Phoebe stood at the edge of the field, shouting instructions to her players as they dodged back and forth after the ball. Aidan and Chris manned the refreshment table, ready with water and Gatorade for when players swapped, and selling cookies to loyal fans. It was a clear day; the clouds and drizzles of the morning had dissipated, leaving a full view of the playing field to the sun.
“You’re unusually quiet,” Aidan said. “Normally you’re screaming my ear off at the teams.”
Chris smiled and popped a whole cookie in his mouth. “I’m busy,” he mumbled, and crumbs tumbled down his shirt.
Aidan gave him a playful shove.
“Hi.”
She looked up and saw Trent standing there. He wore blue jeans and a dark gray Washington State sweatshirt.
“Hi,” she said, slightly surprised he had come, and delighted. He was going out of his way to spend time with her. It was flattering, and disarming. Phoebe had raved how lucky Aidan was when she told her he had taken her dancing. He was interested, and Aidan was unaccustomed to his small, subtle ways of showing it.
They had touched briefly on her life history during their first date, and she had told him the line: how she had been adopted at eleven-years-old, and how she had no memory of her life before that time. It wasn’t a lie. Though the whole truth would have been that she didn’t have a life before the age of eleven. In centuries past, when she retook human form, she would return to a youthful twenty-year-old body; back then it hadn’t mattered. Now, in the age of social security numbers, she needed ID. The only way to do that was to throw herself into the childcare system, but at an age where she had enough faculties to survive should it not go well. It always passed off as a tragic tale to those around her, but Trent had offered no pity, and had respectfully moved on at her direction.
Chris nudged her elbow.
“Swallow first,” Aidan told him. “Trent, this is Chris; Chris, this is Trent.” The two men shook hands and took a male moment to evaluate each other. Aidan pretended not to notice. “Phoebe is his sister, the coach screaming over there.”
“Nice to meet you,” Trent said. “So, which team am I rooting for?”
“The Eagles, red,” Aidan answered.
“They any good?”
“Made it to Nationals last year,” Chris said.
Someone scored a goal and the stands erupted in howls.
“Thanks for coming,” Aidan said, feeling the need to be polite. She wasn’t sure yet how to reciprocate his advances, and the lack of protocol for dating and courtship in this decade left her on wobbly ground. That was one thing she found very annoying about living as a human: as soon as she learned one set of expectations for behavior, they seemed to change.
Trent glanced at the spread on the table. “Are those the cookies you baked?”
“Yeah.” Aidan smacked Chris’s hand as he reached for another one. “They’re two dollars.”
Chris cradled his stung fingers. “Charging prospective boyfriends?” he asked in mock disdain. “They’re not even baked from scratch. Nestle cookies, dough bought from the store. Aidan has no talent. I hope that doesn’t turn you off, Trent.”
“I can bake!” she said, surprised by her vehement defense.
Trent grinned. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”
Aidan turned toward him. “Oh?”
He nodded. “Yeah. How about I cook you dinner and you bake the dessert?”
She had heard that line before, but not in this decade. “I thought you couldn’t cook.”
“Why’d you think that?”
Aidan laughed. “You bought a gourmet meal for a firehouse rather than cook for them. I assumed it was because you couldn’t.”
“I never said I couldn’t cook, but cooking for fifteen guys and then cleaning up afterward is not nearly as fun as cooking for a beautiful woman.” He gave her a disarming smile.
Yep, she had definitely heard that line before, sometimes genuine, sometimes not. Coming from him though, she found it rather charming.
“Hmm,” Chris said. “Sounds like a gentleman.”
Trent reached up to tip an imaginary cowboy hat. “I’m from the South.”
“Uh-hmm,” Aidan mumbled in consideration.
The ref blew the whistle for half time and the table became crowded with girls pushing for drinks. Aidan and Chris had both hands full as they simply held bottles out and eager hands snatched them away. The mass retreated as quickly as it had come, eager to consume sustenance before the game resumed.
“Stop eating the cookies, Chris,” Phoebe said, and grabbed a bottle of water.
“We’re down by one,” he said.
“We’ll make it up,” she retorted.
Chris smiled. “I know. Aidan’s got a friend to introduce you to.”
Phoebe’s face brightened and she whirled on the only other person still standing by the table. “Hi!” She held her hand out to Trent. “I’m Phoebe.”
“Trent,” he said, and shook. “You’ve got a good team there.”
“We work for it. You and Aidan joining us for pizza afterwards?”
“Uh…” He looked at Aidan, who didn’t offer a sign in any direction—she didn’t want to pressure him—and then nodded slowly. “Sure.”
Phoebe smiled and took a large swig of water. “Cheers then.” She went back to the team to give them encouragement and plays before half time was over.
Trent looked back at Aidan. She gave him a small smile and held up a plate of cookies. He took one with a nod of thanks.
“You still owe me a true dessert,” he said.
The Eagles won by one goal. Trent cheered with as much enthusiasm as a truehearted fan, which pleased Aidan. It didn’t seem as though he were putting on a show for her, but that he could truly engage in whatever environment he found himself. They, the team, and some of the players’ parents went for pizza at Round Table to celebrate a game well played. Aidan, Trent, Phoebe, and Chris shared a booth while the noisy girls took up three tables on the other end of the banquet room.
“How’d you get into coaching?” Trent asked.
“I played in high school,” Phoebe said. “One of my old teammates has a younger sister who plays now, and when they needed a replacement coach, their mom asked me.”
“Phoebe even convinced her psych professor to use her hours coaching as part of her fieldwork,” Aidan said.
Trent let out a low whistle. “I bet psychology comes in handy when dealing with a handful of hormonal athletes.”
Phoebe mumbled her agreement and added a dramatic eye roll. “It does, and I love it. You play anything?”
“Basketball.”
She grinned. “Maybe we should play sometime.”
“No,” Chris interrupted. “You’re way too competitive, and we don’t want to scare him off just yet.”
“I beg your pardon.” Aidan gave him a slight kick under the table.
Trent appeared amused. “How long have you known each other?”
“We met as undergrad freshmen,” Aidan said. “During a heist.”
Trent nearly choked on his soda. “I’m sorry?”
Aidan exchanged a conspiratorial grin with Phoebe before going into an explanation. “My dorm was on Upper Campus, and I had a night class on Lower. It was dark and late. Then this guy and girl in one of those golf cart-like maintenance vehicles pull up and ask if I want a ride.”
“I didn’t know it was stolen,” Phoebe interjected.
Aidan tried to keep her laughter under control so she could finish. “So I accept, and the next thing I know, Campus Security is running toward us, waving their flashlights and yelling at us to stop.”
“By then I had figured out my brother had not borrowed it ‘with permission,’” Phoebe said, using air quotes.
Chris shook his head and kept his eyes on his food.
“It then became a high-speed chase, as high-speed as a golf cart can get, anyway,” Aidan continued. “I’m sure we would have crashed with Ph
oebe hitting Chris and screaming at him, except he finally decided to stop. I think he realized he’d rather face the law than his sister.”
“Yes, indeed,” Phoebe said.
Chris put his hands up. “But I did get you back to your dorms safely.”
Aidan laughed. “Yeah, well, our friendship kind of took off from there.” She glanced over at Trent who had been chuckling throughout the story.
“Guys in college,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve got some stories too.”
“Let’s hear!” Chris exclaimed.
Trent grinned and glanced at Aidan. “Maybe next time.”
Phoebe feigned a look of disappointment, but changed the subject. “What’d you study in school, Trent?”
“Business. Didn’t really have a taste for it though.”
“So you became a fireman?” she asked.
Trent laughed to himself. “Yeah. I was bored and wanted a job. As it turned out, that’s where I belonged.”
Phoebe sipped soda through a straw and glanced at Aidan. “Are you two going line dancing again?”
“Actually, they’re having dinner,” Chris said. “Aidan’s baking skills have been challenged.”
Phoebe cast her a not-so-covert brow waggle. Aidan felt her cheeks go warm.
“If you guys like dancing too, we should all go sometime,” Trent said. “It’s a lot of fun. Every once in a while some guys from the firehouse join me.”
Aidan relaxed and smiled. He was making an effort with her friends. He didn’t exclusively hone in on her, which other girls might be annoyed by, but Aidan had been on the “it’s just the two of us in the whole wide world” train, and she wanted something more holistic this time. Trent was interested in her life, and that included her friends. She just might have to convince Phoebe and Chris to take him up on that dancing offer.
Chris had finished his pizza, and Phoebe asked if he wanted more. “No thanks,” he said. “I’m gonna get going.”
“It’s still early,” she protested. “And you normally eat like three slices.”
Chris shrugged. “Guess I ate too many of those cookies. Besides, I have a lot of studying to do.” He kissed her forehead and waved at the rest of them. “Nice meeting you, Trent.” He held his hand out and the two shook, this time with less testosterone.
“You too.”
Phoebe slid into the middle of the booth. The three of them talked a bit more until the players began to disperse as well. Trent said goodbye, and Aidan and Phoebe walked back to the car together.
“I like him,” Phoebe said, and gave Aidan’s arm a squeeze.
Aidan grinned; she liked him too. “Want to help me find a recipe to knock his socks off?”
Phoebe beamed. “My pleasure!”
Chapter Five
Cameras clicked incessantly, documenting the scene of a woman lying behind some bushes in a local park. Her clothes were soaked after the steady rain of the night before, the bruising around her neck bright against the white pallor of her skin. Yellow police tape marked the perimeter of the crime scene. Investigators combed the area while uniformed officers took preliminary statements from bystanders at the police line.
Bryan lifted the briefcase from next to the woman after it had been tagged and photographed, and set it on a bench to look at the contents. “It’s Kerri Broderick,” he said. The woman had been reported missing the previous Monday after she didn’t show up for work. There was no evidence of a break-in or struggle at her house, and officers couldn’t locate her car, so the theory had been that she had run off for some unexplained reason. That was, until the body turned up.
Jess stood over the victim, waiting for Casey’s determination. “You’re going to say strangulation, aren’t you? And those are burns like Jenny Rosland?”
Casey nodded. “I’m afraid so. A couple days old too. Looks like infection was starting to set in.” She pointed to the dark discoloration on the side of the victim’s legs. “Lividity, also inconsistent with the body’s position now.” Casey lifted the edge of the woman’s skirt. “There doesn’t appear to be any rape, but I’ll know for sure once I do the full exam.”
Jess shook her head. “I really didn’t want this to become a pattern.”
Bryan came closer. “Check it out: red hair. This guy may have a type.”
“Any sign of her car in the area?” Jess asked a uniformed officer.
“No.”
“What do we think about the guy who found her?” she asked.
“He’s a local. Walks his dog every morning down this side of the park,” the officer said.
“Alright.” Bryan ran a hand over his hair. “We’ll check him out anyway, just to be sure.” He turned back to Casey. “Any chance of physical evidence?” There had been nothing on Jenny Rosland. With no rape, they didn’t have a DNA sample, and whatever trace had been found on her was still being run against everything in the trash she had been dumped on. CSU would be busy with that for a while.
Casey shook her head. “Not much with the rain, especially if she’s been here all night.”
“Where are the cars?” Jess said. “Missing Persons said Kerri didn’t make it home the night she went missing: the mail was still in the box, and the empty garbage bins were still at the curb. So she must have been grabbed somewhere between work and home.”
“He doesn’t want anyone to know what’s happening until he’s ready,” Bryan said. “Up until now there was the possibility that Kerri had just taken off on her own. So he takes them and the cars because he wants that doubt. It takes a bit of the pressure off him.”
“Not anymore,” Jess muttered. “We should look at victimology, see if there’s anything else these girls have in common besides their hair color. Maybe a location where he picks them.”
Bryan sighed and shook his head. “It’s a good day to be blond.”
They watched the M.E. and her assistant place the body inside a black bag and zip it up.
“It’s only been two weeks,” Jess said. “We may be looking at another body soon.”
Casey stood up as officers lifted the bag and placed it on a gurney. “What are you going to tell the press?” She nodded to three reporters who had gathered at the perimeter.
Jess rolled her eyes. “Leave it up to the Chief.”
When Bryan and Jess arrived back at the station, two other reporters stood in front of the doors.
“Is there a serial killer on the loose?” one clamored.
“Should women with red hair be dyeing their hair a different color?”
“Are you insane?” Jess snapped.
Bryan grabbed her by both shoulders and steered her inside, leaving the reporters shouting after them. He led her down the hall to the bullpen and to her desk. He sat down across from her and folded his hands in his lap. “You know they say stuff like that just to get you to respond. They know we’ve been conditioned to ignore the typical questions.”
“Yeah,” she sighed.
Bryan stared at her for a moment. “If this guy was going after blonds, would you think about dyeing your hair?”
Jess gave him a dark look. “Is that what you want to tell the public? That every time a serial killer starts killing women, we all should just dye our hair so he won’t have any more to fit his type?”
He shrugged. “You don’t think it would slow him down, if he can’t find what he’s fantasizing about?”
“I think he’d dye their hair himself.”
Bryan thought about it, and then nodded. “You’re probably right. So, let’s see if we can’t find any commonality between our two victims.”
Many hours and two take-out meals later, they hadn’t found anything to suggest the two victims had crossed paths. The women lived in different areas of town, shopped at different stores; one spent most of her time at school while the other at work.
Casey appeared in the doorway. “No luck?” She had cleaned up and was dressed for a night out, her wavy brown hair spilling over bare, tanned shoulders
.
Bryan looked at the clock with the realization that the workday was long over, and tried to blink the blurriness from his eyes. “Not yet. You finished?”
“Yes.” Casey handed him the autopsy report. “Everything’s consistent with your first victim, down to the type of instruments he used to burn them. Ligature marks on the wrists show they were restrained by something, but it’s a wide and straight pattern, like a shackle or something.”
Bryan looked up. “Shackles? You’re serious?”
“This guy is unique, to put it mildly. Shackles aren’t exactly common usage; maybe he doubts his own strength and is taking as much precaution as he can. That could also explain the rope he used to strangle them; he may not possess the physical strength to do it himself.”
“No rape?” Jess brought up.
“That doesn’t mean it’s not a sexually motivated crime,” Casey replied. “He gets a release from the torture and act of murder, but since the torture goes on for days, I’d say that’s his real pleasure.” Casey had been taking behavioral science classes and was becoming quite the profiler for their department. Though listening to her give a psychological analysis while dressed in a slim red dress made Bryan feel off balance.
Jess looked over the photos. “He doesn’t experiment. He obviously prefers fire.”
“Fire has a lot of different meanings,” Casey said. “From punishment to regeneration.”
“I wonder which is his,” Bryan said.
“Hard to say. Good luck.” Casey turned and left.
Bryan moaned and ran his hands through his hair. It had been a long day and he just wanted to sleep. It was a terrible feeling, knowing that they needed evidence to catch this guy, and the only way to get it was to wait for more victims and for the day the killer eventually slips up. What consolation does he give to the families of the victims that come between now and that time though? How can he look them in the eye, knowing that it was going to happen and being unable to stop it? Maybe that’s why Bryan avoided his friends now; they could see the toll this job takes etched onto his face, and they didn’t need the reminder that the world doesn’t work the way it should.
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