The Girls in the Snow: A completely unputdownable crime thriller (Nikki Hunt Book 1)

by Stacy Green

  She ran through her notes from the day while she ate, hoping something would jump out at her.

  Liam had spoken with the two dancers John always requested at The Doll House. Both said that nothing specific about him stood out other than being a good tipper. He’d complained about his wife, but no more than any other guy. He never mentioned children. None of the girls felt he acted inappropriately with them, and none of them remembered any specific interactions between John and Janelle.

  The information should have eased her mind, but Liam had saved the best for last. John had told Nikki that he started going to The Doll House after Madison went missing, but both dancers said John started coming to the strip club a full two months before the girls disappeared. The club’s owner had emailed Liam six months of archived security footage. Liam and Miller had stayed late at the sheriff’s office and were currently going through the recordings. John seemed to visit the same time every day, between 10:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m.

  If Brianna’s information was accurate, the Bankses’ marital problems had started well before the girls disappeared and he’d lied to Nikki. And if what Briana said about the pictures Bailey had found was true, were the women simply sleeping or had they been drugged? And if he’d drugged those other women, what had he done to Nikki that night? Is that why her tox screen had been buried all those years ago? Nikki wondered just how far John would go to bury this.

  Minnesota was a no-fault state, and Amy would get half in a divorce regardless of the reason for it. Did he have a motivation for keeping his affairs a secret?

  Madison’s injuries were key. Whoever had killed the girls had treated them very differently. John could have killed someone in a fit of passion, but would he beat up his own daughter and leave her to freeze to death?

  John certainly knew the press strategy regarding Frost. He also knew how stubborn Nikki could be when she made up her mind about something. Staging Janelle’s killing to look like a Frost victim could have been his way to lead her off course.

  But if John had been getting away with drugging and raping women for years, he knew how to choose the right victim, how to lure her and how to cover his tracks. Leaving fingerprints was a rookie move. Unless the stress of covering up his crimes caused him to make a costly mistake.

  Everything pointed to John, and yet nothing added up. Maybe stepping away from the case for a little while would help her figure out what she’d missed. She grabbed the remote and turned on the television, searching for anything to take her mind off the case and clear her head. Infomercials and reality television didn’t exactly help.

  She glanced at the table, half-wishing she hadn’t asked the district attorney to send her copies of her parents’ case file. Did she really want to do this?

  She had to. If there was any chance Mark was telling the truth, Nikki owed it to her parents to find their real killer. And to help get Mark out of prison. Nikki had put her trust in John, and for the first time in her life she was questioning him. What if everything he’d told her was a lie? What if he’d slipped the liquid ecstasy into her drink? What had he intended to do to her?

  Nikki lifted the lid and tossed it aside. A copy of the evidence log sat on top. Her father’s bloodstained pajamas and slippers, her mother’s nightgown and the bottom bedsheet, and various items from Nikki’s room and the nightstand were listed, with the chain of custody stating they were currently in the prosecutor’s office pending testing, in addition to the swabs taken from her mother’s face.

  She started with the photos. Her hands shook, and the contents of her stomach threatened to make an appearance. The images had already been scorched into her brain, but the photos contained details she’d forgotten. She had to look at them with a trained eye. The first few shots consisted of the exterior of the house. Then photos of the bloody footprints on the stairs and upstairs hallway. The photographer had followed crime scene protocol and worked from the outside of the scene in, so the first picture was a full shot of the bedroom. Her mother lay on the bed, arm dangling off the side, blankets on the floor, including her grandma’s quilt. Nikki couldn’t stand to have it around afterwards, so she’d put it in storage, along with other items she couldn’t look at but would never get rid of.

  There were defensive wounds on her mother’s hands. Her face was slack, sightless eyes wide.

  Nikki spread the pictures out on the table and then dug through until she found the coroner’s report. A bullet had grazed her mother’s shoulder and then embedded into the wall as she likely fled the killer after she’d gone to check on her husband. Marks on her feet showed she’d probably been dragged and then thrown back into the bed. Had she fought him off and then tried to get up, only to have him shoot her in the stomach?

  The coroner estimated she took several minutes to die.

  Your mother died instantly. She didn’t suffer. Hardin had made it a point to comfort her with the information. He’d said it several times in the days after the murder.

  The coroner didn’t indicate how long it took to accumulate that much blood loss, but given the body temperature and blood coagulation state, he estimated she’d been dead for an hour or more, which put time of death between 1:00 a.m. and 2:00 a.m.

  Nikki had found her at 2:17, and the blood had already clotted on the sheet.

  Postmortem bruising on her mother’s wrists indicated both hands had been grasped by the killer. There was also postmortem bruising on her cheeks, chin and neck. Nikki thought it looked like the killer had held her hands over her head, and that indicated a sexual assault. Any cop with an ounce of sense would have come to the same conclusion. No wonder the deputy collecting trace evidence had issues.

  Had Hardin lied to Nikki about her mother’s sexual assault to save Nikki some grief or to save his investigation?

  She took a break and opened the cheap bottle of red she’d picked up earlier. Anger coursed through her. Her parents’ lives had been brutally cut short and Nikki’s only solace had been knowing their killer was in prison. But what if she’d been wrong this whole time?

  She sifted through the paperwork, re-reading the detailed accounts from John and his friends. There was no mention of Nikki passing out or acting incoherently, nor were there any notes about drugs being at the party. Was Nikki putting too much stock in the paramedic’s story? Trauma made people say strange things.

  Why would Hardin lie about the tox test? The paramedic had nothing to gain from his involvement, but Hardin had everything to lose.

  Nikki sifted through the exterior photos again. The farmhouse they lived in sat at the end of a long, circular drive. Surrounded by mature trees, it had been nearly invisible from the gravel road. At the time, the rural area had several well-used dirt and gravel roads, but in general the only traffic belonged to the people who lived in the area. The handful of families watched out for each other. If someone saw a strange person or vehicle, they would have reported it.

  Mark Todd’s parents had a small farm about a half a mile away. He could have taken a few different routes to her parents’ house, but the fastest was straight through the cornfield.

  Hardin hadn’t looked for other suspects because there weren’t any.

  Gunshot residue tests hadn’t been taken due to the close quarters and proximity of the victim to Mark. At least one thing had gone in favor of due process. If Mark really was innocent, he would still have residue from checking her mother’s pulse.

  Nikki looked at the diagram used to show her father’s wounds. The bullet had embedded in the base of his skull, indicating her father was either kneeling or in the process of getting up when he’d been shot. Nikki realized that if Mark was standing up and her dad had been kneeling, at that close range, his pants would have been hit with blood spatter at the very least.

  Nikki studied the photographs of Mark’s clothes. There appeared to be a couple of small blood spots on his hip, but they could have been from contact with Nikki’s mother.

  Budget and inexperience meant that no bl
ood spatter analysis had been done, but a damning report in 2009 completely changed the science of blood spatter, so any analysis likely would have been rejected if Mark received a new trial.

  Nikki looked at the pictures of Mark Todd for a long time. Blood smeared the Led Zeppelin logo on his T-shirt, his jeans appeared mostly clean, as did the top of his shoes. Nikki wasn’t a blood spatter specialist, but the white Nikes that Mark wore when he stepped in her mother’s blood and made tracks should have some sort of spray on the top, even if just a droplet, from shooting her father. If the deputy had been right about the angle, Nikki had a hard time believing those Nikes would be clean.

  Photocopies of Hardin’s original notes, mostly witness interviews and tips, were clipped together. Nikki flipped through the pages, recognizing familiar names, including Bobby’s father, Robert. He and two other friends verified John’s account of the night, but where were the others? There had been at least a dozen people at the party before Nikki had gone into the bedroom. Even if they’d left by the time Mark tried to attack her, Hardin should have made sure every person had been interviewed.

  Hardin’s interview with Nadine Johnson, the neighbor who’d allowed Nikki inside and called the police, was more detailed than the partygoers’. Relief washed over Nikki when she realized that Nadine’s statement matched her own memories, but it quickly evaporated when she read the final sentences.

  Nadine had heard a loud engine roaring down the gravel road around 2:00 a.m. She’d still been awake when Nikki came pounding on the door thirty minutes later. Nadine told Hardin the engine reminded her of the muscle cars that used to race on the dirt tracks.

  A vehicle racing down the gravel road that time of night wasn’t uncommon, especially on the weekends. But a muscle car speeding past in the same timeframe as her parents’ murder was something entirely different.

  Mark Todd drove a beat-up station wagon.

  John’s restored 1968 Shelby Mustang’s engine had been so loud that whenever Nikki snuck out, she had to walk all the way down her parents’ long driveway to meet John. He’d park on the side of the gravel road, and Nikki always heard the car’s idle before she was halfway down the drive.

  Everything seemed to lead back to John Banks.

  Had Hardin brushed the information off because it didn’t bolster his case against Mark?

  Nikki gathered every piece of evidence, carefully putting it in order. She corked the wine and rinsed her glass. The hotel suite was chilly, so she turned up the thermostat.

  Her parents had argued over the heat every winter.

  Tears welled in her eyes. She unzipped her suitcase and pulled out the manila envelope she’d taken from her nightstand drawer the previous night. The envelope contained their last family photo, taken the summer before the murders.

  Her throat constricted. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at their pictures. Her father had been tall and lean, his hands perpetually calloused from working on the farm. He’d worn his farmer’s tan with pride, and his hair never quite behaved. He’d slicked it back for the picture. Her mother hated it.

  Nikki looked more like her mother than she’d realized. Same dark, wavy hair, porcelain skin and strong cheekbones. Her mother never showed her teeth when she smiled because she’d been embarrassed by their crookedness. She’d taken a second job waiting tables to help pay for Nikki’s braces. Had Nikki ever thanked her for that?

  Fat tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed onto the picture. She carefully wiped off the moisture and put it back into the envelope.

  Nikki didn’t know if Mark had killed her parents anymore. But she couldn’t stop running from the idea. If Mark was really innocent, then everything that Nikki knew was a lie. Even worse, his innocence meant the real killer was still out there.

  Nikki scrolled through her contacts. Civilians had to make their appointments during normal hours, but she hoped the number she’d found had a human being monitoring it.

  A tired male voice answered the phone. “Minnesota Correctional Facility.”

  “This is Special Agent Nicole Hunt with the FBI. I need to set up a visit with an inmate as soon as possible.”

  Thirty-Two

  Nikki pulled into the snowy driveway, her nerves on edge. Nadine Johnson’s two-story house looked as she remembered, but the willow trees were much taller, their bare branches growing well past the roof. Nikki had played house beneath those long branches during Nadine’s summer barbeques, enjoying the strawberry lemonade Nadine had made especially for her.

  Nadine had to be nearing seventy now, still living in the little cottage a couple of football fields from Nikki’s old house. Nikki used to walk through the big strawberry patch in the summer to visit her. She’d taken the same route escaping from Mark when she’d fled the house that night: ran as fast as she could through the gardens, not knowing if she was being followed, if she’d even make it there.

  After the murders, Mrs. Johnson wanted Nikki to stay with her, but the courts had given Nikki’s great-aunt custody of her. And Nikki shut Mrs. Johnson out as she’d done the others.

  “So you’re telling me that Amy Banks knows John was, at minimum, cheating, and that he might have drugged women?” Liam’s voice filtered through the jeep’s Bluetooth system.

  “According to Brianna, yes, Amy saw the pictures. But without more evidence, John’s drugging them is just speculation. They may have been sleeping.”

  “I doubt it, but I guess people have weird fetishes.”

  “Janelle had GHB in her system.” Nikki read the email from Dr. Blanchard out loud. “Given the high quantity, probably taken within a few hours of her death. She was also intoxicated.”

  “I’ve talked to Janelle’s mom and sister. They both said she didn’t do drugs. And she’s got no arrests on file.”

  “Blanchard said she would have definitely been incapacitated.”

  “Forcing her to take it would make her easier to control,” Liam said. “What about Madison and Kaylee?”

  “Both negative,” Nikki replied.

  “You know what bugs me?” Liam didn’t pause long enough for her to reply. “John’s probably six feet tall and still in good shape. He wouldn’t need drugs to control her.”

  “Not physically, but the drugs would keep her quiet. My issue is this sudden major mistake. If John’s been doing this for a long time, he knows how to cover his tracks. Assuming he didn’t kill any of the women in the pictures, why kill Janelle? Did she wake up and threaten him?”

  “He’s coming apart because of Madison,” Liam suggested. “Even if he didn’t kill the girls, he’s under a lot of stress. He drugs Janelle and does his thing, and then something happens, and she ends up dead. He panics and tries to leave her as a Frost victim to cover his tracks.”

  The theory made sense, but it didn’t sit right with Nikki. They didn’t have enough for a clear picture, and bringing John in for questioning—much less arresting him—was out of the question without concrete evidence. Brianna’s story needed to be corroborated.

  “We need Amy Banks to confirm she saw the pictures.” If Nikki’s suspicions were correct and John had done the same thing to Nikki all those years ago, Amy was less likely to confide in her. “I asked Miller to talk to her this morning, but without proof that John killed her daughter, she’s unlikely to turn on him. Are you going to Eau Claire?”

  “On my way now. Janelle only brought the necessities when she moved. A lot of her things are at her mother’s. It’s probably a waste of time, but I want to go through everything.”

  “It’s not a waste of time. Tiny details usually make or break a case. And we know they were killed by the same person.”

  “You sure you don’t want to go with me?” Liam asked.

  “I wish I could, but I’m following a possible lead.” She waited for him to press her for details, but they’d worked together long enough that he trusted her.

  “Let me know what you find.”

  “Will do.”
/>
  She ended the call and immediately started second-guessing herself. But she wasn’t just here on personal business. John was a murder suspect. Questioning Nadine about what she heard the night her parents were murdered was prudent. If he’d lied then, what else had he lied about? And what else had he done?

  Nikki locked the jeep and walked toward the house, taking a familiar path.

  Nikki took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Would the woman even recognize her?

  Mrs. Johnson looked exactly the same, with whiter hair and a slightly stooped posture.

  “Nicole Walsh? Is that you?”

  “Hi, Mrs. Johnson. Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” She smiled. “And it’s Nadine, please. You’re not a kid anymore.”

  Nikki followed her into the familiar house, her throat knotting. The furniture had changed, but the general arrangement remained the same. Two chairs flanked the big bay window that overlooked the old Zephyr line. Her parents had loved the now-defunct dinner train, and every time they had a romantic night out on the Zephyr, Nikki would sit at the window watching the train rumble past. The route was now Brown’s Creek Trail. “You still have a lovely view.”

  “Thank heavens,” Nadine said. “I was afraid when the train stopped running the bulldozers would come next. But the nature preserve is just lovely.”

  “You look well.”

  “I can’t complain.” Nadine studied her for a moment. “Your hair is shorter. I told you cutting it to your shoulders would make it curl.”

  Nadine had owned a successful hair salon for years in downtown Stillwater. Beauty salons like Nadine’s had been the center of town. Nadine always knew everything about everyone; people came to her with gossip, especially their neighbors.

  “You were right. I spent so many years dealing with that long mess.”

  “Would you like some coffee? I just made some.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Nadine sat down in front of the window. “Please, sit down. You’re with the FBI. A profiler, right? Like the ones on television?”