by Blake Pierce
“But if it came down to it,” Mackenzie said, “do you think some of your other dancers might know their names?”
“I doubt it,” Avery said. “And let’s face it: most of the dancers ask for the man’s name just to be nice. They don’t give a shit what their names are. They’re just trying to get paid.”
“Was Hailey a good employee?” Mackenzie asked.
“Yes, she was, actually. She was always willing to work extra shifts. She loved her two boys, you know?”
“Yes, we met with them,” Mackenzie said.
Avery sighed and looked out to the stage. “Listen, you’re welcome to talk to any of the girls if you think it will help figure out who killed Hailey. But I can’t let you do it here, not right now. It would upset them and screw with my business. But I can give you a list of their names and phone numbers if you absolutely need it.”
Mackenzie thought about this for a minute and then shook her head. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. Thanks for your time, though.”
With that, she got up and tapped Porter on the shoulder. “We’re done here.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I still need to finish my drink.”
Mackenzie was about to argue her point when Porter’s phone rang. He answered it, pressing his free hand to his other ear to block out the godawful noise of the current Skrillex song blaring from the PA. He spoke briefly, nodding in a few places before hanging up. He then downed the remainder of his drink and handed the car keys to Mackenzie.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It seems I am done,” he said. Then his face became set. “There’s been another murder.”
CHAPTER TEN
They drove a little over two and a half hours from the strip club after receiving the call, night falling slowly the entire way, increasing Mackenzie’s depressed mood, and when they arrived at the scene, night had fallen. They finally turned off the main highway onto a strip of unpaved blacktop, and then onto a dirt road that led to a large open field. As they neared their destination, she started to feel an impending sense of doom.
Her headlights glowed just ahead of her as she carefully drove down a bumpy dirt track, and slowly, she started to see the numerous police cars already on the scene. A few of them were pointed to the center of the field, their headlights revealing a grisly, yet familiar sight.
As much as she tried not to, she flinched at the sight.
“My God,” Porter said.
Mackenzie parked, but never took her eyes from the scene as she stepped out of the car and walked slowly forward. The grass in the field was high, coming to her knees in places, and she could see the slightly worn trail that the officers had been using. There were too many officers here; she already worried that the scene was contaminated.
She looked up and took a sharp breath. It was another woman, stripped to her underwear, bound to a pole that looked to be roughly eight feet tall. This time, seeing the woman strung up in such a way, Mackenzie was unable to repress a memory of her sister. Steph had been a stripper, too. Mackenzie wasn’t exactly sure what Steph was up to these days, but it was too easy to imagine her ending up like this.
As Mackenzie approached the victim, she glanced around the crime scene and counted seven officers in all. Two officers were off to the side, speaking with two teenagers. Up ahead, standing a few feet away from the pole and the victim, Nelson was speaking with someone on his phone. When he saw them, he waved them over and quickly ended his call.
“Anything of substance from the strip club?” Nelson asked.
“No sir,” Mackenzie said. “I’m convinced Avery is clean. He’s offered the names and numbers of all of his employees if we need them, but I don’t think we’ll need his help.”
“We need someone’s help,” Nelson said, looking to the pole and looking as if he might get sick.
Mackenzie approached the body and saw right away that this one was in worse shape than the body of Hailey Lizbrook. For starters, there was a large lump and bruise on the left side of the woman’s face. There was also dried blood in and around her ear. The lashes on her back looked to have been made with the same weapon, only this time they had been applied with more force and in greater succession.
“Who discovered the body?” Porter asked.
“Those two kids over there,” Nelson said, pointing toward where one of the officers was still speaking to the two teens. “They admitted they came out here to make out and smoke some weed. They say they’ve done it for a month or so. But tonight, they found this.”
“Same body type as Hailey Lizbrook,” Mackenzie said, thinking out loud. “I think we can probably assume the same profession, or similar, too.”
“I need answers on this, you two,” Nelson said. “And I need them now.”
“We’re trying,” Porter said. “White is on fire with this thing and—”
“I need results,” Nelson said, close to fury. “White, I’ll even take some of your out-of-the-box thinking on this one.”
“Can I borrow a flashlight?” she asked.
Nelson reached into his coat pocket and took out a small Maglite which he happily tossed to her. She caught it, flicked it on, and started looking around the scene. She tuned out Nelson’s nervous banter and let him release his steam with Porter.
With the dead-on precision that took over her in moments like this, the world melted away as she started scouring the scene for any clues. There were several that stood out right away. For instance, she knew that Nelson and the other officers had used the same beaten path to get to the body to prevent contaminating the scene; outside of their worn-down footpath from their cars to the body, there were several other indentations in the tall grass, likely placed there by the killer.
She strayed a bit outside of the footpath and slowly arced the flashlight beam around the field surrounding the post. She took some mental notes, looked back over to the two teens, and then headed back to the pole. She looked the body over for any further clues and became certain that this body, like that of Hailey Lizbrook, would show no signs of sexual abuse.
She wondered if setting up the pole was more than just a theatrical device. Something about it seemed resolute, almost like a necessity for the killer. For a brief moment she could see him, his hands falling on the pole and going to work.
He drags it with pride, maybe even hoisting it up along his back. There’s labor to the task, a prerequisite to the killings. Struggling with the pole, bringing it to the site, digging the hole and installing it—there’s a sweat-of-the-brow satisfaction in it. He is readying the site for the murder. He takes just as much satisfaction from this work as he does the murder.
“What are your thoughts, White?” Nelson asked as he watched her circle the body.
Mackenzie blinked, being torn from the image of the killer in her mind. Realizing just how deep she’d gone there for a moment, she felt a slight chill pass through her.
“A few easy ones right off the bat are that you can see the trail where he dragged the pole from the dirt track to here,” she said. “That concludes that the pole was not here originally. He brought it with him. And that denotes that he drives either a pickup truck or a van of some kind.”
“That’s what I figured,” Nelson said. “Anything else?”
“Well, it’s hard to be sure at night,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure the killer had the victim wrapped in something when he brought her out here.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t see any blood at all on the grass but some of the wounds on her back—especially those around her buttocks—are still fairly wet.”
As Nelson digested this, Mackenzie went to her haunches at the back of the pole and pressed the grass down with one hand. With the other, she shone the flashlight beam along the bottom of the pole.
Her heart raced as saw the numbers: N511/J202.
He uses a knife or a chisel, and he takes a lot of time and effort to make sure the carvings are legible. These carvi
ngs are important to him and, more than that, he wants them to be seen. Whether consciously or subconsciously, he wants someone to figure out why he’s doing this. He needs someone to understand his motives.
“Chief?” she said.
“Yeah, White?”
“I’ve got those numbers again.”
“Shit,” Nelson said, coming to where she was kneeling. He looked down and let out a heavy sigh. “Any idea what they mean?”
“None at all, sir.”
“Okay,” Nelson said. His hands were on his hips and he was looking up to the dark sky like a man defeated. “So we have a few more answers here, but nothing that’s going to tie things up for us anytime soon. A man driving a truck or van that has access to wooden poles and—”
“Wait,” Mackenzie said. “You just said something.”
She went back to the rear of the pole. She leaned down to look at the place where the woman’s wrists were bound with rope.
“What is it?” Porter asked, coming over to have a look.
“You any good with knots?” she asked.
“Not really.”
“I am,” Nelson said, also coming over to have a look. “What have you got?”
“I’m pretty sure this is the same knot that was used for Hailey Lizbrook.”
“So what if it is?” Porter said.
“It’s a bit unusual,” Mackenzie replied. “Can you tie a knot like that? I can’t.”
Porter looked at it again, seeming stumped.
“I’m pretty sure it’s a sailor’s knot,” Nelson said.
“I thought so,” Mackenzie said. “And while it might be a long shot, I’d consider that our killer might be familiar with boats. Maybe he lives near the water or has lived near the water at some point.”
“Drives a truck or a van, maybe lives near water, and has some sort of mommy issues,” Nelson said. “Not much to go on, but it’s better than where we were yesterday.”
“And given the ritualistic manner of these killings,” Mackenzie said, “and the short time frame between the two, we can only assume he’s going to do it again.”
She turned and looked at him, summoning all the seriousness she could.
“With all due respect, sir, I think it’s time we call in the FBI.”
He frowned.
“White, their processes alone would slow us down. We’d have two more bodies before they even sent anyone out here.”
“I think it’s worth a try,” she said. “We’re getting in over our heads.”
She hated to admit it but the look on Nelson’s face showed her that he agreed. He nodded solemnly and looked back to the body on the pole. “I’ll make the call,” he finally said.
From behind them, they heard a very punctuated curse from one of the other officers. They all turned to see what was going on and saw the bouncing glow of headlights coming down the dirt road.
“Who the hell is that?” Nelson asked. “No one else should know about this and—”
“A news van,” said the officer who had let out a curse.
“How?” Nelson said. “Dammit, who the hell keeps getting information to these assholes?”
The scene became a flurry of activity as Nelson did everything he could to prep for the arrival of a news crew. He was fuming and looked like his head might explode at any moment. Mackenzie took the opportunity to take as many photos as she could: of the depressed sections of the field, of the knot at the victim’s wrists, of the numbers at the bottom of the post.
“White, Porter, get out of here and get back to the station,” Nelson said.
“But sir,” Mackenzie said, “we still need to—”
“Just do as I say,” he said. “You two are the leads on this case and if the media gets a whiff of that, they’ll constantly be on your asses and slow you down. Now get out of here.”
It was a sensible train of thought and Mackenzie did as she was asked. But as she headed back to the car with Porter, another thought occurred to her. She turned back to Nelson and said: “Sir, I think we should have the wood tested, on this pole and the last one. Get a sample and have it analyzed. Maybe the kind of wood being used for these posts could lead us to something.”
“Damn good thinking, White,” he said. “Now haul ass.”
Mackenzie did just that as she saw two more pairs of headlights trailing in behind the first set. The first set belonged to a news van with WSQT written on the side. It had just parked on the far side of the police cars. A reporter and a cameraman came bustling out and Mackenzie instantly thought of them as vultures circling a fresh kill.
As she got into the car, taking the driver’s seat again, another member of the news crew got out of the van and started snapping pictures. Mackenzie was mortified to see that the camera was pointed in her direction. She lowered her head, got into the car, and started the engine. As she did, she saw that three officers were already storming toward the news van, Nelson in the center. Still, the reporter did her best to bully her way forward.
They took off, but Mackenzie knew it was already too late.
Come tomorrow, her picture would be on the front page of all the papers.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As it turned out, Nelson had been wrong about the FBI. Mackenzie got the call at 6:35 in the morning requesting that she drive to the airport to pick up an agent that had flown in. She’d had to hurry, as the flight arrived at 8:05, and was embarrassed that she’d have to make a first impression without even having time to fix her hair.
Her hair, though, was the least of her concerns as she sat in the uncomfortable airport chair, waiting at the gate. She was pounding down a cup of coffee, hoping to push her mind beyond caring that her body had only managed five hours of sleep the night before. It was her third cup of the morning and she knew she’d get the jitters if she didn’t slow down. But she couldn’t afford to be tired and sloppy.
She reviewed everything in her head as she waited for the agent to get off the plane, recircling the gruesome scene from the night before. She couldn’t help but feel as if she had missed something. Hopefully, the FBI agent would be able to help get them on a clearer path.
Nelson had e-mailed her the agent’s dossier, which she had read quickly while eating a breakfast of a banana and a bowl of oatmeal. Because of this, Mackenzie spotted the agent right away as he stepped off the jet bridge and into the airport. Jared Ellington, thirty-one years old, a Georgetown graduate with a background that included a stint in profiling in counterterrorism cases. His black hair was slicked back as it had been in his picture and the telltale suit he wore painted him as someone on official duty.
Mackenzie walked across the gate to meet him. She hated the fact that she kept going back to her stupid hair. She felt frazzled and out of sorts, having been rushed earlier in the morning. More than that, she had never really cared much about first impressions and had never been the sort of person to worry too much about her appearance. So why now?
Maybe it was because he was from the FBI, an agency she revered. Or maybe it was because, despite herself, she was struck by his looks. She hated herself for that, not only because of Zack, but because of the urgent and gruesome nature of their work.
“Agent Ellington,” she said, extending her hand, forcing her tone to be as professional as possible. “I’m Mackenzie White, one of the detectives on the case.”
“Good to meet you,” Ellington said. “Your chief tells me you’re the lead detective on the case. Is that right?”
She did her best to hide her shock but nodded.
“That’s correct,” she said. “I know you just got off the plane, but we need to hurry and get you to the station.”
“Of course,” he said. “Lead the way.”
She led him through the airport and back out to the parking lot. They were silent during the walk and Mackenzie took the time to size him up. He seemed a little relaxed, not stiff and rigid like the few Bureau guys she’d encountered. He also seemed very serious and intense. He ha
d a much more professional air than any of the men she worked with.
As they drove onto the interstate, fighting through morning airport traffic, Ellington started scrolling through a series of e-mails and documents on his phone.
“Tell me, Detective White,” he said, “what sort of person do you think we’re looking for? I’ve looked through the notes that Chief Nelson sent me and I have to say that you seem pretty sharp.”
“Thanks,” she said. Then, quick to dismiss the compliment, she added: “As for the type of person, I’m thinking it stems from abuse. When you consider that the victims were not sexually abused, yet stripped to their underwear, it indicates that these are murders based on some need for revenge on some woman that wronged him earlier in life. So I think it might be a man that is embarrassed by sex or, at the very least, finds it gross.”
“I see you have not ruled out religious contexts,” Ellington said.
“No, not yet. The very nature of how he displays them has obvious crucifixion overtones. Plus the fact that the women he’s killing are all representations of male lust makes it hard to rule out.”
He nodded, still scrolling through his phone. She cast glances in his direction as she made her way through traffic and was struck by how handsome he was. It wasn’t obvious at first, but there was something very plain yet rugged about Ellington. He’d never be a leading man but would make an attractive addition to the hero’s team.
“I know this seems rude,” he said, “but I’m trying to make sure I’m well-versed in this. As I’m sure you know, I was called in on this case less than six hours ago. It’s been a whirlwind.”
“No, not rude at all,” Mackenzie said. She found it refreshing to be in a car with a man and not have the conversation be filled with sideways insults and sexism. “Do you mind if I ask what your initial thoughts on the killer are?”
“My big question is why he displays the bodies at all,” Ellington said. “It makes me think the murders aren’t just out of some personal vendetta. He wants people to see what he’s done. He wants to make a spectacle out of these women, which denotes that he’s proud of what he’s doing. I’d go so far as to guess that he feels he’s doing the world a favor.”