Trace of Evil

by Alice Blanchard

  Focus.

  Thirty-six-year-old Daisy Forester Buckner was a petite redhead, five foot four, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. She looked like a Barbie doll come to life, with her perfect teeth and hair. Her gemlike eyes drew you in. Her sleek red hair was cut short, and she wore very little makeup. It was common knowledge around town that Daisy had been having trouble getting pregnant. Finally, she’d managed a small triumph. Now she and the baby were dead.

  Natalie had known Daisy Forester all her life. They’d grown up on the same street together. BFF’s Daisy and Grace were the same age and had always been close. Now they were teachers at the same school, but when they were younger, they’d wanted to be Olympic gold medalists, swimmers as famous as Janet Evans. They were self-proclaimed water nymphs. For Natalie, who was eight years younger than Willow and six years younger than Grace, it felt like having two extra moms. Cool moms. And Daisy was a bonus mom. The three older girls had spoiled her silly. They’d piled on the love. They’d doled out Skittles and Reese’s Pieces and brushed her hair and dazzled her with tall tales about witches and princesses trapped in towers, but as the years passed, they had gradually slipped into adulthood without her.

  Natalie doubted the killer was still on the premises, but you never knew, and besides she had to follow procedure—first, secure and isolate the crime scene. “Brandon, wait here. I have to secure the area. Don’t touch anything.”

  She unbuttoned her jacket, unfastened the safety strap of her shoulder holster, and lightly rested her fingers on the butt of her gun. Her clothes were clammy and damp. Natalie had a talent for shooting. On the practice range, she actually liked the smell of gunpowder and the “surprise” sound of shots ringing out. But she’d never had to fire her weapon in the field. When to use your weapon, that’s the big question, her father used to say. Because the answer was vital to the soul of all law enforcement personnel. It was the final solution, and only after every other option had been exhausted. Despite all her years of training, Natalie had no idea when that line would be crossed.

  Now she searched the second story. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms. The second floor was clear. She went downstairs and swept through the dining room, the half bath, the living room and den. The basement was empty. There appeared to be no secondary crime scene, no blood or disarray found anywhere but inside the kitchen, the primary scene. This wasn’t a botched robbery, she decided, since all the things a thief might’ve taken were still there—computers, mobile devices, audio system, cash, jewelry, a thirty-year-old bottle of scotch.

  The only disturbance was a cluttered desk in the living room. Daisy kept a fairly neat household, but it looked as if someone had rummaged through the desk recently. Drawers were open. Desktop items were askew. Messy paperwork—mostly test papers and student essays—littered the surface, with a few pieces coming to rest on the seat of the chair. Natalie tucked this observation away for later rumination and headed back into the kitchen.

  The sliding glass doors overlooked the backyard. They weren’t locked. She stepped out onto the cedar deck, letting in the chilly night air along with a curl of moonlight. There was Brandon’s new top-of-the-line barbecue grill. She took out her iPhone, activated the flashlight, and illuminated the expansive backyard with its old-fashioned gazebo and flower beds bordering the perimeter. A tall cedar fence separated the three-acre property from the Buckners’ nearest neighbors. The backyard was great for summer barbecues, recessed about thirty yards from the road and surrounded by dense woods. Very isolated.

  Back inside the kitchen, Natalie fastened the safety strap of her holster and looked around for Brandon. She found him in the living room, rummaging through his wife’s desk. “What are you doing?”

  “Son of a bitch.” He held up a piece of paper. “Riley Skinner. He’s in Daisy’s class. The stupid prick was flunking out of school, and she was trying to help him. Daisy thinks she can reason with these animals.…”

  “Whoa, back up. You aren’t making any sense,” Natalie told him. There was only one Riley Skinner in town—a sixteen-year-old troublemaker, well known to the police, whose father was an ex-felon.

  “See this F?” he said, pointing at the test paper. “See Riley’s name on top? Daisy jumped through hoops getting him to retake the midterms last February, but he didn’t care. He never showed up. You know Daisy, right? She only tries harder to help these drug-addled bastards … Jesus.” His voice broke with raw despair. “Riley threatened her a few weeks ago.…”

  “He threatened her? What happened?”

  “He’s flunking out of school, and he blamed her for the whole fiasco.” His eyes blazed. “I know where to find him, Natalie. We could pick him up right now. He’s either at Haymarket Field or Munson’s Lane, one of those two places…”

  “Slow down.” She struggled to understand. “I’ll call Dispatch and tell them to put out a BOLO for Riley’s vehicle, okay? In the meantime, you’re in no condition to do anything…”

  “I’m telling you, this asshole threatened Daisy’s life. He did this to her.”

  “We don’t know anything yet.”

  He nodded numbly. “Fuck that.” He scooped up a set of keys from Daisy’s desk and bolted out the door.

  “Brandon, wait!” She chased after him, but by the time she got to Daisy’s minivan, he’d locked himself in. She pounded on the driver’s side window. “You’re drunk!” she shouted. “You’re in no condition to drive. Get out of the vehicle, now!”

  He hit the gas and sped off in a cloud of dust, leaving a nasty patch of rubber on the road.

  5

  Natalie felt an avian fluttering in her heart as she got in her car and fastened her seat belt. She tore out of the driveway and headed south—Brandon had mentioned either Munson’s Lane or Haymarket Field, two popular hangouts for troubled teenagers. She dug her shield out of the glove box, clipped it to a chain, and slung it around her neck. During a high-speed chase, you didn’t want to be mistaken for a criminal by the state highway patrol.

  With trembling hands, she called Luke. “Daisy Buckner’s dead,” she told him. “Possible homicide. We found her lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. Front and back doors were unlocked. No secondary scene. No defensive wounds.”

  “Daisy?” Luke exclaimed. “Jesus, is Brandon okay?”

  “He took off before I could stop him. He thinks Riley Skinner might’ve had something to do with it, because he’s been threatening Daisy at school. Brandon mentioned Haymarket Field and Munson’s Lane … I’m heading for Munson’s Lane now.”

  “Okay. Meet you there in ten minutes.” Luke hung up.

  Sweat beaded on Natalie’s neck as she took a left onto Daniel Boone Lane, a lonely stretch of hills that eventually connected to Route 151, a busy thoroughfare. Winding around the lake, she ribboned past roadside diners and motels selling on-demand porn. Every time the road turned sharply, her discount tires hugged the asphalt. Soon the establishments gave way to the woods. On either side of the road, gray trunks tapered into swirling darkness. Deep in the underbrush, Natalie caught sight of a pair of animal eyes that didn’t blink.

  Now Dispatch radioed through the stuttering static. “There’s been an altercation on Granite Falls Road behind the old Shell station.”

  She scooped up the mike. “Who called it in?”

  “Unknown female. Looks like Detective Buckner and the suspect took off on foot into Haymarket Field…”

  “Okay. I’m on my way.” Natalie hit the brakes, made a U-turn, and headed west. She grabbed the portable beacon, slapped it on the hood, and switched on the siren. The police occasionally patrolled the vacant field behind the old Shell station, on the prowl for drug deals.

  Natalie phoned Luke again. “A witness just spotted Brandon and Riley Skinner in Haymarket Field.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you there,” Luke said and hung up.

  Natalie approached the next intersection going eighty and blasted her horn as she charged through the red light, siren
blaring. Her face felt stunned, frozen. Her nerve endings hummed. It was easy to understand why cops overreacted. The adrenaline rush was a huge factor. It could seriously mess with your head. There was an unshakeable sense of disconnect, like a trolley uncoupled from its driver.

  Joey had warned her about moments like this, when the pressure mounted and the obstacles popped up and the seconds flew past, and it was totally up to you not to make any strategic errors. We’re only human, remember that. Do your best. Breathe deep and slow. Remain calm and steady, even though it seems like you should be speeding up. Whether it was hiking up Dix Mountain, learning to shoot a bow and arrow, or standing up for what she believed in, her father had taught her how to maintain a cool head.

  Natalie slowed down at the next intersection and took a right onto a gravel road that dead-ended into Haymarket Field, an overgrown stretch of scrub and rubble where early settlers had built their log cabins. Now it was a playground for derelicts getting high in the crumbling foundation of the old Shell station and passing out in the weeds.

  The vacant field was partially fenced off, and beyond the chicken-wire fence were the ever-present woods. Soon Natalie was rolling over dirt and coming to a bumpy stop at the edge of the field, where half a dozen cars were parked crookedly in the weeds.

  She burst out of the car like a trapped animal and spotted Daisy’s green minivan parked in a ditch not far from Riley Skinner’s 1967 renovated candy-apple red Camaro, Trash Talk and Drake stickers plastered over the back bumper.

  “Brandon?” she shouted, announcing her arrival. She could hear a commotion in the distance. Something was going down about thirty yards ahead, but she couldn’t see anything, due to the ground fog and heavy overcast.

  Behind her, tires crunched over gravel and she turned just as Luke pulled up in his midnight-blue Ford Ranger, which was outfitted with the latest equipment—police radio, video surveillance system, portable data terminal mounted on a swing arm. He got out and moved swiftly toward her. “What’s up, Natalie?”

  “They’re in the field. Dead ahead.” She pointed in the direction of the commotion, which had stopped.

  “I’ll go behind the fence in case he runs,” Luke said, taking off in a westerly direction, while Natalie headed straight into the field.

  She pounded over the uneven terrain, each consecutive footstep sending another shock wave up her spine. The ragweed-strangled site was a strip mall waiting to happen. The chicken-wire fence was plastered with real-estate signage. As she left the streetlights behind, the night came alive with deceptive shadows. A few kids were shouting and running toward her. Scattering. Not a good sign.

  She could feel her heartbeat parking itself at the base of her throat as she spotted a lone figure standing in the fiddlehead ferns about ten yards ahead.

  “Brandon?” she said. “What’s going on?”

  Detective Buckner loomed over a prone body, his fists clenched. His chin thrust out. Natalie tried rearranging her thoughts in order, but it was like corralling kittens. She narrowed the gap between them, ferns sloshing against her calves. “Brandon?”

  He turned with a puzzled look. “I swear to God I didn’t touch him.”

  “What happened?”

  “He just collapsed.”

  She approached with caution. Riley Skinner was lying on his back. He was twitching spasmodically, hands pawing at the air, and she realized he was having a seizure. “Does he have epilepsy? Is there a medical bracelet?”

  Brandon knelt down and checked the boy’s wrists for a medical bracelet. “No, nothing.”

  “When did he collapse?”

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  “Did you call 911?”

  He nodded. “They’re on their way.”

  She knelt down beside them and could feel the boy’s pulse stuttering in the veins of his neck. There wasn’t much you could do for a seizure besides comfort measures, until the ambulance arrived—remove the eyeglasses, loosen the collar, check the airway. “Help me roll him onto his side,” she said. “It’ll help with the breathing. We have to keep his head elevated.”

  Brandon helped her roll Riley over, then he cradled the boy’s head in his hands.

  “Was there an altercation? Any shots fired? Is he injured?”

  “No,” Brandon said, breathing hard.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “He and some friends were smoking weed,” he explained. “Riley dropped the joint and fled, so I gave chase, and when I caught up with him, he resisted arrest.”

  “Resisted? Did you grab him? Tackle him?”

  “No, nothing like that. He was spouting gibberish, throwing punches.”

  “He punched you?” she asked.

  “Nothing landed. I didn’t lay a hand on him, Natalie.”

  “Did you fire your weapon at any point? A warning shot?”

  “Hell, no,” Brandon said angrily. “Quit asking me that.”

  Luke approached them, his face tense and expressionless. “What’s going on?”

  “He was smoking marijuana, Lieutenant,” Brandon explained again in a shaky voice. “He fled the scene. I gave pursuit and told him to surrender, and that’s when he collapsed on the ground.”

  Luke turned to Natalie and asked, “You got this?”

  “Yeah. Got it.” She took over for Brandon, cradling the boy’s head in her lap and checking for a pulse. Riley’s eyes were rolled toward the back of his head and his torso was jerking every couple of seconds. She checked her watch, timing the length of the seizures, knowing that the paramedics would find it helpful.

  “Brandon, step over here,” Luke commanded. “Come stand next to me.”

  Brandon did as he was told. “I wanna talk to my union rep,” he muttered.

  “Duly noted.”

  Just then, an ambulance came wailing up the dirt road toward the abandoned Shell station, clouds of dust puffing up as it braked. Two paramedics hopped out and fetched their equipment. Soon, they were rolling a gurney across the field through the tangled weeds.

  “How’s he doing, Natalie?” Luke asked.

  “The seizures are winding down.” She performed a quick inspection of the boy’s scalp, searching for any signs of blunt trauma. She checked his arms and hands for defensive wounds, lacerations, or abrasions, but she couldn’t find any. They were going to have to corroborate Brandon’s story, since he was drunk and off-duty tonight, distraught about the death of his wife. He shouldn’t have been out here arresting anyone. The media would be all over the story if the police weren’t careful. Accusations of excessive use of force were a nightmare scenario for the department.

  All she could find preliminarily was a single bruise on Riley’s right cheek that could’ve happened during the fall. Perhaps the teenager had epilepsy or some other medical condition.

  All of a sudden, the boy became unresponsive. “Riley?” She checked his eyes and took his pulse again.

  “What’s happening?” Brandon asked nervously.

  Suddenly, Riley’s muscles clenched, and he became rigid as a board. Next came a series of grotesque jerking movements—arms flailing, face twitching.

  “He’s having another seizure,” Natalie said, holding his head in her lap until the paramedics arrived. She smoothed the hair off his brow, and Riley regained a moment of clarity and gave her such a fiercely hateful look, it chilled her to the bone.

  The boy in the woods. The raccoon. The stick.

  She pushed the bad memories aside and finally the paramedics took over.

  6

  By two o’clock in the morning, the crime scene was secured and Daisy’s body had been transported to the morgue. Two teams were working simultaneously—one in Haymarket Field; the other at the Buckner residence. Detective August “Augie” Vickers, a hardworking but unimaginative grinder, was in charge of Haymarket Field. Since Natalie had caught the case, she was the detective-in-charge of Daisy’s homicide, and the stakes couldn’t be higher.

  Not that she
hadn’t seen plenty of dead bodies before. As a patrol officer, she’d caught her fair share of suicides, car accidents, assaults, rapes, and carjackings. She’d made hundreds of arrests and filled out plenty of run sheets, but she’d never led a murder investigation beyond a couple of suspicious drug-related deaths. As the newbie and the only female in the unit, she didn’t have the luxury of fucking up.

  Luke was supervising both sites. He’d been traveling back and forth between them for hours now, issuing orders and getting updates. “Stay focused,” he’d advised her earlier that evening. “A little adrenaline is good. Stage fright keeps your performance sharp.” The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, making her temples pulse and heightening her senses.

  There were other voices inside the house. Detectives Lenny Labruzzo and Mike Anderson were methodically working their way through the first floor—photographing, fingerprinting, bagging and tagging. The BLPD couldn’t afford a CSI unit, so the detectives had to process the scenes themselves.

  Natalie went into the kitchen and hit a wall of decomposition—the putrid smell of decaying flesh you never got used to. The chalk outline on the floor looked cartoonish, not dignified. The puddle of blood had coagulated into a jellied pool, and Natalie felt a rush of outrage for her old friend. No one deserved this.

  Lenny had been over every surface of the kitchen already, looking for latents, visibles, smears, and plastics. The primary scene was dusted in red, white, and black fingerprint powder—everything but the stove dials. Natalie stood in front of the Bosch gas-range stove and studied the burners. Daisy had been in the middle of cooking dinner when she was attacked—there was a tepid pot of noodles on the back burner and chopped vegetables on a cutting board. But someone had turned the burners off before Natalie and Brandon entered the scene. The question was—who? Daisy or her attacker?