Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake. Carla Cassidy
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“So, what have you learned since I left here yesterday?” she asked.
“I’ve been back to the crime scene to see if anything was missed but found nothing. There is a kill site somewhere, but we have no idea where it might be. My deputies have been pounding the streets interviewing Barbara’s friends and family members. I’ve been going over the interviews as they bring them back to me.”
“Anything specific jump out at you?” she asked.
He shook his head and leaned back in his black leather chair. “Nothing. It’s just like the other two. Method of death was five stab wounds to the chest. According to the coroner who did the autopsy last night, the wounds were made with a six-inch straight blade and were in a downward motion, indicating that the killer was taller than the victims.”
“Probably male,” she replied.
“That’s definitely the path I’m pursuing. Not only is there a height difference that would indicate a male killer, but it also takes a tremendous amount of strength to stab a chest as deeply as these victims were stabbed. She also had Taser marks and was bound at her wrists and ankles at some point before her death.”
“After studying the files, I have a few more thoughts to add to the mix,” she said.
He sat forward. In the small office, she could smell the scent of his cologne, a pleasant woodsy scent that fired her feminine hormones. His eyes were the blue of still waters, deep and fathomless, and his intense stare made her slightly uncomfortable.
“First of all, the killer obviously wants attention. He makes no attempt to hide his kills but rather displays them in public places. If I were you, I’d try to control the information any media outlet is getting. He’ll feed on anything that’s about the murders.”
“I’d already thought about that, but in this day and age, it’s fairly difficult to control the flow of information about anything,” he replied, his frown threatening to return.
“The usual profile is that he’s probably between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. He’s probably a Caucasian, although I’ll admit I’m not ruling out that it could be somebody of Native American descent.”
“Is that why you were chosen for this particular assignment?”
She looked at him in surprise. To be perfectly honest, she hadn’t considered it before this moment. “Maybe,” she admitted. “I suppose it makes sense that the director would utilize me if he thought there was any kind of Native American overtones to the crimes.”
“But except for the dream catchers, there aren’t any other overtones,” he replied.
“At least none that we’ve initially seen so far,” she replied and then smiled. “I try to keep all my options open this early in an investigation.” She crossed a leg and leaned forward. “And tell me, Sheriff Cole, you aren’t a local here, right?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Your investigative skills are too sharp, your reports too well written for a man who’s spent his entire career in a small town.”
“I grew up here and then left to go to college in St. Louis. Once I graduated, I joined the police force there and within two years had worked myself to detective.”
That made sense, and she patted herself on the back for recognizing that he was more than a small-town sheriff, that he’d had his real training on the mean streets of St. Louis. “So, what brought you back here?” she asked, curious.
His blue eyes deepened in hue, becoming the haunting color of midnight. “I was working a murder case, a triple homicide. The FBI had been called in for some assistance, and of course, once they got involved, they completely took over the case.”
He hesitated a moment and drew in a long, deep breath. “For some reason, the killer focused in on me personally. He managed to kidnap my wife.”
Although his words were delivered in a flat, emotionless tone, Amberly sensed a wealth of pain beneath the words, a pain too great for expression. She felt a tightening in her chest as she recognized his story probably didn’t have a happy ending.
“The killer, Jeb Wilson, held her in an abandoned house for two days. We finally managed to find the place and had it surrounded. I had found a way in through a broken window in the basement, but the FBI refused to let me go in. They had decisions to make, red tape to cut or whatever, and so the rescue process was delayed by twenty minutes. When we finally got inside, my wife was dead, but her body was still warm. She’d been killed within minutes of us getting inside. As far as I’m concerned, the FBI was as responsible for her death as Jeb Wilson.”
DESPITE THE FACT THAT EIGHT long years had passed, the agony of that moment, of finding his wife dead, had never eased, had never lessened. And there had always been a part of him that blamed the FBI agents for not having the capability of moving fast enough when his wife’s life had hung in the balance.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, obviously aware that her words of consolation meant nothing. “You know, we don’t always get it right.”
Surprisingly, these words, the knowledge that she knew the agency she worked for sometimes screwed up, somewhat satisfied him. “Well, I don’t intend to screw up these cases,” he said. “The families of these women have a right to know what happened to them and why.”
“The why isn’t obvious yet,” she said, a tiny frown dancing across the center of her forehead. “I’d like to see the reports and interviews your deputies have gathered together since I left last night. We need to somehow find a common denominator among these women. That would be the first step in identifying a possible motive and suspect. And we need to do it fast. There were four weeks between his first kill and his second and only two weeks between the second and third. We have no idea how quickly his time line is escalating.”
“Don’t remind me,” he said dryly. He got up from his desk, finding the small office stifling with her scent wafting in the air and her presence far too close to his desk. “Why don’t we move to the conference room? Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Absolutely. My belief is you can’t have enough coffee, and you can’t have enough red licorice.” He looked at her in surprise. “Changed the nicotine habit to a licorice habit years ago and have yet to kick the licorice addiction.”
“Personally, I’m a black-licorice kind of guy,” he replied, as if he needed to remind her, assure himself of how different they were.
They stepped out of his office, and as she headed down the hall to the conference room, he went into a break room that held a round table, a minifridge and a coffeepot.
As he poured the coffee into two foam cups, an edge of irritation swept through him. He’d told her too much about himself. He didn’t want her to know his personal information, and he certainly didn’t want to know hers, but he’d spilled his guts to her, and he wasn’t sure why.
He had three murders to solve, and he couldn’t allow his head to get muddied with the evocative scent of her, the intelligent depths of her beautiful eyes.
She had a family, she was here to help him solve murders and not to awaken feelings that had been dead for eight years, feelings he never wanted to experience again.
By the time he walked into the conference room, he felt as if he was once again under control. He placed a cup of coffee in front of her at the table. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it, so I brought some sugar packets along.”
“Black is fine,” she replied. “Did you know the victims personally?”
He took the chair next to hers so they were both looking at the bulletin board. “Mystic Lake is a small town. I know most everyone here personally.”
“Tell me about the victims, information that wasn’t in the official reports. What kind of women