1st Shock (Schock Sisters Mystery Series)

by Misty Evans

  "You did good grabbing the bastard's hat," I say to Matt.

  "We got lucky, Charlie. It fell off when he bolted."

  "It doesn't matter. You still saw it in the dark."

  JJ sent it to the lab with a rush order. We may be able to retrieve DNA and see if it matches any already in the criminal system. On TV and in the movies, they make it sound like every criminal's is on record when in reality, the database is fairly small. So, it's a long shot, but one worth taking.

  I look at JJ. "Did you get permission for me to go back to the prison?"

  He nods. "You really think Wilson will know who our copycat is?"

  "It's possible. Hell, Mickey may have trained him."

  The body dug up today can't be Mickey Wilson's work. It's too fresh. But I have a sneaky suspicion he won't like the fact someone took up where he left off. Unless he has a protégé who's feeding him the details after each kill.

  At the prison, Mickey tried to take credit for Emily, but I saw right through him. Of course, he called her Tonya, but maybe this Tonya was actually a victim of Mickey's protégé.

  I need to question him again, make him feel inadequate, or maybe play on that big, fat ego of his once more and get him to admit someone was helping when he made all those kills. One way or the other, I have to get into his head, get more info. Even if he didn't train this copycat, he might have an idea who it is.

  Matt leans on the wall, unconvinced. "We still don't know the guy from the office is the same one who killed these girls."

  He's right, but I argue anyway. It's hard to leave bitch-mode once I'm in full steam. "Of course, it is, Matt. The blond wig he left on Meg's skull? And it shows up the same day we questioned Mickey? Come on. You know your gut's saying the same thing mine is. Whoever this guy is, he has all the markings of a serial killer, and dollars to donuts, he's the one who's been leaving bodies along the Beltway since Mickey went to prison."

  Matt puts his hands in the air in a show of supplication. "I hear you, Charlie. But part of my job is playing devil's advocate. What if we're dealing with two different people?"

  I don't want to consider that, because that means I have absolutely no leads on Cap Guy if the DNA doesn't match.

  JJ rocks on his heels and crosses his arms. "He's right. We need to look at all the angles."

  Perfect. Two against one. I'm only agitated because I know they're right. I pace past the window, biting my bottom lip so I don't start yelling. How long does it take to put in a few stitches? "I want to go to the prison tonight."

  "Best I could do is tomorrow morning," JJ says.

  I whirl on him. "I'll drive myself. Tonight."

  He stays calm in the face of my anger. "They won't let you in. They won't even let me in."

  What? "You're a U.S. district attorney! You can get in anytime you want. You're not trying hard enough."

  He doesn't sigh out loud, but I feel the contained exasperation like a pulsing anger between us. "It's been a long day so I'm gonna let you slide on that. We have to handle this carefully, Charlize, and you know it. Going to see Wilson once without his lawyer present, we got away with. In fact, we're lucky he didn't ask for them. A second time? He's not stupid. He'll either lawyer up or start claiming harassment. He's not directly involved in an open investigation—he lied about Tonya—and the cold cases do not have concrete evidence linked to him, as Matt pointed out, to justify questioning him again without his lawyer present. Which isn't happening under any circumstances until tomorrow."

  I bite my lip again and turn away, purposely breathing out through my nose. Control. Stay in control.

  JJ is right. Matt is too. I have to rein in my chaotic feelings and rely on my cool, levelheaded training.

  Another breath.

  Mickey will eat up all this attention. It's not like he gets many visitors, and now, a second from us, and this one requires his lawyer?

  Visitors... Something in me, a thread, pulls taut.

  My head snaps up. Once again I turn to JJ, just as Meg is coming around the corner, her hands full of snacks.

  "What did Mickey say?" I roll my hand, trying to tease it out of my brain. "The day we were there? Something about a visitor?"

  "He said it was his lucky day," Meg chimes in as if she's been part of our conversation the whole time. "That we were the second visitor he'd had that day."

  I snap my fingers. "We need the log from Tuesday," I say to JJ. Please don't let it be his lawyer, I think to myself. "We need to know who came to see him before we did."

  JJ takes out his phone. "That I can do."

  Haley and the doctor emerge from the exam room, Haley looking pale but no longer shaking. Probably because the anti-anxiety pills they gave her kicked in, and I have the feeling she's going to need more of them as she processes the fact she was attacked and nearly had her throat slit by our killer.

  Meg shoves the snacks at Matt and reaches for Haley, grabbing her hand and pulling her close as the doctor reels off instructions. After he's done and walking away, she turns to me. "Why?" she asks about the log. "What are you thinking about the other visitor?"

  It's just a hunch. I have no reason to believe Mickey's visitor could actually lead us to the man playing with us, teasing us, believing he's smarter than we are. But in this way, he is much like Mickey. While there's no solid proof—the kind Matt needs—my instincts tell me the two men have worked together. They at least know each other.

  I don't want to get everyone's hopes up, but you better believe no matter who it is, I am going to be in front of Mickey first thing come morning. Serial killers have a unique psychology. Most are loners, but some work in pairs.

  "Charlie?" Meg brings me back. She knows the answer to the question before she asks it. "You think this bastard is a friend of Mickey Wilson's?"

  I take Haley's other hand and lead everyone down the hall. "I think our killer's identity has been in front of me this whole time and I was too damn dense to see it."

  15

  Meg

  "Devante Bales."

  I pause while reading the file Charlie handed me before I walked out of our office and hopped into Matt's Mustang. It's a beautiful morning and on the other side of the roadway the spring sunshine glistens off dewy trees. After this road trip, I might need some time outside, in the woods not far from our office. It's impossible to be sad in the woods. At least I think so. There's something about the earthy smells and fresh air that clears my mind. I suppose that's why I enjoy sitting by the Silver Tail. But there's no time for that today so this will have to do.

  "Devante Bales?" Matt muses. "Never heard of him. What's his story?"

  I look back at Charlie's insanely organized and typed notes. Me? I'd do it by hand and have comments in all the margins.

  "He's a PhD student at American University. Twenty-four years old. Father is a doctor, mother a college professor."

  "How do we know this?"

  I eye Matt with my foolish-boy look. By now, he's worked with us long enough to know my sister has amazing contacts. Hackers, FBI and CIA agents, judges. You name it, Charlie knows someone in the field. She's built a career on her connections and knows exactly how to leverage them.

  Chances are the information we have on Devante Bales is courtesy of Teeg, hacker extraordinaire, at the Justice Team.

  "Right," Matt says. "PhD? What subject?"

  I check my notes again. "Justice, Law & Criminology. School of Public Affairs."

  Being a former cop, one with a bachelor’s in Criminal Justice, Matt understands the lure of studying criminal behavior.

  "So, he's in a grad program in D.C.. Let's assume he wants to be a federal agent."

  "Or a lawmaker."

  "Politics?" Matt mulls that over for a few seconds, rolling his bottom lip out before offering a solid nod. "Yeah. I'll buy that."

  "If we find him, we can ask. Along with why he visited Mickey Wilson right before us the other day."

  I flip to the driver's license photo of Devante
, a clean-cut bi-racial man with round glasses that give him a studious look. His hazel eyes, more green than brown, capture my attention. This kid's face belongs on a magazine cover. It might be The Economist versus GQ, but this was a fine looking man.

  And, God knew, plenty of serial killers had been handsome. Gorgeous even. Those looks helped lure innocent women to places they had no business going.

  At best, Devante is studying serial killers.

  At worst, he is a serial killer.

  A copycat gleaning information from Mickey, who excels at every characteristic of the most loathsome humans.

  "Let's hope he's doing research," Matt says, apparently reading my mind.

  We spend the rest of the ride in silence and I close my eyes. There's no headrest in the vintage car, but I do my best to slouch and tip my head back. I need to meditate for a few minutes and get my mind right. In general, I’m not built for investigative work. It drains my energy. But I can't look at Emily every day and do nothing when this case might have something to do with her.

  I owe it to her.

  And Avery.

  Matt pulls into a parking garage down the street from the address on the copy of the license. According to his schedule, another gift I’m assuming came from Teeg, Devante works in the tutoring center on campus on Saturdays at eleven until three. It's barely nine-thirty. We've timed this well.

  We park and walk the block to the apartment. There's a buzzer at the outer door and a speaker about to fall out of its enclosure. Matt shoves the piece back into place, only to have it stubbornly pop out again. Hopefully, it's not a sign of how this meeting will go.

  His mouth tips down at the corners and just as I think he's about to press the buzzer, he looks at me. "How do you want to do this?"

  "Let's skip good cop, bad cop. At least at first. If he's not cooperative, I'll be the former. You can play the understanding male, rolling your eyes at me and earning his trust. That work?"

  He shrugs and pokes the buzzer. "Sure."

  "Hello?" A groggy and deep male voice calls from the speaker.

  "Yeah, hey, Devante," Matt says, all cool and casual. "I'm Matt Stephens. An investigator working a murder case involving Mickey Wilson. I know you saw him the other day. I could use your help. Got a sec?"

  The speaker goes silent, but this is D.C. and a blaring car horn won't be denied its moment to make my ears bleed. I whirl around to give the driver a nasty glare and find two cars at a standstill due to a double-parked cab.

  This is why I don't live in the city. Too much noise and drama.

  "Idiot," Matt mutters.

  A loud zzzppp-zzzppp followed by the thunk of the disengaging door lock spurts adrenaline into my bloodstream. Devante has granted us access. Here we go...

  Once inside, I glance at Matt. "That was easy."

  "I kept it casual. Plus, some intellectuals like talking about themselves. I took a shot he might want to brag about his prison visit."

  The elevator, one of those old rickety deals with the sliding inner gate, carries us to the fourth floor where we knock on door 410.

  Devante opens said door, round glasses in place, his cheeks spotted with fine facial hair that, if given a month, still wouldn't become a beard. His white T-shirt is beyond wrinkled, the basketball shorts not much better. In the two images—driver's license and student ID—I've seen of him, he wore an Oxford shirt, the collar pressed and stiff. His current clothing along with his initial groggy greeting via the buzzer leads me to believe we’ve woken him up.

  "Hi." Matt extends his hand and the two men shake. "I'm Matt Stephens from Schock Investigations. This is Meg Schock. A forensic sculptor."

  I nod and extend my hand. Devante's palm is warm, his grip firm but not obnoxious or prolonged. Manners. His parents taught him well.

  "A sculptor. That's cool." His gaze shoots to Matt then me. "You're working a case?"

  "Yes," I say. "It's a cold case. We believe it's a serial killer."

  His mouth opens, forming a perfect O. "Whoa."

  He steps back, pulling the door open.

  Boom.

  We're in.

  Intellectuals. Such an interesting group.

  The apartment is small and neat with a galley kitchen, breakfast bar and an open area containing a plaid loveseat. A battered coffee table holds a single photography book. A rocking chair completes the seating. Along the wall in the corner is a tall oriental screen. I spot the edge of a blanket peeking out and suspect the screen hides a bed that pulls from the wall.

  Studio apartment.

  He waves to the loveseat and Matt and I drop into it. The cushion sinks under Matt's heavier weight and my body lists. I don't want to be conducting this interview while getting cozy, so I lean to my right, countering gravity.

  Devante takes the chair, sets his phone on the table between us and holds his hands wide.

  "How can I help?"

  I take the lead. "I understand you visited Mickey Wilson the other day."

  "Yes. I'm working on a research paper for my doctorate."

  Research paper.

  I lift my eyebrows, pretending to be at least partially surprised. "What are you studying?"

  The corner of his mouth lifts. "Ms. Schock, I'm gonna guess you know the answer. Why else would you be here?"

  Touché.

  As much as I don't want to, I like this guy. If he's a serial killer, he's a charming one. Even I, with my hardened senses, recognize his appeal.

  From my messenger bag, I retrieve the folder with Charlie's notes, set it on my lap and flip it open. "Okay. Since you've busted me, we'll get right to it. We're working a cold case. Two in fact. Mickey has claimed responsibility for both murders, but we have doubts. We're hoping you might be able to tell us something regarding these cases." I roll one hand. "Since you're working on a research paper with a serial killer. Maybe he's shared things with you."

  Devante rises and moves to a rectangular dining table against the wall. Beside it are three plastic stackable drawers with a printer on top. The table, probably a hand-me-down or a garage sale find given the nicks on the legs, is doubling as a desk.

  "I'm happy to help in any way," he says. "I have my notes from my meetings with Mickey right here."

  Meetings. As in plural.

  Matt slides me a sideways glance. "So, you've been there before?"

  "Oh sure. Four, maybe five times. He's a total head case."

  That's one way to put it.

  "What exactly is this paper you're working on?"

  He shuffles through a perfect stack of manila folders, reading the tabs of each before pulling one out and facing us again. "I'm comparing common characteristics of male versus female serial killers. I've interviewed five men and three women so far."

  He walks back and holds a file out. "It's rather fascinating."

  Just like that. Here you go. Read all you like about the psycho I'm studying.

  A chill lances down my arms. How could this topic be so casual to all of us? What have we become that this level of violence doesn't shock or intimidate us?

  It's something I can't think too hard about, so I open the folder and skim the first page. A handwritten summary of a conversation with Mickey. Devante's penmanship is excellent. The words contain neat block letters—all caps—that form freakishly perfect square paragraphs.

  Matt peers over my shoulder. "What have you determined so far?"

  "The most common is males choose strangers as their victims while females tend to kill people they know."

  "I see. And Mickey?"

  "Strangers. Every time. Blondes. And he slits their throats. It makes him, er, he gets sexual gratification from it."

  Lord.

  "Has he told you about any of his victims? Where he's buried them? How many?"

  "No. Nothing like that. We don't talk specifics. It's mostly about his upbringing and such. He's highly intelligent. He says his IQ is one forty-five, but I can't confirm."

  Interesting. I'm sur
e my sister already knows this since she studied Mickey in great detail before his trial. "A genius."

  "According to him. No proof though. I'm not sure how much you know about him, but his mother forced him to sleep in a locked basement. She was a single mom trying to find a husband. When the men saw him, they'd leave her." Devante shrugs. "They didn't want a woman with children."

  Matt shakes his head, lets out a grunt. "So she locked him in when men came over."

  "Yes. She hid him. Told him no one could ever love him." He waggles a finger at his file. "You'll see it in my notes. I believe slashing his victim's throats is symbolic of shutting his mother up."

  Well, nearly decapitating someone would be one way to do it. "Did she ever remarry?"

  "She did. She found a man with children of his own. By then, Mickey was severely damaged."

  This is also in Charlie's notes, confirming my sister's research before the bastard's trial. "I see."

  Devante leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and lets out a long sigh. "Look, he's a messed up dude. He belongs in prison."

  Something in his tone forces me to set his notes down and focus on him. "But?"

  He shrugs. "I can see why his victims became his victims. He connects with people. Maybe he stopped to talk to them, and they figured he was harmless. I don’t know.”

  Maybe he asked them to show him their boobs. “Do you plan on visiting him again?”

  “It depends. If I need more info, he’s always willing to talk.”

  Devante reaches for the coffee table and taps his phone screen. “Oh, wow. It’s getting late. I have to be at work in an hour.”

  He stands but I remain seated. I’m not done yet. I want copies of his notes. Up to this point he’s been cooperative. Almost too much so. That might be my own suspicions bubbling up, but when it comes to this case, I can’t be too trustful of anything.

  Or anyone.

  I tap the folder still in my lap. “Do you mind if I take copies of what’s in this folder?”