Heart of Ice

don’t want to be the last to know if the killer is one of the boys we know from the frats.”

“I’ll phone the Lewiston PD now,” Emily said.

This was a friend of her daughter’s, and while they were not close, it was a tragic outcome. She piled her coat on the sofa and started for the bedroom. There were few secrets between mother and daughter, but such a call warranted some privacy. She dialed Lewiston PD, explained who she was and that her daughter knew the girl. A young woman working in investigations said she’d let her know if anything broke with the case.

“We’re still figuring out jurisdiction issues. Not sure if we’re the crime scene or the police on the other side of the river in Washington should handle.”

“Thanks.”

“Sheriff Kenyon, I will tell you that it’ll probably take one of those TV forensic docs to give us the cause of death on this one. I’m told not much was left of her. Lots of animal activity.”

Emily hung up, feeling the discouragement of the young woman’s words take over. Cause of death was crucial to determining the who of a murder case. If she’d been shot, it might have been random, a stranger. If she’d been stabbed, it more than likely could have been someone she knew. Same with strangulation. Murders of the close kind were almost always personal.

Done by someone who knew the victim or selected them for a purpose.

A bag of bones would tell few tales.

More than a thousand miles away, a man logged on to his computer and typed into a search engine the words TIFFANY + JACOBS. The quest was a nightly ritual, one he’d undertaken since he dumped her body in a ditch in Idaho.

For the past weeks, there had been nothing new. Just the forty-some news accounts about the missing sorority sister from Cascade University. There were some photos showing the beautiful young woman, some of her parents, some shots of the campus. Until that particular night, the man wondered if she’d ever be found.

And I didn’t even try very hard to hide the bitch, he thought.

On that particular evening, there was some news. The number of articles about Tiffany Jacobs had suddenly doubled.

Missing Coed’s Body Found

A Lewiston rancher found the remains of what police have confirmed as the body of Tiffany Anne Jacobs, 21, in a field near his home yesterday morning, Idaho State Police reported.

Exact cause of death has yet to be determined, although the manner of death has been classified as a homicide.

“I’m sorry to be the one to bring bad news to the young girl’s family. I wish I hadn’t found her,” said rancher Leroy Evans, 66. “I sure hope they catch the guy who did this.”

The Idaho State Police crime lab in Boise has processed the evidence. Identification was made with dental records.

A person of interest—a 25-year-old man from Washington State—had been questioned, and then released. CSIs at his apartment produced five plastic bags of evidence.

“We still need the public to help us,” said a spokesperson for the ISP. “If you have any information on Tiffany’s case, please give us a call.”

A woman’s voice called from another part of the house. “Dinner’s ready! Everybody wash up and come to the table.”

The man at the computer shut down the computer and grinned. He had information on Tiffany’s murder, all right, but he wasn’t going to give any of it to the police. He hoped that the twenty-five-year-old nameless man would be named soon—as a suspect. It was always nice when the police found someone to blame. They’d done it before and, he hoped, they’d do it again.

“Coming, honey!” he called out. A nice dinner sounded so good.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Cherrystone

Hillary Layton plopped herself down in the visitor’s chair facing Emily Kenyon’s desk.

“I left my husband in the car,” she said.

The last time the mother of the murder victim and her baby and the sheriff who had vowed to catch the killer had met was at the church vigil more than a month before. Mrs. Layton wore charcoal pants and a heavy red wool coat. Peeking out from the triangle of fabric by her neck was a silver sweater with flecks of metallic yarn. It had probably been a Christmas sweater meant for an occasion far different than the one she was observing at that moment. She brought with her a small Monarch Vodka box, its top cut off on three sides and flapping at its hinge as she took a seat.

“Tell him to get in here,” Emily said. “It’s so cold outside.”

Hillary brushed off the suggestion as she unzipped her coat. Sparkly drops of water fell to the floor. The snow on her coat had melted. “He’ll lose it if he comes in here.”

“Lose it?”

“You know, he loses his temper. He’s got a pretty mean one.”

Emily tried not to let her worry betray her. Nothing hurt more than attacks from a victim’s family. She tried to keep a reassuring countenance on her face, but she could feel the knife being inserted.

The knife cut.

“I see,” was all she could say.

Hillary Layton was a kind woman. Everything about her said so. She’d taught school. She’d volunteered for the state Democratic Party when they pushed for health care for children who weren’t covered. She had six cats and a bird.

But she no longer had her only child. Mandy was gone.

“Look,” Hillary said. “I know you are doing your best. But tomorrow we bury Amanda and Chrissy.”

Emily hadn’t heard that a name had been picked out by either Mitch or Mandy. She wondered if Hillary had taken it upon herself to name the dead baby. She said nothing, though. She let the woman talk.

“I know Mitch killed them. I know that you know he did. What I don’t get,” she said, her voice cracking, despite her attempts to hold it together, “is why you aren’t doing more to nail the bastard.”

“Mrs. Layton,” Emily said, using as calm a voice as she could, “You certainly know better than that.”

Hillary fidgeted with the box. “I know you’ve tried. But that smug ass is running around acting as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. By the looks of it, I’d say he’s right.” Her gaze narrowed on Emily.

The knife was cutting.

“I know you want details, but we’re not there. I know you are frustrated. I get that. We all do.”

“You know something, Sheriff Kenyon?”

“What?”

“I really expected more than this from you. I remember reading about your daughter’s disappearance and how you went after the killer with everything you had. You got him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I’m asking for the same here. I…I…I know we can’t bring Mandy or Chrissy back from the dead. I know that with every fiber of my being. But I still hear my daughter’s voice when I pick up the phone.”

“I’m so sorry,” Emily said.

“When I hear a baby cry, I wonder what Chrissy’s cry might sound like. Would it be like her mother’s? Mandy had a wail that could crack plates when she was a baby.”