Sworn to Silence

The Advocate usually comes out on Friday. Today is Monday, which tells me a special edition is going to press. “Give me an hour, will you?”

His grimace tells me he’s not happy about the delay, but he’s perceptive enough to realize I’m not going to put the case on hold to accommodate his schedule. Steve might look like an older version of Opie from the Andy Griffith Show, but he’s a type A personality from the word go.

He checks his watch again. “Can you fax it to me? Say by six?”

It will be fully dark by six. I find myself dreading the darkness. “I have some safety tips for citizens I want printed, too.”

“That’s good.” I can tell by his expression he’s going to ask about the murder, but I turn away before he can.

An odd sense of relief flutters through me when I enter my office and turn on the light. The familiarity of this cramped little space comforts me. Working off my coat, I hang it on the hook and close the door. I need a few minutes to regroup. The energy that’s been driving me since the wee hours of the morning drains from my muscles, and I collapse into my chair. Closing my eyes, I put my face in my hands and massage my temples. I want coffee and food. For a few precious minutes, I want a reprieve from questions I have no idea how to answer, and the nightmare of this case.

But when I close my eyes, I see Amanda Horner’s brutalized body. I see the bruises at her ankles. The black gleam of blood in the snow. Ligature marks that cut all the way to the bone. I see the anguish in her parents’ eyes. I feel a different kind of anguish in my own heart.

Turning on my computer, I pull the “Slaughterhouse Murders” file from my drawer and set it in front of me. I grab a legal pad and as the computer boots, I jot the things I want to review with my officers.

Assignments. T.J.—condoms? Glock—footwear imprints? Tire-tread imprints? Mona—abandoned properties. Me—similar crimes. Background checks—Connie Spencer. Donny Beck. People at the bar. Suspect list.

My hand pauses. I think of the killer. I ponder his mind-set, and I write.

Motive. Means. Opportunity. Why does he kill? Sexual gratification. Sexual sadist. Where does he kill? A place he feels safe—remote, i.e., no gag. Not worried about victim’s screams. Basement? Soundproof room? Abandoned property?

I think of opportunity and wonder if he has a job, and I write:

Does he work?

A knock interrupts my thoughts. “It’s open.”

The door opens a few inches and a hand clutching a paper bag from Ellis’s Burger Palace appears.

“I come bearing gifts.”

“In that case come in.”

T.J. enters and approaches my desk. “Hamburger with pickles, hold the onions. Large fries and a Diet Coke.”

The aroma elicits a grumble from my stomach. I smile as I reach for the bag. “If you weren’t already engaged, I’d ask you to marry me.”

“Sustenance, Chief. You gotta eat.” But he blushes.

Behind him, Glock appears holding four biggie coffees in a cardboard carrying tray. “I got the caffeine.”

I unpack my lunch as Skid drags in a folding chair. I steal a few bites of the hamburger as the men take their seats. “We’ve gotta catch this guy,” I begin.

Glock sets his coffee on the edge of my desk. “So is it the same guy from before or not?”

I shake my head. “We can’t operate under that assumption.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t want to limit ourselves.” I don’t believe that. But I can’t reveal that the murderer from the early nineties is dead—if that is the case. I hate it, but I have no choice but to lie to my team. “We could have a copycat.”

“That’d be pretty fuckin’ strange,” Skid says between bites.

“The one thing we can assume is that we probably have a serial murderer on our hands. This was no crime of passion. He was organized. Deliberate.”

The room goes so quiet I hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

“So you think he’s going to kill again?” T.J. asks.

“That’s what he does. He kills. He’s good at it. He likes it.” I sip my Coke. “And it’ll happen right here in Painters Mill unless he moves on to another town.”

“Or we get him first,” Glock adds.

I set my drink on my desk. “We’ve got to pull out all the stops, guys. That means mandatory overtime.”

Three heads nod, and it’s reassuring to know I have the support of my small force. I look down at my hastily scratched notes. “I’ve got Mona working on a list of abandoned properties in the two-county area. T.J., where are you on the condoms?”

“Manager of the Super Value gave me the names of the two guys who paid with checks.” He glances at his palm-size notebook. “Justin Myers and Greg Milhauser. As soon as we finish up here I’m going to talk to them.”

“Good. What about the cash guy?”

“Manager is going to get me copies of video first thing in the morning.”

“We need it now.”

T.J.’s expression turns sheepish. “His daughter is having some kind of birthday party tonight.”

“Call him. Tell him you need that tape yesterday. If he balks, tell him we’ll get a search warrant and he’ll be scraping produce off the floor for a month.”

“Got it.”

“Once you get the tape, I need the cash guy identified. This is a small town. It shouldn’t be too hard.” I turn my attention to Glock. “What about the tire tread and footwear imprints?”

“I had them couriered to BCI. I’m still working on getting imprints of city vehicles and footwear. Probably be another courier fee, Chief.”

“Don’t worry about the budget. How soon can you finish?”

“Today. If you guys give me a shoe imprint before you leave this meeting, that would be great.”

“You got a kit?”

“I’ll just use an ink roller and put them on paper if that’s all right.”

“Should be good enough for a comparison analysis.” I think about that for a moment. “Did BCI give you a time frame?”

“Two days. Three max.”

“Tell them we want priority or I’ll call the attorney general and have him light a fire.”

Glock nods. “Okay.”

My mind jumps to the next subject. “You getting background checks on those people at the bar?”

“A few have come back.” Glock opens a tattered folder. “Aside from Connie Spencer, the only other hit that came back is for a guy by the name of Scott Brower.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Thirty-two years old. High school dropout. Worked at the oil filter factory down in Millersburg, but he got into some kind of altercation with his boss, threatened to cut her throat.”

“Nice guy,” T.J. says.

“I bet he didn’t get the raise,” Skid comments.

Glock meets my gaze. “Boss was female. Anyway, he’s been working as a mechanic over at the Mr. Lube.”