by Elle Gray
She’s petite, feminine, perky and she’s cute… and she immediately makes me think of the first two victims of the Fingernail Killer, as Astra and I have taken to calling him. I push away the thought and chastise myself for being so morbid. Aside from the obvious and ghoulish resemblance to two homicide victims, there’s something familiar about her. I know I’ve never met her before, but something about her strikes a chord with me for some reason.
“Welcome to the Sunnyside,” she greets us. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Orange juice for me. Tall one,” Astra says. “And a coffee.”
“Ditto that for me,” I say.
“Great. Comin’ right up,” she smiles. “I’ll take your orders when I come back.”
“Perfect.”
We watch her flounce off, then I turn to Astra. “You do realize that was you not all that long ago.”
“Please. My chest wasn’t quite that perky.”
I pointedly look at her chest. “It still is.”
“Wonderbras are miracle workers. Better breasts through engineering.”
We share a laugh as I peruse the menu. I look up to find Astra staring at me, an incredulous look on her face.
“What?” I ask.
“Why do you even bother looking at the menu? As long as I’ve known you, whenever we go for breakfast, you always get the same thing.”
“I like to keep my options open,” I reply.
“You mean pretend to keep your options open since you never, you know, exercise any of those options.”
“You never know,” I say. “I may surprise you one of these days.”
“I won’t hold my breath.”
The waitress comes back and sets our drinks down in front of us, then takes her pad out of her apron pocket.
“What can I get you?” she asks.
“I’ll take the blueberry waffles,” Astra says. “With eggs over easy, and sausage on the side, please.”
“Excellent,” she says. “Is there anything better than breakfast for dinner?”
“Oh, I can think of a few things that maybe I’ll tell you about when you’re older,” Astra says seductively.
“Astra,” I snap, fighting hard to keep the smile off my face.
“What?” she replies, feigning innocence.
The waitress gives her a knowing smirk and a wink. Clearly, the girl is advanced for her years if she’s picking up on Astra’s vibe. She turns to me, apparently as amused by my discomfort as Astra is.
“And how about you?”
“Country fried steak. Hash browns, extra crispy, two eggs, over easy, and sourdough toast please.”
“Fantastic. Let me get your orders started,” she says and dashes off.
Astra is staring at me with a smirk flickering across her lips. “I guess that day you’re going to surprise me isn’t today, huh?”
“Doesn’t look that way. Maybe tomorrow. Check back with me then. That is, unless you’re too busy corrupting the youth of Briar Glen.”
“Funny girl,” I say. “That girl absolutely understood what I was saying. We’re not all sexual wastelands like you, Wilder. Some of us enjoy our bodies and like what they can do.”
“As you’ve told me many times over,” I respond with a laugh. “Anyway, food’s not here yet, so lay it on me. What’s this big, earth shaking discovery?”
Astra glances around the diner, then leans forward, obviously not wanting to be overheard. Her expression shifts from glib to sober in the blink of an eye, and I can tell that whatever it is she found, it’s serious.
“The discovery is that exactly seven years ago, there was a similar string of murders here,” she says. “A string of seven murders, to be exact.”
I sit back in the booth, feeling like she just knocked the wind out of me. It makes perfect sense though, since I posited that these two murders we’re looking at weren’t the Fingernail Killer’s first. They were too smooth. Too polished. There was none of the sloppiness you see in a killer’s early work. The Fingernail Killer has an MO, has a signature, and is efficient with his kills. I knew he’d been operating in the shadows for some time.
“So this first series of seven, were they all good-looking brunettes? Were they all young?” I ask. “Did they bear a resemblance to Tracy Webster and Stephanie Helton?”
“You know they did.”
“The fingernail－”
“Was present in all seven,” she says. “White nail, red cross.”
“Jesus.”
“I told you I was gonna rock your socks off.”
“I think you rocked my pants off along with them.”
“We might need a few drinks for that. But hey, I’m game if you are.”
I look at her for a long moment, not comprehending at first. And when I do, my cheeks flare with heat and I burst into laughter. Astra’s smiles at me like the cat that ate the canary, feeling mighty pleased with herself that she’s embarrassed me so thoroughly.
Slowly, my laughter tapers off an I regain control of myself again. My mind immediately shifts from mirth to somber as I contemplate what she just told me. There are so many layers to this and it’s only growing more complicated as we go. It’s like every answer we find turns up a hundred more questions.
The waitress comes over and drops off our plates with a smile, then leaves us to it. We tuck into our meals in silence for a few minutes, then Astra looks up at me.
“I say we suspend our moratorium on shop talk while we eat just this once,” she says. “This is important, and we need to talk about it.”
“I agree. I feel like this case is gaining momentum and we need to get a hold on it before we get run over by it.”
“Agreed.”
“Good. So walk me through what you found.”
“I was just perusing the case files, looking more for the omnivore side of the board when I stumbled across this string of cases,” she says. “Same deal. Crime scene photos had been erased, and the ME’s report didn’t match. But there was one name attached to all seven of the cases. And you’re not going to like it.”
“Morris.”
She nods. “He was the responding officer for all seven,” she tells me. “And apparently, he never connected the cases. Which tells me he’s either a really lousy cop, or he’s covering something up.”
I take a bite of my gravy smothered steak and chew as I think about it all. I don’t want to believe it. Not of him. But the fact that he covered up seven murders forces me to rethink how I see him. Add to that, the fact that his girlfriend, Sofia, is altering her reports to cover up certain aspects of the current series of murders, and I think it speaks for itself. And what it’s saying is really depressing.
I truly believed that, at heart, Morris was one of the good guys. Seems I put my faith in the wrong person. Not that it’s the first time, and probably won’t be the last, but it still feels like I’ve been kicked in the gut by somebody with a steel-toed boot.
“Well, I think we have our connection between the Fingernail Killer, and the omnivore,” I say. “Sheriff Morris is at the center of both strings of killings. As is his girlfriend, the town ME.”
“I don’t understand why they’d do it,” she says.
I shake my head. “I have no idea. I mean, I can guess that in Morris’ case, as a lawman, he probably does get sick and tired of seeing people beat the system. Gets tired of not seeing justice served,” I say. “I get that, but I’d never take it to that extreme.”
“And the girls?” she asks. “Got a reason for that?”
“Sexual sadist, maybe. Gets off on the power and control,” I reply. “I was actually thinking of it like a Bernardo and Homolka type situation. He and his girlfriend enjoy torturing and killing together.”
“Will this world ever run out of sick ways sick people can kill innocents?”
“I think that’s probably a big no,” I reply. “But there’s one thing that’s still bothering me. Sofia claims that both Tracy and Stephanie were raped by
multiple men. If this is the sort of situation I think it is, it should only be the two of them engaging in it. There shouldn’t be a group.”
“But if we’re positing a cult type deal going on here, he might give these girls over to his followers once he’s done with them,” she offers.
“Yeah, I suppose that could be. There’s no doubt that Morris is a charming and charismatic man,” I point out. “I suppose I could see him using those powers for evil.”
“We’ve seen it before.”
“True enough.”
We eat in silence for a little while, each of us processing our thoughts. I only eat because I know I need the fuel. The food itself lost its taste for me a while ago. I might as well be spooning gruel into my mouth for all the pleasure I’m taking out of my meal. I want to be wrong about Morris. I really do.
“You know, as a representative of the Federal government, you really should attempt to be a little more professional.”
O’Brien’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look up at him, a sneer on my lips already. Astra looks from me, to him, then back again.
“Who is this walking turd?” she asks.
I bite back my laugh as his expression turns to one of pure outrage. He opens his mouth but before he can say anything, I jump in.
“Astra, this is Mayor O’Brien,” I introduce him.
If she’s impressed by his title, she doesn’t show it. She simply looks him up and down, her distaste for him clearly painted on her features. He turns away from her and his eyes latch onto mine.
“You are causing a disruption in this city. And I’ll have you know, I did my research, and the Attorney General cannot bring charges against me,” he spits. “I have not, and am not, violating anybody’s civil rights.”
I can’t stop the laugh as it bursts from my throat as I imagine him frantically Googling the question. It’s then he seems to pick up on the fact that I knew that all along and was only yanking his chain. His face darkens and he looks ready to explode with anger.
“I’m going to call your supervisor and let him know how you’ve behaved in my city,” he growls in that high pitched, reedy voice. “I’m going to tell him what an incredibly horrible person you are, and just how irresponsible you’ve been.”
“That’s fine. It’s not like he hasn’t heard that before,” I say. “And his name is Potts. Special Agent in Charge Potts. Did you want me to write that down for you?”
“How dare you,” he says, sounding positively scandalized.
“You meet the coolest people, Wilder,” Astra remarks.
He stands there for another minute, seemingly deciding whether to launch another tirade or not, but opts for the latter. Turning on his heel, he storms out of the diner and into the night. Our waitress is standing in front of us before the doors even close. I look at her and realize I know why she looks familiar. It’s the nose. I should have seen the similarity before.
“I’m sorry about my dad,” she says. “He’s a dick, but he’s pretty harmless. For the most part anyway.”
“Well, I’m sorry he’s your dad,” Astra replies.
She smiles wide at Astra, laughing like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard as she walks away. Astra turns to me.
“Cute kid,” she says. “Poor mom, though. Can you imagine having to go home and sleep with that guy? And pretending to like it?”
“Not on a bet. I wouldn’t screw him if I was borrowing your body,” I reply.
“Thanks. I think.”
I give her a small smile. “You know he’s definitely going to call Potts, right?”
“I do. And I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward having that conversation with him.”
“You and me both. Should be a lot of fun.”
I sit back in the booth and poke at my food, trying to keep my thoughts from turning too dark and too inward. Which is not easy to do when you’re dealing with what we are right now. Most of all, when I’m dealing with the level of disappointment I feel toward Sheriff Morris.
But I’m trying. I need to keep my head in the game.
Thirty
Briar Glen Sheriff’s Station; Downtown Briar Glen
I’m sitting across from Sheriff Morris, watching his micro expressions and body language carefully. He’s tense. I can see the anger bubbling below the surface like a volcano. That magma chamber of rage is quietly pushing its way toward the surface and if I say the wrong thing, it’s going to burst and trigger an eruption that will likely make Krakatoa look like a party favor.
But I did tell him at the outset that I was going to follow the evidence. And I stressed that I would follow it wherever it led. I told him that I would follow it regardless of who it implicated. I just personally never expected that it would lead back to him.
“So, do you want to tell me about the girls?” I ask.
“What girls would those be, Agent Wilder?”
We’re back to Agent Wilder instead of Blake now, I see. Well, this is off to a great start. But then, what did I expect, knowing what I’m about to drop on him? The problem is, I need to tread carefully. Everything I have is circumstantial, and unless Astra and I can dig up some actual physical evidence, I’m going to need a confession. Which is why I’m currently wired, and Astra is sitting in the car outside recording this entire conversation.
“Seven years ago, seven girls were murdered in Briar Glen,” I tell him. “And all seven of them had the same acrylic fingernail that both Stephanie Helton and Tracy Webster had when they were killed.”
He cocks his head and looks at me like I’m suddenly speaking Chinese. He looks at me like he’s not understanding a thing coming out of my mouth. It’s a good thing I came prepared. I pull the file I put together last night out of my bag and hold it up for him. It’s a crime scene photo of the first girl in the series.
Everything is identical to Tracy and Stephanie, from the white robes, to the physical torture, to the sexual assault, and of course, to the fingernail. I hold the photo, allowing him to see it, but he still looks confused.
“Amanda Fisher,” I prompt him.
He shakes his head, looking confused as I drop the picture on his desk and pull out the next one.
“Jennifer Betts,” I say, then pull out the next one. “Jamie Pitzer.”
He still shows no sign of comprehension, so I toss the folder onto his desk. It lands in front of him and he picks it up, thumbing through all of the pages inside of it. And when he gets to the reports section of my presentation, he pauses. He picks it up and looks at it closely for a long moment before dropping the page and looking up at me with a look of shock in his face.
“You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with this,” he says.
“Isn’t that your name on the responding officer’s report?”
“It’s my name, but I didn’t write it.”
I look at him incredulously. “So that’s what you’re going with? You’re being framed? Really?”
“Don’t take my word for it.”
He grabs a random folder off the corner of his desk and tosses it to me. I catch it and open it up. On top is a requisition form with his signature on the bottom. I compare his signature on the form to the report I brought and see that they’re not even close. I frown as I look at them, then turn my gaze back to him. I close the folder and toss it back to him.
He sounds sincere. I want to believe him, but in the absence of a better explanation, I can’t make that turn yet.
“So who’s framing you?” I ask.
“And I would know that how?” he shoots back. “Isn’t that the nature of a frame? You don’t know who’s setting you up?”
He has me there on logic. But it still doesn’t explain it all away for me.
“So are you really expecting me to believe that seven girls were murdered and despite your name being on the report, you know nothing about it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s the truth. Sure, I was a deputy back then, but I didn’t take
every call. There was a lot that went on that I knew nothin’ about,” he says. “Sheriff Montez compartmentalized a lot. He thought things ran more efficient that way.”
“Okay, let’s shift gears for a minute then,” I say. “What about Sofia’s crime scene reports? I’ve been through them all and she’s been falsifying them, Sheriff. Pertinent information has been left out.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t believe that she’s falsifying anything. That’s not her way,” he says. “She’s a straight shooter.”
“I can show you the reports, Sheriff,” I say. “I can show you her reports and let you compare them to the crime scene photos. You can see for yourself they don’t match. And this has been going on for a very long time.”
He sits back in his chair, looking flabbergasted. I’m dropping a lot on him all at once just to see how he reacts. I’m watching his face and his body language closely, looking for the slightest tell. But so far, I see nothing. So I ratchet up the heat.
“And then of course, there are the other murders. What we’ve uncovered so far is pretty damning,” I say. “Deleted records, deleted evidence.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The murders in your town aren’t random. They’re very purposeful, in fact. They’re executions,” I tell him. “We’ve uncovered twenty-three over the last four years so far. These twenty-three people have been charged with crimes but were never convicted. And yet, they mysteriously end up murdered. And all court documents related to the case suddenly disappear. They’re physically deleted.”
“How is that possible?”
“Somebody with system admin access to both the police and the court databases is logging in and deleting the records,” I inform him.
With each new revelation I drop on him, Morris has a physical reaction, like he’s taking a body blow every time. He’s stunned and staggered, and at the moment, doesn’t seem to know up from down. I watch him closely and judge his reactions to be genuine. I don’t detect any deception. And I don’t think he’s that good of an actor, which means he might actually be innocent of all of this. He might actually be the victim of a frame job.