she stopped, reminding herself that she was a new and improved version of Carolina McKay and she had to grow up and act like it.
“That’s fine,” Carolina said. “What about the disappearances? What can you tell me about them? I’m assuming no one saw anything.”
“That’s
right,” Leigh said. “They just vanished.”
Carolina stifled a shiver. To be here one day going about your life as usual, thinking you had another fifty or sixty years to live. Then, poof, gone. Rubbed out like a spent cigar.
She looked across the images of the now deceased women, then back to Leigh. She couldn’t help but think that there was one hell of a strong resemblance between the victims and the deputy. One too close to ignore.
Carolina turned to Hank. “Get word out that blonde women in their mid-to-late-twenties need to be on high alert. If there’s a pattern to be found so far, that’s it.”
Hank crossed his arms in a way that reminded Carolina of a petulant toddler. “And cause a panic? Do you know how many blonde women in that age range live in Hopkins County?” he asked.
Carolina didn’t miss a beat. “Four less than there used to be.”
Chapter Nine
Inside a musty, unlit room, water dripped steadily from an overhead pipe and splashed onto the dirt floor. From what the girl could tell, it must have been dripping for years as it had created a shallow, stygian pool where the droplets accumulated and formed a puddle.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there, tied to the metal support beam. It was probably a few days, less than a week for certain, but it felt like a lifetime. She hadn’t been given anything to eat or drink since waking up there and she strained her ropes as far as they would stretch, pulling them taut, desperate to reach the liquid.
She was so close, able to inhale its earthy aroma. It reminded her of wet garden soil. That reminded her of the knockout roses she’d worked so hard to transform from a scraggly, little stem into a lush bush over the last few years. And that, in turn, made her think of her life before ending up in this hellhole.
The rope tore into the flesh on her neck, choking her as she pulled against it. Fireworks went off inside her eyes as she gagged and coughed. So close to the water now that she could dip her hair into it. But it wasn’t her hair she needed to wet. She needed the water in her mouth which felt brittle and barren.
But the constant pressure against her throat had her on the verge of unconsciousness and she tumbled sideways. It allowed slack to come into the rope but put her further from the water which looked like fine wine even though its surface was covered in a green-brown scum.
She rolled onto her back, feeling the cool, damp earth against her bare skin, wondering why this was happening to her. She’d been a good person, a kind person. She’d held doors open for old people and donated canned goods to the food pantry every Thanksgiving. She’d gone to church every Sunday and Wednesday except for a few years when she was away at college. She’d even once told a middle-aged cashier that she had mistaken her ten dollar bill for a twenty and returned the excess change.
She’d been a good person, so why was she tied up in some basement? It wasn’t fair. It was like nothing she’d done in her life mattered. How could God be so random and cruel?
Just as she started to cry, the bulkhead doors on the right side of the room flung open. An avalanche of light spilled in like someone had just turned on a ten-thousand-watt bulb. Her eyes, so accustomed to the dark, went blind for a long moment.
“Hello?” she called. Because even though she knew the only person coming through those doors was the same person who’d taken her and confined her down here, she still had hope.
Foolish prey.
He descended three of the eight steps into the basement before turning and closing the steel doors above him. And as soon as the sunlight had flooded into the basement, it was gone.
He ignored the prey’s call to him, continuing in silence until he reached the dirt floor. Then he sat on the second step and stared at her. She propped herself onto her knees like she was genuflecting.
And maybe she was. She should worship him because he now controlled her fate. He decided how much longer she lived. He decided how and when she died.
Her pale skin was filthy and dirt streaked. He sniffed the air, trying to catch her scent, but the air was full of feces. His eyes went to it and saw two piles in the far corner. Flies teemed over it, crawling, dining, laying their eggs in her waste.
Disgusting prey.
He rose to his feet and went to her. As he approached, she broke into hitching sobs. Her mouth worked, spitting out pleas and cries, but he didn’t care to hear her. Words from the prey mattered not at all to him.
He put his face just over hers and breathed in, inhaling her scent as deep as he could. At this close distance he could smell her musk.
And it made him begin to salivate.
Her crying increased in volume. It pained his ears, so sensitive they were. And he slapped her with his left hand. His only hand. It wasn’t hard, but it was firm. Commanding. Enough to remind the prey that he was in charge.
But also, gentle enough to let her know he wasn’t going to harm her…yet.
As if sensing his power, she clumsily crab-crawled backward into the corner where she’d defecated.
He couldn’t help but smile. How stupid the prey was! Boxing herself against the wall, weakening her position. Did she have no sense of awareness? Was she not developed like he was?
Of course not. That’s why she was a prey animal.
He dropped onto all fours and went to her. She had nowhere to go. No room to retreat. She was pressed into the corner, whimpering, staring with wide fearful eyes, the pupils fully dilated. Her tears dug rivers through her dirt-laden face.
He reached his right arm out, the one that had long ago been relieved of its hand and half the forearm. It now ended in a blunt, ragged wound. Chunks of skin crudely stitched together formed a patchwork quilt of purples and reds and white. He rubbed it across her face, then her neck, caressing her, feeling the prey quiver like the terrified rabbit she was.
Straddling her, he pushed his face against hers and sniffed again. Then, he licked her face, tasting her salty tears, the dirt. Tasting her fear.
It was intoxicating.
The prey sobbed harder. Louder. It made his head throb, and he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to block out her annoying sounds.
In his momentary distraction, she threw her head at him, trying to fight, and smashed her forehead into his chin. The action brought a surge of pain, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d endured worse. Far, far worse.
When she tried again, he snatched a fistful of her dirty blonde hair and gripped it tight. Then, he shoved her back, smacking her skull into the earthen wall of the basement. It connected with a hollow thud and her eyes went unfocused.
It was only his hand holding her up, and when he let loose of her hair, she fell hard to the floor. She whimpered as she stared up at him.
He straddled her on all fours. His stump pressing into the moist dirt. He hunched his back, making himself look twice his actual size, and then he bared his teeth and let out a low growl.
Feral.
Wild.
The prey turned her head away, incapable of seeing him any longer. And he smiled.
And he thought to himself: Tonight.
Chapter Ten
Carolina found herself sitting at Geoff Norris’s kitchen table, holding a cup of coffee she had no intention of drinking. But when a man who’d just lost his fiancée offered you a drink, you didn’t decline.
Geoff was the partner of Phyllis Arthurs, the teacher’s aide and volunteer cat cuddler. The man had been courteous when Hank and Carolina showed up to his door unannounced. In fact, he had regarded Hank as a sort of friend.
The small ranch house was unkempt, which matched Geoff’s own appearance. The table had mail piled on it. Possibly weeks’ worth of letters, various bills, and junk mail, but there was also a towering stack of sympathy cards.
Carolina wondered what kind of greeting card was made for the death of a loved one at the hands of a serial killer. It seemed like a small niche. Thankfully.
The state of the kitchen told a story in itself. The counters were covered with var
ious takeout boxes and partially-eaten TV dinners. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink. The smell of stale food filled the room.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” Geoff said, as if he’d seen her examining the disarray. “Phyllis was always better with the clutter than me.”
He had a half-beard, the kind grown out of neglect rather than purpose. He smiled at her, his lips twisting and trying to be friendly. But behind his eyes was the agony over what had been taken from him. Not only his fiancée, his present happiness, but his future too.
Carolina couldn’t even imagine.
“Don’t worry about it,” she offered.
“I just haven’t had the energy, I guess.”
“Nobody is faulting you for that,” Hank said. “You back at work yet?”
Geoff shook his head. “I took a few days. That turned into a few more. The school said to take all the time I needed, so I figured maybe I’d go back next Tuesday. Nobody likes to go in on Monday, right?” He tried to laugh, tried to forget, tried to act like everything was normal. He wasn’t successful.
“I know I don’t,” Hank said with a smile.
Carolina studied Geoff. She could see that under his due-for-washing gym clothes he was a jock, which was fitting for a gym teacher and coach.
“I made arrangements for the viewing and funeral,” he said, answering a question no one asked. “She’s going to be at Larson’s. But there can’t be an open casket because she— she—” His voice cracked, and his lip quivered. He unleashed a hard sob but quickly reigned it in, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Geoff, I’m working with Hank to find the person who did this. I know you’ve gone over some things with him already, but I was hoping to ask my own questions, which means that some of them might overlap.”
Geoff shrugged. “I’ve been through it a million times. Everyone I see wants to know all about it. What’s one more time?”