by James Hunt
Most of the homeless in Box Town didn’t like the police. They had a chip on their shoulder for all the times they were hassled and kicked off of benches and street corners for loitering. But people didn’t lose their pride just because they lost their home.
No one living in Box Town wanted to be there. The only problem with most of those folks was that they had something else wrong with them that kept them from rejoining society healthily and productively.
With the sun peeking out from the clouds by the time she reached the entrance to Box Town, Susan watched most of the residents trying to stay warm even though the temperature had peaked to the day’s high at twenty-nine degrees.
Susan looked around for anyone that she knew from the streets, knowing it would be easier to pry some information from someone she was familiar with. But she didn’t recognize any of the weary and worn faces of the people she passed.
Because Susan spent most of her time south of the city, it was rare that she had to come this far west, and Box Town residents tended not to stray too far from their settlement. Once you left your spot, it was hard to get it back. The place was popular because it was so close to downtown.
Downtown was a prime spot to scavenge for food in trash bins, and dumpsters since most of the restaurants threw out what they didn’t use at the end of the day. It was also close to the food kitchens, which was where the homeless could get free meals twice a day, seven days a week. But they tended to run out quickly, so it was always on a first-come, first served basis.
Susan searched for someone that she thought would open up to her. She tried to spot anyone sober, but from the number of dazed expressions she passed on the way in, she knew that it was going to be difficult to find one.
Eventually, Susan spotted a young man pushing a rusted grocery cart, picking up random items off the ground. Mostly trash, but the young man turned each piece over carefully, inspecting it before he placed it into his growing collection.
“Hey,” Susan said.
The man paused, neither frowning nor smiling, his expression stoic.
“Were you here last night?” Susan asked.
The man kept up his silence and then slowly pushed his cart, leaving Susan without any answers.
She tried a few more folks, but none of them even acknowledged her presence, because while she may not have been waving her badge out in the open, she was no longer undercover. She was clean, showered, and wearing clothes that were bought from a store. She was someone from the outside trying to pry information from those that clung to their voices like gold. Because it was the only power they had left.
“You police?”
Susan turned, finding a middle-aged man staring at her. He was tall, lanky, covered in a collection of thrown together garments that were barely holding together. The only part of his ensemble that looked new was the bright red beanie on his head that was topped with a giant puffball that gave the homeless man a comical look.
“I am,” Susan answered.
“You here to do something about that girl that was taken?” he asked, his tone more accusation than questioning.
Susan stepped closer until his stench forced her to stop. “Were you here last night?”
“Yeah, I was here.” He pointed toward a cluster of portables. “I was sleeping inside when I got woke up to some guy stepping on my arm.”
“You saw a man take the girl?”
“Well, it was either a man or a big ass lady.”
Susan knew that this was probably the only good lead she was going to get while she was out here, and she didn’t want to spook him. She was always amazed at how easily someone on the streets could immediately flip on you. “Did you see his face? Can you tell me what he was wearing?”
“I don’t know, lady, it was dark.” He held up his arm. “I want reparations for my medical procedure.”
Susan frowned, staring at the arm, which was covered with the sleeve from his ratty jacket. “What medical procedure?”
“The one I had to do on myself after that fucker stepped on my arm!” He rolled his sleeve down, exposing a tan and dirty complexion. “Look, you can see the scars.” He flashed his arm, but Susan saw no scars.
“Sir, did you know the girl that was taken?” Susan asked.
“What girl?” the man asked, rolling his sleeve down. “I need my medicine.”
Susan knew that she was losing him. “Sir, you told me that you saw a man take a girl from those portables last night.”
“Yeah.” He stood there, staring her down, the wind flopping the red puffball of his beanie. The exchange would have been comical if Susan didn’t think a girl was in danger.
“What did you see last night?” Susan asked, then realizing she was asking the same kind of questions as before, she changed her tactic. “How did your arm get hurt?”
The man glanced at his arm, nodding as if he suddenly remembered that it was hurt. “Happened last night. Some guy stepped on it.”
“What was the man doing when he stepped on your arm?” Susan asked.
“He had taken some girl,” the man answered. “I remember I was sleeping, and then I heard something in the darkness. But I didn’t open my eyes until the guy stepped on me. Sometimes it's better if you don’t see things around here, you know? But I knew it was a girl because I saw her red hair. It was long and curly.”
Susan nodded, prodding the man along in hopes of getting more information. “And did you know the girl with the red curly hair?”
“No,” he answered. “But that guy stepped on my arm. It hurt.” He frowned, then rubbed the injured arm as though it had just happened.
Susan tried to retrieve information from him, but the man just fell back into the same loop as before, going on about how he had to operate on his arm, and that the surgery cost a fortune. If there was anything else buried beneath the scattered remains of his mind, then it was going to stay there.
But she had more than she started with, and while a hair description wasn’t much to go on, the fact that it was red and curly might help her. She didn’t see many redheads while she was on the streets. Hell, she didn’t see many redheads in general, but it would make the girl easy to recognize.
Susan walked to the portables where the man had said the girl had been taken. It was bold for the person to pluck her right out from inside, especially with other people sleeping.
Inside, Susan found a few people still asleep, but the smell prompted her to turn away. She walked around the back of the portable and then returned to the front, trying to run through the scenario in her head.
Did the suspect come here looking specifically for that girl? Susan thought he did. It was the only reason why he would have risked being seen the way he did. This was someone the killer had been waiting for, someone that he had been seeking, probably like Katy Matthews. He was targeting girls, and if he had already taken another one, then he was working quickly.
Susan walked around the portable one more time, searching for anything that she might have missed, trying to recreate how the killer would have abducted her last night. He was probably wearing a disguise since Allie had told her that the people thought it was just a dispute between two homeless folks. It was smart, allowing him to blend into the environment.
But he wouldn’t have carried her all the way to his place. He would have had a vehicle that he parked somewhere else.
Susan started for the exit, but then stopped when she saw a shimmer of red on the asphalt from the sun breaking through the clouds. She walked toward it, then dropped to her knees. It was blood.
She glanced back to the portable, noticing the steps down from the door. If the killer were carrying the girl, then it’d be hard for him to see where he was going. He probably tripped, sending both of them to the ground.
Even if the girl was high, it wasn’t likely that she’d stay asleep after a fall like that. She might have woken up, might have fought back.
Susan glanced ahead and saw more blood on the street. It w
asn’t much, just a few drops here and there, but there was enough to keep a trail.
Slowly, she found herself heading toward downtown on a small side street between two five-story buildings. They were the first structures before the big high-rises of downtown Seattle started, and she saw that the tiny road was secluded. It was a place to carry out dark deeds.
The trail of blood ended at an empty parking spot, and Susan figured that was where the vehicle had been parked. She glanced around for any street cameras that were nearby, but she found none. The spot must have been predetermined before the perp arrived, which meant he’d been here before.
Susan searched the ground carefully, looking for anything that might have been dropped or left behind, but there was only the blood. Still, it was a break in the case. Forensics might be able to pull DNA evidence from the stains and match it up against any future evidence they find. It was a step in the right direction to building a case.
She called dispatch, requesting a team to come out and work the scene. She glanced up at the sky, hoping they could get it done before any rainfall would hit.
Waiting for the team to arrive, she also called Palmer, letting him know what she’d found, but again it went straight to voicemail, and she told him to call her back ASAP.
When Susan hung up, she stood and walked toward the end of the street, glancing up at the buildings for any surveillance footage. She’d have to work the stores a little bit, figure out if there was any chance that they might have cameras pointed outwards, but she knew the chances were slim.
But when she reached the crossroads of the narrow street heading into downtown, she spotted an ATM outside of a deli on the street corner. She glanced back at the parking spot where the vehicle would have been, and then back toward the ATM.
All ATMs had a closed loop recording, and depending on the quality of the camera and the angle of the lens, it might have captured video of the vehicle, maybe even the perp.
15
The residents of Box Town didn’t appreciate the sudden invasion of privacy, and while technically the place wasn’t supposed to exist, police had always turned a blind eye to the makeshift community. But now that the location was a potential crime scene, everyone was displaced to make way for the forensic crews that needed time to properly work the scene, which was slowly turning into a circus.
Extra units were called to help with crowd control, and because of the significant presence of police, it drew the attention of the media hounds, which required more crowd control.
Susan learned early on that the police and the media had a fickle relationship because for every good journalist, there were a dozen slime balls that would write anything just to get ahead for a story.
Susan made the decision early in her career to give nothing to the media unless it was a standard issued statement drawn up by their PR department. The last thing she wanted was to be in the spotlight. It was one of the reasons why she had picked the undercover position in the first place.
But while forensics was processing the trail of blood, documenting anything within the path of the trail that Susan had found, she and Palmer had contacted the owner of the ATM.
The owner provided a copy of the footage for the past twenty-four hours, and Susan and Palmer were sitting in his cruiser, watching the video recorded from last night.
“It’s pretty sketchy,” Palmer said, the computer screen between them. “I mean you can only see a portion of where the van was supposed to be. We probably won’t see anything.”
“Well, I checked the map of street cameras on our traffic cam database, and there isn’t anything that provides a view down that street,” Susan said.
“Did you check the other stores nearby?”
“Nothing,” Susan answered. “If we’re going to get a look at the vehicle, then this is going to be our best shot.”
It was quiet for a while, and at around two o’clock in the morning, they saw lights shimmer in the corner of the screen.
“We got something,” Susan said, perking up in her seat.
The pair waited for the vehicle to pull up, and Susan was glad to see that the vehicle was visible in the video. It was a van.
The driver’s door opened and closed, concealing the driver from view, and Susan stopped and rewound the footage. She watched it three more times before Palmer finally said they should wait for when he came back.
Twenty minutes later in the footage, the perp returned, but he was still hidden from view. The suspect then got behind the wheel and drove away, and they got lucky as the vehicle decided to move closer.
“No license plate,” Palmer said, then nodded. “But that will give us a good make and model to look for, and if it’s the same guy, he probably used the same van to transport Katy Matthews.”
Susan checked the time on the tape. “That happened at two-twenty-seven in the morning.” She did the math in her head. “It’s been a little over twelve hours. She might still be alive.”
“We’ll put out an APB with the description of the van,” Palmer said. “We can also compile a list from the DMV for any vehicles that are registered with that make and model. It could be a long list, but this is a start. Good work, Susan.”
And while Susan wanted to be excited about the fact that they had made some progress on the case, she wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of another dead girl.
“You think it’s the same guy?” Susan asked.
Palmer waited a moment before he answered. “I think it’s likely.”
“I think it’s the same guy,” Susan answered. “And I think we’re running out of time.”
Susan exited the car and dialed Allie.
Palmer climbed out of the car, resting his elbows on the hood. “What are you doing?”
“Detective work,” Susan answered, the phone ringing in her ear. When no one answered, Susan hung up and then tried again. After the third ring, she replied.
“Hey, Q!”
“Allie, I appreciate the tip about Box Town, it helped out.”
“Oh god, did something happen?”
“Do you know of a girl with red hair? It’d be long and kind of curly.”
“Hang on.”
Susan listened as Allie asked the same question to the other girls at the Pink House.
“There’s a girl with red hair that sells herself sometimes for drugs, but she’s not a regular. Her name’s Ginny.”
Susan perked up, her heart rate skyrocketing. “You have the last name?”
Allie laughed. “You know that’s not how things work around here.”
“Right,” Susan said.
“But I guess she hangs out—where did you say she works, Nadia? Right. She works the corner a lot over in Beacon Hill on South Orcas Street and 32nd Avenue. I guess she spends most of her time over by the docks though. She only comes over here to work when she needs cash or a fix.”
“Anyone she hangs out with?”
“No one over here,” Allie answered, sounding distracted. “I guess she doesn’t chat up the other girls. Nadia says she’s a stuck-up bitch.”
“Anything else?” Susan asked, though she was almost afraid to know more.
“Likes the needle,” Allie said. “She gets good business because of her hair. Something about redheads, man. I don’t know what it is.”
“Thanks, Allie.” Susan ended the call then dropped back into the car with Palmer, who was on the computer. “I have a potential first name on the girl. We can run it for any postings on runaways. She might have even been busted for soliciting. Apparently, she works a corner in Beacon Hill.”
“All right,” Palmer said. “We’ll head back to the station, go over that list you got from Ancient Oaks, and try and narrow down the search field for this van. We can try running Ginny in the system, but it’ll be a long shot if we find her.”
Susan nodded. “But it’s a shot I’ll take.”
16
Because it was Palmer and Winterguard’s case, Susan rode with Palmer ba
ck to their precinct to start compiling evidence. She checked in with her LT on the way.
“How’s the head?” Williams asked.
Susan touched the bandage that still covered the cut on her forehead. She had forgotten it was there in the first place. “I’m fine. Anything on the hit and run?”
“I’ve got a pair of detectives working on it,” Williams answered. “They’re giving a deposition downtown, but when they come back, I’ll get them up to speed.”
“Copy that,” Susan answered.
“I hear you’re doing good work out there, Q. Making me look good.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Susan said.
“Yes,” Williams answered, but his tone lacked the usual kindness. “Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.” The call ended by the time they reached Palmer’s precinct, and Susan followed Palmer inside where they met Winterguard, who didn’t bother to acknowledge Susan’s presence.
“We’ve got the conference room.” Winterguard fell into line beside Palmer, keeping his back to Susan, who was forced to walk behind the pair of large men.
She caught a few stares on the walk through the bullpen, but that was no different to any building where a woman entered that was predominately male. It had never bothered her, but she always found it interesting that it irked some of them.
The conference room was filled with what Susan assumed was the rest of the detectives on staff. If this were shaping up to be a serial killer, it would be all hands on deck. Susan found a seat in the very back and off to the side. It was the perfect spot to watch.
“Let’s settle down.” Their unit sergeant stepped to the front of the room and was the only one dressed in his blues. Everyone else wore a mixture of suits, dress shirts, and polos with slacks. Most wore polos. “So far we’ve got a dead girl and another one abducted, and we think it might be the same guy. I’ve already printed out the packets for you to look over, but I’ll hand it over to Detective Palmer, who will give you a rundown of the particulars and the timeline we’re dealing with.”