Drop Dead Perfect (An Ellen Harper Psycho-Thriller) (7 page)

And, perhaps, the cure was to make sure it never happened again, at least on your watch. She was pretty sure that’s what Big Harv was thinking even now.

Best laid plans . . .

The faces of the two victims flickered
across her mind for about the millionth time, and her frustration and anger were suddenly replaced with a rush of sadness. In that instant, anger issues aside, she knew if given the opportunity she’d take the killer out of this world and send him into the next. But cops weren’t supposed to go there, right? She was to check her emotions at the door and do her job, and then trust the rest of the justice system to do theirs.

She slammed her cup to the ground and kicked it with all of her strength, wishing for the killer’s face on the other end of her foot instead of a Styrofoam surrogate. She stared at the cup, then walked over, and stomped on it.

“Justice . . . whatever that means,” she whispered.

“You okay, Ellie?”

She jumped.

Oscar had moved beside her and she hadn’t noticed. Her partner and friend appeared haggard and tired. She supposed he was infected with the same affliction, at least in part.
Sickness like they had witnessed today could do that to you.

“Whoa. Bruce Lee would’ve been proud of those moves you know.”

“Thanks. And hell no. I’m not okay,” she said softly. “Should I be?”

Pulling his hair back from his face, he glanced at her and then to the crushed cup.

“No, you shouldn’t. You’d be dead inside if these two crime scenes didn’t piss you off or make you cry. Hell, I did both. And of course, kick the shit out of a coffee cup. That was next on my list.”

“The crying will come later. I got the other two down,” she answered, sighing. “But I don’t suppose either reaction will put this animal behind bars. So we need to get back to work. Except I’m too beat to be much good in the lab tonight. We’ll drop off these evidence bags and get the midnight shift rolling on the soil and particle testing. We’ll hit it hard bright and early tomorrow . . . and this.”

She held up Holly’s cell phone. It had been buried in the dirt, just like Clara’s, the first victim. This time it had been closer, some six feet from Holly’s left hand.

Oscar’s gaze fixed on the phone, and she saw him shiver. “You’re not letting anyone else touch that phone, though, are you?”

“No, I’m not. The phones are mine. If this is the kind of creepy killer we’re both hoping he or she isn’t, then this has to be processed to perfection. So I’ll keep them, and like I said, the night shift can do the busy work.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll go pack up the floodlights, and we’ll get the hell out of here. I need a shower, and not only because I’m covered in dirt.”

She knew exactly what he meant. She also knew some filth never washed off, no matter how many showers you took.

Oscar disappeared around the front of the truck, and she moved to the driver’s side, turning on the headlights so he could finish packing with some semblance of light. It was a clear night, but only a sliver of a Chic
ago moon hung over Lake Michigan, offering no real illumination. That was in line with how she felt. All of this evidence and no real idea what, or who, they were truly looking at—yet. Methodical patience was a quality to embrace in the forensic world, and her experience had taught her that truth. She, however, didn’t feel so patient at the moment. A good night’s sleep would be a welcome change of pace to how the day had gone, providing the nightmares stayed at bay.

The only bright side of the last twenty-four hours or so was getting to see Brice, twice. She frowned. The thought was strangely foreign to her—looking forward to seeing someone like this—and she wasn’t truly sure where it had come from. She’d noticed men a time or two since Joel had dumped her; she wasn’t completely dead. Jaded. Hurt. Pissy. But not dead. Yet this “thing” with Brice was more than that.

Over the last six weeks, she’d even entered her profile on a couple of dating sites, then turned chicken and hadn’t submitted them. That not-so-trite act of moving on from Joel had been mostly at the urging of Kate Mortimore acting as her surrogate mother. Ellen simply hadn’t been ready, then.

Brice was a different reality altogether. She was a trained observer of evidence, which included people in various situations. So maybe it was something that Brice had done, an extra look, or a lingering stare that had triggered her reaction. Whatever it was, she liked it—that feeling of attraction. And it didn’t seem to be
one-sided. She’d caught him looking at her twice tonight. And one time was more than a glance.

Could someone like Superman be interested in a woman as broken as she apparently
was?

Without so much as a hint of warning, it came roaring back. The humiliation she needed like a third eye pounded her thoughts, telling her she was being ridiculous. She needed to live in the actual
world. Knights in shining armor saving damsels in distress, particularly distress like hers, was an impossible fantasy and she needed to get real. She was a science rat with a pissy attitude. What the hell was attractive about that?

Her sense of inadequacy began its maddening ascent from deep inside and, for a moment, she wanted to hurt someone, anyone. Joel would have been her preferred choice, and God forgive her, at that moment, she
could hurt the asshole.

She was still a bit surprised at how much his rejection of her hurt. She sighed, focusing on her dad’s
well-meaning and insightful words.

“You’re better than this
, Ellie. Don’t let the past rule your future.”

He was right. She knew that. But it was so damn difficult to accept that the love of your life wasn’t after all.

Gathering strength that surprised even her, she shoved aside thoughts of her personal life and focused on getting the rest of the evidence bags loaded. She kept her black CSI bag near her feet. It had taken the place of any intimate relationship, at least for now. She could count on it and what they did together. Right now, that was something she needed more than anything else.

Carefully placing the last of the evidence containers in the netting on the inside of the SUV, she finished just as Oscar packed the last of
the lighting equipment into the rear seat.

“Okay. I’m ready. Let’s get the hell out of here. I want to kiss my wife good night and check in on my kids, then win the lottery so I don’t have to see this shit ever again,” said Oscar.

“What would you do then?”

“I’d buy a big old farm in Northern Michigan and learn to play golf or bowl. Get fat, travel a lot, and bitch about the government.”

“You bitch about the government now. You and Kate have that in common, remember?”

“Yeah, but I’d have more time to do it.”

“Okay. I see you’ve thought this out. But dream on and get in the vehicle. We’re gone,” said Ellen.

“Wait. Not yet.”

Ellen turned at the sound of the commanding voice to see Detective Brice Rogers walk around the back of the SUV. He was waving at them . . . or maybe it was her that he was gesturing toward. She liked how that sounded in her mind.

Brice stepped close. The brightness from the headlights cast enough of a glow to enable a fairly good look at his face. She liked that too.

“I thought you had already left. What’s up?” she asked.

Brice pointed to the unmarked cruiser to the right of where the body was found.

“I was sitting in the car, thinking of what to do next. I like to be alone, like most detectives I guess, when I’m putting the facts together. Sanchez left with one of the blues a little while ago. She was pretty beat, and I know the feeling. But before I head home and get a few hours of sleep, I wanted to ask you a couple of questions. We’ve ordered all of the routine procedures to be completed, but there might be a few non-routine roads you could help me with. The initial investigative meeting is bright and early tomorrow morning, and I want to make sure I’ve got my bases covered. There’s talk of a task force already, driven by Big Harv. You know that means someone’s got the panic button pushed about these two murders. I happen to agree with that line of thinking, by the way.”

“You want my input even though we’ve not processed one bag of evidence?”

Brice cocked his head, and she felt the intensity of his stare. The man was living up to his tenacious reputation.

“Listen. You were a cop at least three years before you became the best CSI on the force. That’s not just about science, in my experience. It means you might have a sense for what these killings are about. I need to find out if that’s true. I can use all of the help I can get.”

Ellen felt flush. It was nice, very nice, to have anyone want her opinion on these cases, and she definitely had an opinion or two. It was even nicer that it was Brice who was asking.

“I . . .
I . . .”

“I know it’s late. Let Malloy take the SUV back to the forensic lab, and I’ll give you a ride home
. We can talk on the way.”

Oscar stepped in.
“I think that’s a good idea, Ellie. I’ll get this evidence inside the lab, tell them to work it up pronto, and see you tomorrow. Anything more than that, well, I’m fried and won’t be much help.” He wore a small grin on his face.

Before she could object,
Oscar shut the door and was driving down the service road.

Little bastard. I’m going to kill him tomorrow.

“Well, I guess you’ll have to go with me. I’ll have you home in twenty minutes. And don’t worry. No matter what you’ve heard, I don’t bite.”

Brice’s
weary smile caused her to return one of her own. She was comfortable with this detective as a man. Again, she reflected on how many times she’d seen him before this and never had the remotest of thoughts—well, maybe one or two, when she looked at his thick chest or carved arms—about enjoying his company as a man.

Were the walls really tumbling down?

“Fair enough. I couldn’t stop you tonight if I wanted to.”

Two minutes later, after she’d tossed her black bag into the
backseat of his cruiser, they were following the path that Oscar had just traveled, except her partner had been driving like a bat of out of hell. Brice wasn’t; he was taking his sweet time. She thought it odd, but then again everything about this day was odd.

Brice glanced in her direction. “Ready for a few questions?”

“I’ll do my best.”

His voice was soothing. Soothing was good.

“Tell me what you think the phones with the camera pictures mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. At first I thought it was a mistake. A detail that the killer forgot to handle. Leaving it at the scene must have seemed like the best option for him or her. But after we finished digging, it was obvious that wasn’t true. The killer
wanted
us to see that picture on the wallpaper of that phone. The second one confirms that act has meaning and was very intentional. Also, the GPS chip was probably removed from both. You could see where the back of the phone had been pried open. That adds more intentionality to the killer’s actions.”

“I suspected that. So we have a smart psychopath. Go on,” Brice encouraged.

“I think you have to look at the complete picture. How the perp dressed the women. How he left them. It almost looks as if he wanted them to leave this life with a sense of dignity. My basic profiling training says that means the killer has a remote, or twisted, sense of remorse.”

“That fits, and I think your guesses are right. Keep talking.”

They reached Lake Shore, and Brice swung north.

“Detective
, I like the imperial evidence. I don’t like to speculate. That’s why I went the CSI route and didn’t try to get into vice or homicide. I don’t want to guess; I want to know.”

“And everyone knows you’re amazing at that. But you must have some thoughts. Even after you examine the results of the science, you have to make it all come together. You know, that whole hypothesis thing.”

Smart man. That part was true. Cases were like giant puzzles, and the forensic evidence could eliminate a million peripheral possibilities and zero in on ones that made the most sense.

“I hate this, but just for the sake of arguing, what if the phones represented something significant,
or lasting, to the killer?”

“You mean like, well, like a burial or some kind of memorial?”

“Yeah, like that,” she answered. “You sound like you’re already there.”

He nodded. “Maybe.”

“So if it’s a burial, what’s the killer burying? It’s not just the phone, but it has to be symbolic?”

“It does. And I can’t get my mind around what that means, other than—”

The radio crackled to life.

“Unit 480. Detective Rogers. This is dispatch. Please respond.
”

Brice swiped the handset from the dash.

“Rogers here.”

“We’ve got FT Unit 1534 sitting at a stoplight at Lake Shore and Oakland. Shots have been fired.”

Ellen caught her breath.

“That’s Oscar’s unit
,” she whispered.