Five Days Post Mortem: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (Violet Darger FBI Thriller Book 5)

by L. T. Vargus

  Still, you need to give this a second. Let your nerves catch up.

  When it feels right, you give the body a little shove.

  It teeters on the edge for a fraction of a second, and then gravity rips it out into the void.

  Chapter 18

  The clock on the bedside table glowed blue-white. It was a harsh glow, and Darger couldn’t help but feel like the numbers were taunting her.

  3:42 AM, they sneered. You are never going to fall asleep.

  She rolled away from the clock, shut her eyes. Focused on breathing slow and deep.

  That lasted for three minutes, and then she was looking at the clock again.

  The numbers chortled. 3:45.

  Darger turned onto her back, mashing her head into the pillow with annoyance.

  She just needed to clear her mind. Think of something relaxing. Tranquil.

  A peaceful forest. Wind whispering through the trees. And a waterfall. The steady drum of the water showered down from a cliff above into a wide, shimmering pool. A fine mist hung in the air where the water struck the rocks below. Something bobbed gently in the water. It was pale and fleshy, and as it turned in the swirling current, Darger saw a woman’s head. It was Shannon Mead’s jawless face.

  Darger’s eyes snapped open.

  Fuck it.

  She threw off the covers and crawled over to her bag, sliding her laptop from its case.

  If she couldn’t fall asleep, she could at least try to get some work done.

  She ignored the triumphant laughter coming from the digital clock.

  Propping her pillow against the headboard, she leaned back and clicked through the files Prescott had sent. There were a lot. Hundreds of crime scene photos. Pages of autopsy reports. Dozens of witness interviews on video. Multiply it all times three. Darger had been over all of the photographs and skimmed most of the documents, but she hadn’t made it through all of the videos yet.

  She scanned the list of video files, trying to remember where she’d left off. Opening one, she caught a snippet of the interview with Maribeth Holtz’s husband.

  “Can you think of anyone that might have wanted to hurt your wife?” the detective asked.

  Mr. Holtz’s head was shaking from side to side before the question was even finished.

  “No. No one. My wife hated conflict. I don’t think I ever heard her even raise her voice at someone.”

  Darger closed the video. She’d watched that one already. The man had seemed numb with grief. Despite the fact that he wasn’t crying, he kept wiping his face. Like maybe he could swipe away bereavement the way windshield wipers dispersed rain.

  She skipped past the next two videos and tried another. This one featured Holly Green’s parents, the mother dabbing at her face with a tissue and rocking herself back and forth from time to time. One claw-like hand gripped her husband’s arm as if holding on for dear life.

  Darger had watched that one on the plane. At one point, she’d caught herself on the verge of tears and shut it off to avoid the embarrassment of crying in public.

  When she opened the next file, she almost gasped.

  The witness in the video bore an uncanny resemblance to the photos of Shannon Mead — when she was alive, that was.

  The woman sat in the interview room, barely moving. Unblinking and calm. She seemed distant. Detached, almost. And when she spoke, her voice was small. A girl’s voice — hesitant and timid.

  DETECTIVE: Thank you for coming down here Miss Porter. Do you mind if I record this interview? Makes it easier on us and you. We don't have to come back, asking the same questions over and over.

  PORTER: No. I mean… no, I don’t mind.

  DETECTIVE: Great. Thanks. Could you state your full name and age for me?

  PORTER: Kathryn Renee Porter. I'm thirty-seven years old.

  DETECTIVE: Now, tell me what you saw the evening of September 19th.

  PORTER: I was leaving work, and I saw Shannon -- Miss Mead -- in the faculty parking lot.

  DETECTIVE: And you work up there at the school, is that right?

  PORTER: Yes. I'm part of the custodial staff.

  DETECTIVE: OK. Do you remember what time it was?

  PORTER: I think it would have been about seven o'clock. The lights in the parking lot had just come on.

  DETECTIVE: And what was Miss Mead doing? How did you come to notice her?

  PORTER: It was pretty late. Aside from us and some of the maintenance workers for the district, people aren't usually around that late. Not unless there's some sort of function after school. So her car was one of the only cars in the lot.

  DETECTIVE: How did she seem to you? Scared? Pissed off? Worried?

  PORTER: No. She was… I almost want to say relaxed. She was like that. Always smiling and upbeat. She came to me once after one of her kids stuck a Mento in her Diet Coke. She was soaked head to foot, but she was still smiling.

  The detective interrupted.

  DETECTIVE: Sorry, say that again? A what in her Diet Coke?

  PORTER: You know... Mentos. The, uh, freshmaker. It's a candy. Or a mint, maybe? I'm not really sure. It comes in a long roll, like Lifesavers. Apparently they have a very volatile reaction with Diet Coke. It creates kind of a Coke volcano.

  DETECTIVE: And the kid did this on purpose?

  PORTER: Yes. He said he'd seen it on YouTube and thought it would be a funny prank.

  DETECTIVE: Was he trying to... I don't know, get back at her for something?

  PORTER: Oh, no! No, everyone loved Shan- Miss Mead. There was anything malicious in his intent, I don’t think. The student was quite upset, on the verge of tears, and she was actually comforting him. Which I thought was pretty forgiving considering Miss Mead was the one covered in Diet Coke. She just kept chuckling about it and patting his shoulder. She called it an "impromptu science experiment." I don't know many people that would react that way. I certainly wouldn’t have.

  Nodding, the detective scribbled something on his pad of paper.

  DETECTIVE: Back to the evening of the 19th. Did you talk to Miss Mead?

  PORTER: Yes, I asked if everything was OK. She said her car was acting up. I offered her a ride or to use my phone to call someone. She said, No thank you, that someone was coming to get her.

  DETECTIVE: Did she say who it was?

  PORTER: No.

  DETECTIVE: She didn't mention Uber, or that she'd called her boyfriend or anything like that?

  PORTER: I don't think she had a boyfriend.

  DETECTIVE: No?

  Kathryn Porter tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  PORTER: I mean... we never talked about it. I just assumed... she didn't seem the type.

  DETECTIVE: What type would that be?

  PORTER: I don’t mean anything by it. I only meant that she was very... ‘proper’ isn't quite the right word. She just always struck me as very modest. Virtuous. I can't imagine her traipsing around town with some man.

  DETECTIVE: Would you say you two were friends?

  PORTER: I don't know. ‘Friendly’ might be a better word for it. We'd say hello when we passed in the halls. And we had our little jokes.

  DETECTIVE: Jokes?

  PORTER: Oh, well... our hair? I got my hair cut a few months back, and I guess the kids thought we looked alike after that. So she started calling me her twin.

  Kathryn's cheeks got a little pink. A nervous smile flickered briefly over her lips and then disappeared.

  PORTER: Just one of those silly things, really. We don't actually look like twins, of course.

  It was true. Despite her initial reaction, the more Darger watched, the more she realized it was mostly the hair that caused her to see any resemblance. Both women had blunt-cut, shoulder-length hair, dark brown and parted in the center. Kathryn was less dainty than Shannon, who had an almost elfin appearance with her heart-shaped face and small, freckled nose. Shannon’s chin came to a point where Kathryn’s was more square, with a heavier jaw. And according to Shanno
n’s driver’s license, she was 5’3”. It was hard to tell in the video, but Kathryn looked taller and more athletically built. Shannon Mead had been soft and feminine. Kathryn Porter was all sharp angles.

  Horsey was the word Darger kept thinking, which she knew wasn’t all that kind. But it was true. Something about Kathryn’s long, hard face reminded her of a horse.

  Kathryn continued speaking in the video, twisting her hands in her lap now.

  DETECTIVE: And did she say anything else to you?

  PORTER: Not really, because her ride came just then.

  DETECTIVE: You saw the car?

  PORTER: Only from a distance. It was coming down the driveway to the school, and Shannon pointed and said, "That's my ride."

  DETECTIVE: Did you see the driver at all?

  PORTER: No. Like I said, it was only from a distance that I saw the car at all. As soon as she pointed it out, I said goodbye and drove away.

  DETECTIVE: What did the car look like?

  PORTER: It was getting dark, and I don't have the best eyesight. It was definitely a... what do you call a regular old car? Not a truck or station wagon?

  DETECTIVE: A sedan?

  PORTER: That's it! A sedan. And I think it was maybe brown or red? Something sort of warmish. Not blue or green.

  DETECTIVE: OK. And could you tell anything about the driver? Male or female? How they drove?

  The woman shook her head.

  PORTER: No. I’m sorry. I—

  The woman’s words seemed to cut off as if she were being choked. Indeed, her whole body seemed to tense, fingers closing into fists. Her chin quivered, and Darger thought she might be on the verge of a panic attack.

  But then she collapsed, shoulders slumping forward.

  PORTER: I just can’t stop thinking about that night. I feel like it’s my fault.

  DETECTIVE: It’s natural to feel that way. A lot of witnesses do. They feel like if they’d done something different, then maybe the person would still be alive.

  With a shaky hand, Kathryn wiped at her top lip.

  DETECTIVE: But you didn’t kill her. You tried to help her. And what you’re doing now? That’s helping her too. Because everything we learn puts us one step closer to finding this guy. OK?

  She nodded, and then the detective took something from his pocket and slid it across the table to her.

  DETECTIVE: I want you to take this card. It has my cell number on it. If you think of anything else, please give me a call. Anything at all.

  They stood, and the detective opened the interview room door and ushered the woman out.

  Darger brought out her own case notes and jotted down a few things. Questions to ask. Leads to follow up on.

  Check school surveillance footage.

  Uber/local taxi service? Call for ride logs.

  She yawned and glanced at the clock. It was almost 4:30. Her meeting with the locals was scheduled for ten o’clock. If she went to sleep now, she could squeeze in close to five hours.

  Or she could go over her profile again. Give it one final polish.

  She heard her mother’s voice in her head. You’re working too hard.

  And then Loshak. There has to be balance, kiddo. Turn the computer off and get some shut-eye.

  Fuck balance, Darger thought, and picked up her laptop.

  Chapter 19

  In the city, all the lights keep the night at a distance. Hold the real darkness somewhere up above. A perimeter glow that protects civilization like a dome.

  Not out here in the woods. The dark surrounds you, envelops you, presses itself into your skin.

  The night is right on top of you.

  Somewhere ahead, the river sloshes and babbles. Wet sounds that somehow reassure you in the dark. Something to focus on, to work toward.

  It’s close. The end of all of this is close. Just a few more minutes.

  You drag the bundle out toward that sound, moving slowly through the thicket. Elbowing your way through various types of plant life.

  The woods seem sinister at night. Thick and dark. Nearly impenetrable. All angular shadows and insect sounds. A tangled mess to pick your way through.

  A place empty yet cluttered, vacant yet teeming with life and sound. Strange.

  And the blanket keeps getting snagged on branches. Prickers gripping the fabric and holding on. Sticks prodding the corpse and springing off, wobbling for a long time after. Some of these you can muscle through. Rip out of like a running back breaking an arm tackle. Others you have to stop and detach.

  Dead leaves hiss where the bodyweight glides over them. Raspy sounds. And you realize that you’re blazing a trail now, mashing everything down, wearing something of a groove into the soil.

  You have to remember to kick at this disturbed path on the way back. You won’t have time to erase it or even conceal it much, but you can muss it up some. Better than nothing.

  And even the night’s chill cannot fight off the body heat you work up in this process. You have to stop a second and put your hands on your knees. Breathe. Let the sweat sluice down the back of your neck.

  The river is close now. You can see it somewhat in the moonlight. A dark flutter not so far away.

  It occurs to you that you don’t know why you go about it this way. Disposing of the bodies in the water. Rivers and lakes and ponds. Why?

  There are probably forensic advantages to this. Destruction of evidence and the like. The washing away of fingerprints. The water’s effect on body temperature and the rate of decay throwing off any ability to surmise an accurate time of death.

  But you weren’t thinking of these things the first time you lowered a corpse into the wet. Not at all.

  It just seems like the way it’s supposed to be. You put the dead in the water. Natural, somehow.

  There’s some feel of a ritual to it. Something religious or spiritual about being submerged in the water.

  It feels final. That’s all. Putting them in the water feels final.

  And the water sounds dislodge strange memories, strange feelings you only experienced as a child. Playing with your toys in the bathtub. Safe and warm. Innocent. Pure. The wet sounds take you back to this place, even if the context is different.

  Maybe it takes them back to that place, too. These girls. You put them in the water, and they can be innocent again. Maybe.

  You can make them pure again. Can make them clean.

  You grab two fistfuls of blanket and pull the body the last few feet to the water’s edge. Rest it there on the precipice.

  Up close, you can see the moonlight shimmering on ripples along the top of the river. Little shards of light that undulate and shimmy. Painted and erased over and over.

  And even in this morbid moment, life is beautiful and dark and strange. So stimulating. It’s almost too much to bear.

  You lift the bundle the best you can, get it a couple inches off the ground so it’s clear of any foliage. And you thrust with all of your strength to launch it out into the coursing stream. Arms flexing. Legs pistoning. Hips torquing.

  And then all that weight is gone from your hands. All that tension released.

  The bath sounds are everywhere. Splashing and gurgling. But it’s not quite right. Not how you remembered it. This water is cold. The pitch of the wet sound is off.

  And it smells just a touch like a swamp up close. No scent of baby shampoo to be found here.

  The blanketed corpse bobs in the water. Dunks under and pops back up. Flutters along. Half-twirling as the current catches it and starts to pull it along. The white of the blanket almost glowing in the dark.

  You squint to watch until the darkness swallows it for good, to watch it for as long as you can.

  Chapter 20

  Darger glanced at her phone, checking the time again. She’d arranged to meet Fowles here and had arrived early. Usually she was only early for appointments when she was nervous. Was she nervous?

  Excited, for sure. She hadn’t told Fowles what the medical examiner h
ad found in the water sample from Shannon Mead’s lungs. In fact, she hadn’t told him about the test at all. For some reason, she’d wanted to tell him in person. So the breakthrough would have maximum effect.

  A bell clanged over the front door as someone entered the small restaurant. Darger looked up, but instead of Fowles, two women entered, one young, one old. The younger woman held the door for her elder, who stooped over a walker. She had a wild tuft of white hair on her head. Coupled with the curvature of her spine, she looked like a palm tree being blown sideways in hurricane winds.

  Darger picked up the cappuccino in front of her, swirled the steaming elixir to redistribute the foam, and took a sip.

  It occurred to her for the first time that she was behaving a little like her partner. Withholding information so she could reveal it with a flourish? Straight out of Loshak’s playbook. But it was different, wasn’t it? She wanted Fowles to know that it was his work that had led to it. The inconsistencies he’d found with the insect activity on the body had been the first loose thread, a thread they’d pulled on until the knot unraveled and the truth became clear.

  The doorbell jangled again, and this time a familiar figure stood on the threshold. Fowles paused just inside the door, head swiveling to search the place. The cornflower blue eyes lit up when they spied Darger sitting in the back corner. He gave a small wave and headed over.

  The spunky barista with the messy ponytail bounced over to take his order. Fowles ordered a cold brew with milk, no sugar.

  “We have two different cold brews — light and medium.”

  “Light, please,” Fowles said.

  As the barista skipped off to make the coffee, Darger shook her head.

  “What?”

  “As well as being born with a natural curiosity, I also have an innate suspicion of anyone who prefers light roast. There are three things in this world that are meant to be dark: coffee, chocolate, and the night.”

  Fowles chuckled and shrugged.

  “To be honest, I don’t drink much coffee. Makes me jittery. I usually stick to tea.”