1st Shock (Schock Sisters Mystery Series)

by Misty Evans

  "I am. With or without you. I need to see her."

  "Why?"

  Why? I open my mouth to enlighten her, to tell her she can shove her lecture straight up her protective ass because I'm done listening. There's a maniac running around killing beautiful young women and we can't find him.

  Except...nothing.

  The only sound comes from the bushes outside my front window. A cricket who clearly hasn't realized he should shut up. I stare at the gray, morning sky. Moisture that comes with a whopper of an impending storm surrounds me.

  Rain.

  Thank God we found her before it hit. I think about her, cold and alone, tossed like garbage on the side of the road. I can't stand it, that vision that invades my mind—her throat carved open, arteries savagely severed, blood everywhere. My arms tremble and I lock my teeth together. Please, please, please. I can't fall apart right now. Not in front of Charlie and JJ. What right do I have? Everyone I love is safe.

  "Meg, there's nothing—"

  I whirl on my sister. "Don't," I say through my gritted teeth. "Don't tell me there's nothing I can do. Someone has to do something. It might as well be me. I'm going to the morgue. You can either leave with me or lock up. I really don't care. You're not stopping me though."

  "What's the—"

  JJ breaks free of Charlie's grasp, gives her hand a squeeze and steps closer to me. "No fighting. We've got shit to do." He leaves, breezing by me in that broad-shouldered, I-will-fix-this way that is so much a part of him. "Let's go, Meg. I'll get you into the morgue. Then we need to find out who this woman is."

  I march after him leaving Charlie standing in my foyer. "Who she was," I say with plenty of snark, "because some son of a bitch left her butchered."

  An hour later, I'm standing over the young woman's body. A sheet covers her to the top of her neck, obviously hiding the damage. Until we identify her, she'll be known as Jane Doe. That alone twists me into fierce knots that damn near double me over. My head is throbbing, my ears buzzing as rage fires in my core and spreads to my limbs.

  Devante Bales.

  I can't help but think this is his work. It can't be a coincidence that yesterday I poked and prodded at his research, asking questions about Mickey and now we have yet another victim.

  "Meg?"

  Dr. Gentry's no-nonsense voice interrupts my internal hissy fit. I force my gaze away from the woman on the table and turn toward her. "What do we know?"

  She's wearing her usual scrubs and lab coat and the skin under her eyes sags from a lack of sleep. She's no doubt been with this woman's body most of the night.

  "Not a lot. We're processing evidence. You shouldn't be here. I'm sure you know that."

  I nod. "Thank you for letting me in."

  Dr. Gentry folds her arms. "I like you. I'm sure you know that too. And forgive me if I'm being condescending, but I worry about you. You get too emotional. Too attached to the victims."

  She's been to this show with me before. Every time we have a cold case, I come looking for her. Picking her brain, begging to see the body. Anything that’ll help me with a reconstruction. "Someone has to."

  Dr. Gentry lifts one shoulder. "I agree. But you go too far. It's not healthy."

  I look back at Jane. Jane Doe. I understand the need for the generic identity, but I still despise giving a victim a meaningless name when she's already had her life stolen.

  It's disgusting.

  To me anyway.

  “She has loved-ones somewhere. I need to do something," I choke out the words, pushing them through my dry throat.

  "We are. We're working on identifying her. One step at a time, Meg. That's all we can do."

  She sets her hand on my shoulder and the weight slaps at the rage swirling inside me. Unlike earlier, with my sister and JJ, I allow Dr. Gentry to coddle me.

  "Go to your office," she says. "I'll update JJ when we have something. I can't have you here."

  I meet her eyes and all I see is warmth. She must be a mother. The realization hits that I don't know this woman at all. Not in the way it counts. Not on a personal level. "Can I—" I inhale, and the sharp, antiseptic odor burns my nostrils. I clear my throat. "Can I have a minute with her? Before I go."

  Dr. Gentry sighs. "Ah, Meg. You're hopeless, aren't you?"

  I know what she means. We're both aware she could spend hours trying to convince me I get too involved, that I need to put my emotional armor on and not open myself up.

  It'll never happen. That's what makes me good at what I do. If it means I'm hopeless, I'll live with it.

  "Two minutes," I say. "And I'm out of your way. I promise."

  "Two minutes. Then I'm kicking you out. Don’t touch her."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She shuffles out, her rubber soled shoes squeaking against the tile. The door closes behind her and I look back at Jane. Needing something to do with my hands, I fold my arms. That feels too...cold. Distant. I drop them back to my sides.

  The sheet that covers her reveals the ugly, jagged wound that destroyed the long column of her neck. I shift my gaze to her sculpted cheekbones and full lips. In life, she had to have been a stunner. A model maybe.

  "I'm sorry."

  It sounds lame. Even to me. Still, she deserves to hear it. To know she didn't deserve this. Intellectually, I know her death isn’t my fault. Even if Devante Bales is a copycat killer and my questioning him caused a psychotic break. It's his.

  I know that.

  Yet, looking at this girl, I feel...responsible.

  Pressure builds in my knuckles and I look down to where I've clenched my fists too hard. I stretch my fingers, releasing the pressure as I bring my gaze back to Jane. "We'll find him. I promise you, we'll find him."

  18

  Charlie

  The local cops are going crazy and have frozen me out for now. The press is equally so, spreading fear among the public about a serial killer.

  They're not wrong.

  What bothers me more than all of that is the fact my sister has shut me out. It's her coping style, and it works for her, but it drives me batty. Gentry already called to tell me Meg was talking to the dead Jane Doe. I really had no words. I don't find it unusual—a little concerning, yes—but this is how Meg deals, how she processes life and death, violence and injustice.

  The psychologist in me knows she's mentally healthier then 99% of the general population. I admire that about her, because I'm pretty sure my methods aren’t nearly as healthy, even if they appear normal to the casual observer.

  Which is why I'm at my desk, burying my nose in the trial transcripts from Mickey Wilson's case. The police are looking for Devante as a person of interest, and JJ is out making speeches and running the investigation from the U.S. District Attorney's office the best he can. As soon as the public gets a whisper of serial killer, all hell breaks loose, and I have a feeling I won't see him the rest of the day.

  Another reason to bury my head in the transcripts—I don't have to face what's going on between us. Last night, we didn't have sex. A first for us. I fell asleep in his arms on the couch, and in the wee hours of the morning, he carried me into the bedroom and crawled in beside me. We were still sleeping when the call came in about the Jane Doe.

  The third thing I don't want to think about is this girl. Yesterday at this time, she had no idea her life was about to end. A young woman with her whole future ahead of her cut short because the killer got itchy.

  Premeditated murder is thought out, planned. The single fact the killer dumped the body, as if in a hurry, rather than taking the time to bury her like he did the others, tells me he was acting on sudden impulse. Organized killers use one place and dispose of the body in another, leaving a clean crime scene with little evidence. While the girl fits the parameters of our investigation, our killer appears to have attacked and killed her in the same spot he left her body, suggesting he's under stress and needed a quick release. The most likely reason is because we're on his trail.

  I
scan the transcripts, stopping here and there to read different people's testimonies. He was of average intelligence, regardless of what he told Devante, fairly social, and held a regular day job.

  Like Meg, I want to jump to the conclusion Devante is our new killer. He's college-educated, social, and has copious notes with details about Mickey's kills. Somehow, I just don't see the two of them fitting together, but it doesn't mean he isn't the one who took Jane's life.

  Contrary to popular belief, most serial killers stay in a local area. The highly intelligent ones don't keep trophies or souvenirs at their residence, but I sent Matt to Devante's apartment anyway. The cops can't get in without a search warrant; Matt is pretty handy with a lock pick, and I'm determined to stop this killer before he strikes again, even if I have to break the law. I was going to hit Devante's myself, but Matt insisted he would do it. Dumb guy likes to live on the edge, which I totally respect, even admire at times. It takes a lot for me to bypass the law, and he jumps at it every chance he gets.

  Poor Taylor. She's got her hands full with him.

  My desk phone rings and I ignore it, reading another section. I had Matt transfer all calls to my office since everyone else is gone. The ringing is like the throbbing of my pulse, poking at me, and I glance at the ID screen to see it's the last person on earth I want to talk to right now—Juanita Jones.

  The DNA results for her mother should be in, but I've been so caught up with this case since yesterday, I've totally blown them both off. Guilt eats at my stomach and I chew on the inside of my cheek, considering my options.

  I can't put her off for long, but there's no point in wasting breath telling her I don't have the results. I pick up my cell phone and call my friend at Family Ties as the landline goes to voicemail. Five minutes later, I have news Juanita doesn't want to hear.

  Yvonne is not her mother.

  I was afraid of this, pretty much sure of it, in fact. I call my dad. "Any luck with the cousins?"

  "Good morning to you too, Charlize." It's almost noon, but he’s a stickler for details. "Yes, I have a lead, and I'm meeting with him at four p.m. for coffee. He was a little... surprised, you might say, at the idea of a lost cousin. He's quite the genealogy buff, I guess, and was sure he had located every living relative in his family tree already." I hear him shifting and can imagine him getting comfortable in his big recliner. "Now, tell me about the serial killer."

  At least he's got something I can pass to Juanita to soften the blow of finding out she is once more without her biological parents. I play with my—Meg's—watch as I fill him in on the basic details he hasn't already heard on the news. "Meg is taking this hard, Dad. I'm worried about her."

  "Me too, but you can't protect her from everything, Charlize, no matter how badly you want to."

  He knows me so well. "She needs to go to her happy place." Dad knows what I'm talking about. Meg has a favorite spot in the woods near our parents' home where she likes to decompress and connect with nature. I decompress by going to the gym and punching things or going to the shooting range and blasting holes into paper targets. My sister sketches flowers and trees while I imagine taking out every bad guy I've ever come across. Which version is more sane? "Could you talk to her and see if she'll visit you for a few days? Tell her mom needs her."

  Meg never ignores our mother's requests, just like I never ignore our father's. He makes one now. "Only if you promise to come with her."

  A part of me begs to spend the next few days with them, get away from all the stress and pressure of this case, of Juanita's dying wish, of JJ's constant presence. I fiddle with the ring on my finger and tell him a half-lie. "I would love to. If you can get her to say yes, I'll pack my bags and be there with bells on."

  We say our goodbyes and I call Juanita. I don't want to dump the new information on her over the phone, but I don't have time to go for coffee with her like my dad would. It goes to voicemail, saving me some of the awkward conversation we need to have. I give her the good news, rather than the bad, letting her know my father is in contact with someone who's directly related to her. Hopefully this person will be open to meeting her and telling her about her biological family.

  That done, I refill my cup, hating the eeriness of the too-quiet office and wondering if the serial killer is somewhere outside, watching the building. I go to one of the windows and adjust the blinds to see out. There are plenty of areas nearby where he could be hiding.

  Just for spite, I hold up my middle finger, almost hoping, daring him to come at me while I'm alone. He likes to use the back, so when I return to my office, I sweat and grunt and shove my desk out into the hallway facing the back exit. My gun is fully loaded, and I flip the safety off, setting it on the desk. I sit back, sipping my coffee. Come on, you bastard. Come and get me.

  Rain begins to fall outside, and minutes go by. No one pulls into the driveway, no one sneaks by the windows, no one shows up on any of my security cameras. I pick up the transcript and start reading.

  I skip to the testimonies given by Mickey's stepsiblings. There were two sisters and a brother. The younger sister, Dixie, provided the majority of testimony, stating her biological brother, Billy Ray, protected her and the older girl, Bonnie. According to her, Mickey tormented them, stole their dolls and did unspeakable things to them. He threatened them, and there were times when they were afraid to go to sleep since he'd vowed on more than one occasion to kill them while they slept.

  Nice.

  Billy Ray, at the ripe age of thirteen, took on Mickey more than once, the two of them ending up in brawls that scared the sisters. It appears Billy Ray got the crap beat out of him more than once, as evidenced by several emergency room visits presented in court.

  When I evaluated Mickey, we talked about his family, but glossed over these bits of information. In his version, he was always the victim.

  I flip through stacks of files, pulling out Devante's interview notes. Skimming the pages for Billy Ray's name, I only find him mentioned a couple times in passing, things Mickey claimed were unfair, where Billy Ray got special treatment. Apparently Mickey didn't go into the real details about his younger stepbrother to Devante either. A bully never likes someone who will stand up to them.

  I read more of Dixie's testimony. Billy Ray took to carrying a pocketknife, even though Mickey claimed to not be afraid of him. Dozens of times, as stated by Dixie, Billy Ray came to the sisters' rescue. There were times he protected them from Mickey's mother as well, who doled out harsh beatings and other disciplines to humiliate them if they upset her.

  By the time of Mickey's trial, his mother was dead, and his stepfather had suffered a stroke, leaving him unable to testify. Bonnie had married and moved to Washington State, to which she returned immediately after her turn on the stand. So much for a family reunion.

  After graduating high school, Dixie attended night school in Alexandria while working as a retail clerk at Walmart. At the trial, she claimed to have trouble sleeping due to constant nightmares.

  Billy Ray tried community college, then technical school. By the time his stepbrother was on trial as a serial killer, he’d worked half a dozen jobs, from mechanic to construction worker.

  Where were they now?

  I do an internet search on Dixie first. Google doesn't offer much outside a couple addresses where she and the others lived as kids. I browse the most popular social media platforms, but she is absent.

  I search for Bonnie and find her still residing in Washington State. By the look of her Facebook profile, she’s added two kids, a dog, and a horse to her family. In her picture, she looks happy. I hope she is.

  Billy Ray is like Dixie—almost nonexistent in general searches and social media sites.

  I log into my background check account and start plugging in names. Dixie is still in Arlington and working for Walmart, but she's been married and divorced. She has a couple speeding tickets, nothing of interest. I write down her number to give her a call later. It might not go well, dependin
g on how much she's followed the news, but I have to try. Even though Mickey's name hasn’t come up yet in the press releases, the whole situation is bound to resurrect bad memories for her.

  Billy Ray's check shows he moved to the Smoky Mountains after the trial. He went off-grid after that, not so much as a rental agreement or a voter registration card showing up in the database. A part of me wonders why; the other part understands. What those kids endured at Mickey's hands—and then, as young adults, to realize he’d become a serial killer? All of them need psychological help. No wonder Dixie continued to have nightmares as an adult.

  The shadows have grown deep around me, the storm outside cutting off sunlight. I get up and stretch, wondering how much longer I'll be here by myself. My fingers itch to text Meg, but she’d probably ignore me. Or tell me to quit hovering. She's probably gone somewhere for lunch. My mind plays out a scenario while thinking about Bonnie, Dixie, and Billy Ray. What would I have done in that situation to protect Meg? To protect myself?

  I shudder and shove my desk back into the office. I haven't heard from Matt and text him. No answer, so I assume he's driving. I sigh, tossing the cell on the desk.

  I need to do something, not just sit here and keep reading reports, but there is literally nothing I can do. I think about going to the shooting range or gym, but neither holds appeal. A niggling in the back of my brain tells me I've missed something. The clues are all here in front of me, but I can't see them clearly.

  I go to the conference room, set up a fresh murder board, and start laying out a timeline with the details of Mickey's life on top, then our current serial killer running parallel below his.

  I lose track of time, and the chiming of the back door opening makes me nearly jump out of my skin. Shit. I left my gun on my desk.

  It's Matt, though, not the killer.

  "Whoa," he says, stopping in the doorway and scanning the lines dotted with pictures, dates, and my scribbled notes. I've used different colored markers and threads to link certain things together. Meg has her form of art, I have mine. "That's impressive."