by Dan Padavona
Bell opened her mouth to respond, and Gardy cut her off.
“I’ve read the notes, but I want your take on the murders.”
Assuaged, Phalen gestured at two chairs fronting his desk. Gardy and Bell slid into the seats as Phalen circled around to his chair.
“Based on the ME’s estimations, both murders occurred during the late evening hours, most likely after seven but before midnight.”
Bell opened a notepad.
“That suggests the unknown subject works during the day.”
Phalen chewed on a pen as he nodded across the desk at Bell.
“Makes sense. He leaves the office in the late afternoon and has time to plan the murder, gather supplies. Gets home early enough to make it into work the next morning. Yes, we figured that much. Little good that does us if he works hours typical of the general population.”
“And the women?”
“Both of the killings took place in affluent homes, but again, that doesn’t narrow the search much. Palm Dunes is bursting at the seams with money.”
“The victims will lead us to the killer.”
Phalen folded his arms over his chest and rocked disinterestedly in his chair.
“How so?”
“Both were young adults and successful. The photographs show each had blonde hair. That could be a coincidence, but often serial killers target a certain type. If you have them, I’d like to examine recent photographs of Morris and Tannehill.”
Detective Phalen glared at Bell for a moment before he removed two pictures of the women from his folder. The photograph of Cheryl Morris appeared taken at a company party or gala. An older, inebriated man had his arm around her shoulder. Morris wore an uncomfortable smile. Bell tapped her finger on his face.
“Who’s the guy?”
“Lionel Rhinehurst, her boss.”
“Looks like he’s all over Morris.”
“He’s a scumbag, but not the killer. He was at a conference in San Diego the night of the murder. We checked.”
Bell drew the photographs closer together. Though the two women wouldn’t be mistaken as sisters, there were similarities. Their hair was beige blonde, not silvery, a subtlety not indicated in the crime scene pictures. The camera flash blew out the details in those photographs. Both women possessed high cheekbones and would stand out among their friends as one of the prettiest in the crowd. Pretty but not glamorous. Soft, trusting eyes. The girl next door.
“Hard to imagine either relying on a dating website to find companionship,” Gardy said. “I expect both had boyfriends.”
“She was single,” Phalen said, tapping Morris’s picture. “Based on the depth of the stab wounds and the busted door lock, we can rule out the killer being a woman. We have a lead though.”
“Oh?”
“Matt Doss, Tannehill’s boyfriend. Guy got charged with assault in Tampa two years ago for a road rage incident, and his last girlfriend…” Phalen shuffled through the case notes. “Ah, here it is. Kendra Moore, age twenty-seven. She claims Doss roofied her at a party last May and took her upstairs, but the hospital didn’t find evidence of a sexual assault. One of Morris’s friends figured out what was happening and told Doss she’d call the police if he didn’t open the door.”
“Does he have an alibi on the night of the murder?”
“He says he was asleep by nine, but nobody can verify. Claims he had a migraine. As of now, we don’t have evidence tying him to the scene.”
“What else do we know?”
“He’s a strong guy. Athlete. Ran the Florida Marathon last year and finished in the top third.”
“Strong enough to create these wounds?”
She pointed at the deep knife wounds on Morris and Tannehill.
“Yes, I think so.” Phalen glanced at his watch. “Anything else I can tell you?”
“I want to see the houses,” Bell said.
“I have the floor plans and pictures of the residence.”
“No, a full walk-through of the Tannehill home. And the Morris home if possible.”
The detective sat back with his hands behind his head, eyes narrowed.
“Let me guess. So you can see things as the killer did.”
“Something like that.”
Phalen glanced at his desk calendar.
“Well, I’m free tomorrow between ten and noon if the two of you want to meet me at Tannehill’s.”
“Why not now?”
The detective met Gardy’s eyes as though he expected his old workmate to intervene. It was obvious Phalen was ready to head home for the day.
“I’m not here to inconvenience you, detective,” Bell said, leaning forward but careful not to rest her arms on Phalen’s desk and invade his space. This was a man who defended his territory with impunity. “Gardy and I can handle the walk-through ourselves. Go home to your wife and dog. Enjoy your evening.”
Phalen blinked.
“How did you know I have a dog?”
She didn’t want to tell him his slacks were spotted with dog hair.
“A good guess. That, and you have kind eyes. A dog lover’s eyes.”
Phalen looked at Bell skeptically, then nodded.
“No skin off my back if you want to walk around in a dark house. I’ll get you the keys, but you won’t learn anything our guys didn’t already figure out.”
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
He shouldn’t be here. It’s too soon.
Yet he can’t help himself. He feels compelled as though his arms and legs dangle from marionette strings.
The bruised sky of dusk has burned out, and all that remains is black and a sprinkling of stars. The car window is open to a crack. Enough to alleviate the stench of sweat. He hasn’t showered. There wasn’t time to change after work, not if he wanted to see the house again and rekindle the memory.
The sports car, a Camaro, rests several doors away from Tannehill’s home. He chose a spot under a bald cypress, far from the nearest street lamp. A long and leafy branch extends over the Camaro like the arm of a loving mother. It holds him in its shadow.
The lights are off inside the Craftsman bungalow. No crime techs skittering inside the property, no concerned neighbors gossiping curbside as they cast nervous glances at the home.
Did you know her?
No, but I saw her every morning around seven climbing into the Audi with a thermos of coffee.
Such a tragedy. Who would do such a thing?
A jealous boyfriend, I bet.
Yes, I heard something about the boyfriend.
What?
He beat his old girlfriend.
Oh, my.
Yes, I was surprised Ms Tannehill would date a boy like that. But it’s none of my business.
I just hope they catch him if he did it.
He attended Cheryl Morris’s funeral and sat at the back of the church a dozen pews behind the mourners. He felt nothing. Their sniffs echoed around the capacious interior like bats in a cavern. Before the ceremony’s conclusion, he slipped into the restroom and waited until the church emptied. Then, amid the mottled slashes of light and dark, he approached the hanging cross of Jesus and knelt. No regret, no guilt. If God wished him dead, he would have struck him down for sullying this holy place. As he grinned at the plaster Christ, powerless and perpetually affixed to the cross, he understood nothing could stop him. Not in this life or the next.
His eyes slide along the properties. As he waits in silence, he decides he will visit Tannehill’s grave after she is laid to rest. Lean against the headstone with the sun on his face and remember what he did. Close to her again.
Porch lights shine from every home, standing guard against the night and its terrors. But not against him.
Outside a sea-blue Cape Cod, a young man and woman huddle close on the top step of a porch. The man’s arm is around the woman’s waist, and her neck lolls against his shoulder. Now-and-again, their eyes drift to Tannehill’s bungalow and glance away. The entire neighborhood is fearful
because of him. Because of what he did to her.
Blood thrumming in his head, he touches the door handle and stalls. The compulsion grows. A part of his subconscious believes he will recapture the ecstasy if he approaches the bungalow. The logical part of his brain knows better, understands he’s taking an incredible risk. Yet the urge grows and refuses to be quiet.
He waits for a car to pass. The headlights burn in his mirrors and blind him. He slides below the steering wheel when the other vehicle is close, and after it passes, he emerges from hiding like a shark fin cutting through breakers.
Certain the road is empty, he edges the door open and steps onto the blacktop. The road holds the day’s heat. The tarry warmth puffs at his shins as he clicks the door shut.
A baseball cap is pulled down to his eyes. His hands plunge into his pockets as he steps over the shoulder and reaches the sidewalk. His head hangs low, eyes fixed on the concrete blocks. He skips over the cracks and mumbles the childhood mantra about breaking his mother’s back. It’s enough to make him chuckle. He swallows the laugh before he attracts unwanted attention. Already he senses the man and woman watching him from the Cape Cod, wondering who he is and what business he has in the neighborhood.
This is enemy territory. Sentries are everywhere.
Beneath a weeping willow, he vanishes and becomes a silhouette. Then he wades through another pool of light under a street lamp.
The bungalow is two houses away, the windows dark and dead to the world. Eternal sleep. The anticipation dries his mouth and pumps his heart.
Before he reaches Tannehill’s home, headlights flare and catch his chest. He turns his shoulder before the beams sweep across his face. The vehicle, an SUV of some sort, swings to the curb. Quickly, he crosses the street as the doors open. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the man and woman climb from the vehicle and stroll up the bungalow’s walkway.
Cops?
His heart races. Puts dizzying butterflies in his head. What were the odds the authorities would arrive the second he returned to the scene? It might be a trap. He doesn’t think so, but the coincidence freezes ice on his spine. They climb up the steps, and the man inserts a key into the lock.
They don’t look like cops. Christ, they’re feds. The FBI knows about him now. It was inevitable for the FBI to get involved, but he believed it would only happen after many killings.
Looking over his shoulder, he confirms he isn’t being followed. The couple outside the Cape Cod can’t see him from this angle. As the agents struggle with the lock, he slips behind a hedge and peers through an opening. Confident he hasn’t drawn their attention, he settles into the shadow and exhales.
Until the female agent swings around and stares in his direction.
The man unlocks the door and pushes it open, then stands in the threshold, following the woman’s gaze. They lean their heads close and speak. It isn’t possible they saw him, yet the two agents stare at the hedge as though they sense him. Like a cold pool in tropical waters.
Another vehicle approaches, a truck with a growling engine. The headlights glide across the agents’ faces.
And he sees her.
The female agent’s shoulder-length blonde hair reminds him of Morris and Tannehill. The woman is alluring. A dead ringer for the other women. His palms go sweaty as he inches closer to the hedge.
No longer spooked by his presence, the two agents enter the bungalow and close the door.
This is his chance to flee. To run to the car before the agents return.
He can’t leave. The drumming of his heart confirms her fate.
A cloud passes over the moon and cloaks the street in darkness. He slips out of the hedge and approaches the bungalow.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
Bell looked over her shoulder as Gardy entered Lori Tannehill’s house. Someone was across the street behind the hedgerow. The possibility it was the killer didn’t occur to her, her mind settling on the likelihood of kids or a curious neighbor. Still, the shadow figure unnerved Bell and increased her paranoia.
Gardy flicked the wall switch. With the lights on, the bungalow wasn’t as creepy. The floor was strand bamboo hardwood and shining from a recent polish. The first floor was an open concept, a dining room with a cherry wood table off to the right, a sparsely furnished living room to the left with a computer room nestled behind it. Windows let in ample sunshine during the day. Night pressed against the glass now.
“Easy to watch her through the windows,” she said as they stepped into the living room.
Stepping through a victim’s house always sent a shiver up Bell’s spine. The lights were too bright, the shadows unexpected and deeper than she imagined.
A kitchen and a sitting room took up the rear of the first floor, and a sliding glass door off the sitting room opened to the backyard.
Gardy touched the pane and ran his eyes along the vulnerable entry point.
“So the unknown subject used a glass cutter at Morris’s house.”
“Right.”
“So why not here?”
Bell studied her reflection in the window. After dark, Tannehill wouldn’t be able to see her attacker in the backyard.
“Because she was downstairs. He couldn’t cut the glass without her noticing, and if he broke the pane, she’d have time to dial 911.” Bell retraced her footsteps to the center of the bungalow. A wooden staircase led to the second floor. Craning her neck as she looked up, she spotted another flight of stairs leading to the attic door. “Instead, he climbed up the side of the house using the roof overhang on the back porch.”
Gardy followed her to the staircase.
“So Tannehill is downstairs, maybe watching television and doesn’t hear him break into the attic.”
“Until he opens the door.”
A thought seized her, and Bell took the stairs two at a time with Gardy racing to keep pace. As she had with the Alan Hodge case in New York, Bell formed a vague picture of the killer.
“Slow down.”
She passed the second floor and ascended to the attic door. The knob was warm, holding the heat of the attic. Turning the knob, she listened for any noise that might give the killer away. It twisted in her hand. Then the door drifted open with an excruciating groan that reminded her of a horror movie sound effect.
“She would have heard the door drift open from downstairs,” said Gardy, nodding.
“So she comes upstairs to inspect the noise, thinking the wind blew the door open and never imagined it was an intruder.”
“And by the time she sees him, it’s too late to reach her phone. That’s when she locks herself inside the bedroom.”
Their shoes thumped on the staircase as they descended. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall, past a large bathroom and an empty spare room. The door, a classic paneled mahogany, splintered along the edge where the knob broke.
Bell knelt and examined the knob. It hung at an oblique angle like a broken limb. She thought back to the photograph of Lionel Rhinehurst, Morris’s boss. No way a wiry man pushing seventy could have done this. And what connection would he have to Lori Tannehill? Even without the alibi, Bell knew Rhinehurst wasn’t the killer.
“Phalen didn’t say if Doss was a big guy, did he?” Bell asked.
“No. Phalen only said he was athletic.”
“This is a well-constructed door. Not easy to break through.”
Gardy dropped beside Bell and shined a flashlight at the knob.
“The knob is the weakest link in the chain. Anyone with a bobby pin and know-how can pick an interior lock. Or, if you’re in a hurry, you smash it until the bolt disengages.”
The warped hinge made a squealing sound when Bell pushed the door open. A posted queen-size bed was the focal point to Tannehill’s bedroom, but the dark blotch marring the white pile carpet drew Bell’s eyes. This was where he murdered Lori Tannehill. Multiple stab wounds to the chest. Deep. An unwanted memory returned to Bell—Kacy Deering’s blood staining the floorb
oards in Coral Lake. Torn drapes hung at the window, the rod bent at the center like narrowed eyebrows. Panicking, Tannehill had run for the window and ripped at the drapes as she searched for the latch.
Bell padded into the room, careful to step around the stain, and looked out the window. It was a long drop to the grass, no ledge to climb upon.
Blood splatter spread across the carpet and blackened the bedspread and walls.
The flash on Gardy’s camera lit the room in brief bursts. He moved around the room and photographed the murder scene from multiple angles. When he finished, he took pictures of the door.
“We should check the attic,” Gardy said.
Bell led the way up the stairs. The air inside the attic was hot and stuffy and made her throat itch. The roof slope forced them to bend over. Pink insulation filled the lower joists. A vinyl gable vent accepted air on one end of the attic, and the opposite side featured a window, open a crack.
Gardy reached above his head for a string and pulled. A bare bulb threw a small circumference of light over the attic. They filled in the rest with their flashlights.
A buzzing sound whistled past Bell’s ear, and Gardy cursed and ducked as a wasp darted against the upper joists.
“Careful,” he said, aiming the beam at the ceiling.
“Did it get you?”
“Hell, yes.”
Gardy rubbed at his cheek, the red blemish swollen. An umbrella-shaped wasp nest hung off the ceiling. Dozens of wasps with black and yellow stripes crawled over hexagonal cells.
“You allergic?”
“Not that I’m aware. But then again I haven’t gotten stung since I was a kid.”
Bell grinned.
“That surprises me.”
“How so?”
“Bees and wasps love the sweet stuff.”
“Har-har.”
“Hey, you could date someone. A lot of women would be interested.”
“No time,” Gardy said, flashing the beam along the joists. His face had a sheepish, sad-dog look.
“What do you do in your free time?”
He shrugged.