The Seventh Victim (14 page)

Beck had requested financial information from Fisk’s and Hart’s banks but didn’t expect a report until later today or tomorrow. When he’d called Santos and asked to see Lou Ellen Fisk’s place he’d learned that the local cops had kept the apartment sealed. He still didn’t have a solid link between the two victims, but the more he learned about them the more he hoped to learn about their killer.

Minutes later Deputy Santos pulled up behind his vehicle. He slid out of his black SUV, squinting against the afternoon sun as he put on his hat. The men nodded a greeting, as both moved toward the front door.

Santos fished keys out of his pockets. “The locals went over the Fisk site with a fine-tooth comb and didn’t find anything.”

“No penny?”

“Nothing. Though it was clear someone had been to the site. Footprints everywhere.”

“Lara Church was there early this morning.” Irritation rumbled under the words.

“Really?”

“DPS officer spotted her parked by the murder scene and called me. She was loading up camera equipment.”

“Got a sixteen-year-old sister who’s into art. She was talking about Lara Church’s show this morning. Mark of Death. Hell of a theme. I said no.”

“You don’t want to go to an art exhibit?” Beck teased.

“No way in hell, and I’m sure not letting Maria drive up to Austin alone to see the show.”

“Good call.”

Santos searched the ring of keys. “A part of me hopes the cases aren’t linked.”

“A serial killer opens a whole new can of worms.” Beck pulled down the crime scene tape. “Let’s see what we can learn about Ms. Fisk.”

Santos nodded toward the house. “Ms. Fisk moved in here about four months ago.”

“Did she have roommates?”

“There was a gal scheduled to move in this month, but when Fisk was found dead she changed her mind. In fact, she moved back to Oklahoma.”

When the door swung open, Beck and Santos pulled on rubber gloves. He found the light switch controlled an overhead bulb that spit out enough light to illuminate the main room. From what he could see, the place was a mess. Clothes, blankets, pizza boxes, and magazines littered the floor. A couch in the center of the ten-by-fifteen room was stained and covered in more junk. To the left was a small kitchenette and to the right a small bathroom.

“This place reminds me a lot of the first apartment I shared with a couple of guys after Basic,” Santos said. “Hell of a mess.”

Beck moved into the kitchen and glanced at the dirty dishes piled in the sink. He opened the refrigerator, winced at the smell, and discovered ten beers, a couple of yogurts, and a half-eaten pizza.

“I read the Seattle case files,” Beck said. “The Seattle victim profiles were different than Fisk and Hart. None were in college. In fact, several never graduated high school and a couple had arrest records for prostitution. They didn’t have much in the way of a future.”

“Lara Church had a future.”

“That changed after the attack.” Violence had stripped away her dreams.

Beck turned his attention to a round table covered with papers and bills. “From what Lara’s police file says, she wasn’t the ghoul she is today. Before her attack she wasn’t obsessed with death. She was in fashion design and had plans to work with a Seattle design firm. After the attack she gave up fashion and turned to photography. Left the Pacific Northwest for good.”

“Understandable.”

He picked up an envelope marked OVERDUE. “Raines’s initial notes theorize Lara faked amnesia. Later his notes are less sure.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. She’s done a good job over the last seven years of running. She’s been all but invisible.”

“Running from shadows or a real man?”

“She says shadows.” Beck frowned. “Now she’s coming back into the spotlight and there are more murders. That can’t be a coincidence.”

Beck foraged through the papers on the table. They looked like a collection of work sheets from class. “She was taking a biology class.”

Santos nodded as he checked his notes scribbled on a pad. “She was also taking accounting. Had an A in both classes. Both her teachers considered her a solid student.”

Buried under the papers was a laptop. Beck opened it and hit the power button. Seconds later the screen popped up. The screen saver was a photo snapped of Lou Ellen and several other smiling, young girls. Crystal blue skies. Fall leaves covering the university grounds. The girls wearing sweatshirts.

She was Lara Church at the time of her attack.

After a call from forensics, Beck and Santos returned to the Department of Public Safety’s Austin offices to meet with Melinda Ashburn, the forensic technician who’d worked the Gretchen Hart crime scene.

Beck and Santos entered the lab. The large, white room had a single window on the far side and five gray lab tables, each manned by a forensic technician. Some technicians stared into microscopes while others sat at computer screens. They found Melinda hunched over a computer typing notes. She wore khakis, a green polo, and a white lab coat and had her red hair tied back. She looked pale. Tired.

Beck cleared his throat. “Ms. Ashburn?”

Melinda Ashburn peered over the edge of dark-framed glasses. “Sergeant Beck and Santos. Glad you could make it.”

“You said you had an update for us.”

She rose, stretched the kinks from her neck. “Let’s go to the conference room.” She snatched a file from her workstation and led the two Rangers down the hall to a small meeting room. The three sat at a midsized, round conference table.

“I don’t have much, but I do have one or two tidbits.”

“We’ll take whatever you got,” Beck said.

“Let’s start with the coin,” she said. “It was the one piece of evidence not released to the Seattle press and then repeated at the Hart crime scene.”

Melinda opened her file and removed front and back pictures of the penny. “A 1943 wheat penny made of steel.”

Santos pulled a notebook and pen from his jacket breast pocket. “What does that mean?”

“According to a coin collector I spoke to it means the coin is worth about fifty cents. If it had been made of copper and imprinted with an S, which means it was minted in San Francisco, then it could have been worth sixty thousand dollars. There were many counterfeits made of this coin and this is one of them.” She shook her head. “As you can tell, my coin collector is passionate about his work and kept me on the phone too long.”

A hint of a smile tugged the corner of Beck’s mouth. “I want a tight lid kept on the source of the penny. The cops in Seattle kept the same detail from the press, which was the primary reason Lara Church’s strangulation was pegged on the Seattle Strangler.”

“The dealer I spoke to is in Boston. I gave him no case particulars, just a verbal description of the coin. He told me to hold a magnet to it and test for the steel-versus-copper issue.” Her gaze sharpened. “I made no mention of the Strangler and asked him to be discreet.”

“And he will be?”

Melinda arched a brow. “Sergeant, I did not just fall off the turnip truck. Times like this everybody who knows you work for the cops wants the inside scoop. If I can keep it from nosy dates and my own mom I can keep it from the press.”

“Good. Everyone needs to guard that detail carefully.”

She scanned her notes. “These days the Internet is the go-to place for coins like this one. The possible dealers are too vast to count. But my pal did offer a bit of lore about coins and death.”

“The significance of a coin placed in the hand of the departed?”

Melinda pulled off her glasses and wiped them with the edge of her coat. “In some cultures a coin is placed in the hand or on the eyes of the dead to pay Charon, the ferryman on the river Styx.”

“Who?”

“Charon. In Greek mythology he is the one that transports the departed souls across the river Styx, which separates earth from Hell.”

“Even the dead got to pay a tax,” Santos said.

“If you don’t pay Charon, it’s said the departed soul wanders the earth forever.”

Beck stared at the photo of the penny. “So placing the coins on the body is a sign of kindness.”

“Yes, I would say so. The killer cared for the well-being of the dead person’s soul.”

Beck rubbed the back of his neck. “Hell of a way to show that he cares.”

Beck drew in a breath. “Melinda, what else do you have?”

She glanced at her notes. “No traces of blood. No defensive wounds. The dress isn’t remarkable. It appears handmade. It’s cotton with machine-made lace. It hit the victim below the knees and fit her well, as if made for her. I went over it millimeter by millimeter. I pulled blond hair samples that belonged to the victim and a couple of dark hair samples that could belong to the killer. I’m testing DNA, but it will take weeks to get results.”

“Seattle pulled DNA from Lara. A match would tell us if the Strangler came south.” Beck rarely had the puzzle pieces of a crime fit together so neatly. “What about DNA under her nail beds or vaginal area?”

“None in either location. She didn’t fight, and he wore a condom when he raped her.” She scanned her notes. “I did find several footprints at the crime scene that do not match any of the people I know that walked the area. The truck driver who found her has a size-thirteen shoe whereas the unknown print is a ten. Appears to be a work boot, and I’m working to identify it.”

“Where were the prints?” Santos said.

“One partial at the top of the body and one full at the foot of the body.”

“He was admiring his handiwork,” Beck said.

“I did take samples of the dirt so if you find him get me all his shoes,” Melinda said. “I can analyze his boots, and if there are any trace soil samples on it I can put him at the scene.”

“That’s the trick, isn’t it? Finding the killer.”

During lab, while the students worked at stations equipped with enlargers, Lara moved behind them offering advice and words of encouragement. Burn in. Edge. Exposure. This was her chance not to just talk about theories but to put them into action. In the classroom awkwardness and discomfort still shadowed her, but in the darkroom all doubts vanished.

The session wrapped by five fifteen. Danni gave Lara a note from her mother, and they got in the truck and headed toward her house, where Lincoln waited, barking in the house. While he took a quick break, Lara and Danni hauled out her equipment from the house and loaded the truck.

Danni studied Lara’s house. “So how did you end up here?”

“The place belonged to my grandmother,” Lara said. “I spent a lot of my summers with her when I was a kid.”

“I can think of a lot better places to be during the summer than Texas.”

Lara smiled as she closed the camper top. “I loved it here. Would have loved to have lived here.” She opened her passenger door and Lincoln hopped up on the front seat.

When the two had slid into the front cab of the truck Danni snapped her seat belt as she glanced down at the dog already drifting off to sleep. “Where did you live?”

“All over. My mother got married several times when I was a kid so we were either moving in with a new stepfather or running away from one.”

Danni fiddled with the silver and bead bangles dangling from her wrist. “We moved here for my stepfather.”

Lara backed up the truck and drove down the gravel driveway toward the road. “How’s that going?”

“He’s a douche, but he’s manageable.”

The faintest hitch in her voice caught Lara’s attention. “Has he hurt you?”

Danni’s exaggerated laugh rang false. “No. He’s just a blowhard.”

Lara sensed a retreat in the girl and suspected if she pushed, she’d sever whatever fragile communication the two might build. “You’ve got my number if you ever need anything.”

“Please, I’m fine.” Danni shifted her gaze out the passenger-side door. “So what are we taking a picture of?”

Lara glanced at the sleeping dog between them. “A crime scene. My work lately focuses on crime and death and the land.”

Danni nodded. “You don’t look like the dark and scary type.”

Lara smiled. “Really?”

Absently, Danni scratched Lincoln’s head. “Yeah. I see you photographing babies and puppies.”

Lara laughed. “I’ve gotten a lot of that lately.”

“No worries. We all have the dark and creepy best left in the past.”

Lara glanced at the girl again, tempted to ask questions. But having been on the receiving end of too many personal questions, she understood curiosity could breed anger.
Why did he choose you? What did you do to attract him? If you’d been a little smarter, do you think it would have happened?

“So you aren’t from Texas, are you?” Lara already knew the answer.

The silver bracelets jangled on Danni’s wrist as she smoothed her hand over her faded jeans. “Did the accent give me away?”

“Or lack thereof.”

“I’m from the Washington, D.C., area. I moved here about a year ago when my mom married my stepdad.”

“Long way from family and friends.”

She shrugged. “I Skype my friends when I can.”

“What about family?” Lara glanced in her rearview mirror and noticed a car coming up behind her fast. She moved to the right lane.

“Dad works a lot. He’s good for the monthly child support payment, and he bought me my car, but that’s about it.”

As the speeding car passed, Lara mulled Danni’s statement. “I didn’t know my dad growing up. Mom never would talk about him.”

Danni’s gaze shifted to Lara and lingered a moment before she said, “I think my dad was a little relieved when Mom told him she and I were moving to Texas. We never got along great. I guess I drive him nuts.”

“You’re a teenager. I think it’s written in your job description to drive your parents nuts. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”

A heavy silence hung between them as Danni stared ahead, her fingers still rubbing Lincoln’s head. Lara liked the kid and wanted her to feel like they could talk, but Lara’s people skills were rusty at best.

“So you move around a lot?” Danni said.

“Yeah. You’d think after a childhood of being on the move, I’d find a place to settle, but I’ve been a rolling stone since college.”