Dena smiled and leaned against the rocky outline of the pond. She didn’t have a care in the world; she was always happy, except when her little brother annoyed her. But that wasn’t too often. She dipped her hand into the water, dangling her fingers with glee. Immediately the fish were alerted and came up trying to feed off the tips. She laughed. It tickled. The fish opened their mouths wide. She continued to run her fingers through the cool water.
In a brief instant, like the turning of a page, a man had rapidly approached Dena with a rag in his left hand. His weathered work boots were silent against the path. In four long strides he was standing over her. She was unaware of his presence as she concentrated on the fish in the pond.
In a perfected move, he grabbed her with his right arm, pressing the fabric against her face.
She uttered no sound.
He swung her up, holding her close to him as if he was hugging his own child after a long day in the park. He spoke quietly into her ear in case someone happened to glance at him.
No one saw the man approach Dena.
No one saw the man put Dena into his truck.
And no one saw the truck drive away and blend into traffic.
The light-blue bicycle remained behind.
Dena was gone.
Thirty-One
Katie arrived early at the forensics division. It was cold and she had dressed in her dark gray suit, still sporting the boots that had clicked loudly at the morgue. She had organized her questions in an official-looking notebook, and made sure her detective’s badge was securely clipped to her waistband next to her gun. She wanted to speak with the forensic supervisor, John Blackburn, about the emails she had received early that morning clarifying some interesting details.
She didn’t know what to expect from John; she’d received both positive and negative reactions from those involved in the investigation, and it felt like she was riding a roller coaster. McGaven was going to be late that morning and said he would meet up with her later.
Walking down the long windowless hallway, Katie reached the door to the forensics area. A small camera was fixed above the doorway, aimed at a forty-five-degree angle toward anyone standing in her exact position. She wondered if she appeared distorted due to the tiny size of the camera, and the fact that she was looking awkwardly up at it.
She pressed the button and waited. She expected to hear it ring like a doorbell or alarm buzzer, but no sound emanated that she could hear. She pressed it again with the same response. Nothing. She stepped backward two paces and continued to wait.
The lock disengaged and the door popped open—a faint sound of air discharged.
Katie pushed open the door and stepped inside. She didn’t see anyone; just another long hallway.
Click.
The door shut automatically behind her. She expected to see one of the technicians: Jamie or Don, whom she knew from her run-in with the truck. She walked down the hallway, past several closed doors, and eventually ended up in a large open space—the central forensic hub.
No one was around.
She felt the air recirculating and blowing gently above her, and there was an extremely faint hum that she figured was the air-conditioning system at work.
She decided to say something, “Hello?”
Again there was no answer. Someone had to have buzzed her inside and know she was there. She wondered if it was a kind of initiation to test her reactions, and smiled in spite of herself.
“Hello?” she called out again.
There were two open doors. One room was obviously an examination area, where there were many computers humming away. The other had several desks and resembled a doctor’s office. She leaned in to see if anyone was inside, but it was empty.
She was going to grab a seat in the main area and wait when she heard footsteps approaching. Around the corner came a muscular man with colorful tattoos on both arms, dressed casually in jeans, a loose black T-shirt, and work boots. His dark hair was cropped and he was clean-shaven. She immediately recognized him as the man she had run into in the file room.
He saw her standing there but didn’t immediately greet her. There was something about his intensely blue eyes and his manner that intrigued her. For his part, he seemed to have assessed her in a few quick moments, taking care to observe her face and demeanor.
“Hi, I’m Detective Scott,” she said at last, in an effort to break the weird silence.
“John Blackburn,” was his response.
“Is this a good time to talk about the Compton and Myers cases?” she asked, noticing that her voice was higher than usual.
“Of course, Detective,” he replied, walking to a closed door. “I take it you’ve never been to the forensic division before?”
“I’m that transparent?” she said, trying to lighten the stilted mood.
For the first time, he cracked a small smile. “This way,” he directed, and opened the door, which led into a large examination room with four white tables. Two of them held the coffins; each had been meticulously taken apart and inventoried. The other two contained the girls’ clothes, the teddy bears, and some miscellaneous pieces of fabric.
The room was dim except for the overhead lights, and large magnifying glasses were attached to each table. A strange hum buzzed from the light sources, giving Katie a dull headache.
She was mesmerized by the organization of the evidence, perfectly set in viewing order.
“This really is your first visit,” Blackburn said, watching her reaction.
“Yes, the only official area I’ve been to previously has been the morgue.”
“Well, you’re in for an education.” He walked to the first table. “But from what I’ve heard, it wouldn’t surprise me if you excel in this area as well.”
Katie thought that was a strange comment coming from the forensics supervisor. It made her a little bit nervous and slightly self-conscious as she realized what a rookie she really was.
She put down her notebook and quickly pulled out her notes.
“Here, let me take a look at those,” he said and took the pages from her. He quickly read over them, nodding a few times. “Well, I can see you actually paid attention to my reports.”
“Of course,” she asked. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Detective Templeton doesn’t seem too interested in them. But that’s been his usual M.O. when working cases. Not the easiest guy to chat with.”
Katie laughed, even though she knew it was unprofessional. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I’ve been dealing with him for a while now. It’s just a shame that his arrogance and ingrained insecurities are now directed at you.”
“You know about that?” she asked.
John Blackburn smiled. It was genuine, making his entire face light up. “Of course. Everyone knows about how you put him in his place. Don’t be so surprised, Detective. You were the one who found the bodies, remember. An amazing feat. And that must really frost his balls.”
“To say the least. I don’t think I have many friends around here,” she said quietly.
“Don’t sell yourself short. You have more than you think.”
Katie smiled and retrieved a pen to make notes. “Okay, take me through the coffins.”
She moved to the first table, standing to the right of the supervisor, and waited patiently for him to give her the overview.
“Well, there is the obvious,” he began. “These coffins were specially made—hand-crafted by someone who took great care in constructing them. You won’t find anything like these through the usual means. Each one was made for a specific girl.”
“How so?” she asked.
“They aren’t exactly the same dimensions; the one for the Myers girl was three and three-quarter inches longer and one quarter inch wider.”
“Was the wood from the same source?”
“Yes. From what we can tell from the grain and consistency, it was from the same oak tree.” He moved to
a computer behind them. “Take a look.” He navigated to a page that showed the wood from the two coffins magnified two hundred times. “You can see they have varied characteristics, making them unique.”
“Is it a match?”
“It’s never a one-hundred-percent match, but the individual characteristics are similar enough that the likelihood of them being from the same tree is a solid ninety, ninety-five percent in my opinion. You can’t get any better than that.”
Katie thought about it for a moment as she gazed at the magnification showing the intricate grains like the veins of a living tree. “Would you be able to make a comparison if we found wood at a potential suspect’s place?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did you find anything on the wood, like fingerprints, fibers, or fluids?”
He moved to the tables as he explained, “There was nothing detectable on it; just a standard stain with four or five layers. We found a couple of brush hairs, but they’re too common to compare to anything specific.”
“What about the fabric used to line the coffins?”
“Nothing that could be compared, I’m afraid. But the type of silk combination used isn’t a common type of fabric you can buy at chain stores. It would have to be specially ordered online or through other means.”
“I see,” said Katie. “Both coffins had the same fabric?”
“Yes. It’s been dyed pink from natural organic sources.” He watched with interest as she jotted down some note.
“Is there anything unusual about the coffins, or anything else that could be used as a comparison if we had something to compare it to?”
“I’m sorry, we searched every inch with several different light sources and there was nothing.”
Katie sighed in disappointment.
“We’re still testing for certain organic and non-organic qualities.” He moved to the other examining tables. “I may have something for you later. We took our time searching the graves and the dirt around them, and if we do find anything, we can be pretty sure it’s from the perpetrator.”
“How long did you search?”
“As long as it took. You can’t rush a crime scene. And these particular circumstances are very unusual.”
“Is that the usual protocol?” she asked, surprised and impressed.
“No. But with the weather conditions and the unstable nature of the hillside, anything could have happened. I wanted to make sure we were able to find whatever was there. We sifted a lot of dirt and searched for any other potential secret areas nearby.”
Katie raised her eyebrows in admiration. “Wow.”
“What would you have done in my position?”
She nodded in silent agreement and then surveyed the clothes. “Anything to report about the girls’ dresses or the teddy bears?”
“The dresses were made from lower-end fabric that can be purchased anywhere. They were hand-sewn.”
“The bears?”
“Interesting. They weren’t manufactured by a company but made individually by someone who’s not a professional. We’re trying to track down how many locations sell this type of fabric. It isn’t faux fur; more of an all-purpose material that would be used for towels or lightweight blankets.”
Katie looked at the work. The seams of the dresses had been sewn by hand with a needle and thread. She saw where the end of the thread had been knotted. The stitches were all the same length.
“Anything foreign on them?” she asked, hoping for something to go on.
“We found three hairs, but they were all from the girls. There are no fibers, bodily fluids, or anything we can determine to be foreign.”
Katie was becoming more disappointed by the minute. She needed more to go on; something—anything—that would move the investigation forward.
“There is something,” Blackburn said.
She looked up from the evidence.
“We found organic matter: nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium, calcium, magnesium, zinc, sulfur, chlorine, boron, and iron mixed with iodide, damascenone, and rose oxide.” He watched her reaction.
Katie thought about what he had told her. “Plants, flowers… oh wait, are you saying roses?”
“Yes. Red roses to be specific. How did you know that?”
“I read about a case that involved roses at the crime scene. Were there any roses in the coffins?”
“No.”
“So that means the clothes or teddy bears came in contact with them. Outdoor roses or from a florist shop?”
“That is a mystery for you, Detective. Like I said, we’re still running tests on some sediment and other organic materials, but don’t hold your breath.”
Katie wrote a few more notes. “I won’t take up any more of your time Mr. Blackburn.”
“Please, Detective, everyone calls me John.”
“Everyone calls me Katie,” she replied. “Though I’m sure my colleagues have more colorful names for me.”
John laughed.
“So I guess I’m looking for an interesting pile of wood, rare silk fabric, and someone who makes custom teddy bears—and of course, all that has been in contact with red roses.” Katie let out a sigh.
“If you have any questions, at any time, day or night, please feel free to call or text.” He handed her a business card.
“Thank you, John.” She took the card and slipped it into her pocket.
* * *
Katie left the forensics division with plenty of information, but nothing that she could run with. She was supposed to meet Deputy McGaven in the parking area, and was surprised to see him waiting patiently for her.
“Learned a few things,” she said.
“Good. Update me.”
“Ready?” she asked, and unlocked the vehicle.
“Yep,” he replied. “So what did you think?”
“About what?”
“C’mon, you don’t know?” He was clearly amused.
“I’m not going to play guessing games. I’m still trying to digest everything I’ve just learned.”
McGaven laughed.
Katie hadn’t seen him in such a chipper mood before. She stared at him.
“Okay, I thought, you being a detective and all, you would figure it out.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked again.
“I thought you soldiers could all sniff each other out.”
“What are you saying, that Blackburn was a soldier?”
“Not just any soldier; he was special forces for twelve years—you know, Navy SEALs? He can kill someone before they even take a breath.” McGaven was obviously incredibly impressed by the forensic supervisor’s abilities.
Katie thought back to her immediate sense of Blackburn when she first met him; his attention and self-discipline had been clearly evident. In her mind he was a perfect person to run the forensic division.
Thirty-Two
“Why are we here?” asked McGaven as they walked up to the Haven barn. “He committed suicide. The way I hear it, Detective Templeton is saying it’s possible Price killed those girls. But he has a fixation on the Comptons for some reason—trying to make a connection to the Myers girl.”
“If that’s his opinion, then every victim’s family had better worry,” muttered Katie. She thought Templeton was flying all over the map and not making sound investigative moves based on evidence.
The deputy walked around the barn, going through the motions, but his mind wasn’t really there because as far as he was concerned, everything was already done. He stood and stared at a large broken spider web.
The barn doors gently opened and shut with the breeze. When they were open, light spilled inside, cutting off when they closed, giving a strobe-light effect.
“So you don’t think Price had anything to do with Chelsea Compton’s disappearance and murder?” the deputy asked almost as an afterthought, still looking at the broken web.
“I didn’t say that,” Katie said.
Cracks in the roof and gaps
in the beams sifted sunlight throughout the barn. The far corners also oozed light.
“So what made him kill himself less than twenty-four hours after the bodies were found?” he insisted, not looking directly at her.
Katie climbed up to the loft area; she moved carefully and made sure she didn’t miss anything. “There are several possible reasons.”
“Like?”
“The obvious one would be that he was the killer and didn’t want to get caught, which is the easiest to conclude—as long as you don’t mind having no corroborating evidence. Another would be that his mental illness finally took its toll on him. And…” She stopped.
McGaven turned and looked upward. “And what?”
Katie had noticed unusual scrape marks on the wooden boards—short, disconnected—and then deep indentations. She took out her cell phone and documented them to the best of her ability. Returning the phone to her pocket, she said, “There’s something odd up here. These marks in the wood seem recent.”
“What kind of marks?” he asked.
“Like drag marks. It’s impossible to tell if they’re from something like tools, or if they’re from a human.”
Her words hung in the air. There was something about Terrance Price’s death that bothered her—tugged at her intuition. It was too convenient. Too opportune. There was something more than the obvious suicide. It felt staged, as if it was something everyone was supposed to see.
She stood up and followed the trail. “They lead over here.”
McGaven stood underneath Katie, next to the broken cobweb. “Anything else?” he asked, now completely attentive.
“I think it’s possible—I mean very possible—that Price was murdered because he was…” Katie’s voice trailed off. She’d realized the significance of the barn suicide.
Little Girls Sleeping: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 16