Speak No Evil

by Anne Crosby Tanya

  None of it added up.

  After they released him, Jack put a tail on him and returned to the crime scene to do another walk-through. The crime scene team had already been over the dock and surrounding area with a fine-toothed comb, but he could think more clearly without an army of people underfoot.

  His gut told him that no one who was about to cut the tongue out of a girl’s mouth and strangle the life out of her would lend her his cell phone—not once, but twice—with a follow-up call to the girl’s roommate, giving both girls his real name. In fact, it was the roommate who had given them Patterson’s number to begin with. Only an arrogant prick would take that sort of chance, and ultimately, arrogance was stupidity. Patterson didn’t strike Jack as stupid or arrogant.

  No calls were made from the victim’s phone after seven o-five P.M., which gave credence to the fact that her phone was dead. They found it sitting in the passenger floorboard of her abandoned car.

  At nine-seventeen P.M., Amy’s roommate called Jones, lost and searching for the address she’d been given, then again at nine-nineteen, ten twenty-four, and again at ten twenty-seven. All four calls had gone unanswered. Annoyed, the roommate went back to the station to wait, hoping Jones would call back. For about thirty minutes, she said she sat at the station, in her car, on the phone, arguing with her boyfriend, until their conversation ended at approximately eleven o-three P.M.—all verified by phone records—after which the roommate made one more attempt to find the house. This time, she spotted Amy’s car in a driveway, and about eleven-thirty P.M., she ventured around back, but didn’t see Amy, so she returned to her car and called the police.

  The initial responding officer showed at twelve-thirty P.M.—a full hour after the roommate called for assistance—not surprising considering some of the politics going on in James Island. Amy’s body was discovered at twelve forty-three A.M. The time of death placed at roughly ten-forty P.M.—very likely while the roommate had been busy arguing with her boyfriend at the station, which meant she’d barely missed the killer.

  Lying in the temperate, shallow water, her body was still warm when Jack arrived on the scene around one-thirty in the morning. Rigor mortis had only begun to set in.

  Now he stood on the deck, studying the scene critically, staring at the bright yellow police tape that was still intact, except for a small piece that flapped in the breeze near the established point of entry.

  He stared down at the area beside the dock.

  When Amy’s body was discovered, it was lying next to the dock, half concealed by the spartina grass and wrapped around a dock post. With her car parked out front, it was pretty certain she didn’t float to shore, but they found no body fluids on the dock and no signs of a scuffle above deck, which meant that any struggle would have taken place in the creek.

  He made a mental note to check the tide charts and got down on his knees to peer under the dock, just to make sure they hadn’t missed anything—no scraps of clothing or snags of hair in the splintered wood.

  He stared down at the water and stinking plough mud.

  The odor, he knew, was a ripe brew—a result of warm water conditions, bacteria and decomposing organic matter in the muggy climate, but despite the life that teemed within the dark, dank, soft soil, it stank of death and decay. No matter that the crime scene team had taken care not to disturb anything, the gray muck never dried between tide changes and traces of the girl’s form had already eroded away. All that was left at this point was a slight depression where tiny shrimp waltzed. The only remaining footprints near the body were theirs. It had been impossible to get the body out without creating a few impressions, but the water was just deep enough that the constant movement had already eroded the impressions anyway. A little deeper in, the muck was so wet and boggy that it had been known to suck the boots off a man’s feet. Walking in it wasn’t easy and necessitated special gear or tight-fitting boots. It was a bit like quicksand . . . if you sank to your ankles and struggled, you might sink to your knees....

  It seemed the killer had just laid her down gently . . . without too much of a fight . . . probably with the aid of the chloroform they’d found in her system. He’d stripped her naked, tied her feet and hands and positioned her precisely for a macabre show, and thanks to the techniques publicized by prime-time crime drama, he’d known enough to minimize the likelihood of evidence.

  There were traces of blood on her body and hair, some in the creek bed and in her stomach. But not nearly enough, it seemed. The tongue was full of blood vessels so she would have bled profusely—if cut while she was still alive. Maybe not so much if he’d cut her tongue out after death. But the tape over her mouth didn’t seem like something he would do after death, and Jack couldn’t see him removing the tape and replacing it again. Her clothes might have soaked up some of the blood, but since they were missing, it was impossible to assess how much exactly. Anything that didn’t end up in her clothes could have ended up in the creek, washed away by the tide.

  Had the killer cut the tongue out before or after she was drugged? Before or after he killed her? Why cut it out at all? Why the dye?

  The guy needed to see her die, Jack realized—every stage of the process, from the instant she came to, realizing she couldn’t breathe, to the panic and pain she must have felt—he needed to experience everything . . . right up until the instant the blood vessels burst in her eyes.

  Did he wait for her eyes to flutter open before pushing her down into the shallow water?

  For some reason, the act reminded him of a sort of baptism.

  Underwater, the killer wouldn’t be able to see her as clearly—especially at night. Even with a full moon, he would have needed to be close to see . . . maybe he was straddling her . . . hovering a breath away so he could feel her heartbeat flatline?

  He rubbed his eyes. Some day, he needed to sleep.

  He stood, brushing himself off, needing a smoke—was it any wonder? He was no longer trying to quit for Caroline, he told himself as he reached into his pocket, pulling out his last stick of gum. He was doing it for himself, because he hated the habit. He unwrapped the stick and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

  In the distance, Morris Island Lighthouse stood stranded . . . a lonesome sentinel, guarding the channel . . . like an unarmed soldier. Long ago decommissioned, it was slowly being devoured by the Atlantic.

  The channel could be hairy. The inlet creeks were like spidery veins, both siphoning the life from the marshes and washing it back in. Even at low tide, the middle of the creek was deep enough to accommodate a good-sized boat . . . one that could easily handle Clark Sound or the winding rivers and estuaries around Morris Island. But you wouldn’t need a big boat to maneuver the salt marsh . . . if you knew where to go.

  Supposedly, the victim was here taking photographs, but no camera was found. The only indication she had, in fact, been taking pictures was the camera bag in her backseat, filled with lenses and actual film. He didn’t even realize people still used that stuff in this digital age, but apparently, she was a talented film and photography student with artwork on display somewhere downtown. They’d scoured the entire area, hoping to find her camera but it was gone.

  Jack studied the landscape.

  The houses around here were surrounded by woodlands—high-dollar properties—not too close together. Backcreek Road, aptly named, was surrounded by water with a single entrance from Fort Lamar Road. Just behind Backcreek Road sat Fort Lamar—three acres of sequestered grounds owned by the city that included earthworks dating back to 1862 . . . lots of places to hide. And the streets . . . lined with massive, tangled trees, went pitch black after dark, smothering the moon from view.

  The roommate didn’t recall seeing any boat docked behind the house that night . . . no cars came through on the isolated road.

  The house itself had been searched, even though there was no sign of forced entry and nothing inside hinted at the violence that took place out back.

  C
ould it be that Amy Jones’s murderer hadn’t meant to leave her body as he had, quite possibly interrupted by a twenty-year-old college student looking for her AWOL roommate? If so, how and where had he intended to move the body?

  They sent choppers up to do an aerial of the salt marsh . . . but the surrounding landscape was undisturbed. For now, the salt marsh was keeping its secrets.

  He stared at the boathouse in the distance with its tin steepled roof. Bright sunlight glinted off its surface.

  The Aldridge dock was easily one of the longest in the area. It meandered across fifteen hundred feet of salt marsh. He could throw a stone in the direction of Caroline’s house and hit it. Its proximity to the crime scene made his stomach turn.

  The attempted break-in at Oyster Point had occurred the following night—not much of a chance the killer was still in the area, but it left Jack a little desperate for answers....

  As far as anyone else was concerned, this was not a race against time. Jack didn’t agree. He felt it down in his gut.

  The attention to detail—the complete lack of evidence—told Jack this wasn’t the guy’s first kill, and the fact that there were no other bodies was merely a testament to the fact that the killer knew what he was doing.

  But he was on his own with this one. Not even Garrison, his partner, was pursuing the same leads.

  The closest he’d come to a case like this was a spree killing a couple of years ago—nothing like Amy Jones’s murder. A true serial killer didn’t just hit three different gas stations and pop the attendants. He needed downtime . . . time to plan . . . time to make sure every move was orchestrated to perfection . . . so he wouldn’t get caught. But maybe after a while some of them thought they couldn’t be caught . . . maybe if this guy had been doing this a while, he was getting arrogant. Arrogant people took shortcuts, and people who took shortcuts made mistakes.

  Who else would die before his mistakes revealed him?

  Caroline was right about one thing: playing by the rules was a luxury you didn’t have when lives were at stake.

  Two could play at that game....

  “I’m surprised you’re still here,” Caroline joked, though the minute it came out of her mouth, she realized how stupid the remark was. Frank Bonneau was the sort of man who did everything by the book. If he gave a two-week notice, he did his time, even if he had to swallow antacids every hour on the hour to do it.

  He eyed her over bifocals that had been put on and removed so many times they were crooked beyond repair. Clearly unhappy with her awkward attempt at conversation, he went back to looking over the dummy, trying to determine where to place stories, ignoring her.

  Caroline had had a full day—none of it spent at the office. She could only have done that with someone like Frank in place—someone who knew what he was doing—someone she trusted. “Can we talk?”

  “I’m happy to listen,” he said. “I think I’ve said more than enough at this point.”

  Clearly, he wasn’t happy with his outburst yesterday, justified though it may have been. While Caroline still believed she had acted in good faith, she had to admit she had behaved more like the boss’s daughter rather than the boss. “Have you talked to Daniel?”

  “No,” he said, sounding nonplussed. “Why would I do that?”

  That he hadn’t run to complain to their attorney both surprised and impressed her. It gave her all the more resolve to keep him onboard. “Good, because I don’t want you to resign.”

  “You should have thought about that before you undermined me.”

  “I’m sorry, Frank.”

  “You should be.”

  He wasn’t going to show her any mercy, Caroline realized, but she was ready to prostrate herself at his feet, and she meant every word. “I’ve learned a valuable lesson and I hope we can repair this, because I realized today how much I need you. I’m not ready to run this paper on my own.”

  His attention perked and he set his pen down, looking up at her, listening now.

  “I realize how my mother was able to be the face and voice of the Tribune . . . it’s because she had you, Frank.”

  “She didn’t exactly twiddle her thumbs on the sidelines,” he protested, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment. “Your mother was involved with every aspect,” he told her. “She just didn’t micromanage her people—especially not me—and she didn’t try to do everything on her own. You can’t be the publisher, writer, salesperson, media contact and community servant, Caroline. You hire good people and trust them to do their jobs so you can focus on yours.”

  As lectures went, it was pretty basic, but Caroline took heart that he was talking to her at all—and clearly she did need the reminders. All these things she knew, but somehow when it came down to doing them, she had promptly forgotten every one. Encouraged, she ventured into his office and sat down in the seat facing his desk. “I want you to teach me to be as good a newspaperwoman as my mother was.”

  “Your mother wasn’t good, she was great!” He picked up his pen and tapped it lightly on his desk, seeming to consider her appeal. “Do you know that even when we were fighting our worst circulation battle, and it was suggested that we should go after the Post, your mother refused to engage in yellow journalism? She took her lessons from the mistakes of men like Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst. Your mother knew this business inside out and upside down. If you want to be anything like her, it’s gonna take serious dedication,” he said, “without any ego. Can you manage that?”

  Caroline blinked. If anything, she thought she was much too unsure of herself, but she would say anything to make him stay at this point.

  “I need you to trust in what you know,” he continued, “and trust me to know when to step in and help.”

  “Sounds easy enough.”

  He lifted a white shaggy brow as though he didn’t quite believe her. “And I need you to trust that I’m in this for the good of the paper, and if I speak up, you’ll listen—not necessarily do as I say,” he clarified, “just listen. That’s all your mother ever promised.”

  “If I agree . . . will you stay?”

  He grunted. “I should ask for a raise.”

  “Frank, I didn’t know how to come in here and fill Mom’s shoes,” Caroline confessed. “I thought I needed to command respect, but I understand now you were ready to give it—that I made this about us, when it should have been about the paper. I’m sorry for that. Please stay?”

  He cracked a crooked smile. “I expect you to never write another story during my tenure at this paper. I don’t care how talented a journalist you are. You can’t look at the big picture if you’re knee-deep in the trenches!”

  “Okay, so tell me . . . what’s the first thing you think I need to change in my role as publisher?”

  He waved the pen at her. “Simple. I understand you want to take this paper in a whole new direction, but before you go barreling out that gate at full speed, learn how to do it all the old-fashioned way.” He studied her a moment. “Do you understand what makes most current news nothing more than stenographic journalism?”

  Caroline wanted to roll her eyes, but dealing with a little bluster and the occasional lecture about basic journalism was a small price to pay in order to keep him happy, she decided. “Reporters are just taking notes?”

  “Damn straight!” he boomed. “That’s the problem with citizen journalism.”

  Some little part of her actually felt relieved she’d gotten the answer right. As basic as any of Frank’s lessons seemed, it couldn’t hurt her to drill them into her skull. As Jack had already pointed out, this wasn’t a trial run. There were no rehearsals.

  “It’s all a bunch of ‘he said, she said’ namby-pamby bullshit!” he railed. “One idiot writes a thing on Twitter and another idiot repeats it on HuffPo. When your mother and I came up in this business, you had to roll up your sleeves and go after your story. That’s why they called it investigative journalism.”

  Caroline tried to suppres
s the tiny smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “So you’ll stay?”

  He eyed her speculatively. “You’ll let me worry about filling my own news hole?”

  Caroline didn’t want to lose complete control. “Do I have any say at all?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  Caroline blinked.

  There was that word again. Trust. It wasn’t something she had in great abundance. She was accustomed to looking after herself, and she’d never allowed even the tiniest fragment of her life out of her control. “Yes,” she said, and meant it. But it was going to take a serious daily talk in the mirror.

  “All right,” he conceded, “but no more anonymous sources unless it’s the only way they can contribute—and only if we’re both agreed. All we have left is respect and we have to preserve it at all costs.”

  “It’s a deal. Teach me how to go after a story the old-fashioned way—and Pam. She wants to learn.”

  “She’s not half bad,” he admitted. “I read her clips.” He cocked his head a little as he considered the request. “Not bad at all—just had a shitty teacher.” He grinned suddenly, his face splitting from ear to ear.

  He was teasing her, she realized. She smiled back.

  “All right, so let me tell you how we start.” He got up suddenly, and walked out of the office. A few minutes later, he walked back in with Pam and Brad on his heels.

  Caroline stood, offering the chair to Pam, letting Frank take center stage.

  Frank stood behind his desk. “The first thing we do,” he said to everyone present, “is find out a little more about this Patterson guy. He’s an ex-priest,” he said, pointing at Brad. “Find out where, and why he’s an ex. I want to know whether he’s local—if not, I want to know where he’s from. I want to know what he does for a living now and I want to know what color his shit was the last time he took one.”

  Pam giggled and his gaze snapped to her. “You think I’m being funny?”

  Startled, Pam shook her head.

  “Good,” he continued, pointing to Pam. “You’ve got a source at CPD, so you go that route, find out why they released Patterson. Also talk to the roommate again—find out every last detail she knows—see if there’s anything the Post might have missed!”