Sight Lines
by Michelle DiCeglio
Text Copyright © 2016 by Michelle DiCeglio
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Little Frank Press
Columbus, Ohio
Vantage Woods: a novel/ by Michelle Hanson. –2nd ed.
All characters, events, and places appearing in this novel are fictitious.
Any resemblance or similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Chapter One
With no GPS signal to guide me to the crime scene, I rolled down my window and let the increasingly raw stench of decaying flesh lead the way. In this late June heat, the natural decomposition process had accelerated. Traveling deeper into the woods, I pulled off to the side of the road and parked my white Jetta near the yellow tape wrapped around an acre’s worth of trees. Judging by the increasing potency of the smell, the victim must have been dead for at least thirty-six hours.
“Detective Mills,” I said, announcing myself to the Lyons P.D. officer stationed firmly at the edge of the tape. He must’ve been tasked with keeping the swarming reporters at bay. But he looked more nervous than authoritative in his role. As a rookie in this small college town in Ohio, the officer had likely never encountered such a scene.
“Mills,” Captain Bishop called for me. His round belly and bald head fit the look of a captain past the age of retirement. “Let her through.”
As the police officer lifted the caution tape high enough for me to walk under, I headed toward Bishop for a briefing. Looking at the ground, the captain and a few other officers hovered over a body resting under a plain white sheet, waiting to be taken to the morgue for further inspection. Yellow stains had started to form on the sheet around the victim’s nose and mouth. I held my breath as Bishop lifted the sheet to reveal the victim’s face.
“Tammy Davis,” he said. “Local girl.” I moved to the side to look at the victim more closely. I squatted and hovered over her as I looked at the entrance wound on the right side of her head. “One shot to the head from a distance,” Bishop added. “Just like the rest of them.” He turned to look toward the police officers in the distance combing through piles of leaves and thick shrubbery for any traces of evidence. If this murder was anything like the four other murders committed in Vantage Woods in the past fifteen months, they wouldn’t find a thing.
All of the victims had been women around the same age, different races, but they all had a single gunshot wound to the head from what appeared to be a small-caliber bullet fired from a long range—with deadly accuracy. All of the bodies had been found by hikers along these trails very early in the morning with no physical evidence left behind. So far, searching the shrubbery for bullet shells, cigarette butts, or anything else that might give us a break had always come up empty.
Looking at the most recent victim, her pale skin even paler with the loss of blood, I couldn’t help but feel a connection to her. She and I both had shoulder-length dark-brown hair, but it was much more than that. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Her lips, slightly ajar, exposed her perfect white teeth, and her blue eyes that should’ve been closed were wide open in her stiffened pose. Her once-white sundress, smeared with a combination of mud and blood, had its left shoulder strap ripped at the seam. She looked too peaceful to have put up much of a struggle.
“Any thoughts?” Bishop asked as he stood over me.
“She’s young,” I stated.
“Twenty-four,” he confirmed.
“I don’t think she put up much of a fight. There are no defensive wounds on her forearms. But she has bruising on her wrists, likely from the killer restraining her.” I looked closer at her feet. “She might have been on a date. The strappy sandals and painted toes paired with that sundress indicate she wanted to look nice.”
“Good,” Bishop said. “What else?”
“Well, with the amount of blood around her body, I’d say this is the original crime scene.” I looked behind me and noticed a team of investigators combing the fifty feet of dirt trail leading from the main road to her body. If the same person who’d murdered the four women before her had killed her too, then the investigators were wasting their time. Even if the killer did walk that trail, dozens of people walk these trails every day. There was no way to tell which footprints might belong to the perpetrator.
I stood up and looked at Bishop. He was only a few inches taller than me, and my eyes were level with the bridge of his nose.
“Was her car left behind?” I asked.
“Just like the others,” he said. “Wiped clean. Her purse was inside. Her driver’s license, credit cards, cell phone, cash, all of it left behind.”
“Have you talked to her parents?”
“Yes. They reported her missing yesterday morning. But because she’d been missing for less than twelve hours, there was nothing we could do at the time.” Bishop shook his head, knowing that the forty-eight-hour rule is more often a curse than a blessing when it comes to missing adults.
“I smell cleaning solution,” I said as the summer wind suddenly carried a scent almost as strong as the rotting flesh.
“We think the killer poured bleach on the body postmortem to cover up any evidence,” Bishop answered.
“Boyfriend?” I asked.
“Girlfriend,” Bishop corrected me. And there it was. The reason I felt a connection to her. “She’s a journalist—very open about her sexual orientation in her articles,” he explained, giving me a look as if I should have known. “We’re checking her phone records now. She texted a local cell phone number several times leading up to her disappearance,” he added.
“Hate crime?” I had to ask. This was the first out gay woman we had found dead in Vantage Woods related to this case. So maybe this murder didn’t have anything to do with the others. Or maybe the killer wasn’t biased when it came to killing.
“We’re not ruling it out, but nothing signals hate crime. No note, no offensive language on the body, no obvious signs of sexual assault. Do you know her?” Bishop asked.
“No,” I answered quickly and with some offense. “I’m eleven years older than her.”
“If she was on a date, her girlfriend must have run off. Or she might have been taken too. We’re checking with Missing Persons to see if anyone has been reported within the last few days,” Bishop added. “The ambulance will be here in a few minutes to take the body down to the morgue. Why don’t you start knocking on doors to see if anyone around here heard anything?”
“There’s not a house around here for miles, Bishop. Unless you want me to check the Villa?” The Villa was a facetious nickname given to the large group of homeless drug addicts who had claimed a corner of Vantage Woods as their own. It consisted mostly of torn-up camping tents and large metal trash cans that served as fire pits for food and warmth. With the exception of panhandling for loose change, the “villagers”, as the townspeople called them, left the hikers and nature enthusiasts alone.
“Just knock on a few doors, will ya?” he ordered. “And don’t forget your appointment at five o’clock today. It’s mandatory.”
Walking back to my car, I didn’t bother waiting for the police officer to lift the caution tape for me. I was too irritated with Bishop to be coddled by another cop. Inside my car, I looked ahead and saw nothing but a winding road surrounded by thick forest on either side. In my rearview mirror, it was the same scene. I hadn’t noticed any houses or side streets on my way here, so I decided to drive forward. If I di
dn’t see a house within the first mile, I would turn around and tell Bishop there was nothing but trees and more trees.
About three-fourths of a mile down the road—a quarter of a mile from giving up—I came across a convenience store that, although open for business, had seen better days. The sign that should have read “SELF SERVE GAS” was missing most of its letters, and the pumps in front of the store had become more rust than metal. Pulling into one of the many empty parking spots, I shut off the ignition and looked around.
Twenty feet to the side of the store was a junkyard, easily the size of two football fields. Thick pieces of large metal sheets, each roughly ten feet high, had been welded together to create a barrier between the dirt lot and the rusted-out cars unevenly stacked on top of one another. Most of the cars’ windows had been busted out as they sat behind the makeshift fence. Near the opening of the gate was a metal and plastic shack resembling something found in a shanty town. The door to the shack was slightly ajar, with thin wheel marks possibly made from a dolly. Getting out of my car, I decided to press my luck with the attendant. Maybe he saw something that night. Even killers need to pump gas.
“Hi,” he said when the bell attached to the front door rang as I walked through. “Can I help you?” he asked, scratching his graying five o’clock shadow.
“I’m Detective Mills, Lyons P.D.,” I said and showed him my badge. “I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me.”
“Sure.” He didn’t seem nervous at all. “Is this about that young lady you all found at Vantage?”
“Yes. How did you—”
“Police scanner.” He pointed to the radio behind him, and I heard a mumbled voice calling out dispatch codes. “Plus a few of your fellas came through here looking for food a few hours ago. But I’m all out of doughnuts,” he cracked.
“Sir.” I tried not to smirk. “Your name please?”
“Keegan. Keegan Asher.”
“And were you working here the last few evenings?” I asked.
“Well, yes. But I close every day at seven. I don’t get much business out here after that.” He scratched his beard again.
“Did you happen to see anyone out of the ordinary come through?”
“No.” He paused. “But there was a guy on Friday night, around six-forty-five, right before I was closin’ up. He was lookin’ for bleach.”
“He didn’t happen to pay with a credit card, did he?”
“No. Cash. I prefer it.” He motioned to the handwritten “CASH PREFERRED” sign taped to the register. Next to it was a sticker that read “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT” with an outline of a gun.
“Any surveillance cameras?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Those?” He pointed to the top of the glass door where a dusty black dome hung. “Nah. They haven’t worked in years. Even when they did, the picture wasn’t too clear.”
“Okay. Can you give me a description of the gentleman you saw Friday night?” I took out my notepad and pen. Before he started to answer, a red Ford truck pulled into the station and a thin woman with long, wavy blonde hair got out. She was dressed in jean shorts and a black tank top that matched her black sandals.
“Hey, Keegan,” she said when she walked into the store.
“Hey, Ali,” he answered. “This is Detective…what’d ya say your name was again?” Keegan lowered his voice, probably from embarrassment for not remembering my name.
“Mills,” I reminded him.
“Yeah. Detective Mills here is askin’ some questions.”
“Oh, about that woman you found in the woods?” She slid open the door to the cooler and pulled out a six-pack of beer.
“Do you have a police scanner too?” I asked.
“No.” She gave me a weird look. “I have the internet.” She held up her smartphone. “You guys think it happened on Friday?” She walked past me and put the six-pack on the counter. Keegan began to enter a series of numbers on the register’s keypad, and the cash drawer popped open.
“Eight dollars and seventeen cents,” he said. Ali reached into her back pocket and pulled out her debit card as Keegan cleared his throat and nodded toward his sign on the register.
“Oh, sorry.” She laughed and pulled out a ten-dollar bill from her back pocket.
“One dollar and eighty-three cents is your change, hun,” he said as he handed her the money.
“Sir, the description,” I reminded him.
“Were you here when that guy wanted bleach?” Keegan asked Ali.
“No.” She shook her head and turned to me.
“Let me think. He was about six foot even, wore eyeglasses. No older than mid-twenties. Good-lookin’ kid,” Keegan said. “Had some nice clothes on too.”
“Do you remember his car?” I asked as I jotted down the description.
“A Jeep. Navy blue or black.”
“Was he alone in the vehicle?”
“I think so. My sight ain’t all that great.”
“Is that all you can remember, sir?”
“Yep, that’s it. He walked over to that aisle, picked up a bottle of bleach, paid cash and left.”
“Do you still have the money from Friday night?” I walked over to the aisle in question and looked at the bottom shelf. Two jugs of bleach were still in place. In front of them was an empty spot where a third one would have been.
“No. I drop the money off at the bank every night. I gotta be cautious, bein’ here all by myself.”
“I understand, sir.” I walked back to the counter and handed him my business card. “If you think of anything else,” I added.
“I will, ma’am.” He took the card from my hand.
Turning to walk out the door, I saw Ali still standing by the register, eavesdropping on our conversation. She politely smiled and picked up her six-pack before walking out the door behind me. She had parked her truck adjacent to my Jetta, and I noticed a rainbow sticker on the bumper. Looking her up and down, I was surprised I didn’t get a vibe the moment she walked into the station. I did with Tammy Davis—and she wasn’t even alive at the time.
“The owner said you were here on Friday night?” I asked as she approached her vehicle. It was an official question, but I felt myself wanting to know the answer for unofficial reasons.
“I was,” she said as she opened the driver’s side door to her truck and placed the beer inside.
“Did you happen to see anything unusual that evening?”
“Nope.”
“Do you live around here?” I pulled out my pad to make my questions seem less personal.
“No, I live closer to town,” she replied. “But I come out here almost every weekend to hike, and I usually stop at Keegan’s.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name,” I lied.
“Alison Rhodes,” she answered. “But everyone calls me Ali.” She smiled and I couldn’t help but feel like maybe she was flirting with me a little. “Can I have your number?” she asked abruptly. “You know, in case I remember something?”
“Oh sure. Of course.” I reached into my pocket and handed her my card. She looked at it and smiled again.
“Lacey Mills.” She continued to smile as she said my name. “I hope you catch the guy.” She climbed into her truck, closed the door and drove away.
“Me too,” I mumbled as I walked to my car, the dust from her tire tracks clouding my vision.
Chapter Two
Making my way to the fourth floor of the multiunit building, I passed several offices before reaching my destination. Walking into Dr. Winston’s office, I told the receptionist I was scheduled for a five o’clock appointment. She told me to have a seat in the lobby. Leafing through gossip magazines that were of no interest to me, I looked up as the door leading to Dr. Winston’s office opened. A middle-aged woman with her hair in a bun and wearing thinly rimmed glasses introduced herself.
“I’m Dr. Winston.” She held out her hand and we shook. “Please come in.”
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nbsp; Her office was set up similarly to how I had imagined it would be. Her desk was toward the left side of the room, and papers and files neatly stacked on top of one another sat upon the corner of her desk. She had a few plants by the window that overlooked the busy street below. In the center of the room were two leather chairs facing each another, about ten feet apart. “Have a seat wherever you’d like,” she said as she grabbed her notepad and pen. We used the same brand of pens at the station.
“I’m Detect—I’m Lacey.” I had to stop myself from giving my usual intro.
“It’s nice to meet you, Lacey.” She jotted down my name on her legal pad. “Please tell me what brings you in today.”
“It’s just a formality. I was involved in a shootout, and the suspect died.”
“Did you want to come here?” she asked.
“No. I don’t really see the need.”
“Why’s that?”
“I feel bad that the suspect died, but it was between us and him—and he shot first.” I intended my comment to be humorous and nonchalant, but I feared it made me sound cold and callous. “I feel bad, I really do, but this is part of the job. I know that.” I adjusted myself in her chair.
“Were you held responsible for his death?”
“No. I was backup, so I didn’t need to shoot.”
“How are you sleeping?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“On the questionnaire, you said you consider yourself a workaholic. Why is that?” She didn’t look up from her paperwork as she perused the forms I had to fill out online before scheduling my appointment.
“All I really have is my job,” I answered honestly.
“Friends?”
“None.” I shrugged.
“Family?”
“Yeah, but we’re not close. They live in Indiana, so I don’t see them much.”
“Indiana is only a few hours west of here,” Dr. Winston pointed out.
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