The Ophelia Killer

by Valerie Geary

  The deputy grabs the man by the elbow and jerks him to his feet. She shoves him ahead of her as she ducks out of the clearing and into the trees. Jimmy spits blood into the dirt and limps after them. As they walk through the trees, the deputy talks to Jimmy over her shoulder.

  “This guy’s a real winner. Says his dog had puppies last week, and he couldn’t think of anything better to do with them than bring them out here and dump them. What do you think? Sounds like a load of shit, if you ask me. Ten bucks says we won’t find any puppies.”

  But as soon as they get close to the creek, they hear faint whimpering.

  The deputy walks faster to get to the black garbage sack sitting half in the creek and half on the bank. She shoves the man to one side. He stumbles over his own feet and almost falls, catching himself against the trunk of a tree at the last second.

  Jimmy rushes to the deputy’s side, crouching to help her drag the garbage sack onto dry ground. She takes a pocket knife from her utility belt and cuts the bag open. Six puppies spill and tumble into the dirt. Their eyes are barely open. Their faces wrinkly, their ears floppy. They’re wobbly on their feet, able to stand only for a few seconds before toppling over again. They bump against one another, whimpering and whining. Two of them find Jimmy’s hand and begin nuzzling it. They’re velvety soft, dark brown with white spots and some brown on their paws, and goddamn it, but they’re the cutest creatures he’s ever seen in his whole life.

  The deputy curses under her breath and turns to the man in handcuffs. “Do you know anything about the girl?”

  “I told you, I don’t know nothing about no girl. I didn’t hear nothing. I didn’t see nothing. I didn’t touch her.”

  The deputy returns her attention to the puppies. She seems to be trying to decide what to do. Jimmy takes off his button-down shirt. He’s got a white and threadbare T-shirt on underneath, which isn’t the most attractive piece of clothing but better than nothing. He lays the nicer shirt on the ground. One by one, checking each puppy for injury, he settles them into the shirt, bundling them all together in a warm squirming pouch that he holds against his chest. “I’ll take care of them.”

  Sweat glistens on the deputy’s brow. Her hair is starting to come loose. She sweeps a hank of it behind her ear. “Just get them back to the road, and I can call county animal services to handle them.”

  But Jimmy knows what happens to dogs who get sent to the county shelter. The puppies are so light in his arms, barely the weight of a bag of flour. “I said I’ll take care of them.”

  He turns away from her and walks back through the trees, careful with the makeshift pouch, making sure none of the pups accidentally slip out. Behind him, he hears the deputy talking to the man again, then the heavy fall of their footsteps as they follow him.

  When they get to the road, Jimmy settles the puppies in his car’s back seat. The deputy shoves the handcuffed man into the back of a patrol car. She issues a couple of sharp commands into her radio, then turns toward Jimmy.

  “Thanks for your help back there.” Her eyes have darkened with the rush of the chase. There’s something feral in them that draws Jimmy a step closer.

  “I should be the one thanking you,” he says.

  “He would have gotten away if you hadn’t thrown yourself into his fists.” Her hand lifts, not touching him, just brushing the air inches above his cheek. “You’re gonna want to get some ice on that before it swells up so bad you can’t see.”

  He crouches to look at his face in the reflection of his car window. The skin around his right eye is split. Blood seeps down his cheek. Already it’s starting to swell, the skin around his socket turning purple. His hand lifts automatically. He flinches from even that gentle pressure. He doesn’t think it’s broken, though.

  The deputy peers through the window at the puppies now tumbling out of the shirt and sniffing Jimmy’s car. “You sure about this? I can still call animal control.”

  “Don’t bother,” Jimmy says. One of the puppies, the only one with four matching, white paws, stares at him through the glass. “I know a guy who loves dogs. He’s constantly bringing in strays. He also happens to be a veterinarian. He’ll be happy to look them over and make sure they’re okay before he finds good homes for them.”

  The deputy studies Jimmy for a moment, then nods, satisfied, and flicks her gaze toward the man sitting in the back of the patrol car.

  “You think he’s telling the truth? About not being involved with all of this?” She waves her hand toward the field where the deputies have spread out, searching for evidence.

  “It seems like a pretty big coincidence, him showing up here,” Jimmy says.

  “That’s what I thought, too.”

  Before they can discuss it further, two vans pull up on the side of the road. One is the silver coroner’s van. The other is from KOIN news. The deputy hitches her shoulders back, the edges of her sharpening again as she jerks her chin toward the vans. “Better get back to work before the Roach writes me up for insubordination.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you around.” Jimmy lets the words hang between them like a question.

  “No offense,” she says with a flicker of a smile. “But I really hope not.”

  She leaves him with the puppies and walks toward the vans. Jimmy realizes too late that he never asked for her name.

  Chapter 9

  The newest August girl found near Valentine Creek turns out to be another Willamette University student. Her name is Natasha Tinneford. Like Cherish, she was a freshman. Like Cherish, she lived away from her family. This time, though, her parents are in a completely different state, some small town in Wisconsin. They apparently hadn’t seen or spoken to their daughter in several months before they got the call, which wasn’t unusual, according to them. Natasha was always an independent child. She was captain of the rowing team, strong and compact, her long brown hair streaked with blond. According to her friends, her sense of humor was wry and cutting. She hadn’t yet declared a major, but the people Jimmy talks to say she was leaning toward a law degree. They also say this should never have happened to her.

  Jimmy keeps hearing this phrase or something similar. Natasha was always cautious. She never drank too much at parties, never walked home alone at night, never took strange boys back to her dorm room. No, this should never have happened to a girl who carried a pocket knife in her jeans and a whistle bracelet around her wrist.

  In the days following Natasha Tinneford’s death, Jimmy tries to get information about the case from the sheriff’s office. They send him to the Salem Police central precinct to talk to Rausch, but Rausch won’t give him the time of day, and so Jimmy goes back across town to the sheriff’s office, only to be told again that they don’t have any information about the case.

  He lingers in the lobby, hoping he’ll run into the deputy with the daring blue eyes, but no matter what time he shows up, she’s never there. By October, he’s beginning to think he imagined her and the chase in the woods, the wild man, the sack of puppies. Except he’s got a small scar over his right eyebrow that every day fades a little more and a twelve-week-old beagle puppy eating him out of house and home.

  She’s the smallest of the litter, the runt with four white paws. Jimmy’s friend didn’t give her very good odds to live through her first night, but then she did. And she lived through the next night, too, and the night after that, growing bigger and stronger every day. Jimmy visited the puppies often and, when they were old enough, his friend asked if he wanted to take one home. He chose the runt, the one who wasn’t supposed to survive. He names her Trixie after the sleuth in the books his mother used to read him as a boy.

  Between work and caring for Trixie, Jimmy loses track of time until one day he blinks, and suddenly it’s New Year’s Eve. It’s been five months since Natasha Tinneford’s body was found, and no arrests have been made. But there is some good news.

  A special unit is finally organized to investigate Cherish,
Natasha, and the three other Salem women’s deaths together as one case, hunting one killer. The team, led by Detective Michael Rausch, sets up their offices in an old bank building next to the central precinct.

  Every day for the entire month of January, Jimmy stands on the sidewalk outside with Trixie and tries to get someone to talk to him about the case. More than two dozen people come in and out of the building each day. Most of them Jimmy recognizes as officers from the Salem PD and sheriff’s deputies from Marion County. There are other people, too, people Jimmy has never seen before. Men with well-fitted, expensive-looking suits who might be from the Bureau. It doesn’t matter whether he knows them or not; every single person brushes past him like he’s a stray dog begging for scraps. They pretend he’s not even there.

  Detective Rausch holds dull press conferences every Friday, and every Friday, he says the same few sentences. “We are continuing to investigate the homicides of Cherish Spalding and Natasha Tinneford. We are considering several other homicides in the area to be related. At this time, we do not believe the public is in any immediate danger. Still, we strongly suggest young women between the ages of sixteen and thirty travel in pairs or groups, especially at night. We continue to ask for the public’s help with this ongoing investigation.” Then he reads off the tip line phone number for people to call if they have any information.

  Jimmy tries to corner Rausch after each press conference, but the detective brushes him off, refusing to give him even the briefest quote. The articles Jimmy writes for the Statesman Journal become repetitive, and it’s hard to convince Tadd to keep the girls on the front-page. It’s an election year, and Ronald Regan is sworn in as the fortieth President of the United States. The Iranian government agrees to release the American hostages after fourteen months. There are other tragedies, too, other shootings, death, and violence that have nothing to do with the Ophelia Killer. Jimmy watches helplessly as, once again, the August girls fade from the public’s mind.

  Feeling sorry for himself, powerless, staring at the calendar, watching the days tick closer to another August, another dead girl, Jimmy takes Trixie with him into the bar across the street from the old bank building where Rausch’s special unit seems to be doing nothing but spinning their wheels.

  Trixie is almost six months old now, but she’s still all floppy ears and folded skin, with dewy brown eyes that are hard to say no to. Jimmy sneaks her into the bar under his coat and picks a booth hidden in the corner where he hopes no one will notice her and where he doesn’t have to watch the college frat boys drink and hit on girls.

  The jukebox thumps the floorboards, the song scratchy but familiar. Jimmy shucks peanuts and sips cheap beer. Trixie curls up on the bench beside him, cozying up against his leg. The song changes. The front door swings open, swings shut, and a blast of cold night air blows in behind the woman who enters.

  She’s dressed in gray slacks that flare at the ankle and a navy shirt with puffy sleeves and a floppy piece of fabric around the neck that looks like it’s trying to be a tie. Jimmy almost doesn’t recognize her without the deputy’s uniform. She stands a minute in the entryway, scanning the bar like she’s meeting someone here. Her eyes catch Jimmy’s and flare wide with surprise. He feels like a lurker, in this corner booth, hunched over his beer, staring back at her like she’s the best damn thing he’s seen all day. He flashes a smile and lifts his hand in greeting. She tugs on the shirt, like it’s uncomfortable, then crosses to his booth.

  She opens her mouth to say something, then stops when she sees Trixie’s little head pop up above the edge of the table. Whatever she was going to say is forgotten. “Is that one from Valentine Creek?” she asks instead and slides into the empty booth across from them without waiting for an invitation.

  Jimmy doesn’t mind. His heart is thumping so hard, he’s worried it might be loud enough for her to hear. He never thought he’d see her again, and now here she is, and the man who has never once been at a loss for words in his whole life can’t think of a single thing to say to her.

  She reaches to scratch Trixie’s chin. “I can’t believe you kept one. You did just keep one, right? You don’t have a whole basket of puppies under the table?”

  She laughs softly, and the sound breaks Jimmy’s trance. He laughs along with her. “No basket of puppies. I can barely keep up with this little imp.”

  Trixie decides now is a good time to chew on Jimmy’s shirt sleeve.

  Jimmy plucks his shirt from her needle-sharp teeth and says, “If I had known she’d be this much trouble, I would have left her with my friend.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You’re right. I mean, look at her.” He scoops Trixie off the bench and holds her in the air. Her white paws kick as she wiggles and squirms, trying to get free.

  The deputy reaches out her hand. Trixie licks her fingers. The deputy’s smile is soft enough to break Jimmy’s heart. Her eyes are blue enough to drown in. He curses himself silently for getting so caught up in a woman whose name he doesn’t even know.

  Jimmy settles Trixie into his lap. The puppy circles once before curling into a ball, tucking her nose under her tail, and falling asleep. He thinks they have about two or three more months before she’ll be too big to fit.

  “Well, I’m glad to see it all worked out,” the deputy says, settling in herself, relaxing against the seat as if she’s going to stay awhile.

  “You know,” Jimmy says. “I don’t think I properly thanked you for saving my life. Let me buy you a beer. Or a glass of wine, if you prefer?”

  He glances at the bar, hoping to catch the bartender’s attention, but the man is busy with those frat boys who are trying to convince him to sell them the entire bottle of tequila.

  “Thanks, but—” She points to the badge clipped on her belt. “I don’t drink when I’m on-duty.”

  Jimmy picks up the menu that’s been lying in front of him since he got here. “Then how about dinner? A salad or something?”

  She rolls her eyes and, when a server finally shows up at their booth, says, “Can I get some chili cheese fries? And a Coke? Put it on his tab.” She jerks her thumb at Jimmy, who smiles at the server and nods that it’s okay.

  The server flicks a glance at Trixie sleeping in Jimmy’s lap but says nothing.

  When the server leaves, the deputy shakes her head and says, “I probably should eat something with a little more nutrition, but this job, man. I deserve something greasy and delicious after all the shit I’ve had to put up with today.”

  “You’re working across the street?” Jimmy asks on a hunch.

  She nods. “They have me answering phones like a glorified secretary,” she says with a laugh and gestures at her outfit. “But at least I don’t have to wear my uniform, which, by the way, is made of wool and not the nice kind of wool, but the kind your grandmother knits your Christmas sweaters out of because she likes to torture you.”

  Jimmy laughs, and her cheeks flush. She ducks her head, but he can see she’s smiling, that she’s pleased with herself for being the kind of funny that gets a reaction.

  “You never told me your name.” Jimmy lifts his elbows to rest on the table, careful not to jostle Trixie too much.

  The deputy looks him up and down as if trying to decide whether or not to tell him. Finally, she says, “It’s Brett,” and before he can say anything, she adds, “And yes, I know it’s a boy’s name.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “It’s all right if you were. Everyone else does.”

  He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t put words in other people’s mouths.” But he says it playfully, with a smile, so she knows he doesn’t mean it.

  She flicks her hand at his face. “Your eye is looking better.”

  The swelling lasted a few days, the bruising went away after a week. Six months later, and the scar is almost completely gone.

  “What happened to him?” Jimmy asks. “The guy you arrested
out there. Did you ever find out if he knew more than he was saying? I asked around, but no one at the office could tell me.”

  “Oh, I know all about you hanging around the offices.” She tosses the words to him lightly, teasing.

  Now it’s Jimmy’s turn to blush. His cheeks flame. The corner of Brett’s mouth lifts in a half-smile. Despite himself, Jimmy is desperate to say something to make the other corner turn up, too. He wants to see her whole smile, feel the heat of it beaming directly at him.

  “The bastard lawyered up,” Brett adds. “But I’m pretty sure he’s not the guy we’re looking for. I’m pretty sure he’s just a good-for-nothing dog dumper. Apparently, he was serving time for criminal trespass last August when Cherish Spalding was killed. So, if these two cases are truly connected, then he’s not our guy.”

  The server returns to their booth at that moment with a sweating Coke and a greasy plate of chili fries, the cheese on top slick and hot. Brett unrolls a fork from a napkin and digs in like it’s the first thing she’s eaten all day. “So good,” she says and gestures with her fork. “Want some?”

  Jimmy pinches a fry with his fingertips and pops it in his mouth. Trixie lifts her head, but when she realizes she’s not getting anything, she plops it down again, exhaling an indignant sigh.

  “You know, I’m kind of surprised that you signed up to work on Rausch’s team,” Jimmy says.

  Brett shrugs. “It’s an interesting case.”

  “But is it interesting enough to put up with that asshole?”

  Her eyes flick to his. “You know it is.”

  Quickly, she looks back down at the fries, eating a few bites before saying, “They shoved me into a corner by the bathrooms anyway, so it’s not like I ever really see him. And I only have to talk to him if I go looking for a conversation.”

  “How’s it going? With the investigation, I mean? Rausch is keeping pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing.”