Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake. Carla Cassidy
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She grabbed the files that had kept her up most of the night and her purse and then left the house. As she drove the three blocks, she tried to slough off the exhaustion of a night of too little sleep.
These murders in Mystic Lake had already grabbed her by the throat, and she had a feeling they wouldn’t let her go until somebody was behind bars.
She’d always been grateful that she usually had a level of detachment to the cases she worked that made her most effective and allowed her to leave the crime and the crime scene at work, keeping it from bleeding into her personal life.
These crimes felt different already. As she’d gone through the files she’d been unable to maintain that emotional distance that had always made things easier.
Maybe it was because the victims were not much younger than her own thirty years of age. Maybe it was the brutality alongside the beauty of the dream catcher, which was such a part of her heritage.
She shoved all thoughts of the files and the murder victims out of her mind as she pulled into John’s driveway.
For the next few minutes, her thoughts and attention would be solely focused on Max. He greeted her at the front door, dressed for school in a pair of jean shorts and a white-and-red-striped pullover shirt. She fought the impulse to reach out and tamp down the cowlick at the back of his head.
“Mom,” he said in surprise and threw himself into her arms.
Amberly hugged him tight, knowing that all too quickly the day would come when he would think it was uncool for his mommy to hug him. “I didn’t know you were coming here this morning,” he said as they finally disengaged from each other.
“I couldn’t start my day without seeing my favorite boy,” she replied. “Where’s your dad?”
“In the kitchen, making French toast. You gonna eat with us?”
“I’m not hungry, but it sure smells good.”
John appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Bacon and French toast, and I’ve got plenty.”
“Thanks, but no. However, I wouldn’t turn down a quick cup of coffee while you two eat.”
He gestured with the pancake turner in his hand. “Come on, then. Max, wash your hands, it’s on the table.”
As Max ran for the bathroom, Amberly followed John into the kitchen. He pointed her to a chair and then poured her a cup of coffee. “You look tired,” he said.
“Late night. There’s a serial murderer working in Mystic Lake, and I’ve been assigned to consult.” She told him no more, having learned early in their marriage that John didn’t want to hear about her work as a profiler.
John was an artist who’d made his name painting Western pictures with a glow of splendor. His world was one of beauty and history, and he’d never wanted her to bring the ugliness of her world inside their home.
At that moment, Max returned to the kitchen and slid into the chair where his breakfast awaited. As he ate, he chattered about the math test his dad had helped him study for the night before, his dream that he was riding in a car and excited about where they were going but being disappointed when he woke up before they’d arrived at their destination. By then it was time for Max to brush his teeth and finish getting ready for school.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Amberly said to John as he walked her to the front door.
“Anytime. So, I’m assuming we’re going to play things by ear when it comes to where Max is staying.”
Amberly nodded. “I just don’t have a good handle right now on where this is all going to lead. My plan right now is to be home by five or so tonight. If you can pick up Max from school, then I’ll try to be here around then to pick him up and take him back to my place for the night.”
John nodded. “Just let me know. You know I love it when he’s here.” There was a slight censure in his voice, as if what he wanted to say was that they all should be together under this roof, still a united family.
“Thanks again, John. I’ll be in touch.” She left, refusing to shoulder the guilt he’d subtly tried to put on her. As much as she would have loved for Max to have a mother and father that were together, the marriage hadn’t worked. She and John should have remained good friends and never crossed the line into intimacy.
As she pulled out of the driveway to head to Mystic Lake her thoughts returned to the files in the seat next to her. One thing was clear after reading the reports and interviews that had been conducted after each murder: Cole Caldwell was good. In fact, he was better than good.
As she made the drive to the small town, she played and replayed the information she’d read the night before. Building a profile of a killer wasn’t an easy task. Not only did the method of kill and the crime scene hold clues to coming up with a working profile, but the victims and their lives usually held clues, as well.
By the time she reached Mystic Lake and found a parking place in front of the sheriff’s office, she was wishing for another cup of coffee to help jolt her into full-performance level.
She was dressed less casually today, clad in a pair of black slacks and a short-sleeved white button-down blouse. She’d been caught off guard yesterday, but today she felt more prepared to look and act the role of FBI consultant.
She entered the office and smiled at the woman Cole had introduced to her the night before. “Hi, Linda, is Sheriff Caldwell in?”
“I’m Lana, Linda’s twin sister. She works nights and I work days. And you are?” She raised one of her dark eyebrows.
“Special Agent Amberly Nightsong.”
“Is Sheriff Caldwell expecting you?” There was an obvious protective tone in her voice.
“I’m not sure if he is or not, but I’m here,” Amberly replied.
“I’ll see if he’s available.” She picked up the phone and swirled her chair so that her back was to Amberly. She whispered for a moment and then whirled back around and hung up the phone. “He’s in his office. You can go on in.”
Amberly walked through the gate that divided the public area from the more private space and headed directly to Cole’s office. She knocked and heard his gruff response. She opened the door to find him seated behind his desk, a scowl doing nothing to detract from his handsomeness.
“I didn’t expect to see you here today,” he said.
“Why not? This is an active case and I intend to be here every day until you have the killer in jail.” She closed the office door and took a seat in the chair across from him. “Granny Nightsong would take a look at your expression right now and say that the grouch bird bit you on your butt while you slept last night.”
He stared at her in surprise. “And Granny Nightsong is…”
“My grandmother. She raised me from the time I was three until she died four years ago.” She’d accomplished what she’d intended: his scowl was gone, at least for the moment.
“That’s right, you mentioned her before.”
“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