Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series) (19 page)

“So why now, after fourteen-and-a-half years?”

“That’s the question we’re looking to answer. After several deputies mentioned the Staci Campbell case to Franklin and me, we spent a couple hours reviewing the files in Cold Case—studied crime scene photos, witness statements, so on and so forth. I think we have a problem here, Mr. Campbell.”

Wren walked in carrying a tray of steaming mugs and a plate of store-bought chocolate chip cookies. “Here we go.” She set the smooth carved wood on the table and picked up a mug. “Detective Franklin, how do you like your coffee?”

“Black.”

“Me as well, Ms. Cooke.”

She handed over the cups and sat next to Tucker.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to stay.”

“Cooke—”

“I’m staying, Tucker.”

He stared at her for another moment then looked at Detective Rogers. “What sort of problem?”

“First off, I’m going to need to ask for your whereabouts last night.”

Wren picked up her mug and set it back down. “What’s going on? What is this about?”

Their question was procedure, but it burned his ass—the implication that he’d had something to do with Staci’s death. “I was here all night. As I said, I’m on duty.”

“We were both here all night. Tucker hasn’t left my side.” She scooted closer to him in an unmistakable gesture of support.

Tucker took her hand and gave a gentle squeeze, touched that she was getting defensive on his account.

“And during the midnight hours?” Franklin asked.

“I’ve been staying with Ms. Cooke. There’s a fireplace in her guestroom. The power has been out since the storm—finally came back on this morning, as I’m sure you know.”

“Are you both willing to sign an affidavit attesting to the fact that you were both in residence all evening?”

“Yes,” they said at the same time.

“I apologize, Mr. Campbell, especially when we’re going to ask for your help.”

He shrugged. “Procedure’s procedure.”

“We understand you worked homicide for several years.”

Tucker nodded. “LAPD.”

“It’s also noted you majored in Criminal Psychology as well as Criminal Justice.”

He’d been determined to find the answers to Staci’s murder from the moment the authorities deemed her case cold. “That’s correct.”

Wren looked at him in surprise.

“We have several qualified officers on staff as well as Utah Bureau of Investigation in on this, but we see a unique opportunity to get your take as former law enforcement and your close association to one of our victims.”

Wren’s fingers clutched his. “What?”

“I’ll explain later,” he said absently, ready to immerse himself in whatever the detectives were willing to share. If what they were saying was true, they might actually catch Staci’s killer this time.

“We brought along pictures of the Burkes’ crime scene as well as pictures from 1999. We’re hoping you might be willing to take a look, maybe give us some ideas.”

Fourteen-and-a-half years had passed since he walked in to find his sister dead. He’d never looked at the crime scene photos; there’d never been a need. He remembered every grisly detail—if he let himself—as if Staci had died yesterday. “Of course.” He glanced to his right, realizing Wren still sat next to him—her hand in his. “Would you get the Detectives some more coffee?” He didn’t want her to see this. Deep down,
he
didn’t want to see this, but if there was any chance of justice for Staci, he would do what he had to.

“That would be great, Ms. Cooke.” Detective Rogers held out an empty mug.

She opened her mouth and quickly closed it, hesitating, then withdrew her hand from his, trapped by manners. “Sure.” She took the cups.

“Wouldn’t mind a few more cookies either, if you have any to spare. The grocery store bakery makes the best chocolate chip in town.”

“Certainly. I’ll be right back.”

Tucker waited for Wren to head into the kitchen, then nodded at the Detective. “Go ahead and lay them out.”

“I think it might be best to do a side-by-side comparison.”

“I agree.”

Rogers laid down two photos of dark purple hands—one Alyssa’s, one Staci’s.

Tucker’s shoulders instantly tensed as he recognized the gold and rubies Staci had always worn on her index finger. He stared at well-manicured fingernails and remembered how cold his sister had been while he clutched her discolored, stiff fingers, waiting for help to arrive. But there’d been no help for Staci.

Tucker systematically shut himself down as he studied the ligature marks dug into both victims’ wrists. Victims—not Staci Campbell and Alyssa Brookes, but two sixteen-year-old white females who had been brutally and methodically murdered. He wouldn’t be able to get through this if he didn’t distance himself all the way. “Same pattern. More than likely identical material used,” he said more to himself than the men sitting close by. “Did he remove them postmortem?”

“ME says yes. Perp tied her hands behind her back, then cut the nylon rope minutes after death.”

The same as Staci.

Detective Franklin set out several more pictures—full crime scene shots and close-ups of naked, spread-eagle victims with their arms above their heads. Deep purple lines dug in at their throats; pinpoints of blood marring dead, staring eyes. Both victims had long black hair and pretty, slender bodies left posed in humiliating positions. Even in death, they hadn’t been allowed their dignity. “The Brookes girl—was she raped?”

“Semen was found at the scene. We’ve rushed the kit off for DNA analysis. They’ll do a comparison at the lab.”

Tucker already knew there would be a match. “Perpetrator’s point of entry?”

“Unknown.”

Tucker’s gaze flew to the detectives. Exactly the same. The crime scenes were identical. “Fingerprints?”

“None that don’t belong to anyone other than family and friends who are known to have been in the house.”

What the fuck was going on? He needed to stand and pace away the worst of the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but he stayed where he was. This whole situation was…so many things: painful, disgusting, a potential beginning to answers for his parents and himself. “Goddamn.”

“I’m assuming the Brookes family and friends have no one in common with the Campbell friends here in Park City?”

“If it were that simple, we sure wouldn’t be here bothering you, Mr. Campbell.”

Tucker nodded.

“Looks like we’ve got a serial on our hands. We’ve got a profiler heading in from Salt Lake. Ms. Cooke, thank you.”

Tucker glanced up at Wren, pale and staring at the pictures spread over the table. He’d been so caught up he didn’t hear her come back. He rushed to his feet and took the mugs from her white-knuckled grip, handing them off, then pulled her several steps away. “Get out of here, Cooke.” He didn’t want her to see what had become of Alyssa Burkes and Staci. No one needed that horror stuck in their mind forever. He grabbed her chin, raising it until she finally looked at him and away from the photos. “I said get out of here. Go down to your room until I finish up here.”

“No, I’m—I’m fine. I just didn’t… You never told me. I had no idea Staci… I thought—I thought maybe—”

“Go get some work done.”

Shock vanished and compassion filled her eyes as she clutched his wrist. “I’m okay. I can handle it. I’ll stay with you.”

Her sweet, steady strength was blowing gaping holes in the protective wall he’d built around himself. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’ll be all right.”

“Tucker.” She touched his cheek. “Let me help you the way you’ve helped me.” One gesture. One simple sentence undid him completely.

“Damn, Cooke,” he sighed, closing his eyes. He wouldn’t make it through this if he didn’t shield himself again. “I need you to go.”

“But—”

“I don’t want you here.” His voice sharpened as he pulled her hand from his cheek and dropped it. “I don’t want you here,” he repeated more gently, hating himself for causing the flash of hurt.

“Fine.” She stepped away. “I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse me,” she said to the detectives and walked down the hall.

He clenched his jaw, understanding that any small gains he’d made with Wren were now lost.

Detective Franklin cleared his throat.

Tucker went to his seat, ruthlessly attempting to shove Wren to the back of his mind. He could only handle one problem at a time, and right now that was his sister. Staci’s killer had struck again—fourteen-and-a-half years later. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.”

He struggled to pick up where they left off. “You said you’re bringing in a profiler?”

“Yes. She should be here in the next couple of hours.”

“My parents paid for more than one profiler’s opinion over the years. They’ve all said the same thing, and I concur. The guy’s a sociopath. He’s sick, coolly angry, and smart as hell. He blends well—could be a pillar of the community for all we know. But that’s where the theory starts to unravel if we’re connecting cases here. They’ve all said Staci’s murder was personal. Her killer set out to terrify, humiliate, and ultimately end her life for a purpose. He was sending a message. As to what that was, we have no idea. Other than the identical killing, I can’t find a connection between the two victims.”

“There’s definitely a connection, Mr. Campbell.” Detective Rogers handed over two pictures of a torso glowing in the bold blue tint of a CSI black light.
SC
had been written on the stomach.

“What’s this?”

“I thought we would save this for last—the only difference between Alyssa and Staci’s cases. These are photographs of Alyssa Brookes’ abdomen. The bastard wrote his message in his semen.”

The wave of disgust left Tucker ill. “Fucker.”

Tucker scrutinized the picture, then picked up the photos of both Staci and Alyssa’s abdominal regions in standard lighting, studying.

“We can’t say for certain what this means, but if we start drawing conclusions—”

“My sister’s initials.”

Detective Rogers and Franklin nodded.

Tucker struggled to concentrate on the details instead of the ball of rage twisting his insides. “So this man’s back. We need to figure out what has provoked him out of an almost fifteen-year dry spell?”

“If he hasn’t been killing somewhere else.”

Tucker shook his head as he put down the pictures. “Although he’s changed things up with this slight variation,” He tapped the black-lighted photograph, “the method of murder itself hasn’t. I’ve been running his MO through the databanks for as long as I’ve had access. There’s never been a DNA or crime scene match before or after Staci’s murder. This guy’s methodical and enjoys his work. If he’s done it since, we would know—kind of like now.”

Roger’s nodded. “Okay.”

“Our man, he knows the area well. How long have the Brookes been residents of Park City?”

“About a dozen years now.”

Tucker stared at the photos, struggling to find a parallel. “So Alyssa grew up here for the most part. She and Staci have similar traits—black hair and slim body types. Alyssa lived among this community for quite some time. It’s not as if she was a visitor and the killer spotted her as his ‘type’ and suddenly had the urge to kill. That wouldn’t fit his MO, anyway. He’s not just killing at random. He selects and kills with a purpose.” And his purpose appeared to be Staci.

“About now, I’m wondering why you gave up your badge.” Detective Hayes set down his empty mug. “Must’ve been a blow to LAPD to lose you.”

He shrugged. “Got sick of the game—sick of procedure.”

“We’re going to be reopening Staci’s case. We’ll work both hers and Alyssa’s in a dual investigation.”

He swallowed the sudden waves of emotion. For years he’d wanted to do this for Staci, but had been too bogged down in other people’s crises to get the chance. “I’d like to help however I can.”

“We plan to re-interview all witnesses, starting with your parents.”

“Not my mother,” Tucker said quickly. “You can speak with my father, but my mother’s off limits unless there’s something my father is unable to answer. You have her statements to go on. Dad and I can fill in the rest. Staci’s murder destroyed her. She’s never been the same. She finally started leaving the house again a few years ago to do her charity work. We’re not going to fuck that up unless there’s no other choice.”

Detective Roger’s grunted his reluctant assent.

Tucker pulled his phone from his hip and noted Franklin’s glance at his weapon.

“What kind of trouble is Ms. Cooke in?”

“Stalker.”

“Beautiful woman. LA, you said. She some kind of star or something?”

“No. Interior designer. We left Los Angeles for awhile until things settle down.” He pointed to the fading cuts and bruises on his temple.

“Oh?”

“Wren’s been a target for the last three weeks. I got in the way of a ‘message’ he sent through my apartment window. Guy’s escalating. Her business partner was just found with his skull bashed in. We’re thinking her stalker beat the shit out of him, took his phone, and has been playing games with her for the past couple days via text message.”

“Hmm,” Rogers said.

Tucker scrolled through his contacts and scribbled down his father’s cell number, hating that his family was about to relive something they’d all put away. “Here you go. I’ll let my dad know he should be expecting a call.”

“We’ll be in touch.” Rogers retrieved the crime scene pictures, securing them in an acid-free bag. “I’m sure we’ll have more questions.”

“I don’t see us going anywhere for awhile.” He glanced toward the hall, eager to move this along. He needed to talk to Wren and smooth things over.

Rogers and Franklin stood. “Thank you, Mr. Campbell.”

“Thank you.” He shook their hands and walked the men to their vehicle. Moments later he came back in, closed the door, and pressed his forehead to the solid wood. “Son of a bitch.” He could hardly keep up with everything going on—Patrick, Staci, Wren. He sighed. Staci’s case had new leads he needed to sort through, but first he wanted to talk to Wren…after he called his dad. She’d put herself out there—finally—and he’d pushed her away. Sighing again, Tucker rearmed the panel, waited for the double blink, and pulled his phone from its holder as he set off down the hall.