by Gerri Hill
This morning was no different. The summer nighttime sky of a million stars slowly gave way to the brightness of the day. She knew the trail like the back of her hand, knew where every rock would cause her to stumble, knew when to duck from a low-hanging branch. She slipped off the main trail, taking the side route to her slab of rock.
She stood still, taking deep, even breaths. Slowly, she spread out her arms as if welcoming the sun. In essence, she was. There were many a night when she was certain she’d never see another sunrise, see another day. But years of healing had gotten her past that. Now, she relished each new day, enjoying the simplicity of nature’s wakeup call. As the sun showed itself, a deep red color filled the canyon. She held her palms up, nodding slowly, her mind drifting away as her body took over. She bent her knees, then started her routine, moving into each position effortlessly, gliding along the surface of the rock, paying homage to the new day and being thankful she was a part of it.
“You’re joking,” she said. “Same COD?”
Jim nodded. “Yep. Throat slashed, just like the other one.”
“ID?”
“Yeah, that’s the scary part.” He took the toothpick out of his mouth. “Maggie O’Brien. College student too. Only this one is Arizona State at the Tempe campus.”
“That means it’s the same killer.”
“Most likely.”
“And he’s targeting college students.”
“Different colleges, different cities.”
“Jesus. And we’re the dumping ground.”
He put the toothpick back into his mouth. “And I’m too goddamn old for this crap.”
Andrea was already on her computer, pulling up the FBI database. Serial killers normally didn’t invent themselves overnight. Most took years to earn that label. And most weren’t caught after only two murders. She looked up. “This second body wasn’t an easy drop off. He either had help or brought it up on horseback. We should check the stables.”
“I can have Randy check the rentals in the area,” Jim said.
“She’d been up there several weeks. You think anyone is going to remember back that far?”
“Maybe that was his plan. Dump her far enough so that she wouldn’t be stumbled upon right away.”
“Making it less likely people would remember him.” She shook her head. “Still, he leaves Sandy Reynolds right off a trail in Oak Creek Canyon. As if begging for someone to find her.”
“I don’t pretend to understand killers, Andi.” He motioned to her computer. “What’re you looking for?”
“Same MO.”
“Slashed throat? Or dumped body?”
“Both.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Too vague?”
“I would imagine there are a lot of throat-slashing artists out there,” he said.
“You think so? It’s a messy, nasty way to kill someone. I wouldn’t think too many people have the stomach for it.”
“A killer is a killer, Andi.”
She shook her head. “No. A lot of serial killers use strangulation as the means. No blood. No mess.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So, two bodies and you want to say serial killer?”
“Don’t you?”
“Those words generally cause panic. Maybe we ought to let the experts determine that.”
“Experts? Who? Police in Flagstaff? Tempe?” She shook her head. “They have one body each. No, they’re not thinking serial killer. They’re looking for boyfriends or whoever Sandy Reynolds saw at the bar last.”
“Well, like you said, we’re just the dumping ground. There’s no crime scene here.” He paused. “Thank God.”
She wanted to argue with him, but she let him walk away. Technically, no, it wasn’t the scene of the crime. But it was a scene just the same. She went back to her searching, finding many unsolved murders where the body was dumped. However, not many of those had cause of death as slashed throat. She stored that data, then did a different search. This one for young, college-aged women with no specific cause of death.
“Good Lord,” she murmured. She limited her search to the last ten years and got one hundred and thirty-seven hits. She then went back to her first search, that with dumped bodies. She narrowed that down to rural areas. She played with the data, sorting and resorting, trying to find every possible scenario. After five hours—well after Jim had told her to go home for the night—she found a pattern. An alternating pattern.
Ten years ago, two young women were found in the woods near Pine Knot, Kentucky, not far from the Tennessee border. Both had been strangled and dumped approximately two weeks apart. One year later, three women were killed over a two-month period near the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. Two were strangled, one had her throat cut. All three were found at the murder scene. Their bodies had not been moved.
Eleven months later, in the small town of Hillsboro, Georgia, four women were found dumped in the Oconee National Forest. All four were students at the University of Georgia in Athens, some seventy miles north. Three were strangled, one had her throat cut.
Thirteen months later, three women were found murdered in their apartments in Birmingham, Alabama over a stretch of six days. Only one was a college student. All three had their throats slashed.
Then, only five months later, in Pondville, southeast of Tuscaloosa, four bodies were found in the woods, all within a few hundred yards of each other. Again, two were strangled, two had their throats cut. They never found the murder scene.
The pattern continued, alternating between rural areas and cities, moving from state to state. The most recent of the pattern occurred in Dallas. However, it was the only one where DNA was left. Semen was found at each scene, yet no signs of sexual assault. Three victims, all tied, all with throats slashed. The pattern veered here and Andrea thought maybe the detectives got it wrong. A fourth victim, a male, was also attributed to the same killer. A homeless man was found with his throat cut. Fibers at the scene matched fibers at one of the victim’s apartment.
Patrick Doe.
She read the file in more detail. They weren’t certain Patrick was his real name, but that’s what his brother referred to him as. The brother, John Doe, was dead. Shot and killed by Tori Hunter after he’d slashed the throat of her partner. She frowned. He dressed like a woman.
“Jesus, what the hell is this?” she murmured, making a note to call the Dallas PD in the morning. She wanted more information before she lumped these killings in with the others. Leaving semen deviated from the normal pattern. Killing a male also was new. But the overall pattern fit. Rural, city, rural again, then city. The Dallas murders happened eighteen months ago. If it was indeed the same killer, it apparently was the first time Patrick had nearly been caught. None of the other cases even had a suspect.
She read through the notes again, nearly convincing herself the Dallas murders weren’t related to the others she’d been researching. Too much was different. But she wanted to be thorough. She’d still call them, get a better feel.
Chapter Four
Jim read through the notes she’d made. He wasn’t much for computers so she’d printed them out. He leaned back in his chair, working his toothpick over as he read. She studied his expression, trying to see if he thought she’d been too liberal in her linking of the murders. If you looked for patterns, you could link almost anything if you allowed for subtle differences. The only real difference she’d found was the homeless man murdered in Dallas. When she read through the file more thoroughly, she determined he was killed for a completely different reason and wasn’t a part of the serial killings, even though he was killed by the same man.
“How long did it take you to find all this?”
“Five or six hours.”
He took his toothpick out and pointed it at her. “So you didn’t go home when I told you to.”
“You didn’t really think I would, did you?”
“No.” He tossed the toothpick in the trash, then tidied
the papers she’d given him. “This is interesting, to say the least. How the hell were you able to find this?”
“Now I know you’ve been on the FBI’s database before, Jim, if only to poke around. They’ve got a great search and sort program. I’m just worried I might be trying to link some that shouldn’t be. What if these are two serial killers, one who dumps in rural areas and one who kills in the city?”
“No, I think your scenario is plausible. Go ahead and call Dallas. See if you can talk to this Detective Hunter. Maybe they’ve got a photo or a sketch of him.”
“Great. Thanks, Jim.”
She already had the number, hoping he would agree. She dialed it quickly, wanting to talk to them before Randy or the others came in. They would be hovering, she was certain.
“Homicide. Donaldson.”
“Good morning. I’m calling from Coconino Sheriff’s department in Sedona, Arizona,” she said. “I’m wondering if Detective Hunter is available.”
“Hunter? No, she’s not here anymore. She’s working for the FBI now.”
Damn. “I see. Well, I’m calling about a particular case...about eighteen months ago. Patrick Doe. Is there another detective who could answer some questions?”
“Yeah. Hang on. Let me see if O’Connor is around.”
She skimmed through the file again, finding Detective Casey O’Connor listed, along with John Sikes and Leslie Tucker. Surely one of them would be able to help her.
“O’Connor here. How can I help you?”
“Detective O’Connor, I’m Andrea Sullivan from Coconino Sheriff’s department in Sedona, Arizona. I wanted to speak to you about Patrick Doe.” There was only silence. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah. Sorry. That’s a name I hoped I’d never hear again.”
“I’m sorry. And this may sound strange, but we’ve had two women killed here, both with their throats slashed. College students. They weren’t actually killed here in Sedona, but their bodies were dumped here. I’ve been looking through the FBI’s database and came upon your case.”
“Patrick didn’t dump his bodies. He killed them in their own apartments, tied to their beds.”
“Can you tell me something that’s not in the file?”
“Hunter was usually very thorough in her notes. This one, though, I think she just wanted it over with.”
“Her partner was injured, nearly killed. You can’t blame her.”
“Sikes never recovered fully. He doesn’t get out in the field much, but he’s still a part of the team.”
“But he wasn’t a victim of Patrick, rather his brother, John. Do I understand that correctly?”
“John was slow, mentally slow. He was also innocent. Patrick forced him to do some things, including pretending to be Patrick that day. John was a peeping Tom. We think that’s how Patrick found his victims, by following John. We also suspect Patrick dressed as a woman, knocked on their doors and got them to open up for him.”
“Why do you think that?”
“John and Patrick were twins. We found John wearing a dress one day. He said Patrick made him wear it but that Patrick was usually the one who wore the dress. I mean, a young woman is much more likely to open the door to a stranger if it’s a woman, right?”
“I guess.” She skimmed through her notes. “Do you have a sketch of Patrick? Or better, a photo?”
“No. He and John were twins, but not identical. At least, not according to DNA. The semen and John’s DNA showed related male. But they looked eerily alike. It’s hard to believe they weren’t identical.”
“You have a photo of John?” she asked.
“Yes. E-mail or fax?”
Andrea glanced at the ancient fax machine, knowing Sheriff Baker would prefer that. “Both?” she asked, then gave Detective O’Connor the number and her e-mail address.
“What makes you think our Patrick is in Arizona?” O’Connor asked.
Andrea didn’t want to go into all of her six hours of research, but decided to share some of it. “It may be rushing things to assume two bodies equal a serial killer, but I was curious. Our victims aren’t from here and weren’t killed here. One is from Flagstaff, one from Phoenix. In the last ten years, I was able to find similar cases. They alternated from killings in cities where the body is not moved, to killings in rural or smaller cities, and the bodies are dumped, sometimes up to a hundred miles away.”
“Yeah. My partner did some research into that too. But she couldn’t find anything where the killer left semen.”
“Right. I didn’t either. But there were just too many other similarities. I didn’t want to dismiss your case just because of the semen.”
“Well, if it is Patrick, he’s very smart. We failed with him and he got away. Maybe that’s how he avoids capture. He moves from state to state.”
“Maybe he won’t be so lucky this time,” she said.
“Well, good luck. If you need any more information, just let me know.”
“I will, Detective. Thanks for your time.”
Only a few minutes later, the fax came to life. She then checked her e-mail, finding the file Detective O’Connor had sent. Not only was there a photo of John Doe, but she’d included the entire file on the case. There was much more information there than she’d been able to get from the FBI database.
“Any luck?”
She pointed to the fax machine. “They sent me a photo. That’s John Doe, not Patrick.”
He studied the photo. “How does this help?”
“They’re twins. Not identical, but Detective O’Connor said they looked alike.”
“This is all assuming that this Patrick Doe is our serial killer.” He tossed the photo on her desk. “Which is questionable at best.”
“I know. But it’s something.”
Chapter Five
“Son of a bitch.”
Andrea took her cap off and tousled her damp hair, letting the breeze dry her skin. They had left the coolness of Oak Creek Canyon a half hour ago. Now, near the rim, they stared at the body of a young woman, her throat gashed open, a gaping hole staring back at them.
Sheriff Baker walked closer and Andrea could see his fists clenched tight, could feel the tension in his body. Two hikers had found the body this morning. By the looks of it, it was dumped during the night.
“Goddamn son of a bitch,” he said again.
She pulled her eyes from the body, searching the ground around them, looking for shoeprints, looking for some evidence left behind by the killer. Other than a few rocks being disturbed, there was nothing. She moved closer to the body, noting the bloodstained T-shirt. University of Arizona Wildcats.
“Surely he didn’t drive her all the way from Tucson,” she said.
“I want to know how the hell he carries a goddamn body up this trail to the rim. That’s what I want to know.”
“This isn’t a horse trail so we know he didn’t pack her in.” She raised her eyebrows. “You think he’s got help? A partner?”
“Serial killers, as a rule, work alone. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Yeah. But Patrick Doe had a partner. His brother.”
“Who is dead.” Jim turned away from the body and looked skyward, into the clear, blue sky. She followed his gaze, wondering if he was praying. “I need to call the FBI,” he said after a few minutes. “This is too big for us.”
“I know,” she said.
He looked at her. “I figured you’d fight me tooth and nail before you’d let me call in the feds.”
“Our hands are tied here. We can’t do anything except report the bodies and have Phoenix do the lab work. If he’s killing in different cities, then the only certainty is his dumping ground. Here.”
“Yep. But we both know how vast this is. Even with the so-called professionals working the case, it’ll still be blind luck to catch him out here.” He glanced back at the body. “We need the equipment so you can process this. Call Crawford. Tell him to bring a mule up the trail so we can get her do
wn. I’ll sit with her. You go show Randy the way.”
She nodded. This was the third body they’d found but the first one Jim had been along on for the search. It was affecting him probably more than he thought it would. He’d been in this county his whole career. He’d probably never seen anything this disturbing. What was unsettling to Andrea was how unaffected she was. Did twelve years in LA do that to her? Or was it the culmination of everything that had happened when she left LA? When Erin was killed, did her compassion die with her?
She stared again at the body, trying to envision the young woman alive, trying to envision the heartbreak her family would feel. She knew all about heartbreak. That, she understood.
Chapter Six
“Get off my lap.” Cameron picked the kitten up for the fourth time and placed it again in the passenger seat. “I should have left you at that rest area.” The solid black kitten tilted its head. “Don’t think I won’t leave you at the next one if you keep this up.”
Cameron drew her attention again to the road. Not only had she picked up the damn cat in the first place, but now, three days later, she was talking to it. She glanced at it again, glad to see it was finally settling down on the towel and not her lap. The first day, the kitten had hidden from her and she’d searched the large motor home from end to end, finally finding it hiding under her pillow on the bed. She had remedied that by closing the door. The second day of travel, the cat had curled into a corner of the sofa, its eyes wide with fear. Not only was it a starving stray, it surely had never been in a vehicle, especially one as large as the motor home.
She thought she’d give it a week and see how they both adjusted. Cameron had never had a pet before so she assumed she’d be the one doing most of the adjusting. If after a week they seemed to get along, she’d find a vet for the necessary shots...and to find out what sex it was.