Desperate Girls

by Laura Griffin

  Lindsey checked her phone and squinted at the curb. No painted numbers, so she’d have to go by the dropped pin on her navigation app. She eased into the shadow under a tree and rolled to a stop. After checking her weapon, she got out.

  The humid night air smelled faintly of sewage. A dog barked in the distance, and Lindsey glanced around cautiously before emerging from the shadows and crossing the street. She stepped onto the overgrown lawn of a desolate one-story with plywood over the windows.

  James Corby’s former home. The notorious serial killer had rented the place for nearly five years before his arrest. The house had fallen into disrepair, but even when Corby lived here, it was a far cry from the manicured campuses and landscaped apartment complexes where he’d trolled for girls.

  Many criminals stayed within their comfort zone, but not Corby. He slipped in and out of wealthy neighborhoods, raping, torturing, and murdering with ruthless efficiency. Lindsey believed his job had provided a key advantage. As a cable installer, Corby had learned to move through vastly different neighborhoods without drawing attention. He’d overcome the natural human reluctance to trespass. And he’d learned to be elusive. All skills that served him well as a predator.

  Lindsey stared at the dark front door, matching it to the crime-scene photos she’d seen in the case file. The yellow tape that had once crisscrossed the entrance was long gone. The property had changed hands several times in the intervening years.

  Another glance around. An orange ember glowed on a porch across the street, letting Lindsey know she wasn’t alone. She ignored it and crossed the yard to the side gate beside the shared fence. The gate stood a few inches ajar. Lindsey pulled. It didn’t budge, and she gave it a hard jerk to unstick it from the weeds.

  On her left, the fence was swallowed by a dense tangle of vines. She moved along the side yard, noting the weathered boards and chipping paint. It was dimmer here and danker, and the overgrown lawn was a minefield of trash. Crumpled beer cans lined the base of the house, and Lindsey stepped over a section of gutter as she entered the backyard.

  The lot was deep and dark and sloped down. From the Google map she’d viewed, she knew the property backed up to the utility easement she’d passed earlier, which connected homes on this side of the street to a nearby trailer park that was a hot spot for meth busts.

  Lindsey stood for a moment and let her eyes adjust. She didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly. The marshals had been here already and found the place empty. Neighbors hadn’t seen Corby, and most had never even heard of him. Or so they claimed. If they did know him, they’d been unwilling to talk about it to anyone with a badge.

  A shudder moved through her as she scanned the gloomy yard. She wasn’t sure why she’d come here, but after studying the crime-scene photos, she’d felt compelled to see it with her own eyes.

  Another distant bark started a chorus throughout the neighborhood. Lindsey touched her front pocket, checking for her pepper spray. Picking her way through the weeds, she moved farther into the shadows until she reached the steep slope. She took out her mini-Maglite and beamed it around. She’d walked right past a fire pit, little more than a charred patch of ground surrounded by old tires and tree stumps. Bits of foil and bent spoons littered the area.

  Lindsey stepped around a stump and aimed her flashlight at the place where the tangle of vines ended. It was where the fence ended, too. The lot dropped off sharply, and the stench of stagnant water was stronger here. A scrap of white caught Lindsey’s eye. It was a cigarette butt, and the white contrasted sharply with the freshly turned soil of a shallow hole. Lindsey stepped closer and crouched down, taking out her phone. The hole was about the size of a shoebox. She snapped several pictures, then stood and tucked her phone away. A breeze moved through the trees, and she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.

  “This is private property.”

  She whirled, her hand instantly on her holster.

  The gravelly voice belonged to a giant man holding a slender cigarette. He squinted at her as he brought it to his mouth. She aimed her light at him, checking his body for the telltale bulge of a weapon. His dingy muscle shirt showed off sausage-like arms covered in faded biker tattoos.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

  “Detective Leary.” She shifted her jacket to show him her badge, as well as the butt of her pistol. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Call me a concerned citizen.”

  Lindsey checked his eyes to see if he was on something. “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “Nearby.”

  “Have you seen any unusual people in the area over the past week?”

  “You’re looking for that guy. The fugitive.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  He gave her a crooked smile, revealing a gap in his teeth. “What’s it worth to you?”

  “I don’t know. What’s it worth to you? Want me to run your name?”

  The smile faded. “Nah, I haven’t seen him. Police were already here asking.”

  “Any unusual cars in the neighborhood? Maybe a white pickup truck?”

  “No.”

  Lindsey’s phone vibrated, and she pulled it from her back pocket, still keeping an eye on the guy’s hands. She recognized the phone number.

  “Nice talking to you. Let’s go.” She nodded, indicating for Sausage Arms to go ahead of her. He flicked his cigarette away before turning and tromping back to the side yard, and Lindsey had a view of his hairy shoulders.

  He squeezed through the gate. Lindsey followed. He gave her a last look before sauntering across the street toward the house with the darkened porch.

  Lindsey tapped her phone. “Leary.”

  “This is Alec Mason, with the Star. I got your message at work.”

  “Mr. Mason, hi.” She returned to her car, checking up and down the street before getting inside.

  “You said something about a homicide investigation. Who are you, exactly?”

  “I’m with the Sheridan Heights Police Department,” she told the reporter as she took out a notepad. “I’m investigating the murder of Judge Jennifer Ballard.”

  “Then you’re looking for James Corby,” he said. “And I’ll tell you what I told the marshal who contacted me. I haven’t talked to the man in years.”

  Lindsey felt a pang of disappointment. So the marshals had already tapped this lead.

  “That’s not exactly why I called,” she said. “I’m interested in your interview with Corby. I understand you went to see him about nine months after he was convicted?”

  “I did. My paper wanted a feature.”

  “And what did you talk about?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and she wondered if he was going to stonewall her. The other reporter she’d reached out to hadn’t even called her back. She figured this guy wouldn’t have bothered if he weren’t willing to talk.

  “Mr. Mason?”

  “We talked about his conviction, mostly. I mean, I started him with small talk to get him comfortable. But that didn’t take too long. The guy wanted to rant, and I was happy to listen.”

  “What did he rant about?”

  “His trial. The justice system. How everything was rigged. The police, the attorneys, the jury.”

  Lindsey jotted all that down. “He thought the jury was rigged?”

  “He thought everyone was against him. The prosecutors were crooked. The detectives were liars. The people at his work—”

  “The cable company?”

  “Yeah, they were in on it, too, according to Corby. Every person, every step of the way, was part of some big conspiracy to put him away for murders he didn’t commit. Like I said, the guy was on a rant. And I’m no psychologist or anything, but he seemed pretty paranoid.”

  “And did you find him . . . credible?”

  “I found him intelligent,” the reporter said. “But that’s not the same as credible. I mean, there was the blood on his boot. There was the necklace, the media clips in hi
s house. I’m sure you’re familiar with all the evidence against him. It was really overwhelming. The two lead lawyers—Ballard and Holloran—they put on a convincing case.”

  Lindsey tensed at the mention of Brynn. It was the first time she’d heard Brynn referred to as one of the lead lawyers. Jennifer Ballard was the true lead, but apparently some people had the impression they played an equal role. Maybe Corby thought so, too.

  “Back to your conversations with Corby,” she said. “Did he ever mention any friends?”

  “He didn’t have any.”

  “Coworkers he talked about by name? A distant relative?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe an ex-girlfriend?”

  “No.” A pause. “Did you ever see him in person?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Well, he’s got this stone-cold killer thing going on. I could never figure out whether it was a persona or his real personality, but I’ll tell you, it makes your skin crawl. He has this way of staring at you when you’re talking to him. Or even when you’re not talking to him. Trust me, he’s not someone you ever want to meet.”

  “And you only met with him that one time?”

  “That’s right. I hope to never see him again. The day I heard he got out, I went and bought myself a handgun, and I’ve had it with me ever since.”

  “You believe Corby is a threat to your safety?”

  “Hell, yeah. He’s on a revenge quest. He’s a threat to anyone he wants.”

  LINDSEY LEARY arrived Friday morning at 7:45 sharp, and Erik tapped the timer on his watch as he let her into Brynn’s apartment.

  “One sec,” he said, leaving her by the door. The detective looked impatient. She’d tried to meet yesterday, but Brynn had canceled to work on her cross-examinations. Lindsey had insisted on seeing Brynn this morning before court.

  Erik rapped his knuckles on her door.

  “She’s here. You ready?”

  “Yes!” came the muffled reply.

  Her voice sounded rushed, and Erik’s suspicions were confirmed when Brynn stepped out of her bedroom in a pinstriped skirt, heels, and an oversize Astros jersey. She brushed past Erik and ducked into the guest room.

  “Be right with you, Lindsey!”

  Erik propped his shoulder against the door and watched as Brynn frantically combed through the closet. She grabbed a silky gray blouse on a hanger. “Damn it. What time is it?”

  “Seven forty-eight.”

  Brynn billowed past him with the blouse. “Hey, Lindsey. Want some coffee?”

  “I’m good.” The detective looked Brynn up and down, probably wondering about her fashion statement. Lindsey wore practical flat shoes and another one of those dark pantsuits that concealed her sidearm.

  “I have to steam while we talk,” Brynn said. “I need to be in court in forty minutes.”

  Brynn grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. She plugged in the handheld steamer on the counter and hung the shirt from a cabinet knob.

  “This shouldn’t take long.” Lindsey pulled out a bar stool. “I had something to ask you and something to tell you.”

  “Ask away.”

  Lindsey shot a look at Erik. She might have preferred to talk to Brynn in private, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

  “I talked to one of those reporters you mentioned who interviewed Corby in prison.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Brynn ran the steamer over the shirt. “Mason or Dewitt?”

  “Alec Mason.”

  “Any good leads?”

  “Not on Corby’s whereabouts, no.” Lindsey darted a glance at Erik. “But he said something else I’ve been working on. It had to do with Corby’s prosecution.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, he told me Corby was on a rant. Very paranoid and resentful about all the forces conspiring to make him look guilty for something he didn’t do. He claimed he was framed for the crime.”

  “Damn, I wish I had a dollar for every defendant who’s told me that exact same thing.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I started looking into it, and I noticed a lot of the key evidence presented in Corby’s trial was circumstantial.”

  Brynn whirled around. “You can’t be serious.” She laughed. “You actually believe that Corby was framed?”

  “No, not at all. But this reporter said Corby was adamant that the detectives were liars, et cetera, and it occurred to me that Corby went after McGowan first, as soon as he got out of prison.”

  Brynn’s brows knitted together. “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “I’m just speculating. The only real physical evidence against Corby was the victim’s blood on his boot and the girl’s necklace found in his house, right? Just hypothetically, what if that evidence was planted?”

  Brynn stared at her.

  “I never knew McGowan,” Lindsey said. “I have no point of reference, which is why I wanted to ask you, since you worked with him. You were on the front lines together. What’s your take?”

  “My take? On whether a veteran police detective with a sterling reputation planted evidence to frame a suspect? Holy shit, Lindsey.” Brynn shook her head. “I mean, I see why you’re asking me now that I’ve switched sides, but . . . you really believe this?”

  “No. That’s the point.” She crossed her arms, looking defensive now. “I’m exploring ideas. Corby did it, obviously. The evidence is overwhelming. But that doesn’t rule out the possibility that some piece of evidence was planted. You know, as an insurance policy. Everyone was under the gun on this thing. You know how high-profile it was and the kind of pressure everyone was feeling.”

  “Uh, yeah. I felt the pressure, too.”

  “So do you think it might be possible McGowan or someone did something to ensure a conviction? It might help explain this deep-rooted hatred Corby has for everyone and why after escaping from prison he set off on a killing spree instead of going on his merry way.”

  Brynn stared at Lindsey, speechless. She looked at Erik.

  “Look, I hope I’m totally off base here. Floating this theory—I can’t think of a faster way to lose friends with Dallas PD. Or any PD. But I wanted to at least ask for your thoughts on this. You’ve been on both sides, so you’re more open-minded than most.”

  “My thoughts . . .” Brynn shook her head. “My thoughts are that it’s highly improbable. Not impossible but improbable. You’re catching me off guard here, and I don’t know what to say.” She looked at Erik, as if she expected him to jump in. “Erik?”

  He tapped his watch. “Six minutes.”

  Brynn rolled her eyes and turned back to Lindsey. “What was the other thing? You said you had something to tell me?”

  Lindsey looked at Erik. “Yeah, this is for both of you. I wanted to pass along that I went to Corby’s house, and I think he’s been by there.”

  “When?” Erik asked sharply.

  “I don’t know. The marshals said they’ve had the place staked out, but I didn’t see anyone when I was over there.”

  “They set up surveillance cams,” Erik told her. “They thought it might be more subtle than having a car there, sitting on the house. What makes you think Corby was there?”

  “It might not have been Corby, but someone was definitely there recently. I saw a shallow hole in the backyard. Fresh dirt. Looks like someone dug something up.” She looked at Brynn. “Isn’t it true they never recovered Corby’s murder weapon? Or most of his souvenirs? I told the marshals I think he may have gone back for them.”

  Brynn’s face paled as she leaned against the counter.

  “What did the marshals say?” Erik asked.

  Lindsey shrugged. “Not much. If he was there, it must have been before they got their cameras installed, so it had to have been right after his escape.”

  Erik would find out. And shit, another missed opportunity.

  He looked at Brynn. “Two minutes,” he said, and went to give the apartment a once-over. He did a sweep of Brynn’s room and sn
agged her briefcase off the bed. They didn’t have time to double back this morning if she forgot something.

  When he returned to the kitchen, Lindsey was gone, and Brynn was standing by the sink, still in her baseball jersey.

  Erik set her briefcase on the breakfast bar. “I unplugged your hair flattener.”

  “My straightening iron? It’s on a timer.” She grabbed the shirt off the hanger and hurried into the guest bathroom. “What do you think?” she called.

  Erik didn’t answer, not sure why his opinion should matter. He’d never met McGowan.

  She leaned her head out. “Erik?”

  “I don’t know any of the players. What do you think?”

  She came out, still fastening the top buttons. “I think the marshals are a bunch of morons! How could Corby get back there without them seeing?”

  “Maybe it was his first stop after getting out.”

  “How does he keep evading everybody? You said these guys were professionals. Why is it so hard to find one fucking person?”

  Clearly, Lindsey’s visit had shaken her, and now she was going into court that way. Today was supposed to be a big day, too, and she’d been up half the night working.

  She grabbed her briefcase. “Let’s go.”

  Brynn watched the jurors’ body language with a sinking heart. They were hanging on the witness’s every word.

  “Take your time, Mrs. Marek.” Conlon gave the witness his sympathetic dad smile. “We understand this is hard.”

  Lisa Marek dabbed her nose with a tissue. “Sorry.”

  Beside Brynn, Ross tapped his pencil on a legal pad. He was good at body language, too, and clearly he could see the damage being inflicted by the prosecution’s main eyewitness.

  “What happened after you heard the gunshot?” Conlon asked.

  “He just . . . crumpled. Right there on the pavement.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “The driver sped across the parking lot and drove away.”

  “And after you saw the driver leave the scene, what did you do next?”