All the Dead Girls (Graveyard Falls Book 3)

by Rita Herron

  God . . . she’d forgotten that his mother divorced the coach during the trial. She must have taken back her maiden name and so had Ian.

  He was older, had bulked up, gained muscle, and grown at least three inches. Gone was the young, flirty soccer star. Instead, a bitterness shadowed his eyes that hadn’t been there fifteen years ago.

  In fact, everything about him was intimidating.

  Her own anger surfaced. He was supposed to give her and Sunny a ride to the bus station the night they’d been abducted.

  Only he’d left them stranded and alone.

  If he’d shown up, Sunny might be alive.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  An image of the girl he’d known fifteen years ago flashed behind Ian’s eyes. Heart-shaped face. Long auburn hair. Big pale-blue eyes. A faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

  Except the freckles were not as distinct now—or she’d covered them in makeup. This woman’s hair was black and pulled back at the nape of her neck into a low bun, too, almost severe, not loose like JJ had worn hers.

  Besides, Beth was her name.

  Except those pale-blue eyes were the same haunting color and shape, the same pain-filled ones that tormented him when he slept.

  She glanced at her notepad as if stalling. The movement caused her jacket sleeve to ride up, exposing her left arm.

  And three scars—cigarette burns. Distinctive in that they formed a triangle.

  Damn.

  She was JJ.

  He’d been disgusted when he’d seen the burns fifteen years ago. Even as a teen, he’d recognized them for what they were.

  Abuse.

  The smile she’d given everyone else in the meeting faded. She opened her mouth to speak, then paused, her breath rasping out. “Sheriff.”

  Ian extended his hand. “JJ?”

  She paused, then gave a quick shake of her head. “It’s Beth Fields, Agent Fields.”

  The moment he closed his fingers around her palm, an almost electrical tingle ripped through him. Her eyes widened as if she felt it, too, and she quickly stepped back.

  Chairs shifted and voices rumbled slightly, jarring him back to the fact that the room was filled with professionals who had no idea what was going on in his head. Shit. Agents Hamrick and Coulter knew he could do the job, but no one else in the room did. Director Vance had only included him as a courtesy and to serve as a bridge to calm residents.

  “Sheriff,” Director Vance said, “tell us more about the town and what your deputies have learned so far.”

  “Of course.” Ian directed their attention toward the whiteboards. “These are shots of Hemlock Holler when we first discovered the bodies.” He’d viewed the pictures a dozen times, but the sea of white gowns and skeletons remained powerful. Bones had decayed, teeth had come loose from jaws, bugs and insects had gnawed away at any fleshy remains.

  “As you know, the tornado and flooding ripped up trees, destroyed homes and a trailer park nearby. In the aftermath, rescue workers spotted this ravine where we discovered the remains of over a dozen adolescent girls. My deputies secured the area. They’ve also been working to keep the residents calm.”

  “Any suspects or idea if the killer is from Graveyard Falls?” Agent Coulter asked.

  “Nothing so far, although we’ve been busy weeding out false leads from panicked locals.” He pointed to the photograph of the most recent victim. “Judging from the state of the bodies and the sheer number of victims, he’s been killing for years, and he has no plans to stop.”

  Nausea flooded Beth. The photographs were gruesome.

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” Vance said as Ian finished and took a seat.

  “Our priority is to identify the latest victim,” Vance continued. “If the unsub is close by, maybe we’ll get a lead and prevent another murder.”

  That would be great. But this killer hadn’t managed to stack up this many bodies by making mistakes.

  Having a recent victim meant the killer could be nearby, though. He might be hiding in the town in plain sight.

  She’d thought she’d prepared herself for the situation, but the picture of the uprooted makeshift graveyard reminded her of a scene from a horror movie.

  Bones and skeletons floated in the water and protruded from the mud, a grisly sight that taunted her with the realization that she could have been one of those skeletons.

  She ripped her eyes from the photographs to glance at the second board, which held sketches of the three victims they’d identified.

  The drawing of Sunny was so accurate that tears burned the backs of Beth’s eyelids.

  She blinked hard, desperate to keep them at bay. Although she wanted to know who’d killed Sunny, she had to be objective.

  A memory tickled her conscience, one of Coach Gleason bringing an abandoned puppy to school to see if any of the teachers or students wanted to adopt it.

  Could that man have murdered all these girls?

  It didn’t seem likely.

  “Agent Fields, did you have something to say?” the sheriff asked.

  Beth stiffened at his sarcastic tone.

  He knew who she was.

  She gave him a chilly look, daring him to reveal her identity. If he told the others, they might insist she be pulled from the investigation. She didn’t want their pitying stares either.

  And if the killer found out her real name, he might come after her.

  She had to focus.

  “I was thinking about the MO of the Bride Killer, the fact that he dressed his victims in wedding gowns.” She’d read Josie DuKane’s tell-all book and had seen the movie. “What is the white in the photograph of the floodwater? Are they wedding dresses?”

  “Actually, they’re nightgowns. The material is cotton.” Peyton flipped open a sketch. “This is a drawing of what one of the gowns looked like when it was intact. With this more recent victim, we might be able to trace where it was bought. Although much of the fabric disintegrated from the elements, it resembles a christening gown.”

  Beth began to mentally create a profile of the unsub.

  Why would this unsub dress his victims in christening gowns or nightgowns as if he were baptizing them or putting them to bed?

  When she glanced at the sheriff, he was focused on her, his eyes cold, hard.

  She needed to talk to him after the meeting. Find out how he’d ended up in Graveyard Falls overseeing the case where her friend’s body had been discovered.

  Had he moved to town to be close to his father because Ian knew he was alive? Had Ian kept in contact with Coach during his incarceration? Or since his escape?

  Peyton tapped another sketch. “We also discovered pieces of candles buried with the bodies. Although many were broken and crumpled, mired in mud and water, they were plain white taper candles.”

  Sheriff Kimball addressed Peyton. “Can you trace where the killer purchased the candles?”

  “The candles are common and can be bought in any drugstore, discount store, department store, online,” Peyton said with a shrug.

  Agent Hamrick pointed to a photo of several gold necklaces that had been recovered from the graveyard. “What about those?”

  “They’re inexpensive plain gold crosses,” Peyton continued. “Nothing outstanding about them, so they’ll be hard to track down as well.”

  Beth jotted another note. Crosses, white candles, christening gowns—religious symbols. An angle to explore and one that obviously held significance to the killer.

  “Thanks, keep us posted.” Vance turned to the medical examiner. “What can you tell us about cause and time of death?”

  Dr. Wheeland adjusted his bifocals and rubbed at his eyes as if the photos were getting to him, too. Beth had consulted with him on two missing child cases. He was detail-oriented, smart, insightful, and compassionate.

  “The most recent victim was killed roughly two weeks ago. I’m working on time of death for the other victims. Our forensic anthropologists are making progress on identifying
the remains, although it’ll take time. The three victims we have identified are between the ages of twelve and fourteen. Judging from the deep cuts into the bone, their wrists were cut.”

  “And the most recent victim?” Beth asked.

  “She has the same wounds—deep cuts to the wrist. COD is exsanguination.”

  “Cuts to the wrists sound like suicide,” Agent Coulter commented.

  Beth’s heart beat like a drum. “Are you suggesting the girls killed themselves?”

  Dr. Wheeland twisted his mouth in thought. “I can’t say at this point. Once we learn more about the victims, we can make that determination.”

  “You think they made a suicide pact?” Deputy Whitehorse asked.

  “Since the three deaths occurred at different times and in different states, I doubt it,” Dr. Wheeland replied. “There are numerous factors to consider regarding suicide. The victim’s frame of mind. Right-handedness versus left-handedness. The presence or lack of defensive wounds.”

  “Perhaps the unsub forced the girls to slit their own wrists,” Deputy Markum suggested.

  Dr. Wheeland shrugged. “It’s possible, although I would expect hesitation marks if that was the case. There were no hesitation marks on the most recent victim. The wounds appear to be clean and direct, as in one swift, harsh cut.”

  Beth lifted her hand to speak. “These girls were buried in that holler with a candle and a cross. He also dressed them in gowns. That suggests a serial killer. His ritual is significant.” A theory started to take shape in her mind. “Sheriff, maybe your deputies can begin by exploring the local churches.”

  “We’re in the South,” the sheriff said. “Do you know how many churches there are?”

  Beth nodded. “Yes, but it could be important. It would help if your people screened the pastors, church leaders, and gathered a list of parishioners.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said tightly.

  Dr. Wheeland pointed toward one photo on the board. “This girl is Retha Allen. She was twelve, suffered from anorexia, and sustained a broken leg when she was younger.” He moved to the second victim. “Hilary Trenton was fourteen, had injuries that are consistent with child abuse. She suffered several broken bones.”

  “Have you found any connection between the two girls?” Sheriff Kimball asked.

  Agent Coulter’s hand shot up. “Not yet. Retha was from Lexington, Kentucky. She disappeared four years ago from a temporary foster home. Her mother was in rehab.”

  “You’re going to Lexington to speak to the police?” Ian asked.

  “Yes, I’m driving there after the meeting.”

  “Hilary lived in Chattanooga,” Agent Hamrick interjected. “I’ll notify her father. According to reports, she went missing three years ago after a teenage pool party. I pulled police reports and reviewed their investigation. The father admitted that he and Hilary argued earlier that day. She wanted to leave school, join a band, and be a country music star. Police questioned him, but he had an alibi the night she disappeared.”

  Beth jotted down a note. These murders were fairly recent.

  Coach Gleason could be a suspect. Although the MO included a religious angle—she didn’t recall that he’d been a super religious man.

  Vance gestured toward the entire group. “Report everything to our analyst, Peyton. She’ll run comparisons and search for common denominators. Special Agent Fields has information regarding the third victim we’ve identified, Sunny Smith.” He arched a brow. “Agent Fields?”

  Ian folded his arms, a challenge in his eyes. Was he going to reveal who she was now?

  All eyes settled on Agent Beth Fields. Tension crackled in the room as Ian’s mind launched him back to his teenage years.

  Those cigarette burns on JJ’s arm had infuriated him. Worse, he’d seen the way she’d tried to hide them. Detected the shame in her eyes.

  Aware JJ was in foster care, he’d cornered her outside the school one day to ask if she was okay. She’d refused to talk about her home life or the burns.

  But the next week, she’d asked him for a ride. Had told him she and Sunny were going to her grandmother’s. That her grandmother was expecting her.

  Three days later, when she and Sunny hadn’t been found, the police were ready to write them off as runaways when suspicions turned toward his father.

  “I do have information on Sunny Smith,” Beth said. “She was living in a foster home with a couple named Herman and Frances Otter. Sunny and another foster child—fourteen-year-old Jane Jones, who went by JJ—ran away one cold night in late February. A few hours later, the girls were picked up by someone in a truck near a Dairy Mart not far from Sweetwater, Tennessee, a small town about an hour from Graveyard Falls. The driver was never identified. Police investigated and arrested the counselor/soccer coach at the girls’ school.”

  “Was JJ able to identify her abductor?” Dane asked.

  Beth shook her head. “No. She was found three days after the abduction at a rest area off I-75 near Chattanooga. She was traumatized, dehydrated, and suffered from amnesia. In her agitated state, she repeatedly murmured the coach’s name.”

  “That statement led to the police focusing on Coach Gleason as a suspect, didn’t it?” Ian asked.

  Beth’s mouth tightened. She obviously recognized him, too, and didn’t like the fact that he was hiding his relationship to Coach Gleason.

  “Actually, the coach was already under suspicion because one of his students, Kelly Cousins, had allegedly committed suicide,” Beth said.

  “What would a suicide have to do with a kidnapping?” Agent Coulter asked.

  “There were allegations that Coach Gleason pressured Kelly for sex,” Beth said.

  Ian’s chest clenched. Had Beth—JJ—really believed his father was guilty of sexual misconduct with a student? She hadn’t said so at the trial.

  Then again, she hadn’t said much. She’d looked stunned and confused. “But there was no evidence of rape or sexual assault on JJ when she was found, was there?” he asked.

  Beth shifted, biting on her lower lip. “No.”

  “If sexual assault was part of his MO and the coach was guilty, why didn’t he molest JJ?” Ian asked.

  “I don’t know,” Beth said. “There are numerous questions about what happened to her when she was being held. However, it’s possible that he molested Sunny.”

  Ian turned to the ME. “Can you confirm or deny that?”

  “It’s impossible to tell with the condition of the remains. Although I completed the autopsy of the recent victim, and there is no sign of sexual activity.”

  “Didn’t JJ say a man in a small truck picked her and her friend up?” Ian asked.

  Beth nodded. “Yes.”

  “Coach Gleason didn’t own a truck,” he said bluntly.

  Low voices rumbled, then a sudden hush.

  “Actually, a stolen truck was discovered not too far from Sweetwater where the crime occurred,” Director Vance said. “There were hairs from JJ and Sunny inside along with a partial print on the steering wheel that belonged to the coach.”

  Ian cursed, surprised Vance knew so much about the case. That damn partial was the one piece of evidence his father couldn’t explain.

  Director Vance continued. “Also, Coach Gleason had no alibi the night of the abduction, and he was the only connection they discovered between Kelly, JJ, and Sunny. He was convicted of kidnapping and spent ten years in the Graveyard Falls prison. That prison flooded five years ago. One prisoner who escaped confirmed that the coach got away.”

  Director Vance gestured toward Peyton. “Make sure each member of the task force receives a photo of what he might look like today.” He angled his head toward the ME. “Dr. Wheeland, let’s identify that latest victim. She could be the key to finding this unsub.”

  Beth jotted a note. “Send me her photo and info, and I’ll check with NCMEC.”

  Peyton nodded. “That would speed things along.”

  Emotions churned t
hrough Ian. If the police hadn’t spent all their time on his father, they might have determined another suspect. “It’s been fifteen years since Sunny and JJ went missing,” Ian pointed out. “It’s possible that since that time, some of JJ’s memories have returned. I’ll talk to her after the meeting.”

  Beth’s gaze met his, a wariness settling in her eyes. He didn’t care if she was uncomfortable.

  He needed to know if Beth Fields—JJ—had recovered any details from the past about the true culprit.

  He hung the latest blood spatter pattern on the wall and studied the way the particles had dispersed. Just like a snowflake, every pattern was different. Unique. This one reminded him of a tree branch. Not a maple or magnolia, but it mimicked the spiny ridges and sharp needles of a pine.

  He’d been collecting the blood spatters since he was a child.

  The first time he was five. He’d thrown a rock at a squirrel and knocked it from a tree. While it lay dying, he’d been mesmerized by the blood flowing from the creature.

  He’d sat for hours, studying how the dark-brownish insides stained the grass with a murky color and the way bits of the exterior clung to the blood.

  He’d snuck his daddy’s old Polaroid camera, snapped a picture, then taped the photo on the inside of his closet door.

  Every chance he’d gotten, he’d sneak open the door and admire his handiwork.

  Studying blood spatters had become a hobby. Almost an obsession.

  He’d gone on to killing mice, snakes, frogs, and other animals.

  Each time his infatuation with the blood had grown. One night his father caught him smashing a bird with a hammer and drawing his finger through the blood. He’d been terrified his father would punish him.

  That night his father had told him about the Calling. That it was his job to save the sinners just as his father had and his father before him.

  The thrill had intensified when he’d watched the blood spatter from the girls’ wrists.

  He made the sign of the cross as he hung the picture he’d snapped of the graveyard on the wall in his private room. The room where he kept his trophies.