Sight Lines

by Michelle DiCeglio

  “T.J.,” I repeated. I was taking a risk being this close to her without any backup. It would be really easy for another Villager to come up behind me and steal my weapon. But something made me believe she wasn’t out to hurt anyone. There was a caring nature in her eyes as she sat there waiting to be questioned. “Can you tell me what you know about these murders?” I was blunter than I should have been, but there was no telling how long she was going to cooperate.

  “Just what most people know. If it’s in the papers, I know it.” She chuckled to herself. I was on duty, so the matter of paying her for information was unethical—and inadmissible in court if she ended up being a witness.

  “Ms. Jones, your cooperation would really help our department solve these murders,” I politely reminded her.

  “The kids venture out more than I do,” she said, motioning toward the area where the other Villagers had been standing before they ran away from me. “My legs aren’t as strong as they used to be, so I don’t get around much. I wouldn’t waste my time on them, though—they don’t take too kindly to cops.”

  “Thank you for your time,” I said, making it clear that I knew this conversation was going nowhere—especially if she wanted compensation for her information.

  “You didn’t let me finish,” she snapped in a polite tone. “I hear a lot of what goes on, even if I don’t see it for myself.” She began to cough again, a deep smoker’s cough. She clutched her chest with her right hand as she began gasping for air between each cough. She waved her left hand at me to indicate that she was fine and didn’t need my assistance. “Someone you know has paid good money to make sure what we see isn’t brought to your attention.”

  “To my department’s attention,” I clarified.

  “No, dearie. To you. Specifically.”

  I stood in silence as I thought about who would want to keep information from me—and, even more so, why?

  “Who?” I asked her. She smiled a mischievous grin and held out her hand, letting me know that my free time had expired. I stared at her as she waited for a handout, and I weighed the pros and cons of paying her for information. Anything she said would’ve been considered hearsay and couldn’t be used in court anyway. But it could be valid for probable cause. If she gave me a name—and enough detail so that we’d have a reason to question the person…

  I fished in my back pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. I handed it to her, and she quickly tucked it under her bra strap.

  “He goes by Sean,” she answered and looked around to make sure no one was listening to our conversation.

  “Sean…” I repeated. The only Sean I knew was, “…Braxton,” I mumbled.

  It didn’t make any sense. There was no reason for him to keep information from me. I wasn’t interested in a promotion, so solving the case before he did wouldn’t enhance my chances of making sergeant. But it would damage his. “What else can you tell me?” I asked. Surely, ten dollars would get more than just a name. It had to—I was out of cash.

  “I like you,” she said. “I feel bad for what happened to that young girl you were looking for the last time you were here.” She began coughing again. “Keep coming back. The kids will warm up to you.”

  And I knew that was the last piece of information I was going to get from Tiffany Jones.

  “Oh, and Detective?” She looked me up and down. “You’re going to have to do better than ten bucks next time.”

  “Thank you for your time,” I repeated as I started to walk away. What little information she gave me began to weigh down my thoughts as I headed toward my car. It was at least a five-minute walk to the road, and reasons Braxton would want to keep information from me began swirling around in my head.

  Braxton could be a jackass sometimes, but he was also a good detective. And I didn’t want to believe he would withhold information that might solve these murders just for his own personal gain. There had to be a valid reason; I just didn’t know what it was. Braxton was upfront about his theory that the killer might be the same guy from the Connecticut murders—or if not the same person, perhaps a copycat at least. It was a solid theory.

  It also didn’t make sense that the Villagers would talk to him and not me. Even if Braxton did pay them for information, they could have seen me as an opportunity to get paid twice for giving the same information. I could feel my head shake as I dismissed any possibility that Braxton would maliciously withhold information relating to the case. Doing so would make him indirectly responsible for any future murders committed by the killer. And I had to believe that someone within my own department couldn’t be capable of such a horrible offense.

  It wasn’t until I put my key in the ignition that I remembered Braxton had to take time off a few years ago to handle some personal issues back in Connecticut. And then it dawned on me that if he was from Connecticut, maybe that’s how he knew about those murders—and who to contact to get more information on the cold cases.

  Driving back to the station, I let my intuition take over. I decided to look into my new informant, Tiffany Jones, to see if her background was exclusive to just drug abuse or if she had a history of arrests that would give her reason to lie to the police.

  Just ahead of me, I saw Bishop get into his car. Braxton must have already left the scene. Letting my lack of trust get the better of me, I debated whether to go back to where Jessica Reynolds’s body was found to see if Braxton was keeping a clean investigation. It would be easy for him to plant evidence and then claim he was the one who found it. It would make him a shoo-in for sergeant if he was the only person to find a needle in a haystack—especially if no one knew he was the one who put it there. My paranoia was mounting.

  I was close enough behind Bishop now that I saw him notice me in his rearview mirror. Even if I wanted to turn around and go back to the crime scene, I would have the added pressure of explaining myself to Bishop. Worse yet, he would more than likely follow me if he saw me turn around, thinking he might’ve missed a dispatch for all officers to return to the scene. It was best to stick to my original plan—researching Tiffany Jones—before I went to Braxton, or even Bishop, with my wild suspicions.

  Pulling into the station’s parking lot, I parked next to Bishop and got out of my car. I wasn’t avoiding him, but I didn’t want to talk to him about my trip to the Villa until I had a better understanding of my informant. I debated whether I should wait for him to go into the station ahead of me, but if he wanted to talk to me, he would just wait until I got out of my car. I decided to pretend I didn’t see him and try to get into the station ahead of him.

  “Mills,” he called loudly from the parking lot when I reached the cement steps to the back door. There was less than fifty feet between us, so I couldn’t convincingly act as if I didn’t hear him. “Wait up,” he said as I stood on the steps with my back to him. I turned and saw him jogging toward me. “What did you find out?”

  “Not a lot,” I said, telling at least part of the truth. “They ran from me.”

  “Braxton had trouble when he went out there too,” Bishop said as he held the door open for me. The sunlight burst into the basement corridor when the door opened, and I led the way to the elevator to take us to our division’s floor.

  “Braxton went out there?” I was shocked Bishop knew about it and never mentioned it to me. Maybe he had his own suspicions about Braxton’s reasons for going out there.

  “Yep. And he was able to talk to a few of the kids after Mother Hen let him through,” Bishop said.

  “Mother Hen?”

  “I don’t remember her name, but that’s what Brax kept calling her when he referenced her in conversation. I guess the other Villagers scattered, but she stayed behind to talk to him. She conned him pretty good too. Got a hundred dollars from him before calling the rest of the kids back over.”

  “The kids?”

  “Well, that’s what Braxton said she called them. They aren’t really kids—in their late twenties, he supposed.” Bishop paused
when the elevator doors opened so I could get on first. We were the only people in the elevator, so I felt comfortable continuing our conversation as we rode up to the third floor. “I told him we couldn’t use any of the information because he paid for it,” Bishop clarified.

  “What did these ‘kids’ tell Braxton?” I asked.

  “They tried to pin it on one of the Villagers. We haven’t looked into it yet because it doesn’t make sense. The person doesn’t fit the description you were given by the gas station attendant, and he wouldn’t have had access to a Jeep either.”

  “Not unless he stole it,” I suggested.

  “We already searched police reports for any stolen Jeeps. We went back five years, and the only Jeep stolen was recovered a few days later.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” I asked.

  “Like I said, the information’s inadmissible—we had to tread lightly. And honestly, I didn’t believe a word of it.” The elevator doors opened to our floor, and I stepped out first. Bishop led the way to his office, and I followed closely behind. “Close the door,” he said once we walked into his office.

  “Why don’t you believe it?”

  “It just doesn’t add up. Who knows? Maybe they’re trying to pin it on some guy who owes them money or something. And this is their way of getting him back.” Bishop shook his head.

  “I spoke to Mother Hen today,” I confessed after I closed his door. “At least, I think she’s the same person you described. She was the only person who stayed when I approached them. She said her name was Tiffany Jones.”

  “I’m sure that’s an alias,” Bishop said. “She watches over the camp while the younger Villagers panhandle the streets for money. I’m sure they give her a cut for keeping guard.” Bishop sat down at his desk. I remained standing.

  “She told me something…about Brax—” I cut myself off. I didn’t mean to tell Bishop about my suspicions, but it was too late not to.

  “What’s that?” Bishop leaned forward in his chair.

  “She said Braxton paid them off, to keep them from talking to me—that’s why they ran.”

  “Hmm,” Bishop said then shook his head, dismissing my comments. “I wouldn’t put much thought into what she said. She could have just said it to get some money out of you too. Did you pay her?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “Ten bucks.”

  “Well, that’s less than what Braxton paid her, so consider that a win on your part.” Bishop laughed. “We’ll look into the Villa more, but we don’t have the manpower to waste if they’re just sending us on a wild-goose chase. Braxton could have arrested her a few years back,” he added. “She might see this as an opportunity for revenge.”

  “But she said she remembered us—you and me. She said she remembered when we paid her for information on Tara.”

  “And the majority of that information was a lie too,” Bishop snapped. I knew I had hit a nerve and should let the issue go—at least with Bishop. But I was still going to do my own investigation into T.J., a.k.a. Mother Hen. “Don’t waste your time on those people,” Bishop said with palpable disgust. “They have no morals, no regard for others.”

  “Your daughter used to be one of ‘those people’,” I snapped back at him.

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Braxton: Don’t waste your time. Do you hear me?”

  “Anything else, sir?” I asked snidely after a few seconds of silence.

  “No,” he said, his tone matching mine. “Close my door when you leave.”

  Frustrated and angry at Bishop, I walked over to my desk and pulled back my chair with more force than I intended to. The legs of the chair skidded across the linoleum floor, making a high-pitched screech that was hard to ignore. I sat down and opened the bottom drawer on the left side of my desk. All the drawers in my desk were neatly organized—except for this one. This drawer I purposely left a mess to deter anyone from wanting to snoop through it. Even I was overwhelmed each time I opened it, and I knew how invaluable its contents were.

  Beneath all of the electronics manuals and a giant pile disheveled papers, which were mostly my handwritten notes from training academy, was a false bottom. That’s where I kept a copy of Tara’s case file, including the transcripts from Bishop’s and my unauthorized private investigation. Our notes were never offered to the police; we feared our tampering with the investigation would have it immediately thrown out of court if someone was ever charged with her murder.

  Riffling through page after page of notes containing information about everyone we ever spoke to—along with my own thoughts and theories—I stumbled upon a piece of notebook paper with the name “T.J.” circled on it. I must have thought she was important when we first interviewed her two years ago, so why would I have forgotten her so soon? I read the notes written under her name. Most of it was chicken scratch, legible only to me.

  But there was nothing written there that made me remember talking to her. I logged into my computer so I could search her name in the department database. I typed her alleged alias into the search field. Four women appeared with that name. Clicking through each search result, I stopped on the third one when I recognized her mug shot. She had more than a dozen arrests for theft, prostitution and narcotics, so I wouldn’t be surprised if Bishop was right about her seeking revenge on Braxton.

  As I glanced at the dates of her arrests, one date in particular stood out. It was the same date Tara had been arrested for possession of narcotics. Bishop had been able to have Tara’s case thrown out, a one-time courtesy by the judge. But her Villager friends weren’t as lucky. They were all charged with possession—each being sentenced to six months in county jail or a twenty-five-hundred-dollar fine.

  Comparing Tara’s arrest report to T.J.’s—for the same offense on the same date—I knew this was more than a coincidence. I also knew why Tiffany Jones remembered who I was. Bishop and I had interviewed her endlessly while we privately investigated Tara’s murder. T.J. was smart enough to figure out that anyone who put in as much time and dedication as we did into solving Tara’s murder was doing it because of love—not because it was our job. And, more importantly, I realized why she would’ve felt justified toying with me this afternoon. It was her way of getting revenge for spending six months in county while Tara was cleared of all charges. If Braxton left his business card with her, she would know his first name. From there, all she had to do was wait for the perfect time to use what she had against me.

  Scrolling through the list of names to see who else had searched Tiffany Jones’s file, I saw Braxton’s name listed as the most recent. Above Braxton’s name was Bishop’s. It didn’t strike me as odd—until I saw the date of his search. Or, rather, searches. Bishop had checked up on Tiffany Jones every other month for the past year and a half, starting right around the time the murders began.

  Nothing was making sense to me anymore. But I knew I couldn’t go to Bishop with more questions. He already told me to drop it. So I was going to let him think I had. There was only one person who could answer my questions now.

  And it was about time Tiffany Jones started telling the truth.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, I drove back to the Villa to have another chat with Tiffany Jones. I had hoped that, by getting there before noon, I could increase my chances of talking to more of the Villagers. Call it judgmental or stereotypical, but I thought that if everyone was still coming down from the previous night’s high, they might be lacking the faculties to scatter as quickly when they saw me approaching.

  As I parked my car, with its brand-new tire, in the same spot I had yesterday, I got a text from Ali, which reminded me that I’d completely forgotten to ask her if she was free to have dinner with Bishop and me tonight. I wasn’t even sure whether the offer was still on the table, considering how I had left things with Bishop yesterday. But I texted her back with the details anyway—plus an apology for the last-minute request—and got an immediate “Love to!” in reply.


  Turning my focus back to T.J., I started the five-minute walk toward the Villa. It was much warmer than I thought it would be this early in the day, and the sun beat down on the path that led to the hiking trails. Although I wasn’t there to enjoy the scenery, I couldn’t help but succumb to the peaceful sounds of chirping birds and intoxicating fragrances of blossoming nature.

  It was obvious by my black slacks and matching blazer that I wasn’t on my way to enjoy a hike or a jog. By some of the looks I received from the locals, they probably assumed there was another murder somewhere nearby. The killer’s crimes had a definite effect on the number of locals who ventured into the park. If the murders didn’t end soon, I could see Vantage Woods closing for good. The taxpayers of Lyons wouldn’t continue to pay for a park they didn’t feel safe using. And I couldn’t blame them.

  Walking up to the Villa entrance near the place where T.J. had sat yesterday, I saw it was completely deserted. Tents and broken chairs were still there, but no one was in sight. I walked over to T.J.’s tent and peered through the opening. Although it lacked an actual door, I still wasn’t legally permitted to go inside without a warrant. And without probable cause, anything I might find would be thrown out as evidence. All I could see inside her tent was the same shopping cart full of blankets and cans.

  “You got a warrant?” a familiar voice asked.

  “I can easily get one,” I snapped. I was in no mood to play along with her games. T.J. came around from behind the tent and took her seat in the broken camping chair. She was dressed in the same clothes, her frizzy hair just a bit greasier than yesterday, and the smell of her body odor overpowered my nostrils.

  “No need,” she said, stiffening her posture in her seat. She crossed her legs at the knee and stared up at me. “What do you want?”

  “The truth, for once.” I knew I shouldn’t let my emotions get the better of me; that’s exactly what she wanted. I was angry because she had tried to play Braxton against me, and I was furious at the idea that she might’ve withheld information about the night Tara was killed because she was still holding a grudge against her.