Twin Offerings

by Ruth Parker

  Laurel walked up the steps on rubbery legs. She fished her keys out of her purse, but fumbled when trying to isolate the right one. Her hands were shaking. “Here,” Fletcher said. He took her hand in both of his, taking the keys from her. Her heartbeat quickened and that weird fluttery feeling was back, although now it was seated deeper, making her feel tingly between her legs. Get a hold of yourself, she thought, this is stupid. She needed to focus on the case, on processing evidence, on finding those two girls. Fletcher unlocked her door, but stayed on the porch. “I’ll be at the Sheriff’s Department later. You can let me know if your tests give us any leads.”

  “Sure,” she said, not trusting herself to say more. She closed the door before either one of them could say anything else. She needed a shower, then she could get dressed and go into work.

  She undressed and let the hot water spray down, loosening her knotted muscles. She was soaping her hair when she realized something. “Oh my god,” she said aloud, her voice echoing in the small bathroom. “I didn’t check the house.” Instead of breaking into a panic, she broke out into a wry smile. She didn’t draw her gun—even though she had it in her purse. She didn’t walk the perimeter, didn’t systematically clear every room and every closet. She hadn’t gone through her security ritual because she hadn’t been alone.

  For the first time in fifteen years, she’d actually felt safe.

  Stacie Swanson’s house was just across the street from the girls’ middle school. When Underwood pulled the car up to the house, Fletcher thought they were at the wrong place. The house looked like a high-priced defense attorney’s office—all angles and steel and glass.

  Underwood, Jennings, and Fletcher piled out of the car. Jennings had called Mrs. Swanson and let her know they were coming; the second after he rang the doorbell, the front door flew open. “Who took the girls?” the mother, Mrs. Swanson, demanded, with wild eyes and a waxy looking face. She was thin and had perfect hair and make-up and the careful upturned nose that screamed nose-job. “Is it some crazy serial killer? It’s the same guy, those other girls they found in the woods, the girls from Bailey. It’s the same guy, isn’t it?”

  “Can we come in?” Underwood asked coolly. “We would like to talk to your daughter.”

  “She doesn’t know anything. She’s not even a twin. The guy just nabbed them while they were walking home from school. Stacie doesn’t walk home with them.”

  “Please, Mrs. Swanson,” Underwood said. “Are you going to let us in or not?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. She was keyed up. Fletcher noticed how she kept biting the inside of her cheek, twisting her face into a horrible mask of panic. “Have a seat.” She gestured to the sofa. They were in the formal living room, not the room where the family watched movies and ate popcorn or where Dad napped on Saturday afternoon in front of the ball game. Stacie crept out from a hallway, entering the room slowly. She was still wearing her pajamas—as if she hadn’t gone to school, but rather spent the day in bed with her mother hovering over her, making sure she wasn’t abducted.

  Fletcher saw the fear in the girl’s eyes as she looked at the three men in suits sitting on the couch with her frightened, manic mother. The three of them spelled out authority in all capital letters. “Is there anything you can think of that might help us find Madison and Melissa?” Fletcher said before the girl could even sit down. He didn’t want to be pushy with her; he wanted to get the jump on Underwood, who had spent whatever patience and compassion he had at the Webb house.

  “I’m not sure,” Stacie said. She looked at her mother and started to pick at her fingernails.

  The girl knew something.

  “Anything you can remember, even if it seems stupid or silly,” Fletcher said. He could tell that Underwood was giving him the evil eye for taking charge of the interview, but Fletcher didn’t care. They had to handle this girl—and, more importantly, her mom—carefully if they were going to get answers.

  “They didn’t say anything,” she said. She sat down on the couch next to her mother, who put her arms around the girl’s shoulders. Fletcher could see little grooves in the girl’s skin where the mother’s fingers pressed.

  “Did the twins say anything about talking to anyone online? Any new friend they made online—boyfriends maybe, but even just regular girl friends. Anyone they hadn’t met in person before.”

  “Of course not,” the mother interrupted. “All our girls know about internet predators. We’ve taught them to be careful and not give away any personal information or talk to creeps.” Her grip tightened on Stacie’s shoulders. The girl was tearing at a hangnail and Fletcher saw a small bead of blood appear on her thumb.

  “With all due respect,” Underwood said. Fletcher knew whatever Underwood was about to say was going to be very disrespectful. “Telling your kids not to talk to creeps is pretty lousy advice. Internet predators don’t have screen names called CreepyDude47. They run all sorts of scams.”

  “I can’t speak for the Webb family,” the mother said haughtily, “but I’ve taught Stacie and she would be smart enough to see through any predator’s scam.”

  “It’s not about being smart or stupid,” Fletcher said, trying to keep his voice calm. Underwood had escalated an already delicate situation. He felt the cold, hard weight of his Zippo in his pocket. Stealing it that terrible day had been just another law that he’d broken. Don’t lose your cool. Yeah, as if it was always that easy. “And I don’t necessarily think that the twins were talking to anyone online. I’m just trying to cover all possibilities.”

  “The twins didn’t talk to people online, at least I don’t think so,” Stacie said. “They didn’t mention it. Some girls at school brag about if they have followers or not, but the twins weren’t like that. I don’t even think Madison has a Twitter or Instagram, and Melissa only uses hers to follow celebrities, but she doesn’t really post that many things of her own.”

  Fletcher didn’t think that necessarily ruled anything out, but he didn’t disagree with her. “What about these pictures?” He handed Stacie the three sheets of photo prints that he’d found under Madison’s bed. “Did the twins say anything about how they were going to get their pictures taken? Maybe they wanted to get nice pictures taken so they could surprise their parents. Maybe they got a coupon in the mail for the Wal-Mart photo studio. Anything like that?”

  Stacie shifted in her seat. Her eyes darted to the photos, but she looked away quickly. Fletcher thought that she had already seen these photos before. “I don’t know,” she said. “They didn’t say anything about getting a Wal-Mart coupon.”

  “That was just an example,” Fletcher said patiently. “Did they ever say that they were going to get their pictures taken at a professional studio? Or did they ever show you these pictures?”

  “I don’t remember,” the girl said.

  “If she knew what happened, she would have been the first one to call the police,” the mother said. Jennings wrote down a few notes, but Underwood sat on the couch, his evil eye now focused on Mrs. Swanson.

  Fletcher knew they were finished. He also knew that Stacie had seen the pictures before.

  “You were very helpful, Stacie. Now at least we can rule a few things out. Thank you very much,” Fletcher said. He reached into his pocket and got one of his business cards. He turned a little, pivoting, while he folded the card up into a tight, small rectangle. Stacie and her mother stood up to walk them out.

  “I told you she didn’t know anything,” the mother said as they approached the door.

  “Thank you anyway,” Fletcher said. He held out his hand to Stacie and she looked up at her mom for permission.

  “Yes, you shake hands. It’s polite.” As he shook Stacie’s hand, he transferred his business card into her palm.

  “If you remember anything, you can let us know,” he said, looking Stacie directly in the eye. Confusion flashed briefly across her face as she felt the card in her hand.

  “Stop wasting your time
here and go find those poor girls,” the mother said, ushering them out the door.

  “We’re trying,” Underwood said. “But you’re not making it easy on us.”

  Underwood drove back to the station, complaining the whole way. “We should have gotten them to come to the station, gotten the mom out of the room on some pretext. That little girl wouldn’t fart unless her mom said it was okay.”

  “We can try tomorrow,” Jennings said. “Ask them to come to the station, get the mom out of the room like you say.”

  “Fuck tomorrow,” Underwood said. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I hate this shit.”

  Fletcher’s phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. It was a text, but he didn’t recognize the number. The 541 area code was local. He opened up the message and read it quickly.

  “Holy shit,” Fletcher said. “That didn’t take long.” He let out a long, humorless chuckle.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Underwood said, turning his body around to look at Fletcher in the backseat.

  “Eyes on the road or I’m going to write you a citation,” Jennings said.

  “And I’m going to take your citation-writing pencil and jam it up your ass,” Underwood told his partner. “What the hell are you talking about back there, Fletcher?”

  “Stacie Swanson just sent me a text message.” Fletcher read the message again, carefully this time. A second message from Stacie popped up, continuing her story.

  “You’re texting with that little girl?” Underwood asked in disbelief.

  “Hold on,” Fletcher said. He read the third message that had come through. Her little fingers must have been flying over her screen if she was cranking out the texts this fast. “Yeah, I palmed her my card when we were leaving.”

  “What’s she saying?” Underwood said. He was turning back again, looking over his shoulder instead of looking forward at the road.

  “Brake lights,” Jennings said. Underwood looked back at the road, seeing that traffic had suddenly slowed and there was a sea of brake lights ahead of him. He hit the brakes hard enough to lock the seat belts.

  “Stacie says that the twins got their pictures taken at a studio last week after school,” Fletcher said. “The twins told their mom that they were going to Stacie’s house.”

  “That’s why she was too scared to say anything in front of her mom,” Underwood said.

  “She probably feels guilty as hell,” Fletcher said. He was trying to look at the maps on his phone, but it was stalling out and he couldn’t zoom on the area he wanted. “Give me a sec,” he said. Stacie texted that the photo studio was close to the twins’ house, but she wasn’t sure of the streets. Another text popped up. Stacie said that the twins came to her house after they got their pictures taken and brought over fancy cupcakes from a bakery they said was next door to the photo studio. Fletcher was looking at the map on his phone for photo studios in the same strip mall as designer cupcake bakeries.

  Even with the slow internet, it didn’t take him that long to locate it.

  No way, Fletcher thought. Of all the photo studios, the twins went there?

  “Your phone keeps chiming, but you aren’t talking,” Underwood said.

  “Please tell us,” Jennings asked. “Before my impatient partner here turns around again and plows into a telephone pole.”

  “I got plenty of patience when I’m plowing into your mom,” Underwood said. Jennings let out a snort of laughter. Fletcher was reminded of the camaraderie of working at the FBI. The guys on his team were always breaking each other’s balls like that. As a traveling consultant, he never stayed long enough to form bonds with the other law enforcement officers. He missed it.

  “You going to tell us or do I gotta crash the car to get your attention?” Underwood said.

  “Hold on,” Fletcher said. “I need to check.”

  Fletcher flipped through the packet of papers that Underwood had given him earlier. He found the mugshot he was looking for.

  “Damn it, Fletcher, what is she saying?” Underwood asked. “What are you looking at?”

  Fletcher zoomed in on the map on his phone. On the corner of Foothill and NE 21st, there was a little strip mall with Charming Cupcakery right next door to Greg Pratt Photography. He handed his phone up to Jennings so he could see.

  “Greg Pratt was the one who took the pictures,” Fletcher said. “Turn the car around. Let’s go say hello to number one on the pervert hit parade.”

  Thirteen

  The killer pulled his car into the parking lot and opened his door. He had one foot on the ground and one foot still inside the car when he saw the black Crown Victoria parked across the street. The car was turned off, the windows cracked a few inches, and a man was sitting behind the wheel. Definitely a cop.

  How did they know where he bought the dresses? He felt a flash of panic, but quickly squashed it. It didn’t matter if they found out where he’d gotten the dresses. He was still smarter than all of them—and he was going to prove it to himself. He was going to go inside and get two new navy blue dresses, just as he’d planned.

  The twins were wearing jeans and sweatshirts and that was all wrong. Pretty little girls should always look their best. Wasn’t that what his mother had said?

  He parked his car in the lot, but instead of going into the clothing store, he went to the small Indian grocery store next door. It smelled like curry and licorice. Catchy music poured from overhead speakers, but the singing sounded like a cat getting a bath. He browsed the shelves, trying to find what he needed among the lentils and spices and things like canned butter and ketchup-flavored crackers. At the bottom of one of the last aisles, he grabbed what he needed. He paid for his small purchase and drove away, pulling his car into the alleyway behind the stores. It had started to rain and he hoped it wouldn’t interfere with his plan. Fires didn’t do so well in the wet.

  He lifted the lid off the small municipal trashcan and braced for the horrific smell. He knew trashcans weren’t supposed to smell good, but people could at least hose them out every once in a while. He fished out a paper bag from inside the trashcan, holding his breath, hating the slimy feel on his fingertips. He lit the paper bag on fire. The contents of the trashcan went up in a quick whoosh. The burning plastic smelled awful as the trash bags inside melted, but soon he could feel the heat and he knew that the contents had caught. He took out his cell phone and called 911.

  “There’s a fire behind some stores,” he said. He reached into his car and got the pair of knit gloves that he actually kept in his glove box. Didn’t want to leave any fingerprints. “I saw a guy, he looked suspicious, he had a box and he was messing with it.”

  “Sir, please slow down,” the operator said. “I need your location and a description of the man.”

  “I’m on the corner of NE 39th and Holland. There’s a clothes store, a coffee drive through, hurry up, the fire’s getting bigger.”

  “Can you see the suspicious package?”

  “Yeah, he left it in the alleyway,” the killer said. He hung up the phone. He’d have to get a new phone now, but that was okay; he only used prepaid phones and they were cheap.

  He took out a big two-liter bottle of Thums Up cola he’d gotten from the Indian grocery store and poured it onto the street. He quickly opened a bottle of vinegar and poured most of it into the empty soda bottle. He recapped the vinegar and tossed it into the backseat to be disposed of later. He opened up the box of baking soda and poured as much as he could into the soda bottle. He put the cap back on and threw the makeshift bomb into the trashcan, then tossed the baking soda box into his car, not caring that it was leaving a powdery white mess.

  The bomb would go off quickly, making a very loud noise but not doing any damage. But it would be enough to keep the cops occupied while he purchased the two dresses. By the time the idiots figured out that there was no real bomb, he’d be halfway back to his house.

  He drove back to the store
s’ parking lot and waited, watching the cop in the Crown Victoria through the rearview mirror. A loud bang rang through the cold, moist air and he saw the cop sit up ramrod straight, looking side to side as if he’d just been goosed. The bang was impressive. The killer saw that the cop put the radio up to his mouth and then pulled away, the tires screeching as he made the hard left turn onto the street.

  It had worked like a charm.

  The killer went into the clothing store. He remembered exactly where the dresses were. Left-hand display rack in the front of the store. He sorted through the hangers and found two that were the right size, then put them on the counter for the worker to ring up. She looked at the two dresses on the counter and paused. She looked at him for a long time—but not in the eyes.

  “Did you find everything?” she asked, trying extra hard to put a cheery lilt in her voice.

  “Yes,” he said. She was pressing buttons on the cash register, but he saw she had her other hand down low and she kept glancing at it. A faint bluish glow reflected on her forearm. Her phone. She was trying to send the cop a text. Those cops got lucky figuring out where he got the dress. But they were fools. High school meat-heads and Iraq War vets strung out on Vicodin.

  “Something’s wrong with the cash register,” she said. He noticed her hands shook as she pretended to press buttons on the register. “Can you wait a second while I get the manager?”

  “No,” he said. He took three twenty-dollar bills from his wallet and tossed them on the counter. “I have to go now. Keep the change.” He took the dresses with him and left the store. He forced himself to back out carefully from the parking spot, to pull out onto the street slowly, and drive a nice, normal forty miles-per-hour all the way home.

  As he was about to turn onto the main street, he saw the cashier peek her head out of the store. He punched it and merged onto the street, almost hitting another car. But he had to get out before she could get closer and write down his license plate number. Mission accomplished.