Beneath the Ashes

by Dea Poirier

  “Not that I know of. Everyone is always sharing log-in information. I’m not sure how helpful that would be,” she says with a shrug.

  “Can you tell me if anything of interest happened to those two patients while they were here?”

  Her eyes narrow. “I don’t remember anything about either of them, so I’d say not likely.”

  “Did you see Trent Ibben interact with either of them?”

  She raises a brow at that and leans in conspiratorially. “That guy who was fired for being a perv? Do you think he had something to do with what’s going on around here?”

  “I can’t say anything about it. I just need to know if he was in either of their rooms that you saw.”

  “No, not that I ever saw.”

  “If you think of anything else, please give me a call,” I say.

  I walk back out to the parking lot just in time to see Austin’s Fiat pull in beside my car. She climbs out, shoulders hunched against the cold.

  “Did she give you anything?” she asks.

  “We have confirmation that both women were patients here, but we need to check in with them to make sure they weren’t hurt and to see if Trent approached them.”

  She nods. “Follow me. We’ll stop at Lucy’s first,” she says, turning back to her car.

  Austin climbs into her car, and I do the same, turning over the engine in my Mustang. I follow her up Route 1 back into Camden and through a small neighborhood until we come to a stop outside a Queen Anne Victorian house. The house towers four stories, with an elegant turret. We both climb out of our vehicles and walk up the shoveled pathway toward the house. I knock on the door, and the sound of footsteps echoing on wood floors beyond warns me of someone’s approach.

  The door cracks open, revealing a short girl with long brown hair. She can’t be older than fifteen, maybe sixteen at the most. She glances between Austin and me, confusion painted on her features.

  “Lucy?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I’m Lucy,” she says hesitantly.

  “Would you mind if we come in and speak with you for a couple minutes?” I ask as I flash her my badge.

  She looks between us again, then back into her house, like she’s considering grabbing one of her parents. Finally, she waves us inside, and we follow her into the dining room to the left of the front door.

  “You’re both cops?” she asks as we take a seat at the table.

  I nod, then introduce myself and Austin. “I was hoping to talk to you about your stay in the hospital.”

  “Okay,” she says, still looking confused.

  I pull the lineup images from my jacket and arrange them on the table. “I’m going to show you five images, and I need you to tell me if you have seen any of these men before.”

  Lucy stands up, her dark hair shifting over her shoulders. Under the harsh lighting in the dining room, she looks remarkably pale. For a long time, she scrutinizes the pictures; then she points to Trent’s. My heart leaps.

  “You saw this man?” I ask.

  “I saw him while I was in the hospital. He was really cute and seemed cool. He asked me for my number.” Her cheeks go beet red, and she picks at her fingernails. “I know I shouldn’t have given it to him.”

  “Did he call or text you?” I ask.

  “Yes, he texted me to try to meet up with me. But when I didn’t respond, he called. He wanted to take me to one of those ATV races.” She crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “But I said no. I got a bad feeling about it.”

  “Did he ever try to get you to go anywhere else?” Austin asks.

  She shakes her head. “No, after I told him I wasn’t interested in going to the races, he never texted me again. He just ghosted me, which was . . . whatever.”

  “Did he say anything to you while you were in the hospital?”

  “He told me that he was a doctor there and that I was really cute. That’s it.”

  “Thank you for speaking with us today,” I say to Lucy, then pass her one of my cards. As Austin and I walk out of Lucy’s house, it’s clear to me that we have a really solid suspect now. With the phone, Lucy’s identification of Trent, the pictures on his phone, and the jewelry, we could start building a good case against him. Right now, it’s still all too circumstantial to charge him with anything, but if we keep stacking this against him, his involvement will be difficult to deny.

  I follow Austin across town to Paige’s house. Her story is eerily similar to Lucy’s, except that Trent didn’t ask her about an ATV race; he skipped straight to the motel. Paige was so uncomfortable with it all that she blocked his number. After a second positive identification in the photo lineup, I know we’re getting close.

  CHAPTER 17

  There’s a dull roar of activity inside the station, a chorus of voices, ringing phones. I head straight back through the bull pen toward Sergeant Pelletier’s office.

  I find him sitting at his desk, a phone held between his shoulder and ear. His eyes meet mine, and he holds up a finger, then points at one of the chairs. I take a seat and try not to focus on his conversation.

  “And how long will that take?” He pauses. “Well, see if it can be expedited and call me back.” He finishes up his call before jotting something on a legal pad in front of him. His features are tense but nearly unreadable. I wish I could tell what lies beneath the surface, but there isn’t even a hint.

  “I spoke to the district attorney late last night. They’ve got Trent’s case for child pornography and voyeurism on the docket. He’s going to be tried in three months. She says that if we want to pursue murder charges, we need to get them evidence as soon as possible. The DA said they brought up the jewelry we have with Trent during interrogation, and he claims that he will take things home if they sit in the lost and found too long, and the hospital verified that story, though they couldn’t verify every individual item.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I say before I can think better of it. My temper flares, and I clench my jaw against it. We know the items belonged to those girls, and Melanie was wearing the ring the days prior to her death, though her mother isn’t certain that she was wearing it the day of her death.

  “Trust me, I know. I don’t believe a word of it.” He sighs. “But it is what it is. If the DA needs more evidence, we’ll have to get it.”

  “I know. In the meantime, we should institute some additional security for specific patients who fit the profile, after they’ve been released from the hospital.” I’ve already mentioned it to Vera, but she didn’t seem remotely interested.

  “We have two officers in the hospital twenty-four seven, but it’s not going to do much good if these patients are meeting up with their killer after they’ve been released.”

  That must be new. I hadn’t heard about the officers. If I had known they could be spared, I would have recommended it sooner.

  “Anything else?” I ask as I start to stand.

  “No, just find out whatever you can.”

  I walk through the bull pen back toward Kenneth’s office. He’s had the burner phone long enough now that I’m hoping he knows something. I find him in his office engrossed in something on one of his three monitors. Though I try to decipher what it is exactly, his world is completely foreign to me.

  “Hey, Kenneth,” I say as I lean against one of the tables stacked high with computer equipment.

  He turns around and offers me a nod. “Afternoon.”

  “I wanted to see if we’d gotten any further with Ibben’s phone or the burner.”

  “There wasn’t anything of use on his real phone, but I did find some interesting things on the burner,” he says with a grin. He turns around and clicks open several programs on his computer. I step closer so I can make them out. “While looking at the burner phone, I found something odd. He took zero pictures on it. It’s like he had planned to be able to ditch it at a moment’s notice. It’d make sense for someone to keep the pictures they wanted on a phone they planned to keep around.”

  I
cross my arms as I listen to him. He has a point. Since it seems that Trent really liked taking pictures of the women at the hospital, I can’t imagine that he’d want to dump that phone and lose all the images.

  “At first, it seemed the location data had been purged from the device. But I was able to pull up the Google account that links to the phone. While the Google account is clearly a throwaway, it was tracking every location this phone ended up at. I’m guessing the user had no idea that the account was tracking their every move.”

  I straighten at his words, my eyes narrowing on the screen. There’s a long list of different coordinates and times. “Where can we place the phone?”

  “The hospital, Bald Mountain Preserve, Camden Hills State Park, both motels the victims were found at, and near Trent’s residence.”

  While it’s still circumstantial unless we can tie him to this phone, this paints a very clear picture. Having it link back to Trent’s home is going to be the biggest key in all of this. A defense attorney is going to have a hard time convincing a jury that Trent wasn’t involved, given all these variables. But despite that, we need to prove it was Trent beyond a reasonable doubt. I consider the arguments that could be made. GPS signals can be wrong, and Trent does have neighbors. It could be argued that one of them owned the phone.

  “That’s not all,” he says, spinning in his chair to face me.

  I raise a brow to that. “Oh?”

  “Before each homicide, or when I’d suspect the murders took place based on the timeline that we’ve seen, there was a call placed to another burner number,” he says. He starts to crack his knuckles.

  “Was he not working alone?” I ask. Was he calling someone else to the scene? Or was he communicating that he’d managed to do it? We know that Trent doesn’t have a significant other. There’s no one that he’d need to call and check in with at that time of night. Why else would he call anyone?

  “I don’t know,” he says softly. “I’m just relaying what I’ve found.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  He shakes his head. “That’s what I’ve found so far.”

  “And we’re sure that the number he was calling is a burner number?”

  He grabs a sheet of paper and hands it over to me. “It was registered to a carrier about six months ago. It’s a 917 number, which is a Manhattan or at least New York number.”

  “Does that mean the phone was purchased in Manhattan?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No, when these devices are set up, you can pick any area code you’d like. They could be purchased anywhere; there’s no way to know.”

  “Thanks, Kenneth.”

  I walk back to the bull pen with the new number in hand. There’s a very real possibility that Trent wasn’t working alone, and if that’s the case, who was he working with?

  CHAPTER 18

  I lean back in my office chair at my borrowed desk. The desks around me are full, but the station is quiet, eerily so. My eyes ache from going over the case files again. Though I’ve looked through everything again, trying to find who our suspect two might be, nothing is sticking out to me. Not being able to connect these dots is killing this case, killing me. My phone rings, an unrecognized local number appearing on the screen. As I accept the call, I press the phone to my ear.

  “Hello, Detective?” The voice of a young woman cuts through the static. “This is Tegan Hartley.”

  “Hi, Tegan,” I say, clicking up the volume, hoping it’ll help to hear her better.

  “You had asked me to let you know next time there was a race planned. I got a call today that they’ll need me out there tonight.”

  “Tonight? That’s short notice,” I say. But if we need to be out there tonight, I’ll go. I need to find out if there are other women at the race who Trent approached, who has been sending out the messages about the meet ups, and if it’s possible Trent brought our other suspect to any of these races.

  “The shorter the turnaround time, the less likely it will be that we ever get shut down,” she says, her voice fading in and out over the line.

  I can see her point. Word travels fast in towns like this. The more time that goes by, the more chances everyone will hear about it. If they want to keep up the races, the only way they can do that is by keeping people like me from knowing about it.

  “I can trust you with this, right, Detective?” Her voice comes clear through the static now. There’s an edge to it. I know how much this must mean to her, what a risk she’s taking.

  “I’m not planning on shutting you down, if that’s what you’re getting at. And I’ll make sure my partner knows why we’re going out there,” I say. And I mean every word. My goal isn’t to break this up. If it’s been going on this long, chances are it’s not causing any major harm. And they’ll just move it somewhere else anyway. Bringing people together like this helps build communities, helps keep them strong.

  I get the coordinates of the meet up, promise again that I won’t bust them, and end the call. Austin sits at her desk, typing away. I weave through the desks in the bull pen toward the coffeepot to grab a refill, and Austin follows me over.

  “Do you have plans tonight?” I ask.

  She raises a brow at that, her dark eyes filled with interest. “I’m not asking you on a date,” I say with a smile. “Tegan called. The race is tonight. Can you come? It’s at midnight.” I don’t know what Austin does outside the office, if she has a personal life, responsibilities. I don’t like having to ask these things of a partner I’m not familiar with.

  “Of course,” she says. “I’m going to see this whole case through with you. If you need me there tonight, I’ll be there.”

  “I need you to wear street clothes. While everything they’re doing up there is not entirely legal, we’re not there to bust them. We need to blend in. I don’t want to spook anyone or tip anyone off to our presence. And I’ve given Tegan my word that we won’t shut them down,” I explain.

  “I can do that,” she says.

  “And I appreciate if after this is all over, you don’t go after Tegan or the others up there for the races. They aren’t hurting anyone.”

  She shrugs like it hadn’t even occurred to her. “That suits me just fine,” she says.

  At ten p.m., I start pulling on insulated leggings I plan to wear under jeans. Then I drag out a sweater, socks, and black leather boots. Noah eyes me as I get dressed, his eyebrow quirked as if he’s absolutely loving the view.

  “Do you think that’ll be warm enough?” he asks.

  “Says the guy who doesn’t own a coat,” I fire back. Noah has been in Maine for over six months and doesn’t own anything heavier than a jacket. I’m always worried about him freezing to death. Maine isn’t the kind of place that you can make it through without a coat for long. If we stay here through another winter, I’ll have to buy him something warmer.

  He smirks. “I have a coat.”

  “You have jackets. You don’t have anything suited to this climate,” I say as I shake my head at him.

  “That’s not true.” He laughs low. “I have you.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I say playfully. But the words make my heart swell and my cheeks flush. I missed him. I missed us. I just hope we can stay on steady ground, that he can remain honest with me.

  “How long do you think you’ll be out there?” he asks as I finish lacing up my boots.

  “I have no idea how long these things usually go on for. But I’d say I should be back here by three a.m. at the latest. That is, unless we find someone we need to tail.”

  He nods. “I hope you find this guy.”

  “Thanks.” I offer him a quick kiss and grab a backpack I’ve filled with a few things I might need, in the event we’re in the woods longer than we expect. I’ve packed granola bars, water, extra flashlights, a map of the woods, a compass, a survival blanket, and a first aid kit, as well as the picture of Trent I intend to show around. Growing up in Maine taught me to be prepared. Though my parents were
never the type, I grew up around plenty of other Mainers who knew the importance of being prepared in the wilderness.

  On the way to Austin’s to pick her up, I stop and grab us both some coffee. We’re going to need something to keep us warm. We may be in early March, but the nights are still freezing. It’s not anything we’re not used to, but I have to be cognizant of it. Hypothermia can creep in fast. And it’s not just myself I’ve got to look after; it’s my partner too.

  I turn down the street Austin lives on, in a nice, well-manicured trailer park. Each house has a decent-size lawn. Though most of the grass is covered by snow, I can still make out the paving stones marking where flower beds will bloom in the spring. Shoveled sidewalks line each roadway, spiderwebbing throughout the neighborhood. Austin lives in a single-wide with a fenced-in yard. I text her when I pull in behind her Fiat and notice several toys stuffed between her car and the side of the house, as well as a little car and a small bike. Does Austin have kids? She’s never mentioned that. She doesn’t have any pictures on her desk.

  A few minutes after I send the text, she hops down the front steps. Austin has her dark hair pulled up on top of her head in a bun, and a flannel scarf is bundled around her neck. She’s got on a pair of jeans and a puffy black coat. It’s one of the few occasions I’ve seen Austin without her uniform, though I’ve tried to get her to stop wearing it several times. Her boots crunch on the snowy lawn before she climbs into my passenger side. I glance between her and the toys, then eye her carefully.

  “Do you have a child?” I ask as I motion to the little bike.

  She follows my gaze to the toys, and she stiffens slightly. The look on her face tells me that she never planned to bring it up. “Yes, I have a five-year-old, a daughter. Her name is Harper,” she says.

  “Why didn’t you—” I start to ask, but she holds up a hand to stop me.

  “Because if I talk about my daughter in that station, no one sees me as a cop. They see me as a mom. And that’s the end of the story. You don’t get two identities as a woman. ‘Mother’ overrides anything else.”