Girl, Alone (An Ella Dark FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1) Page 5

  “You’re right there. There ain’t a face I don’t recognize in this town.”

  “Exactly. Secondly, and most importantly, is that it’s part of the fantasy. This guy wanted to be Gein; wanted to feel the same rush Gein felt back in 1957. He’s probably been dreaming of it for a long time.”

  Harris looked intrigued, while Ripley looked on with disinterest and suspicion. Ella undid her scarf and threw it on the counter for effect.

  “Once the guy leaves the store, he comes back in through the back door. That’s a two-way fire exit, so as long as he can get into the yard, he’s inside. Once there, he shoots the victim from this angle.” Ella maneuvered into position. “Hence the huge blood spatter on the counter. Christine then crawled away to aisle three, where he finished her with the ax.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Ripley said, “but Gein didn’t do that. All his mutilation took place at his home.”

  “Gein didn’t want anyone to find out about his deviance. This killer obviously does.”

  Ella saw that Ripley was considering her theory. Harris just seemed lost.

  “It doesn’t stop there either,” Ella continued. She thought back to something she saw in the yard on her first trip to the shed. She hurried back outside. “All of these crates are made of wood. Christine probably got them all from the same supplier.”

  “And?” Ripley asked.

  “So what’s this doing here?” Ella said, pointing with her foot to a burlap sack. “And it’s the only object here which doesn’t have any specks of blood on it. That’s because it wasn’t here when he dragged Christine outside.”

  Her exhaustion had subsided. She’d been awake almost twenty-four hours but never felt more alive. “Those hooks in the shed? He put them there. He brought them with him.”

  “Ella, this is what we call assumption. You’re molding facts to fit theories. We have no evidence whatsoever of that being the case.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Ella said. “Isn’t this scene missing something?”

  “It’s missing a lot of things,” Ripley said.

  “This killer wanted us to find this, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Judging by that carved-up body in the shed, I’d say he has a flair for the theatric, and therefore, he’s going to use every means available to shock and terrify us. So, what are we missing?”

  Harris said nothing, waiting for a revelation of some kind. Of any kind.

  Ripley shifted her weight onto one foot. “A severed head,” she said.

  Harris grimaced at the words. “We don’t know where her head is.”

  “I’m pretty sure I do,” said Ella. “When the police invaded Gein’s home, they discovered all sorts of items made from human remains. One of those items was in—”

  “A burlap sack,” Ripley finished.

  There was a cold silence between them. Ella and Ripley looked at Harris. Reluctantly, he turned on his flashlight.

  He edged toward the sack, which had been discarded between two crates. He pulled it toward him, the bag moving as though it was empty. Whatever was in there, if anything, didn’t have much weight to it.

  He shone his flashlight inside.

  Within a second, he’d dropped the bag back on the floor and jerked his arm up to his mouth.

  “Jesus wept. I’m going to be sick.”

  Ella thought of Psycho, and Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Silence of the Lambs. All Ed Gein–inspired works which she’d seen countless times over. She and Ripley picked up the bag and peered inside themselves. She heard Hannibal Lecter’s voice in her head.

  Have you seen blood in the moonlight? It appears quite black.

  He wasn’t wrong. At the bottom of the burlap sack, the skinned face of Christine Hartwell stared back at her. She resisted the urge to say I told you so. Now wasn’t the time.

  “Get this to forensics immediately,” Ripley said.

  “This guy killed a woman, gutted her body, cut off her head, and skinned her face in less than an hour. Outside the confines of his own workstation or private area,” Ella said. “This isn’t an average serial killer.”

  “I won’t lie, Rookie, that was quite impressive. I wouldn’t have made that connection myself. Someone would have eventually, but you did it right away. Good work.”

  The exhaustion finally hit her, but the praise from Ripley provided a little relief.

  “But even with that connection, it doesn’t tell us who did this,” Ripley continued. “Not to mention that it further proves my point that these killings are the work of three separate people.”

  Ella didn’t have an answer for that one. Ripley was right. If this killer went to such extreme levels to craft this scene, right down to the small details like antifreeze and a very specific murder weapon, then wouldn’t the other scenes be equally as theatric? She thought to Gein’s other crimes. His murder of a second middle-aged woman, grave robbing, even rumors of him killing his own brother. None of them fit, at least as far as she could tell. However, her knowledge of the other killings in the bayou town was limited at best.

  “I want to take a look at the files of the first two victims,” Ella said. “Maybe there are some other patterns there.”

  “Fine by me. First thing in the morning, I’ll talk to some of Christine Hartwell’s family. Harris, can you take us to our hotel? I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need some rest.”

  ***

  Their motel was a standard three-star affair, located only a short drive from the crime scene. Harris had dropped them off and told them he’d be back for them in the morning. Ella felt a wave of relief when she learned she and Ripley would have separate rooms. There was such a thing as too much, too soon, Ella thought. She needed the privacy to recharge and ruminate on what she’d seen so far.

  After checking in with the receptionist, Ella and Ripley made their way to the first floor. Ella’s room was located at the end of a short, carpeted corridor.

  “See you in the morning,” Ripley said. “Bright and early. That’s how I like it.”

  “Likewise,” said Ella. “See you in the morning.” She swiped her keycard and entered her room. It was surprisingly modest, decorated in a shade of warm orange. Her first point of call was the bed. She dropped her bags beside it and lay down, savoring the relief of getting off her feet somewhere comfortable. The exhaustion hit her hard. She tilted her head so she could see out the motel room window, but she couldn’t bring herself to step up and appreciate the view properly.

  Her thoughts were of the crime scene. Since seeing the dead body of Christine Hartwell, she hadn’t thought of anything else. Her subconscious wouldn’t let her, she thought. Seeing something so visceral and unnatural brought up a lot of strange feelings. She was excited to dig further into the case, especially with the Gein connection, but it was the uncertainty that made her feel anxious.

  The uncertainty of what might come next. Would there be more bodies, or was this it? Would she have to endure a similar horror again while she was here, or could she focus her efforts solely on this crime scene?

  She didn’t want to let down Ripley or Edis. She wasn’t concerned with being the hero of the hour, she just wanted to add value to the investigation.

  Ella closed her eyes and saw the body again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was a new day, but to Mia Ripley, it simply felt like an extension of the one before. That was pretty common these days, days blurring into years, sometimes waking up unable to remember if she was still married or not. After the blissful sensation of morning obliviousness passed, reality always came crushing back. No marriage these days, just the grim details of federal crimes clogging up her brain capacity.

  A decapitated, strung-out corpse. A dead skin mask. A copycat crime of one of the world’s most infamous murderers. Just another day.

  She’d been in the job so long that she was able to view crime scenes with an unbiased eye. The first few years of the job were spen
t playing the what-if game. What if this victim was my daughter? What if someone else had been present when the killer walked into the store? What if she’d had a weapon under the counter? Eventually, the what-ifs gave way to acceptance

  Mia took a cab to the home of Harry Hartwell, the brother of Christine Hartwell. Few tasks filled her with as much dread as visiting the home of the bereaved family. Her humanism, or rather her learned ability to lack humanism, didn’t aid her well when she had to sit beside someone and help them process the death of a loved one. And it was made all the more difficult when the circumstances around that death involved dismemberment and flayed skin.

  On the journey, Mia gave Ella’s theory some thought. While she was impressed that Ella connected the dots so quickly, all it did was establish a modus operandi. It didn’t provide a motive, or even any leads whatsoever.

  Harry’s home wasn’t one of the lavish waterfront properties. Far from it. The town’s central lake glimmered in the distance, morning sun reflecting off its surface, but the area Harry lived in would be considered the town’s slums. Her cab trembled along a dirt path which led to a row of detached houses, modest in size and neglected in quality. A handful of the homes appeared abandoned, judging by the overgrown weeds slowly reclaiming their exteriors. Harry’s place was at the end of the row.

  Mia exited the cab and walked up the steps of his white porch. Before she could knock on the door, someone opened it from the other side.

  “Police?” a man asked. He was on the large side, innocent-eyed, with a long beard from the chin down. Mia would have assumed he was a biker, if not for the 2009 blue Ford in his driveway. His T-shirt proudly declared THE OLDER I GET, THE BETTER I WAS.

  “Close enough,” Mia said. “Are you Harry?”

  “I am,” he said. Mia saw the grief right away, although he was trying his best to keep it hidden. She saw how weak and pale he looked, and she recognized he was talking with a dry mouth—obvious signs Harry was struggling to come to terms with his loss.

  “I’m Agent Mia Ripley with the FBI. Do you mind if I talk to you about a few things?”

  Harry shook his head. “No. Come in, please.”

  Mia entered to a surprisingly well-kept hallway. A small terrier, unsure whether it was excited or scared, yapped away from another room.

  “Sorry about Loki. We don’t get many new visitors,” he said.

  “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry we had to meet under such circumstances.”

  Harry’s living room was a perfect square. One brown sofa along the wall, a TV propped in the corner, and no single chairs. The single person’s setup.

  “Take a seat,” Harry said, pointing to his sofa. He pulled in a stool from the adjoining kitchen.

  “Thank you,” said Mia. She pulled out her notebook and flipped to a new page. She needed to get the awkward part over with first. “Have you been told what happened?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, the sheriff told me the basics,” Harry said. His eyes were swollen red, but he spoke with composure. “He seemed like there was a couple o’ things he didn’t wanna tell me, though.”

  “First, can I ask about your relationship with Christine?” Mia didn’t want to overload Harry with the sick details just yet, for fear Harry might lose his calm.

  “Best sister I ever had.” He smiled. “We were pretty close, I guess. No one from our family is left, so it’s just me and her.”

  Mia watched Harry’s body language closely. Her first point of call was always the interviewee’s feet. If they were pointed away from her, it was often a sign the interviewee wanted to escape. Her second point of call was their hands. If someone had something to hide, they’d use their hands to create a literal barrier between themselves and the interviewer. Covering their mouth when they talked, folding their arms, holding their head in their hands while they answered questions.

  So far, Harry exhibited none of these symptoms. There was one more dead giveaway, but Mia hadn’t gotten there yet.

  “Please don’t think of this as a suspicious question, Mr. Hartwell, but can you verify your whereabouts between five and seven p.m. last night?”

  “I was playing darts with some friends. They’ll be able to vouch for me,” he said. He ran his hand through his hair and composed himself. Mia saw his eyes begin to swell with tears.

  “Thank you. What else can you tell me about Christine? Was she generally well-liked? Was there anyone who might want to hurt her?”

  “No,” Harry said confidently. “There’s two types of women out there. The ones who party and end up puking in the toilet, and the ones who hold back their friend’s hair when they’re puking in the toilet. Christine’s the latter. She’s the kindest soul you’d ever meet.”

  That was all Mia needed. She was certain Harry wasn’t involved. Another major red flag was when an interviewee, particularly one who claimed to be grieving, referred to the deceased in past tense. For the first forty-eight hours, their subconscious would still be coming to terms with the fact they were gone, so they’d be more likely to refer to them as though they were still alive. Mia had caught out countless suspects with this little trick.

  “Well, actually, I tell a lie,” Harry continued. “There is one person—maybe.”

  Mia pulled out her pen. “Please, tell me anything you can. Any minor detail is useful.”

  “It’s her ex-husband,” Harry said. He stood up and released his terrier from the other room. It rushed toward Mia’s feet and began sniffing violently. His yapping ceased once his curiosity was satisfied.

  “Name?” Mia asked.

  “Rick Cornette. Christine dropped his last name after their divorce. Messy, it was. The guy is a total sleaze. Drinks like an Irish sailor. Used to abuse Christine something rotten until she wised up and left.”

  “Their split wasn’t amicable?”

  “Oh no. Christine walked in one night and busted him with a couple o’ working girls. Confronted him and she got a smack for her efforts. Me and the darts boys went around the same night and set him right.”

  “And that was the last you saw of him?”

  “Me personally, yeah. But Christine went through the whole divorce crap with him. Got in a battle over their assets and the like, but Christine came out golden. She got full ownership of their shop and Rick got jack shit. What he deserves.”

  “How long ago was this?” Mia asked.

  “Couple o’ years. Rumor down the darts club is that it sent Rick loopy. Drinks himself to death now. That business was everything to him.”

  It was a solid lead. Given the overkill at the crime scene, Mia suspected Christine may have been killed by someone with a personal vendetta against her.

  “Thank you, Harry. One last question. Did Christine have an interest in serial killers at all? Or anything true crime related?”

  “Serial killers? God no. She’s the most squeamish woman you could ever meet. Why do you ask?”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t divulge any details about on ongoing investigation. But it’s nothing important, really.”

  “Understood. Rick, on the other hand. Well, that’s a different story. That man’s butchered a few carcasses in his time.”

  Mia pulled her notepad back out. “How do you mean?”

  “When he wasn’t running his hardware shop, he was at home cuttin’ up pigs and deer and the like. He was a skilled hunter.”

  ***

  Ella suddenly realized why so many cops were wound up tight. The hot desk she’d been designated at the local precinct was like something from a high school exam hall, and the hard leather chair was like sitting on a cactus.

  Some snide glances came her way from the surrounding officers. They huddled together on the other side of the office, occasionally peering over at the new girl. Every few minutes, a chorus of laughter would break out.

  Now she knew why they’d been so hesitant to send across their crime scene photos to the FBI. Sheriff Harris was right. They didn’t like the idea of someone else
coming in to take charge of their investigation, least of all a young woman. Law enforcement was a place for the masculine to thrive. It had always been this way. And even in the progressive modern age, there was no sign of this changing any time soon.

  She started to feel like she was on display, like a museum curiosity to be gawped at. With Ripley’s downplaying her Ed Gein theory, the loneliness and self-doubt began to creep in. A wave of light-headedness came, but Ella took a few deep breaths and steadied herself. What was it Bukowski said? Decide you want it more than you’re afraid of it.

  What she wanted was to catch a killer. It might be a long journey, but all journeys start with small steps.

  “Here you go, sweetheart,” said a voice from behind her. It was another officer, young, maybe early thirties. Boyishly good-looking too. A stark contrast to the middle-aged circle jerk a few feet away. “All the files we have on the cases you requested.” He dropped them on the table in front of her.

  “Thank you for your help,” Ella said.

  “I gotta say, we get a few out-of-towners, but not many as good-looking as you. Where are you staying while you’re in Louisiana?”

  Oh Jesus. I can do without this right now, she thought.

  “Depends. But I can tell you a few places I’m not staying.”

  “Okay, honey. No need for that. Just trying to help. I’ll be over the way if you need anything.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Ella said.

  She idly wondered if she’d been too harsh, but her aunt always told her never to get involved with a policeman, a soldier, or a carny. Every time they left the house, you’d be left wondering if they’d ever come back.

  She opened up the first report and read from top to bottom. The noise of the precinct was a distraction, so she pulled her iPod out of her bag and plugged her ears. She played the soundtrack to The Prestige on repeat. It had to be something without lyrics.

  She read the report of the first victim. Her name was Julia Reynolds, a seventeen-year-old girl whose body parts had been discovered in the nearby High Gate Woods a week ago. Ella pulled out the autopsy report and saw that the cause of death had been strangulation, meaning any dismemberment had been carried out postmortem.