Two
Nine years earlier
Pete’s wife, Marcy, was at one of her horse club meetings, so he decided to put in a few hours at the station catching up on paperwork. He had two more reports to enter into his computer when the call came from the County 911 Center at 21:16, about a quarter after nine. Shots fired and a woman down.
He arrived at the Route 15 Plaza before any other first responders, alert to the distinct pop, pop, pop of gunfire and anyone suspicious leaving the scene in a rush. But the only sound was the frantic cries of a trio of women gathered around the driver’s door of one of the cars and the whoop of sirens approaching from neighboring Phillipsburg. A handful of customers and clerks from the nearby convenience store huddled on the sidewalk, appearing ready to run for cover.
He climbed out of his department’s Crown Victoria and pointed at the convenience store gang. “Go inside and lock the doors until I or another police officer tells you otherwise.” He or one of the soon-to-arrive detectives would need statements from them.
One other storefront had lights on. Five vehicles parked in front of it. He approached the car with the sobbing women. The rear passenger door stood wide open as did the driver’s door. The trio parted, allowing him access to the victim who lay half out of the car. Her seatbelt kept her from tumbling onto the pavement. One quick look at the blood and the lack of movement told him she was beyond help. He’d left the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police a year ago with the mistaken idea he’d also left city crime behind. Evidently, the bucolic countryside of Vance Township had its own share of gruesome violence.
Following protocol, Pete jammed his fingers into a pair of black Nitrile gloves and felt for a carotid pulse. Looking at what was left of her face, he hoped like hell there wouldn’t be one. There were worse things than death. To him, being severely brain damaged topped the list.
She’d taken a bullet to her head. As best he could tell, the projectile had entered her right cheekbone, just below her eye. Without turning her, he couldn’t see the exit wound, but blood spattered the inside of the windshield, making crimson rivulets on the glass.
Since he didn’t find a pulse, moving the body was the bailiwick of the coroner. He stepped back, peeling off the gloves inside-out to contain the blood.
One of the women took the gesture as a final confirmation of what she already suspected and cried out, “Oh, no, no, no,” before collapsing into the arms of one of the others.
The small plaza barely held all the police vehicles—Pennsylvania State Police, Monongahela County, Pete’s Crown Vic along with the other Vance Township Police unit. Phillipsburg Borough and several neighboring townships also responded. Franklin Marshall’s coroner’s van parked directly behind the victim’s car, blocking the horrific view from passing motorists.
The various officers divvied up the duties. Some interviewed witnesses, a pair strung yellow tape around the area. Several searched the surrounding area for the shooter or the murder weapon. Pete took the most hysterical of the three women aside, allowing her to sit in her car. Sixty-something with disheveled dark-blonde hair, she sniffled into his handkerchief while he knelt next to the open car door, waiting for her to compose herself.
Once she did, Pete clicked his pen, resting the tip on his notebook. “Ma’am, can I please have your name?”
“Cheryl Vranjes.” She spelled it, watching to make sure he got it right.
“Thank you, Ms. Vranjes—”
“It’s ‘missus,’ not ‘miz.’ And please call me Cheryl. Everyone does. Missus Vranjes is my mother-in-law.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a tight smile. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“We were at our weekly yoga class. Tuesday evening, level two. It’s my favorite part of the week. Usually.”
“Who all was in your class?”
“Besides me?” She rattled off a list of nine women. “And the instructor. Rama. Her real name’s Roberta Rankin, but she goes by Rama.”
“What happened after class?”
“Four of the ladies left right away. The three of us—” Cheryl gestured toward the two others who’d been gathered around the victim when he arrived. “We came outside and were over there.” She pointed to the car farthest from the victim’s. “Just gabbing.”
“What about Mrs. Landis?”
“She and one of the other gals stayed behind to talk to Rama. I mean Roberta. Which would you rather I call her?”
“Whichever you prefer, ma’am. Did you see Mrs. Landis come out?”
“Sort of. I mean yes. I was talking to the gals, but I did notice Elizabeth from the corner of my eye. She came out and went to her car.”
He looked toward the victim’s sedan. The rear passenger door still hung open. “Did Mrs. Landis bring anyone with her?”
“No.”
“Did you see her with anyone else when she left the class?”
Cheryl’s eyes shifted, and Pete knew she was searching her memory. “No,” she said.
He scribbled a note. Shooter waiting in the backseat? “Then what happened?”
“We kept talking until we heard the gunshot. For a second I thought some kids set off a firecracker. Or a car backfired. But it was too loud and too close. I think I may have screamed. Anyhow, we—the three of us—hit the ground.” Cheryl ducked her head in an abbreviated reenactment of the scene. “We hid behind the car until we were sure it was safe.”
“How long was that?”
“I don’t know. It felt like a long time.”
“How many shots did you hear?”
“Only the one.”
“Did you see who did the shooting?”
“Not really. Not well. I mean, I couldn’t identify him. But I peeked over the trunk to see if it was safe and I saw someone running away.”
“Can you describe him for me?”
“I didn’t see his face. He was running away.”
“But you believe it was a male?”
She nodded so hard, Pete feared she’d dislocate her neck.
