by LENA DIAZ,
Continuing, Pierce said, “It’s not the killing that excites him as much as the fear he elicits from his victims.”
Encouraged by the possibility of another witness who might be more willing to be interviewed than Amanda was, Logan indicated the picture of the third woman circled in red. “Did she survive?”
“Only long enough to answer a couple of questions. She’d lost too much blood.” He pointed at Dana’s and Amanda’s pictures. “Since these two are his first known victims, their case is crucial to our investigation. A serial killer’s first murder is often the one where mistakes are made, before he hones his craft and learns from those mistakes. That’s why we’ll focus heavily on both the Branson/Stockton case and the O’Donnell case. Solving the first may very well solve the last.”
“Since Stockton survived, do we have a sketch of the killer?”
Pierce glanced toward the detective at the far end of the table who’d posed the question. “The woman who told us about the game said her attacker wore a hood.” He looked at Logan. “I haven’t seen the Stockton interview notes yet, but I’m under the impression the witness couldn’t identify her attacker, that he wore a hood when he was with her too?”
“That’s right.” Logan glanced around the table. “She could only describe him as a white male with brown eyes. She judged him to be about six feet tall, around one-hundred-eighty pounds.”
“Hell, I guess I did it,” Riley joked. “You just described me.”
A few weak laughs sounded around the table.
“It’s a generic description, true,” Pierce said. “But you can use that to help prioritize suspects as you conduct your interviews. Don’t rely on the description entirely. Eye witness accounts are notoriously inaccurate.”
He pointed to each picture, naming the victims and briefly describing the details of each murder.
“How often does he kill? Is there a pattern?” Riley asked.
“That’s the one thing that’s consistent with this killer,” Pierce said. “Every summer he abducts two women, usually in two separate attacks. Again, the Branson/Stockton case is an exception since he took two women at the same time. We can only assume he saw an opportunity and took it. Or he might have learned from that first attempt and realized it was too difficult to control two victims at once, so he didn’t repeat that mistake.”
“You said he kills two women every summer,” a detective called from the corner. “Is there a specific time frame between kills?”
Pierce shared an uncomfortable glance with one of the other agents before answering. “It varies. The first year he killed his victims three months apart. The time frame changes every year.”
Logan sat forward in his chair. “Exactly how does it vary?”
“The time between kills gets shorter.”
“How much time passed between kills last summer?” Logan prodded.
Pierce cleared his throat. Logan knew from the haunted look in the agent’s eyes that he wasn’t going to like his answer.
“Three weeks.”
“I’ve answered all of your questions,” Pierce said, as he and Logan walked through the squad room to the recessed elevator lobby in the middle of the back wall. “Now it’s my turn to ask you a question.”
Logan nodded at several uniformed officers coming in for the night shift. “Ask away.”
“When can I interview Ms. Stockton?”
A ripple of irritation shot through Logan. He wasn’t sure why. “I spoke to her this morning. She doesn’t want to discuss the case with anyone.” He stopped in front of the pair of elevators and pressed the “down” button.
“She might change her mind if you tell her the FBI wants to speak to her.”
For some reason, the other man’s persistence was irritating. Logan frowned and punched the button again. “I don’t think that will matter.”
“Perhaps. But sometimes witnesses feel more comfortable speaking to the Feds, especially if they’ve lost faith in their local authorities. No offense intended, but from what I saw of the investigation the last chief ran, it wasn’t exactly comprehensive.”
Logan grudgingly admitted to himself that the agent was right, as they stepped into the elevator. The case wasn’t handled well and Amanda obviously agreed, based on the way she’d acted this morning. She didn’t trust the police to keep her safe and he couldn’t blame her. Still, if anyone was going to interview her, he wanted to be the one asking the questions.
“I’ll ask Ms. Stockton to speak to you. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough. I’d also like to read through the complete case file as soon as possible.”
“You’ll have full access to anything you want. We’ll make copies of everything for you to take back to the Jacksonville field office.”
Pierce shook his head. “I’m not leaving. I’m staying here until this case is resolved or the killer moves on to another city and strikes again.”
Logan smiled, genuinely relieved. “I was hoping you’d say that. Where are you staying?”
“We drove straight here. I’ll grab whatever motel room I can find tonight and be more discriminating tomorrow when I’ve got more time to look.”
They exited the elevator and strode through the lobby of city hall. The police station took up the entire second floor. City hall took up the first floor and an annex next-door.
“We’re not exactly Miami,” Logan said. “But we still have a tourist season. The few motels we have are usually booked through the summer. Are all of your men staying tonight?”
“Only Nelson, a profiler. We left in a hurry this morning, so we have a few loose ends in Jacksonville to tie up. The rest of my men will drive back tonight, set up a task force, and return with more manpower in a few days, if you’re agreeable to that.”
“More than agreeable. I appreciate any help we can get, especially if we have less than three weeks to stop this killer before he strikes again.” He pulled his set of keys out of his pocket and worked one off the ring. “We’ll work on clearing some motel rooms for your team when they return, but for now, this should help.” He tossed the key to Pierce.
“What’s this?” Pierce caught the key in midair.
“I have an apartment about a mile from here. You and Nelson can use it for the duration. There’s only one bedroom but the sofa folds out into a bed.”
“And where will you stay?”
“I’ve been renovating a house outside of town. I’d planned on moving in by the end of the month anyway, so most of my things are already there.” He led the way through the glass front doors and down the concrete steps to the parking lot on the side of the building. “I’ll drive you to the apartment and grab a few things.”
Pierce nodded. “I appreciate that. The bureau will compensate you, of course.”
Logan paused with one hand on the door handle of his Mustang. “Help me catch the killer. That’s all the compensation I need.” He looked around, a feeling of unease passing through him as he studied the few people walking to their cars. No one looked suspicious, but he couldn’t shake the bad feeling in his gut.
“Something wrong?” Pierce studied him over the roof of the car.
Logan shrugged. “Just a feeling.”
“What kind of feeling?”
“Like someone’s watching me.”
The agent glanced around as well, his body tense, alert. “You ever get that feeling before?” he asked, as they both got into the car.
“Yes.”
“And?”
Logan raised a brow. “Someone was watching me.”
The metallic rasp of a blade sliding from its butcher-block holder echoed in the silence of the house. Amanda hefted the glittering knife, admiring the perfectly balanced craftsmanship, the finely sharpened edge that could cut through muscle and bone with little effort.
Knives held a morbid fascination for her. Having been on the business end of one, she was determined to master the use of them. It was another way to face and overcome her fears,
another way to not let him win.
Raising the knife in the air, she brought it down with a resounding whack. The head of lettuce fell open into two perfectly sliced halves. She pulled the rest of the ingredients for a salad out of the refrigerator and set them on the countertop, next to the phone. She’d wanted to call her sister ever since the police left this morning, but every time she picked up the phone she lost her nerve.
Her time in Tennessee at her sister’s home after the attack wasn’t pleasant for either of them. Heather had tried to be supportive—at first anyway—but the strain of living with someone who often woke up screaming at night was hard on a family with small children.
And then there was Heather’s husband, John, the real reason Amanda and Heather rarely spoke anymore. John was controlling, a pathological liar, and he thought any woman living in his house was fair game for his attentions. He’d certainly had no aversion to Amanda’s scar. Of course, her face wasn’t what interested him.
Amanda had tried to talk to her sister about John’s inappropriate behavior, but Heather was unwilling to listen and began to treat her as if she were the one coming on to John. That’s when Amanda had left, and aside from a phone call at Christmas or on the anniversary of their parents’ deaths, she and Heather rarely spoke to each other.
But after Carolyn O’Donnell’s murder and Chief Richards’ dire warnings, Amanda longed for the love and support of the only family she had left. Before she lost her nerve, she dialed her sister’s number and pressed the speaker button so she could prepare her dinner while they talked.
“Hello?” Heather’s soft, southern accent came on the line.
Amanda’s hand slipped and she came dangerously close to slicing off a finger. Tears started in her eyes and she realized how badly she missed her baby sister. “Heather? It’s Mandy.”
Complete silence greeted Amanda from the other end of the line. She had to look at the light on the phone to be sure Heather hadn’t hung up.
“Amanda?” Her sister’s voice was pitched low as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear her. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
Amanda, not Mandy. She closed her eyes and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Does something have to be wrong for me to call?”
“No, of course not. I’m surprised to hear from you, that’s all.”
“How are you and my two adorable nieces? How’s John?” Amanda nearly gagged on her brother-in-law’s name.
“We’re fine, we’re all fine. The girls are going to that new elementary school that was being built when you left. I volunteer in the office three days a week.” A heavy sigh sounded on the other end of the line. “You didn’t call to talk about my volunteer work. What’s going on?”
Chop. She brought the knife down on a cucumber, then rapidly sliced it into neat little chunks.
“Amanda?”
“There was a murder in Shadow Falls yesterday.” Her words rushed out so fast she wasn’t sure Heather would understand her.
“A murder? How terrible. Was it someone you knew?”
Thank God, no. Not this time. She grabbed a carrot and starting slicing it into slivers. “No, I didn’t know her.”
“Did it trigger one of those awful nightmares?”
She paused with the knife in the air. “No, no nightmares.” Of course, she was so exhausted when she finally slept she was too tired to dream.
“Well, that’s good. That’s really good. Sounds like you’ve worked through your issues.”
Her issues?
Chop.
Her aching knuckles made her realize how tightly she was gripping the knife handle. She relaxed her fingers. “Did I mention the murdered woman had a rose in her hand?” Chop. “The police think it’s the same man who attacked me and killed Dana.” Chop.
“Oh, my God. They think it’s the same guy? What are you going to do?”
Obviously staying with her sister again wasn’t an option, since Heather hadn’t made that offer. What did Amanda expect, that Heather would suddenly believe her version of what had happened at her house instead of her husband’s version?
“Amanda, are you still there?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m sure it’s not the same guy. Besides, I have a great security system and I’ve changed my name. I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure? If you need—”
“I’m fine, really. Don’t worry. I have to hang up now. Some friends are picking me up in a few minutes to go shopping,” she lied. “Bye, Heather.” She disconnected the call but left the phone line open so her sister couldn’t call her back.
Not that she would.
Swiping at the tears on her cheeks, she looked down at the countertop in front of her. Good grief. She’d chopped all of the vegetables into tiny pieces. Hacked was a better word. Not to mention a banana and an apple she didn’t remember putting on the counter. Obviously, she still had “issues,” but she would have to face them alone.
An image of Logan Richards popped into her mind, how he’d stared at her with such compassion and tenderness. If he had a sister in trouble, would he turn his back on her?
Amanda didn’t think so. He seemed like the kind of man who would race in and try to help, like one of those fairy tale knights on a white horse charging to rescue a princess. Only she couldn’t picture him on a white horse. He would ride an enormous, black war horse that struck fear into the hearts of the men on the battlefield, but no more so than did the fierce knight who rode him.
Shaking her head at the ridiculous image, she grabbed the kitchen garbage can from under the sink and raked the massacred food into it. Tomorrow was trash day. She might as well haul everything to the curb before it got dark. Too bad she didn’t have her own fierce knight racing to her rescue on his black war horse to take out the garbage for her.
She peered out the kitchen window as she always did before going outside, but this time she was extra careful. Chief Richards’ warnings ran through her mind. She didn’t want to believe the killer would come after her again, especially this many years later, but she didn’t want to take any chances. After making sure no one was skulking out front, she looked through the peephole in her kitchen’s steel side door to make sure no one was on the carport either. Then she stepped outside.
Chapter Four
Amanda shut the kitchen side door behind her and stood still. She studied the shrubs in her neighbor’s side yard, shrubs Mrs. Fogelman stubbornly insisted on not trimming because she liked the “natural” look. Amanda figured the real reason was to shield Mrs. Fogelman’s view of the ugly yard next-door. No bushes decorated Amanda’s landscape. No one was going to sneak up on her unless they came from Mrs. Fogelman’s side yard.
Irritated anew at her neighbor’s dangerous stubbornness, Amanda grabbed the handle of the oversized, green rubber garbage can she kept at the far end of the carport. She tried to pull it to the street but it barely budged. She’d missed trash day last week so the can was twice as heavy as usual.
She glanced toward the street and made sure no one was nearby. Then she turned around and grabbed the handle with both hands for better leverage. Now all she had to do was pull the monster from the end of her carport, maneuver it around her aging Honda Accord without dinging it any worse than it already was, and haul it down the driveway to the curb.
Too bad it wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Maybe she should get one of those garbage cans with wheels. She’d have to add that to her shopping list the next time she ventured out. She managed to drag the can past her car but it was slow going.
“What are you trying to do? Throw out your back?” a deep masculine voice demanded behind her.
She jumped and fell backward, but an arm caught her around the waist with a vice-like grip. Jabbing sharply backward with her elbow, she stomped her tennis shoe down on her attacker’s foot and whirled around to face the threat. Her mouth dropped open in dismay when she saw who her attacker was.
Chief Richards.
“Oh, no, I’m so
sorry—”
“Don’t. Apologize.” He grimaced as he rubbed his ribs. “My fault for startling you. I am beginning to wonder, though, what you have against my shoes.”
“Your shoes?”
“You keep crushing them.”
Heat flushed in her cheeks at his veiled reference to their first meeting. “I really am sorry, but you shouldn’t have sneaked up on me like that.”
“I didn’t sneak.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket. “You weren’t paying attention.”
He tossed his jacket over his shoulder and bent down to lift the garbage can. Amanda had enough sense to grab his jacket before it brushed against the side of the can, in spite of her sudden preoccupation with the muscles bunching in his arms.
He nodded his thanks and carried the can to the street as if it weighed nothing.
Dragging her gaze from his broad shoulders, she noticed his car parked along the curb. Her mouth quirked up in a grin. Forget the black war horse. Her knight had a black Mustang. She looked back at him as he turned around. “Thank you, Chief Richards—”
“Logan.”
“Thank you,” she said, uncomfortable calling the chief of police by his first name. She pulled her hair forward to cover her scar. “I appreciate your help, even though it wasn’t necessary.”
“You shouldn’t try to haul something that heavy. Why don’t you have a can with wheels?”
“Never thought about it, I guess.” It was hard not to smile when she’d thought the same thing a few minutes earlier.
He reached for his jacket but she held it away from him. “Uh, uh. Not until you wash your hands.”
He looked at his hands, holding them out to inspect them. “They look okay to me.”
“You’re still not touching this nice jacket until you soap up your hands. Besides, I don’t think you drove all the way over here to haul out my trash.” She headed up the driveway toward the house.
“It’s not that long a drive here from the police station.”