Blood of Eden

by Tami Dane

  Debbie Richardson, Hannah Grant, and Laura Miller.

  Why those victims? Why that mode of killing?

  We were still a long way from answering either of those questions.

  I shared my discovery that two of the three victims lived on properties bordering a park. I hadn’t known Miller’s identity, so I hadn’t had a chance to locate her home yet. The chief verified that she lived near the same park that Debbie Richardson did. JT shared the names of Richardson’s ex-fiancé and her place of work, hoping we might discover a link tying her to the other victims, besides the park. None of the victims worked together. As a matter of fact, the other two victims, a medical sales rep and a librarian, worked in different towns. However, they lived within a half mile of each other. That, we all agreed, was significant.

  When it was Brittany’s turn, she gave us the lowdown on Trey Chapman: “The juvenile record includes one conviction of petty larceny. That’s it. Don’t ask me how I found that out.” She grinned. “He’s currently unemployed. Hasn’t kept a job for more than six months in the last three years. Tends to take jobs at places frequented by wealthy, single women, like spas, restaurants, and retail stores. I get the feeling he’s a leech, a pretty boy who hooks up with rich women and lives off them, but I doubt he’s a killer.” She punched a few keys on her laptop. “I also did some digging into Deborah Richardson’s ex-husband. He’s squeaky-clean, hasn’t even had a traffic ticket in the past five years. He has his own accounting firm, which is running in the black. Outside of the messy divorce, which, on closer examination, wasn’t so messy—he voluntarily gave his ex-wife the home and custody of their daughter—there’s no reason to suspect him of any crime.”

  Chief nodded. “Good work. I’ll let you get back to it.”

  “Thanks, Chief.” Brittany excused herself.

  Chief Peyton motioned to Fischer. “Fischer, what do you have on Laura Miller?”

  “She was a sales rep for a medical supply firm. She owned the house she lived in, but shared it with a longtime friend and her friend’s daughter. She lived a relatively quiet lifestyle when she wasn’t traveling for work. She spent her spare time at home, writing. She was working on a novel. She hadn’t dated anyone recently, hadn’t been acting different, and hasn’t traveled anywhere south of the Virginia–North Carolina border. Her roommate noticed nothing out of the ordinary before her death. And she hadn’t appeared sick.”

  Just like Debbie Richardson.

  Gabe was the only one who didn’t have anything to report. Whatever he’d been doing yesterday, it hadn’t been working on our case.

  “All right. Let’s take a look at our unsub,” Chief Peyton said, moving to the whiteboard and uncapping a black dry-erase marker. “What do we know about him or her?”

  “Do we know from the DNA his or her gender?” I asked.

  “At this point, no.” Chief Peyton wrote a capital G and a question mark.

  “His or her mode of killing is disease,” I stated.

  “He bites his victims, leaving marks that are not characteristic of a human bite,” JT added, pointing to the close up of one of the victim’s neck wounds. “We see only canine punctures. No incisors. And no lower-teeth marks.”

  “He must have some seriously long canines,” Gabe said. “Could be wearing fake fangs.”

  Could be. But why?

  “Is he delusional?” I asked.

  Chief Peyton shook her head. “I doubt it. The killings don’t appear to be that of a disorganized killer. However, we don’t have an MO yet. All we have is a victim type—female in her thirties, brunette, and living close to a park or school. But we don’t know yet how he approaches or overcomes his victim, what tools he uses in his killing, or the time and place the crimes occurred.”

  “What about a signature?” I asked. “Are the bites a signature? Could he be killing to bite, rather than biting to kill?”

  Chief Peyton nodded. “It’s a possibility.”

  Tapping his pencil against his notebook, Fischer added, “The unsub doesn’t kill right away. He relinquishes control after the attack, risking the victim identifying him. That’s the action of a confident killer—”

  “Or a disorganized one,” I added. “Psychotic killers don’t fear being caught, because they don’t realize what they’ve done is wrong.”

  “True. We have a lot of work to do.” Chief Peyton pointed at the clock. “And not a lot of time to get it done. We have just over two hours to figure out who the unsub is and stop him, or another woman is going to die.” She pointed at Fischer. “Fischer, I want you and Wagner to go through the coroner’s reports for all three victims with a fine-tooth comb. Look for any clues that might lead us to a crime scene. Trace evidence, fibers, that kind of thing.” She pointed at JT. “JT, I want you and Skye to retrace the steps of all three victims on the day they died. Where did they go? Who did they talk to?”

  “But there’s no way they could have been infected the same day they died,” I piped in. “The diseases were too far progressed. Take Laura Miller, for example. The incubation period for malaria is seven days, minimum, meaning she was infected at least a week before she died... .” The significance of that fact sent a chill racing up my spine.

  The next victim was probably already infected. She just didn’t know it yet. There was a ticking time bomb set to go off inside her body.

  How could we stop a killer who could be as much as a week ahead of us? And was there any chance we could save his next victim?

  “That may be true. They may have been infected days, or weeks, before they died. But what about the fresh bite marks? Not to mention, the foreign DNA sample that was found on all three victims?” the chief asked. “They couldn’t have possibly picked that up a week before their death.”

  Which meant what? The unsub was going back to visit his victims after they collapsed? Why?

  Every member looked sober as we gathered our things and headed toward the door. Somebody nudged me as I was leaving the room. I twisted to look over my shoulder. As I suspected, it had been Gabe.

  “What?” I snapped, worrying I’d hold up JT. We had important things to do. Now was not the time for silly schoolyard games. When Gabe didn’t say anything right away, I motioned toward JT’s cubicle. “JT’s waiting. We have a lot to do.”

  “Yeah. I know. This won’t take long.” He grabbed my elbow—he actually had the nerve to touch me—and pulled me off to one side. I glared at his hand and clamped my lips shut. “Look, I know you’re mad about the BAU, but I wanted you to know I had nothing to do with that.” He honestly expected me to believe that pile of dog poo?

  “Okay, whatever.” I jerked my arm out of his grasp and tried to muscle my way past him. He was such a freaking huge ox. Why was he blocking the way? “Gabe.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “No. Of course, I don’t. But that doesn’t matter. None of this does. Right now, what matters is JT, who’s standing over there by the elevators, twiddling his thumbs, wondering why I’m wasting time having a tête-à-tête with you.”

  Looking almost pathetic, Gabe shrugged. “You’re right. Good luck, Sloan.” He stepped aside to let me pass, and I scampered to my cubby, crammed my Netbook into the case, slung the strap over my shoulder, and headed for the elevators. I gave JT an I’m-sorry smile and checked the elevator call button to see if he’d already pressed it. Yep, it was glowing red.

  “Which victim do you want to check out first?” I asked, catching my breath after the mini sprint I’d done to catch up to him.

  “I was thinking about that.” The elevator door slid open and JT motioned for me to go in first. “All three fit the same profile, so I don’t think it matters. But I think we’ll go with Laura Miller.”

  JT drove, leaving me free to think. Now that the case had taken a sharp left, into Life-or-Deathville, I wanted to do my best to help. Nobody would hear any smart-ass comments about the Clock of Doom from this girl again.

  I flipped to the copy o
f Fischer’s notes. He’d made a copy for every member of the team and left them on the table. “This guy’s thorough,” I said, impressed. “He included a minute-by-minute breakdown of Miller’s final day.”

  “That’ll make it easier. I’m assuming we need to start at her house.”

  “Yup.” I reread the itinerary. “Damn, I wore the wrong shoes this morning.”

  “Why’s that? I don’t see anything wrong with them.”

  I glanced down at the butt-ugly, cheap vinyl pumps. The man was no judge of shoe quality. “Our victim ran over five miles that morning.”

  He sniggered. “Ah, I see.”

  I stared down at my feet. Five miles in those shoes, and I’d be crippled for weeks. “I have an idea.”

  “What’s that?” He flipped the turn signal and glanced over his shoulder, inching onto the freeway.

  “You jog the route, and I’ll follow you in the car.”

  “Sure. We can do that.” He pointed at the gearshift. “You do know how to drive a stick, don’t you?”

  Shit. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? “Um, the answer to that would be no.”

  “I’ll let you give it a try when we exit.”

  “No, that’s okay.” My toes cramped at just the thought of hiking five miles in pumps with man-made uppers and absolutely no arch support. But there was no way I was going to drive JT’s car. I’d tried driving a stick once. It had been a car I’d found on a used-car lot. A fierce little beast, a Mazda something-or-other, red. I wanted to buy that car so bad. It took me at least ten minutes to get it off the lot when I’d tried taking it for a test drive. Then I stalled it in the middle of an intersection as I was trying to make a left turn. There was a Frito-Lay truck barreling at me at about a hundred, or so it seemed. The ending was pretty predictable. The truck won. The Mazda wasn’t so fierce after that.

  I vowed never again to attempt to drive a car with a standard transmission.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Positive.” I sighed and wiggled my toes in my shoes, enjoying them while they could still move without causing agony. All too soon, we rolled up to what I assumed was Laura Miller’s house. It was nothing special, a carbon copy of the other Colonials on the street. Vinyl siding. Faux-brick facing. Along the front of the house was a weedy flower garden. The petunias were looking a little neglected.

  “I’m hoping the victim’s husband will know the exact route his wife took.” JT switched off the car and climbed out.

  I followed him up the front walk.

  I glanced at my cell phone. “It’s after nine. What if Mr. Miller left for work already?”

  “I called him this morning. He said he’d wait for us.” On the porch now, JT rapped on the off-white–painted front door.

  “Smart move.”

  The door swung open and a pleasant-looking man greeted us with a weak smile.

  “Good morning, Mr. Miller. I’m Agent Thomas.” JT flashed his badge. “This is Miss Skye.”

  I offered the man my hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He shook it. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to speak with us.” When Miller stepped to the side to let us in, JT headed inside. As usual, I followed. We entered into a living room with beige carpet and walls. The house’s interior wasn’t any different from the exterior. Relatively neat, while at the same time showing a few signs of neglect, including a pretty hefty coat of dust on the bookshelves lining one wall of the living room.

  “How can I help you, Agent Thomas?” Miller asked.

  “We’d like to confirm the information you gave to Agent Fischer, regarding your wife’s activities the day she died.”

  “Sure. Like I told the other agent, my wife took her morning jog and then went to work. She liked to stop at Einstein Brothers for a bagel and coffee on her way into work. That was probably her last stop before ... before ...” He scrubbed his face with his palm, glanced at a family portrait sitting on the fireplace mantel, and sighed.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said after glancing at the photo. “I realize this must be hard for you. We’d like to try to find some answers for you ... and your daughter. Can you tell me if your wife ran the same route every morning?”

  “Yes, she did. She took Trotter up to Clarksville Pike, then came back down to Great Star Drive and back home. It’s about six miles, round-trip.”

  Six miles was worse than five. I wasn’t looking forward to this. Maybe JT would can that silly notion of walking it. Really, if we drove, we’d still get some idea of what our victim saw. And I’d avoid getting blisters.

  “Did she ever mention someone was following her? Was she uneasy about jogging in the last week or so?” I asked.

  Miller didn’t hesitate to answer. “No. Not at all. She would’ve told me if there’d been anything like that going on.”

  “What about unexplained injuries? Bruises? Scrapes?” JT asked.

  This time, Miller took a moment before responding. “No, I don’t remember seeing anything like that.”

  “And you’re absolutely certain she ran the exact same route every morning, including the day she collapsed?” I asked.

  Miller nodded. “Yes. I’m positive.”

  That seemed odd to me. If I’d been accosted by some strange man while I was out for my morning jog—not that I had to worry about that happening, because I am so not a jogger—you wouldn’t see me running down the same street again.

  Unless I didn’t remember.

  “And finally,” I asked, noticing JT was staring at his notebook, deep in thought, “were you home the morning she collapsed, when she returned from her jog?”

  Miller nodded. “Yes. I leave for work after my wife does—did.”

  “And again, you noticed no injuries? No scrapes or bruises?” I asked.

  “Nothing. I saw her ... er ... get dressed after her shower.” Miller hesitated, looking a little uneasy. I got a feeling I knew why, and it had nothing to do with our case.”Um, I would’ve noticed anything unusual that morning.”

  I got his drift.

  After thanking Mr. Miller, we headed back to the car. JT tucked his notebook into his pocket. “Okay, let’s start walking.”

  I gave JT a look, the kind that said, “Are you crazy?”

  He chuckled and opened the car door. “I’m with you. We’ll drive the route first.”

  “Thank God!” I climbed in, buckled myself up, and watched out the open window as JT followed the victim’s jogging route. Once we got outside of the subdivision, the roads were two-lane highways cutting through lightly wooded landscapes. Here and there were sprinkled ranch homes, tucked between patches of forest. The traffic was very light. “It would be easy enough to surprise a jogger out here.”

  “Sure would.” He turned left onto Clarksville Pike, and I pointed at a landmark I recognized. “Take a look, that’s the park Richardson lives behind. Oh, it’s a school, not just a park.”

  “Interesting.”

  We drove past the River Hill Garden Center and the cemetery. I tried to spot Debbie Richardson’s house from the road, but I couldn’t. “I don’t believe for a minute that it’s a coincidence Laura Miller was jogging every morning less than a quarter of a mile from Debbie Richardson’s house. Do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “The unsub could’ve stumbled upon her anywhere along her route, infected her with the malaria, and nobody would have heard her cries for help. Then he could have released her. And if he gave her an amnesic, she wouldn’t remember being attacked. Thus, she wouldn’t be afraid. That must be how it went. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  JT chewed on his lower lip as he steered the car onto Great Star Drive, which took us back into the subdivision. “Maybe. But how do you explain the fact that she showered after she jogged? A shower should’ve washed away the unsub’s DNA.”

  “Huh. Good point. He must’ve waited until after she showered.” When JT pulled up in front of the Millers’ house a
gain, I looked at him. “Now what?”

  “We head to Einstein Brothers Bagels.”

  “Okay. I could use a shot of caffeine ... and maybe an everything bagel while we’re there. Or maybe one of those egg sandwiches, with spinach, mushroom, and Swiss cheese. Ever had one?”

  “No.” He navigated the car back onto Great Star Drive, heading back to I-95, which would take us into the heart of Baltimore. It was a quick drive, thank God, just under a half hour. I was salivating for egg, spinach, and Swiss cheese already. I’d need a drool bib if it took any longer.

  “They’re insanely good,” I told him. “You have to try one.”

  He scrunched his nose. “Not a fan of eggs. Nope.”

  “Your loss.”

  By the time we rolled up in front of the Einstein Bros. Bagels store, my stomach was making all kinds of embarrassing noises. If not for the radio—JT loved to listen to talk radio—I would have died of embarrassment long before we’d reached our destination.

  I hurried inside. The smell of coffee and toasted bagels made my stomach rumble louder. I wrapped my arms around my waist and took my place in line, behind a woman dressed from head to toe in black. In front of her was a man dressed similarly. I checked my watch. It was after eleven. It was no wonder I was starving. I glanced behind me, expecting to find JT. He was nowhere to be found.

  I placed my order and agonized over the wait. Finally I had my little bag and paper cup in hand—I’d opted for an iced tea instead of coffee. I strolled outside.

  I looked in the general direction of JT’s car. No JT. I looked left. I looked right. Still no JT. I went to the car and set the tea on the hood, after taking a slurp. I partially unwrapped my sandwich so I could take a bite. Half of it was gone before I realized I’d eaten any of it. Then it was all nearly gone.

  Still no JT.

  I tried the door. Unlocked? Where did he go?

  After washing down the last bite of sandwich with some tea, I put my cup in the car’s cup holder and wandered around one side of the building.

  I found JT in back, Dumpster diving. The life of an FBI agent is oh, so glamorous.