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“The 2015 murder occurred in Charleston, West Virginia, and the 2017 murder occurred in Bluefield, Virginia, which is less than sixty miles from Deep Run.”
“Was there DNA?” Macy asked.
“There was, but it was badly degraded in both cases,” she said. “The bodies of both women weren’t found for months after they vanished.”
Her heart raced faster. “Were their remains buried?”
“No, they were both dumped on the side of the road. In that part of the world, the side of the road isn’t always a neat shoulder. It can be a drop off the side of a mountain.”
“What about red rope?”
“Discovered bound to the hands of the 2017 victim.”
“Who’s the local law enforcement contact?”
“Sheriff Wade Tanner,” Andy said.
“Do you have a phone number?”
Andy rattled it off. “I also have a possible hit in western Maryland, but I’ll know later today. The locality’s application was incomplete.”
“Andy, in any of the cases you mentioned, were there teeth marks on the victims?”
Papers shuffled and then she spoke. “In Atlanta, the victim had a significant bite mark on her upper right arm. Should I add that to the list?”
“Yes. And thank you, Andy. I appreciate it.” She glanced toward Nevada, feeling the first easing of the pressure that had been building in her since she’d walked out of Ramsey’s office. “Did you hear?”
“I did.”
She looked up Bluefield on her phone. “Mercer County borders Virginia. We can be there in less than two hours.”
“I know Sheriff Wade Tanner. I worked a bureau case in his jurisdiction seven or eight years ago. Let me call him.”
He dialed Tanner’s number, but she could hear the sheriff’s clipped, deep voice on his recorded message. Nevada left a message.
Macy was making progress, but would she nail him before he killed again?
Brooke’s head pounded when her eyes fluttered open. She tried to sit up, but pain shot through her body, sending her backward to the stained carpet. She lay for a moment, her heart beating fast as she tried to collect herself.
Where was she?
Drawing in a breath, she pushed up to a sitting position and rested her back against the concrete. Her throat also hurt, and when she raised her hand to her neck, the flesh felt tender and bruised.
She reached for her weapon and discovered her gun belt had been stripped away, as had her shoes and socks. The pins securing her hair had been removed, leaving her long dark hair to fall past her shoulders.
As she looked around the small room, she was now more pissed than afraid. How could she have been so stupid? She’d heard his footsteps come up behind her, but she’d not reacted fast enough.
Her mind went to Matt sleeping in his bed. Worry and fear swirled around her anger. It was one thing for her to pay the price for not being on guard, but not her kid. Tears burned her eyes before she stopped her thoughts midstream. She was no use to Matt sitting in here crying like a child. This prick wouldn’t have it easy with her.
Gritting her teeth, she pushed to a standing position and felt along the walls until her fingertips brushed over a doorknob. Hope came and went just as quickly as she rattled the knob and realized it was locked.
She considered shouting and pounding, but knew this was what he wanted from her. Fear. And she’d be damned if she’d give it to him. Drawing in a deep breath, she ran her fingers again over her neck. He’d strangled her while she’d been unconscious. Not very sporting, even for him. Out cold, she’d not shown him the fear he craved, so he’d left her alive. For now.
If she was sure of anything, it was that he would return and strangle her again.
One way or another, she had to get ready for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Thursday, November 21, 1:30 p.m.
Nevada and Macy had arrived in Deep Run when Sheriff Tanner called. After a brief exchange, the two agreed to continue the discussion on a closed-circuit connection in the conference room.
Sullivan poked his head into the room. “Received a text from Deputy Bennett. She says her boy is real sick. She’ll be here as soon as she can.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Nevada asked.
“Probably, but the deputy never asks for help and likely would be embarrassed by it.”
“I’ll follow up with her in the next hour,” Nevada said.
“And this package arrived for Agent Crow.”
Macy opened the package and pulled out the small sample of Beacon cologne. She removed the top and sprayed a light mist on her wrist. She inhaled, hoping she’d smelled this before. She had not.
She handed the bottle to Nevada. “It’s not familiar to me. I think our guy might have changed his scent.”
He sniffed and then recapped it. “It’s not familiar to me either, but I’ll pass it around the office. Someone might recognize it.”
“You never know.”
Fifteen minutes later, the two were sitting at the conference-room table looking at the telecast of a leather-bound chair and the Mercer County seal mounted on the wall behind. Seconds later a man in his sixties settled in front of the camera. He had a white mustache, a cleanly shaved head, and he wore a khaki shirt with the sheriff’s star pinned over his heart.
“Sheriff Tanner,” Nevada said. “Appreciate you talking with us.”
“Glad to help. Apologize for not being around when you called, but as you’ll learn, this job will take you to every corner of the county. How’s it up there in the valley?” he asked.
“Fall came and went fast. It’ll be a long winter.”
“I hear that.”
“I’m joined today by Special Agent Macy Crow,” Nevada said. “She’s working a series of rapes and a murder all connected by the same DNA.”
“Afternoon, Agent Crow.”
“I appreciate the time,” she said.
“Of course.” He rustled through papers. “I pulled the case files you referenced in your message, Sheriff Nevada. I didn’t think anything would come of that ViCAP application I submitted.”
“New details have been entered in the system,” Macy said.
“We found a body in Deep Run.” Nevada opened a tablet and then an email from Tanner. “Agent Crow thinks we have a serial offender who remained active after he left our area.”
Tanner flipped open his file. “Guys like this don’t stop until they’re caught.”
“Who’s your victim?” Macy watched as Nevada opened an attachment. The motor vehicles picture of a young brunette came onscreen.
“Her name was Becky Taylor. I sent you her picture and several crime scene photos about ten minutes ago.”
“I have them right here,” Nevada said. He viewed the image of a woman curled on her side. She was dressed and her hands and feet bound with red rope.
“The medical examiner figured she was exposed to the elements for about five months when found in late April,” Tanner said.
“And the cause of death was strangulation?” Macy asked.
“It was.”
“What about a bite mark?” Nevada asked.
“Upper right thigh,” Tanner said.
The older sheriff glanced at the file, shaking his head. “Becky was nineteen when she was murdered. She was arrested for prostitution and drug charges several times. I did some asking around the trailer park where she grew up. They tell me the deck was stacked against her from the get-go. No daddy and a drug-addicted mom. She was pretty much on her own as soon as she could walk.”
She sounded like Cindy Shaw. “Known associates?” Macy asked.
“They knew her at the truck stops where she did most of her work. Everybody knew of her, but no one could say for sure when she vanished or who she was last seen with.”
The world swallowed up girls like Becky Taylor who turned to the sex trade for so many reasons, including money, acceptance, and even affection. “According to the ViCAP report, the DNA was degraded.”
“That was 2017, so unless you folks at Quantico got more fancy ways of testing DNA, there’s not much to be done.”
