by Blake Pierce
“Once you get her in, how long till you think you’d be able to give us a more accurate guess?”
“I can make it the priority of the case and maybe have something in a few hours.”
The coroner looked to the string-like indentation and shook her head. She snapped a few more pictures as Kate and DeMarco stepped backward, giving her room.
“There were cuts on Karen Hopkins’s neck,” DeMarco said. “No cuts on Marjorie Hix, but a few abrasions. Maybe it’s a different material each time?”
“That, or the killer is getting better at it and getting a better feel for how to do it.”
“So he’s coming in, knowing exactly what he’s going to do and how he’s going to get it done,” DeMarco said. “And if he’s also being invited in, he has the convenience of taking his time, waiting for his moment.”
“What the hell are we missing?” Kate asked. She was starting to feel frustrated, looking back toward the den and wondering what had nibbled at her there.
“You know…so what if she’s younger?” DeMarco said. “She’s still a woman who was alone in a suburban house.”
“Yes, but given the little we know about the husband, she wasn’t a neglected and lonely wife. He was coming home early from work to take her on a day date. I’d say that’s the exact opposite of the other two victims.”
DeMarco nodded her understanding, looking back toward the kitchen where the coroner was wrapping up. As she was about to step back into the kitchen, her phone rang. She pulled her phone out, checked the display, and then looked oddly at Kate.
“What?” Kate asked.
“It’s Duran.” She waited a moment before answering and although it did seem like a very minor event, the weight of it was not missed by Kate. In the past, Duran had always called her to check up on a case or ask questions. She assumed it was because he had always viewed her as the lead, mentoring and bringing up DeMarco along the way.
Now, apparently, he was starting to see things differently, and Kate wasn’t sure why. She stood silently and listened to DeMarco’s end of the conversation, trying not to feel too jilted by it.
“This is DeMarco…yes, sir. Just now…about ten minutes. Sheriff Bannerman, yes sir.” There was a lengthy pause here, where Kate could hear Duran’s muffled voice through the phone but could make nothing out. When he was done, DeMarco responded with: “Understood.”
DeMarco ended the call, a slight look of disappointment on her face.
“Everything okay?” Kate asked.
“Yes. He just found out about the victim. He said he’d called the coroner a few days ago and asked to be notified of any bodies related to our case.”
“So he was checking up on us?”
DeMarco nodded, but found it hard to look at Kate.
“Correction,” Kate said. “He was checking up on me, wasn’t he?”
DeMarco sighed and shook her head. “This does not leave this den, Kate. But yes…he told me to keep an eye on you. He actually asked me before we even met for this case.”
“What the hell for?”
“He didn’t give a reason. I assumed it was because he’s getting pressure from the higher-ups about his arrangement with you. He’s really pissed that there’s a third victim and we haven’t made any progress.”
“I’m not too thrilled with it, either,” Kate said. She was furious—at first. But then she thought she understood it. Had she really been so full of herself to think that as she reached fifty-six years of age she’d be allowed to run violent cases with the same flair as a much younger agent? Of course Duran would have his concerns. The part of it all that pissed her off was that he had not come to her with these worries, but had instead asked her partner to essentially keep tabs on her.
“I’m sorry,” DeMarco said. “I told him up front that I was against it.”
“It is what it is.”
“Kate…what do you want to do about it? How do we go forward?”
Already heading for the door, Kate responded over her shoulder: “By getting out there and finding a fucking killer.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the car, the silence between them was tense—so tense that DeMarco stayed busy with phone calls while Kate drove back into Frankfield. Kate listened to each conversation, staying informed without having to ask questions after each call.
The first call was to the coroner’s office. Even while the coroner had stated she would call as soon as they had an accurate guess in regards to a murder weapon, DeMarco called the office to make an official request. She then called the hospital and after being placed on hold for quite a while, got nothing new.
“The doctors say he was only admitted about eight minutes ago and it’s too early to tell his condition, though he seems to be alert and in much less pain,” DeMarco said. “Once he passes a few stress tests, they’ll let us know when he is okay to talk. It could be an hour from now, it could be tomorrow.”
“We don’t have that long.”
It was an obvious statement, one that was driven by Kate’s sudden need to not only solve the case, but to make Duran regret ever questioning her abilities. Still, she was also aware that they had no one to question, no leads to follow up on. Right now, it seemed the only avenue they had while waiting for permission to speak to the husband was to continue going over the case notes and revisiting the scene of the murders.
And she had been working this job long enough to know that when that was your only course of action, the case was truly starting to get away from you.
But all she felt was anger and frustration as they closed in on Frankfield—emotions that, when given full control, were also a sure sign that a case was getting the better of her.
***
Her anger and frustration only heightened when they arrived back at the Frankfield police station. They’d been there four hours ago, reading over the reports and trying to find a thread and now, in that short amount of time, news crews had started to gather. On the far side of the parking lot, Kate saw several cars parked in such a way to block that end of the lot. There were several people milling around in that blocked corner, including a few reporters who were trying to angle in to see what was going on.
“What the hell?” Kate said.
“Is there any way they already found out about the third victim?” DeMarco wondered out loud.
Kate wouldn’t be surprised, but the news would have had to travel fast. Other than herself, and DeMarco, Bannerman, the husband, and the coroner, she wasn’t sure who else might know. She did know, though, that officers were sometimes paid by local reporters and television news producers to leak information. In a town like Frankfield, not too small in its own right but overshadowed by Chicago, she assumed such a thing was pretty common.
As they pulled into the parking lot, Kate noted a police car on the road just behind them. As it neared the parking lot, the car’s bubble lights came on and the driver started to hit the siren in short bursts.
“Must be Bannerman,” Kate said as she pulled to the side of the station in search of a parking spot that the media circus had not already grabbed up.
“You been a part of this sort of mess before?” DeMarco asked.
“Far too many times,” she said. “They’re like sharks in the water, smelling blood. If they know about all three murders, this is going to be very bad.”
They stepped out of the car and made their way slowly to the gathered crowd on the opposite corner of the lot. As they approached, Kate noticed another thing that was never good news: someone had set a podium up just adjacent to the station’s front doors. Several microphones had been attached to it and three reporters were already standing there, waiting for their moment.
The police car that had come in behind them with the siren bleeping and the lights flashing had stopped in the center of the parking lot, blocking an aisle. The door opened quickly and, sure enough, it was Bannerman who got out. He stormed across the lot toward the gathered crowd in the corner, moving faster t
han Kate had seen him move since they’d met him. He was yelling something but not in pure anger, merely to be heard over the numerous murmurs in the small crowd.
Kate could hear just enough to grasp what was going on and as she listened, she grew more and more certain that everything that followed was going to be a nightmare.
“Mayor Jennings, you can’t just give in to this pressure!”
In the midst of the crowd, a well-dressed woman of about fifty or sixty spoke up. When she spoke, the majority of others around her stopped talking. The reporters, especially, swarmed her like moths to a porch light.
“Sheriff Bannerman, this is not pressure. I’d simply like to keep the public informed.”
“What good will it do?” Bannerman asked. “Cause panic? Create a few paranoid and hateful Facebook conversations?”
“Perhaps,” Mayor Jennings answered. “But maybe it will also light a fire under the collective backsides of you and your officers to do something about a man who has apparently killed three women!”
Ooh, she knows what she’s doing, Kate thought. She’s not even at the podium yet and she’s giving these reporters exactly what they want.
With that comment in the air and being devoured by the reporters and cameramen, Mayor Jennings ignored Bannerman completely and made her way to the front of the station where her podium awaited. The reporters and cameramen who weren’t already there marched along right behind her. Kate knew they were only doing their jobs, but the news media had always irritated her to no end. Sometimes, in cases like this, she viewed them as no better than the shameless paparazzi that were always chasing after celebrities.
There was half a minute or so of adjustments to mics and the mayor’s assistant adjusting her collar and fixing her hair for her. It was all done quickly, as if they all knew that every second was precious—also that they knew if they worked quickly, it would be primed and ready to go for those little news briefs that typically hit the air between noon and one in the afternoon.
As the seemingly random press conference went live, Kate watched Bannerman nestle in along the front row of reporters. He looked nervous and out of place, surely expecting to be called up to speak to the public at some point.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mayor Jennings said, “I come to you today with some rather unfortunate news. Just over week ago, one of our local Frankfield residents was murdered in her home. The murderer left behind not a single shred of evidence and left our local law enforcement baffled. That, of course, is bad enough, but a second murder occurred just four days ago. It appears that the same killer was responsible for this murder, though we cannot be sure because local law enforcement was not able to come up with any clues, leads, or even any general theories on that case either.”
The gathered crowd murmured a bit while also trying to remain professional. There were a few camera snaps, mostly from the automated noise of cell phone cameras. The mayor paused, allowing the moment like a seasoned pro, and then went on. Kate looked over to Bannerman and saw that he looked like he might try to dig a hole and hide at any moment. The anger he’d showed less than three minutes ago had dissolved into absolute helplessness.
It made Kate angry—anger that was merely heaped on the portions of frustration and anger she had been dealing with over the last two days. She was aware that she was clenching her fists, glaring up in anger at a woman she did not even know.
“Then, a little less than three hours ago, another woman was discovered murdered in her own home. And perhaps you already know where I am headed, as it seems to be a trend, but there are no leads or clues coming from the sheriff or his band of local law enforcement. I come to you not to merely inform you of this horrible matter, but to make sure we all take the necessary precautions. All we know at the present moment is that three women are dead—murders that have occurred in the span of about eleven days—and local law enforcement have no leads at the time.”
She paused here for dramatic effect, letting that last bit sink in. Here she was, the noble protector, making sure her citizens were informed, while throwing Bannerman under the bus.
“Now,” Jennings said, her face sour and bent into an expression of sorrow, “I’d like Sheriff Bannerman to come up to answer any questions you might have.”
Kate had seen this before—twice personally in her career and far too many times on the news over the last two decades or so. The mayor had set him up to fail; she’d given him no notice that she was holding the conference, inviting him up to essentially be a blundering mess that would stoke the fires farther.
Bannerman took a hesitant step toward the podium, and that was all Kate could take. She moved quickly, walking to the podium. She saw a man in a dress shirt and jeans moving toward her—perhaps the mayor’s security—but she flashed her badge at him. The man looked confused as she stepped up behind the podium. The mayor looked confused, the would-be guard looked confused, and Bannerman looked stunned—and afraid.
A murmur of confusion tore through the crowd as Kate oriented herself. She’d handled press conferences before, but she’d been invited. Given that she had barged up to the podium in this one, she knew she had to be firm but not show much emotion. She took a deep breath and did her best to defend Bannerman while also remaining professional.
Almost right away, she felt that she might very well fail.
“Thank you, Mayor Jennings, for the update. As I’m sure you and the gathered media would agree, Sheriff Bannerman’s time could be better utilized elsewhere. My name is Agent Kate Wise, here in Frankfield on assignment with the FBI. I can confirm that we currently do not have many leads, but that we are working diligently to find the killer. We do have a few avenues to pursue, but none of it at the level of being public knowledge just yet. As I’m sure you all can understand—perhaps even your esteemed mayor—finding any sort of connections to clues to a death within three hours, as was the case with this morning’s victim, is unheard of.
“I have been working with Sheriff Bannerman for the past two days and have seen nothing but seasoned professionalism, hospitality, and a desire to keep his town safe. I recommend we allow him and his force to do their jobs rather than get pinned down by press conferences that are planned at the last minute and with little preparation.”
One reporter took advantage of the silence that fell over the crowd after Kate’s comments. “What can you tell us about the victims? Are there any connections?”
“I can tell you nothing at the moment—only that your sheriff is working hard to help us find the killer. Thank you.”
There was a flurry of questions as Kate left the podium and headed inside.
“How much longer will this maniac be on the streets?”
“How are we supposed to feel safe now?”
“Have any suspects been arrested yet?”
She looked to the mayor and was rather satisfied to see a dumbfounded look on her face. Bannerman fell in beside her with DeMarco trailing behind. DeMarco looked uncertain and, if Kate was reading her correctly, maybe even a little embarrassed.
When the doors closed behind them, Bannerman turned to her right away. He looked baffled, but there was also a thin smile on his face.
“Thank you for that,” he said. “There’s a whole story there. She’s been on my ass ever since she was elected. Her brother ran for sheriff twice and I beat him both times. Petty, sure…but that’s how it goes.”
“Don’t mention it. Of course, I just put my ass on the line. We have to buckle down and find this guy.”
DeMarco spoke up, seeming hesitant at first but gaining confidence with each word. “Agent Wise, I’m not so sure this was the smartest thing to do, given our current situation.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t. But if we let the mayor and the media walk all over this, it makes our work so much harder.”
DeMarco nodded and looked away. Kate knew what she was thinking but electing not to say in front of Bannerman: given her current standing with Duran, the move she’d just ma
de at that press conference could have damaged what little bit of trust and respect she still had with Duran. Sooner rather than later, he’d have to cave to the pressure over his head to cut her loose and stop this little experiment.
She was about to ask DeMarco if they could speak in private but didn’t get the chance. Bannerman’s phone rang and when it did, they all jumped. They also all looked at the phone, hoping it was a break of some kind but not exactly sure what to expect.
“This is Bannerman,” he said, answering the call.
Kate and DeMarco waited as Bannerman turned his back to them, listening to the person on the other end. He nodded slowly at first but then a bit faster. After less than twenty seconds, he gave a quick “Thanks,” and ended the call.
When he turned back to them, his face was a bit brighter—hopeful, even. “That was one of the nurses tending to David Lowell, Meredith’s wife. He’s looking okay for now but the docs are still not allowing us to talk to him. However, David told them to let us know that there’s a Nest security camera outside the house…hiding behind an azalea bush in the flower bed in the front yard. The doctors have allowed him to log into his security account on a laptop at the hospital to give us access to the footage. The security company just has to verify it…and that could take a while.”
“Not after I make a call to them, it won’t,” DeMarco said. “You got the name of the security company?”
Bannerman gave it to her and with a quick Google search on her phone she was speaking to a representative for the company in less than two minutes. Kate, DeMarco, and Bannerman filed into his office once again as DeMarco spoke to the representative, hopefully nailing down the corners to not only their first solid lead, but footage that would nab them a killer by the end of the day.
CHAPTER TWELVE