by Dianna Love
“Was anyone there who can verify your story?” asked Jennifer.
“Yeah, the little bartender with the nice ass. Why do you want to know?”
Ignoring his crude remark, Jennifer continued, “Have you seen Brianna Hayden this evening?”
“Not since work. Why?”
“She’s missing and I think you might be able to help us find her.”
Isaac exploded. “What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t know where she is. I already told you, I haven’t seen her since work today.”
Blake shoved him against the vehicle, “Calm down and watch your language.”
“What about when you left for the liquor store? Did you see Brianna walking her dogs?” asked Jennifer.
“No. I didn’t see anyone.” John spit on the ground, then reconsidered. “Wait a minute. I saw a guy having truck trouble on the highway across from my barn. Didn’t stop to help him ‘cause he looked like he was in better shape than I am. Let him fix his own damn truck.”
With raised eyebrows, Jennifer tilted her head to the side, looked pointedly at Blake, then asked John, “How about a description of the man as well as his truck?”
“It was a Jeep, maybe 2009 or 2010. I know because I’ve been looking for one for sale. It was brown and tan with some kind of lettering on the side; I was going too fast to read it.”
Jennifer jotted down the description, ignoring the deputy who just pulled his cruiser into the driveway. “What about the man? What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. I don’t make a habit of checking out men.”
“Give it a try, John,” she urged.
“Okay, he was tall, maybe six foot one or two. He had a thin build, but not skinny. Muscular. He had on a short-sleeved shirt and I noticed his arms and legs were tan like he’d been outside a lot. Couldn’t see his face because he was wearing a brown ball cap and was bent down under the hood looking at the motor.”
“Anything else?”
“Now that I think about it, that may have been a uniform he was wearing. It was brown and tan like his Jeep.”
The deputy slid in on the other side of John and grabbed his arm. “Take him to the jail and book him,” Blake said. You can start out with domestic violence, slugging a law enforcement officer and child abuse. You can get a statement from his wife tomorrow. I’ll email mine to you.”
Jennifer waited until the deputy backed out of the driveway before she leaned against him, running her fingers along Blake’s jaw. “I can’t believe he hit you. Besides being an officer, you’re twice his size.”
Blake took the opportunity to snake his arm around her waist to pull her close to kiss her.
“Do you believe him?” asked Jennifer.
“You mean about the disabled Jeep? Yeah, I do.”
“So do I. It matches what Frankie said about the tire prints and her guess for the vehicle.”
“I’m calling in a BOLO with the perp and vehicle description. See what we come up with.” He pulled out his cell phone and noticed he’d received a couple of calls. “Crap, Carly’s been trying to reach me.”
***
It was two in the morning, but not one of them objected to the time of the meeting. Tim, Lane, Blake and Jennifer filed into the sheriff’s conference room one-by-one, poured a cup of hot coffee, and then took a seat. At the end of the room, the wall was covered with flip charts, post-it notes and area maps. With her back to them, Carly was still jotting notes. When she realized they’d arrived, she started the meeting without fanfare.
“I apologize for the hour, but after I spoke to Blake and learned you have another missing girl, I thought it critical for you to hear my analysis.” Carly began pointing to the sheets of flip-chart papers lining the wall.
“On these wall charts are some similarities between the victims: they were both in their twenties, physically fit, and abducted from a local state park. Neither of them had a high-risk lifestyle such as excessive drug use or prostitution. Both women were tortured and raped prior to their deaths, then their bodies were returned to the same state park in which they were abducted, and posed nude to look as if they were praying. In addition, the killer painstakingly removed valuable trace evidence we could have used to solve this case.” Carly paused for a moment, sipped some water, then continued. “None of this is news to any of you. I am sure you’ve considered it many times. This is a very distinctive M.O.”
“What about Brianna Hayden? She was abducted from a country road not far from her house, not a park,” asked Blake.
“Brianna fits his preference for physically fit women in their twenties. Like Catherine Thomas, she worked at the Sugar Creek Cafe where he could have noticed her, and followed her home after work. He may have watched her house until he learned her routines.”
Jennifer spoke up. “Do you think the killer is stalking his victims or choosing them at random based on availability?”
“I don’t have a good grasp on that yet, but I do have some ideas on who your killer is and isn’t.” Carly began, noticing the flicker of doubt in Tim’s eyes. Doubt from law enforcement officers was not a new thing for Carly. Many felt that profiling was hocus-pocus. She was determined that by the time Tim left the meeting, he would see the value in her analysis, and use it to catch a killer before more young women died.
“Your killer is very familiar with the area parks and outdoor recreation,” she continued. “To return the victims back to the public areas where he abducted them indicates he is familiar and comfortable with the area.”
“You mean he’s a local?” asked Blake as he ran his fingers through his thick hair.
“Absolutely. He lives here, works here, or has a reason to frequent the area. Serial killers typically do not travel far to commit crimes, preferring instead, areas they are familiar with and which they can move around without raising suspicion.”
Lane fired a question, “Are you saying we may know him?”
“Perhaps, but if you do know him it’s because this type of killer likes to stay in the know about the case. You probably don’t suspect his involvement,” said Carly, as she walked to the hot pot of coffee on the warmer, tipped the pot to refill her mug and returned to her seat. “It’s feasible that your killer leads a normal life and functions well in society, but he has this other dark side to his personality.”
“How is he so easily abducting such physical fit women?” Jennifer wanted to know.
“Simple. He’s physically fit, as well. I also think he’s a lot like Ted Bundy, in that he’s good looking, charming and persuasive. He seems normal and unthreatening. How else would he be able to convince even the most cautious young woman to drop her guard, trust him and go off with him?”
“Could he be disabling them with a drug?” asked Jennifer.
Carly added, “Since he tried to inject you with Rohypnol in the hospital, there’s a chance he’s also using it to disable his victims. Rohypnol comes in tablet form, so he must be mixing them with water in order to get the drug in the syringe.”
“Carly, what about the beatings with the belt? Any thoughts about that?” Tim leaned forward in his chair, eager to hear her response.
“Your killer has a fantasy about torturing women with this particular type of beating. I think he’s re-enacting something he experienced in childhood. Typically, serial killers have dysfunctional family lives. Your guy had a parent who was domineering and aggressive. Since he chooses only women as victims, my guess is it was his mother who beat him with a belt while he was restrained to something, like he’s restraining his victims. He may have fantasized since childhood about repaying his mother’s cruelty by beating and killing women, starting with her. There’s a good chance he was sexually abused.”
Lane asked, “What about the way he poses the bodies?”
Jennifer interrupted before Carly could answer. “Connected to that, there is something that’s always bothered me about the call Julie Thomas got from the killer, besides the fact he was calling from
her dead daughter’s phone.” Jennifer began. “He told her that 'good girls don’t always go straight to heaven. Sometimes they get to visit hell first. I made sure of that with your Catherine.’ I wonder if he believes this, and that’s why he posed his victims in prayer?”
“The posing is a part of his fantasy,” Carly explained. “Perhaps his mother was a religious zealot who hated men and convinced her son that only females entered heaven. Another explanation is that he tortures to inflict enough pain so his victims pray for mercy.”
“What else can you tell us that will help us catch him?” inquired Tim.
“Judging by his behavior and M.O., he appears to be an organized killer who plans methodically, and is probably above average intelligence. It appears he abducts his victims in one place, but kills them in another, and then disposes the bodies in the original abduction site.” Carly paused.
“The guy knows a thing or two about trace evidence too,” added Tim.
“He’s likely a man who watches forensics programming because he displays a basic knowledge of investigative tools and how to avoid detection,” said Carly.
“Carly, I have a theory about the timing of the body dumps. On the days when the bodies of both Catherine and Tiffany were found, it was raining. Thus, washing away any trace evidence he may have missed when washing and bleaching the victims,” said Jennifer.
Carly thought for a moment. “Interesting. He may be thinking the rain further helps him to avoid detection. That’s another thing that supports how methodical he is. There is little your killer does without planning.”
“If he abducted Brianna like we think he did, that means we have until it rains to find her,” Jennifer declared as the others nodded in agreement.
“Any ideas on his occupation?” asked Lane.
“He could be anyone who’s familiar with local outdoor recreation areas. He could be a cop, fireman, a hunter or even someone connected to the state parks. He’s a man who spends a lot of time enjoying outside recreation.”
“To think our killer may be a cop on my team makes me physically ill,” said Tim.
Blake spoke up. “I’ve been thinking about that disabled tan and brown Jeep on Brianna’s walking route that our witness saw. The park service provides this type of vehicle to their conservation officers. Each of the conservation officers in area parks is also provided a cabin by the park service. We woke up the human resources director, got the conservation officers’ addresses, and sent deputies to visit each one to ask a few questions and check on the Jeeps.”
Carly continued, “One more thing I’ve learned from the research of Louis Schlesinger is that the number-one way serial killers are apprehended is by a surviving victim. Especially early on, your killer made mistakes because he had not perfected his techniques. I think your guy has been doing this for years. There may be a victim out there who survived his attack who can lead you straight to your murderer.” Carly downed the last bit of her coffee before she continued.
“One of my friends is an FBI Analyst at ViCAP. I’ve sent her the particulars of your case, including the distinctive M.O. of this killer. She owes me a favor, so she’s already started to delve deeper into the case, looking for similar homicides, searching ViCAP and other FBI and non-FBI databases. She’ll prepare a report for us that will offer fresh investigative leads. If your guy’s M.O. matches other murders, no matter where or when they occurred, she will let us know.”
“When do you think we’ll hear from her?” asked Tim.
“She’s working this as we speak. My bet is we’ll get the report tomorrow.”
Chapter Nine
From the front window of the cabin, he watched the two deputies climb back into their cruiser and back out of his driveway.
He’d been duct-taping Brianna’s wrists to his kitchen table when he heard a car motor. Dashing to the window, he’d seen a sheriff’s car parked in the driveway. Two deputies headed toward his front door. His heart had slammed against his chest and he’d almost pissed himself. What the fuck was the law doing at his cabin? Hell, most people couldn’t even find it, nestled in the woods, separate from the cabins of the other conservation officers.
He’d glanced back at Brianna, still unconscious on the table, then opened the front door to join the deputies on his porch.
“Evening, officers. How can I help you?” He’d plastered on his friendliest smile and aimed it toward the female deputy who’d blushed, just like he’d wanted her to.
Not impressed, the male deputy sidled up to him on the front porch and said, “We’re looking for a missing girl and wondered if you’d seen her.”
“Naw, came straight home after work.”
Annoyed, the male deputy pulled out a folded photo from his back pocket. “How do you know if you’ve seen her or not if you don’t know what she looks like?”
The officer’s tone made him bristle. He clenched his jaw and took the photo of Brianna Hayden and pretended to study it.
“Nope. Haven’t seen her. But if I do, I’ll call.”
The deputy took the photo from him, folded it and returned it to his back pocket. The officer stood glaring at him for a long moment, then pointedly glanced toward the door. Panic rushed through him like river rapids. If they got inside the cabin and discovered Brianna, he was a dead man. It had all happened so fast, he hadn’t had time to slip his service revolver in the back of his pants. He was unarmed, two against one and he didn’t like the odds. He thought he heard moaning coming from within the cabin and he realized he’d forgotten to tape the prey’s mouth shut. Shit!
“Hey, do you two know of any job openings with the sheriff’s department?” He kept his voice friendly, just like he was talking to two friends.
“There might be a deputy job open soon. I know Eddie Shelton is getting ready to retire,” offered the female deputy.
The male deputy eyeballed him. “Why are you asking? Tired of the conservation officer gig?”
“Yeah, I’ve been doing it too long. Besides, I hear deputies make more money.”
Both deputies snickered. “Yeah, we’re practically millionaires,” muttered the male deputy, as both officers headed back to the cruiser.
Though the deputies were gone, he remained at the window, paranoia clawing at his brain. Never before had the law come to his door. Why now? Why had they stopped at his cabin?
He turned to pace in front of the fireplace. Had they pinpointed him because they’d found some evidence he missed when he dumped Catherine and Tiffany? Had someone seen him with Brianna near his Jeep?
Hearing a moan from the kitchen, he realized his prey was regaining consciousness. “Shut up, bitch! I’m trying to think,” he shouted.
Flipping the television on, he surfed to the weather channel and discovered no rain was predicted for the next seven days. Damn it. Sure, he’d love to play with the prey for another seven days, but could he risk it? He turned the TV off and continued pacing. Maybe he’d grabbed Brianna too soon after going for the Detective Bitch at the hospital? Had he made mistakes? Left evidence behind?
Hell, Jennifer’s dad was the sheriff. What did he think was going to happen when he went after his daughter? He decided he didn’t care who her father was, the bitch was going down. It was Jennifer’s fault the law was coming to his door. She thought she was so damn smart, treating him like a moron that day in the park next to Catherine’s body, in front of his father. Not that he ever gave a shit for what the old man did or didn’t think of him.
Hearing the whop-whop-whop of a helicopter in the distance, he wiped the beads of sweat off his brow. He couldn’t believe he was sweating over this, or anything for that manner. Was he slipping? No, he couldn’t be. He was the guy known for his no-evidence murders. There was no way they could be on to him. Could they?
The wailing and whimpering in the kitchen turned into an ear-piercing scream that echoed throughout the room. He grabbed his belt and raced to the kitchen, giving his prey a punishing lash of the belt. He then r
eached for the duct tape on the counter.
***
Charlie Barnett had fished in Bear Lake since he was six-years-old , when he’d listened to his dad proclaim time and again the lake was the best fishing spot in the county. Though his dad had passed away years ago, Charlie still agreed.
Dawn, with the sun an orange orb rising in the lightening sky, was his favorite time for fishing. He knew the closer it got to noon, the more pleasure boats and jet skiers would be racing back and forth in the deep water of the lake, ripping into the peace he’d looked forward to all week. He sucked in a lung-full of fresh air and listened to the water gently lapping against the shore, as he watched a doe and her fawn drinking at the water’s edge.
With one more wet slice of his oar, Charlie slipped the anchor into the water, watching until it disappeared in the deep, inky darkness of the lake. Laying his oar in the boat, he pulled out his fishing rod, carefully hooked a worm, and then tossed it toward the reeds that lined the inlet. Holding onto the rod with one hand, Charlie used the other to dig into his ice chest for a bottle of water. He’d twisted open the bottle and lifted it to his lips when he felt the pull of the first nibble. Slowly and carefully, he lifted his rod and flicked the line to tease the fish until it nabbed the bait, and Charlie pulled it in. Although catfish was one of Charlie’s favorite catches, this one was on the small side. But he removed the hook from its mouth and threw the fish in his bucket anyway. There was plenty of time to catch bigger ones.
He re-baited the hook and threw the line back toward the reeds. It wasn’t long before the line yanked so hard, he almost dropped the fishing rod. Charlie glanced toward the reeds and spotted the biggest catfish he’d ever seen thrashing near the surface. Shit, if only his dad could see this whopper! He jumped to his feet, gripping the rod, winding the reel and tightening the line as he fought with the fish. Lifting one foot to the boat seat, he braced himself and pulled hard on the line.
Charlie leaned forward, too far, and the boat flipped over. Suddenly he was in the shockingly cold water, thrashing to free himself from the fishing line as his body sank. A sharp pain surged through his back as he landed on a sharp rock on the sandy bottom of the lake. He freed himself from the line and kicked his legs to propel to the top. But something stopped him.