The 7 She Saw (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 1)

by Elle Gray

  “I appreciate you letting me sit in, Dr. Carville,” I say. “But I should get going. There are some things I need to attend to.”

  “Of course. And if you need anything, anything at all, just give me a shout.”

  “I’ll do that. Thank you.”

  I walk out of the morgue, a million different thoughts spinning through my head. There’s something percolating in the back of my mind. I need to give it some time and space to breathe and form into something coherent. Perhaps even something that can blow this wide open for me.

  Twenty-Two

  Briar Glen Sheriff’s Station; Downtown Briar Glen

  I pop back into my office to grab my bag and a few of the files I want to take a closer look at. After packing it all up, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out. I can feel the eyes of the deputies milling about the bullpen on me. The male deputies, anyway. It makes me chuckle to myself as I realize how much it doesn’t feel like I ever left the field office. All I need is a counterpart to Grant here trying to impugn and degrade me at every turn. Summers can probably fill that role.

  I don’t know what it is about guys in positions of authority. It’s wrong to generalize like I am, but most of the guys in law enforcement, be it local or federal, are arrogant jerks. They always look down their noses at female cops or agents. It’s like they think having a penis somehow makes them genetically and professionally superior. It’s like these Neanderthals haven’t gotten the message that we’re living in the twenty first century yet and women are the majority in this country. Won’t be long before we’re running everything. It’s a thought that pleases me.

  As I pass by Morris’ office on my way out of the building, I see his door standing open. He’s sitting behind his desk, a scowl on his face. The man sitting in the chair before him is dressed in a nicely tailored three-piece suit. He’s a tall, thin man I’d say is in his mid-fifties, with a long aquiline nose, light hair that’s cut short and parted on the left. A pair of round, rimless glasses are perched on the end of that patrician nose of his, and the way he’s sitting there, his back ramrod straight, a pinched look on his face, tells me this a man is one of privilege and entitlement. Which I’d guess would probably make him one of the city’s politicians.

  “Special Agent Wilder,” Morris calls. “Can you come in for a minute?”

  I’d rather not, but the way he said it made it sound less like a request than an order. Not that he thinks he can order me around. I think he’s just looking for somebody to save him. So I slap on a smile and a pleasant expression, and head inside.

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?” I ask.

  “Agent Wilder, this is Mayor O’Brien,” he introduces.

  The mayor doesn’t stand, and for a moment, he simply looks me up and down silently. After he’s taken my measure and asserted his dominance, he finally extends his long, obviously well-manicured hand to me. I take it and give him a firm shake.

  “Nice to meet you, Mayor O’Brien,” I say.

  “So, you’re the FBI Agent that’s come to save us all from the murderous hordes, are you?” his voice is high and reedy and seems to fit with his face.

  “Guilty as charged, I suppose.”

  “Tell me, Ms. Wilder, was your assistance requested?”

  I exchange a glance with the Sheriff and in his eyes, I can see the disdain he has for this man. And just based on my brief interaction with him, I’d say that distaste for the mayor is well warranted. I turn back to him and put on my best FBI face.

  “First of all, it’s Special Agent Wilder. Or simply Agent Wilder if you prefer,” I start. “And second, no. My assistance was not requested. My presence was a surprise to Sheriff Morris as it is to you.”

  “Well, if your presence and assistance weren’t requested, what are you doing here?”

  I have to fight to keep my mouth from falling open. The sheer arrogance of this man is stunning－and coming from the FBI where they practically teach classes in arrogance, that’s saying something.

  “With all due respect, Mayor, you not only have two young women who have been brutally murdered－with more to come, I assure you－but you have an overall violent crime rate that’s astonishing,” I say, fighting hard to keep the anger out of my voice. “I would think that as the mayor, you would be concerned with the fact that you have killers roaming free in your city. And judging by the amount of bodies stacking up, you have a lot of killers.”

  “Yes, well, I was just speaking with the Sheriff about that very subject,” he replies coolly. “Specifically about the fact that his police department seems ill equipped to close these cases and take these killers off the street.”

  “It would certainly help him do that job if he had the proper resources and equipment. If he had the support of the city council, I guarantee you that you wouldn’t be having these problems,” I say. “Sheriff Morris is an excellent cop.”

  O’Brien stares at me balefully. “You have quite the nerve to stand here and lecture me about how to run my town.”

  “Somebody has to. For a city this size, it is unconscionable that you don’t have a detective’s bureau,” I fire back. “Or at the very least, have not provided the police department adequate investigative training. There is only so much Sheriff Morris can do when he’s handcuffed by the bureaucracy in this town.”

  “It’s easy for you to stand there and judge me, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it actually is.”

  “You don’t have the first idea what it takes to run a town,” he says. “I have to worry about things like tourism and home valuations, as well as－”

  “Are you even kidding me? You have a possible serial killer loose in your town, and you’re worried about tourist dollars?” I shoot back. “I’ll tell you what kills the tourism industry faster than anything－having killers in your town. When bodies are dropping as fast as they do here, people tend to look elsewhere to spend their vacation dollars.”

  That internal voice is screaming at me to stop. To shut up. It’s telling me that this is exactly why Potts is hesitant to send me anywhere to do my thing. This right here. But I’ve got no tolerance for those who play politics with other people’s lives, and even less for those who pass the buck when their failures are exposed. Once I start this train rolling, there’s no stopping it, and it has most definitely left the station.

  “How dare you,” O’Brien says. “Who do you think you are?”

  “I thought we covered that already. It’s Special Agent Wilder, in case you forgot already.”

  “Sarcasm won’t win you any points with me, young lady,” he growls. “And since you were not asked for assistance, I would like you to leave Briar Glen.”

  “Let’s get something straight. I don’t need your permission to be here. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Federal supersedes state, and it most certainly supersedes municipality, in case you didn’t know,” I spit. “And your inaction on an alarming number of murders over the years, warrants an investigation. Not just of all these homicides, but of you personally, Mayor O’Brien. By letting these killers roam free, I’m quite sure Director Wilkins can make a pretty compelling case that your failures have violated people’s civil rights. He could perhaps even have the Attorney General charge you with negligent homicide to boot. And do you know what happens to people convicted of civil rights violations?”

  O’Brien seems to shrink back into his seat, his eyes widening slightly behind his spectacles. The haughty expression on his face has melted away and has been replaced by one of fear, and he doesn’t speak, so I answer for him.

  “Civil rights violators go to prison for a very, very long time. We in federal law enforcement take that kind of thing seriously,” I go on. “So unless you want me to contact the FBI Director, I’d shut my mouth if I were you. More than that, I’d see about getting the Sheriff’s department the proper training and equipment ASAP. Otherwise, you’re going to have a lot more people just like me in the streets of Briar Glen.”
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br />   Without a word, O’Brien gets to his feet and stumbles to the door, clutching his briefcase to his vest like a shield. Before he leaves, I stop him.

  “One more thing, Mayor O’Brien,” I say, making my voice as intimidating as possible. “If I hear of you taking this out on Sheriff Morris, or retaliating against him in any way whatsoever, my first call will be directly to the AG. Understand?”

  O’Brien hustles through the door and disappears, making me laugh to myself. I look down at Morris who’s looking back up at me with a stunned expression on his face. But he clears his throat and quickly recovers.

  “Well, I’d say that was less cordial than he’s used to,” he says.

  “Yeah well, I’m not the type to kiss anybody’s ring.”

  “Clearly,” he chuckles. “But tell me something… can you really bring civil rights violation charges against him?”

  I bark out a laugh. “Honestly, not a chance. But he obviously doesn’t know that,” I say. “And knowing he’s going to be up all night Googling whether I can or not gives me a brief bit of joy.”

  Morris laughs out loud, but it soon fades, and then a moment of silence stretches out between us and I can feel that tension creeping back into the air. I know it’s a tension that will not evaporate until I stop circling his girlfriend, which means it’s going to linger for a while.

  “Anyway, I should get going,” I say.

  “Yeah well, thanks for saving me from O’Brien,” he replies. “I hate dealing with that guy.”

  “I can see why. He seems to have some screwed up priorities.”

  “To say the least,” he says. “Anyway, you did me a solid, so thanks.”

  “Anytime, Sheriff. Anytime.”

  Unless, of course, that solid means giving a pass to his possibly murderous girlfriend. But I’m not going to say that and hope it’s implicitly understood. Not waiting for a reply, I walk out of his office, then out of the station and head back to the hotel.

  Twenty-Three

  Pacific Crest Motor Court; Briar Glen, WA

  “You’re really livin’ the high life out here,” Astra says as I walk through the door. “What is the motif here? Trailer park chic? Honey, the Bureau gives you a hotel allowance. Why not use it?”

  I laugh. “It keeps me humble.”

  “If you were any humbler, you’d be sleeping in a doorway using newspapers for a blanket.”

  “It’s got running water, heat, and a soft bed to sleep in,” I say. “That’s really all I need to do the job.”

  She gives me a smirk and picks up my pillow. “But just think… if you used some of that hotel allowance on a better room, maybe you wouldn’t feel the need to bring your own sheets.”

  I close the door and shake my head, my grin stretching from ear to ear. “Astra, I could be staying at the Waldorf Astoria, and I’d still bring my own sheets. You ever seen a set of hotel sheets under a UV light?”

  Her laugh is rich and sultry. “I think I’m part of the reason you should never look at sheets under a UV light.”

  “You are awful,” I say. “Truly awful.”

  “That’s not what the boys say.”

  I roll my eyes and set the bags of food down on the nightstand, and my bag on the bed, since there’s no room on the table. I have to admit, seeing Astra in this room is kind of like seeing a swan in a crappy, scum-filled duck pond. But then, she presents herself a lot better than I do. She’s a high-class woman, while I’m a bit more down to earth. She’s champagne to my six pack of beer. But that’s one reason I think we’re so close. We provide each other with a much-needed balance.

  I see that she’s already got a white board set up in the corner, and she’s taken over the table. Her laptop and a lot of files are scattered across the top of it. Astra postures as a high society woman, unaffected by life and above it all. But deep down, she’s every bit as driven and determined as I am. She may not be as outwardly enthusiastic about it, but she wants to see monsters brought to justice every bit as much as I do. It’s yet another reason she and I have been so close from day one. We get each other.

  “When did you get in?” I ask.

  “About nine,” she replies, looking down at the papers in her hand.

  As I look out the window and see the sun sliding toward the horizon, I realize she’s been cooped up in this room literally all day long. I’ve been down in the offices at the Sheriff’s department, but at least I wasn’t cooped up in a tiny bungalow. But she doesn’t seem to even notice. She’s shuffling through the papers, reading everything carefully and processing all the information.

  “Come on,” I tell her. “Drop the papers. Let’s go and get you some air.”

  “I thought you brought food?” she asks. “I smell something greasy and I’m pretty sure it’s not you.”

  I laugh. “Not this time. But you have apparently been locked in here, hammering away all day. You need some air. And a drink.”

  She instantly drops the papers in her hand, and I watch them flutter to the ground at her feet. A wide smile stretches across her face.

  “Now you’re speakin’ my language, Wilder.”

  “So what do you think?” I ask.

  “I think it’s a good thing you brought me down here,” she replies. “Like you said on the phone, this thing is really complicated.”

  I nod. “Right? It’s like we’ve got two things happening at once. First, we have this serial killer. Except this serial killer operates with a team, and he allows this team to sexually assault and beat their victims. It makes no sense,” I say. “But second, we apparently have another serial killer running around murdering all of these other people with no preference at all. He doesn’t adhere to racial, religious, gender, or socioeconomic lines.”

  “He’s an omnivore,” she remarks.

  “Exactly. And you can’t profile omnivores accurately.”

  Our server arrives and takes away our salad bowls, and once the table is cleared, sets our entrees down in front of us－salmon with a white wine and lemon sauce, with grilled asparagus for Astra, a rare ribeye steak and french fries for me. I order another round of wine for us, and we both tuck into our meals, taking a few minutes to enjoy the food in silence. It’s kind of our unspoken agreement that we don’t discuss the more disturbing and bloody aspects of the job over a meal. It’s nothing we arranged, we both just kind of fell into it a long while back, and we’ve never questioned it, and it’s just second nature to us now.

  “Why is it you refuse to eat a baked potato?” she asks. “Whenever we go out, you always order the same thing. You always get the steak with french fries, and never a potato.”

  I hold up one of the fries, admiring the golden color and crispy texture. “This is the only acceptable form of a potato,” I tell her. “Hashed browns are fine, so long as they’re so crisp, they’re almost burned.”

  “What’s wrong with a baked potato?”

  “Just don’t like them. Never have,” I shrug. “My parents, and then my Aunt Annie all tried to get me to eat one. I’d never do it. I just don’t like the taste or texture of it.”

  Astra is grinning wide and shaking her head at me. “Wilder, you have more idiosyncratic quirks than most of the nutcases we put away. You do know that, right?”

  “I’m aware. I like to think it gives me character.”

  “It gives you something.”

  I laugh and take another bite of my steak, relishing the char on it, as well as the way it nearly melts in my mouth. I’ll say one thing for Briar Glen… they certainly know how to make good food here.

  “How’s your fish?” I ask.

  “This might actually be the best salmon I’ve ever had,” she groans with pleasure. “I may have to marry the chef. Or maybe I’ll just give him the best night he’s ever had in his life.”

  “Incorrigible.”

  “That’s why you love me.”

  We make small talk, chatting about inconsequential things as we finish our meals. Eventually, the waitr
ess arrives and clears the table, leaving a dessert menu behind when she goes. We both look through it for a little while. The waitress comes back, takes our orders, and hustles away again.

  “So anyway, as I was going through everything today, I had a thought,” Astra says. “What if, you’re not dealing with two different groups of people, but one group that’s committing all the murders?”

  “I thought about that, but it doesn’t add up in my mind,” I reply. “The signature on these two women－the fingernail－is specific, and it’s something that’s missing from the other murders.”

  She purses her lips, as if she’s thinking. “What if it’s a different faction from the same group?” she asks. “I mean, the odds of two different groups of serial killers operating in the same city at the same time, is remote.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s unheard of,” I admit, letting out a long sigh. “I just can’t help but think I’m missing something huge here. I feel like it’s staring me in the face and I just can’t see it.”

  “Because you’ve got that big brain of yours working. It complicates things that are simple. You know, like finding yourself a boy toy. That’s as simple as it could be, but you overcomplicate it,” she says with a laugh.

  “How did I know you’d find a way to work that into the conversation?”

  “Because you know me so well.”

  “Better than you know yourself.”

  The waitress arrives and drops off our cappuccinos and desert. I’m having tiramisu while Astra opted for the chocolate molten lava cake with vanilla ice cream. We dig in and fall silent for a few moments, both of us lost in thought. Our moratorium on shop talk only covers dinner, not dessert. As I mull everything over, I come to the realization that I’ve been so focused on the bigger picture and trying to figure out how everything connects, that I indeed have allowed myself to lose sight of the forest for the trees.