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In his early forties, Nevada was conspicuously tall. Flint-gray eyes hinted at several lifetimes’ worth of hard living. He wore jeans, a dark sweater, a leather jacket, scuffed boots, and a SHERIFF ball cap. Never seeming comfortable in a jacket and tie, Nevada 2.0 looked at home.
“Macy.” Nevada restrained his powerful grip as he shook her hand.
Irritated he was already treating her like damaged goods, she quipped, “What happened to you, Nevada? Your grip’s a little soft.”
He released her hand. “You look . . .”
“Like I was hit by a fucking truck?”
A frown furrowed the lines around his eyes and mouth. “I called the hospital several times, but you never returned my calls.”
“Thanks for the effort. Truly. But my focus was dialed into my recovery.”
He was caught in a bad spot. They’d slept together a couple of times, liked each other, and split on good terms. Beyond a vague promise to see each other one day, nothing had bound them. What was he supposed to have done after the accident? Drop everything and race to her hospital bed?
“I wanted to help,” he said.
When a silence settled between them, she chose to fill it. “There wasn’t much you could’ve done. It was on me.”
During rehab, she’d needed to be around people who weren’t mourning the old her. God knows she had done enough of that herself. And Nevada seeing her so broken would have been her undoing.
“Did you get my gift?” he asked.
She smiled. He’d sent her a vintage copy of a Twisted Sister album. “‘We’re Not Gonna Take It’ became my anthem.”
The quip didn’t chase away the intensity in his gaze. “I thought it would make a nice addition to your LP collection.”
“It has a proud spot.” Right now, she needed to believe whatever was between them was water under the bridge. Her focus remained on getting her life back. “Tell me about the bones. Where are they now?”
“They’re in Roanoke at the Regional Forensic Center. Tobi Turner’s father wants his daughter’s remains released, so we’ll want to view them tomorrow.”
He wasn’t dwelling on the past, but moving forward, and for that she was grateful.
“Understood. What about the girl’s mother?” Macy asked.
“She died of early onset Alzheimer’s four years ago.”
She hoped the disease had erased the woman’s worst memories. “Can you give me a recap of what happened here?”
He pointed to the splintered wood of the partially dismantled shaft and recounted the grim discovery. Medical examiners had officially confirmed Tobi Turner’s identification with dental records.
“Where’s the backpack now?” Macy asked.
“Also with the state’s forensic lab in Roanoke. We can see it when we view the remains.”
The medical examiner’s office and forensic lab were both housed in a newly renovated facility. Good. It maximized her time.
“Has the medical examiner determined the cause of death?” Macy asked.
“He has not issued the final report yet. But if I had to guess, I’d say strangulation.”
“Based on?”
“The interviews done with the rape victims.”
“I want to read those,” Macy said.
“They aren’t very detailed.”
She tapped her finger against her thigh. “And time of death can’t be determined.”
“Correct.”
“The killer’s semen was found on Tobi Turner’s backpack.”
“Yes.”
Wedged in the chute, it would have been protected from the elements. “I want to interview the rape victims. Each reported their abuser held them up to an hour. They might help me piece together what happened to Tobi and identify this bastard.”
“My deputy is in her office waiting for us with the case files.”
She lingered for a moment, staring at a toppled yellow crime scene tent. Fury whetted her appetite for justice. “Those girls should have been worrying about homecoming and football games and not fighting for their lives.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday, November 18, 2:00 p.m.
The town of Deep Run was over two hundred years old and one of the oldest towns in the Shenandoah Valley. Unlike many of its neighbors in the valley, Deep Run hadn’t been damaged in the Civil War. Its picturesque buildings were now home to artists and galleries and often served as a backdrop to period movies.
Macy parked behind Nevada in front of the municipal center housing the sheriff’s office. A blend of 1930s art deco and 1980s brick storage box, the building was an awkward marriage of quaint and functional.
Out of her car, Macy looked toward Nevada, who remained in his vehicle and on the phone. A small-town sheriff’s job was a constant tug-of-war between large and small priorities. Everyone wanted to bend his ear.
Grateful for a moment to herself, she ran her hand over her hair, ignored the case’s high stakes, and hoisted her backpack on her shoulder. Through the front door, she crossed a small lobby toward a deputy sitting behind thick glass at a communications console. In his midforties, the deputy had thinning red hair, a round face, and silver-framed glasses. His badge read SULLIVAN.
Sullivan glanced up and pressed an intercom button. “You must be Special Agent Macy Crow. Sheriff Nevada said you’d be coming this morning.”
“Sheriff’s right behind me.”
A buzzer sounded, a lock clicked open, and she reached for the door handle. The fresh scent of coffee reached out.
Sullivan got out of his chair and beckoned for Macy to follow him toward a closed door at the end of the hallway, where a woman’s voice drifted from the room. He rapped softly on the door.
“Enter.”
Sullivan pushed open the door as the deputy ended her call. “Special Agent Crow is here.”
Deputy Brooke Bennett rose and moved around a long metal desk, her hand outstretched. She was tall, slim, athletic, and about Macy’s age.
The deputy’s direct gaze stared unapologetically at Macy as she also sized her up. “Special Agent Crow. I’m glad you found us. I assume you had no trouble finding Sheriff Nevada at the crime scene?”
Macy shook her hand. “No issue. I’ve found my share of crime scenes in my career.”
Behind Bennett’s desk were three community service awards and a framed picture of Nevada dressed in full uniform with Bennett, a smiling teenage boy, and an older woman. The boy looked exactly like Bennett, leading Macy to guess he was either a brother or even a son.
Sullivan returned to his desk, saying, “Call if you need anything.”
Macy followed Bennett out of her office and into a conference room outfitted with a large whiteboard, an oval-shaped conference table covered in a faux wood grain, and four cushioned chairs. On a credenza by the whiteboard were stacks of files, a couple of dry-erase markers, and a gurgling coffee machine.
Bennett reached for a Styrofoam cup. “How do you take it?” she asked Macy.
“Three sugars and two creams.” Macy set her backpack on the table. “While we’re waiting on Nevada, I’d like to get background on the missing girls and the rape cases that preceded them.”
“Of course.”
Macy unzipped her backpack and pulled out her yellow pad, as well as a couple of pens. She was tech savvy, but she preferred writing her notes on pristine yellow paper. Over the course of an investigation, the pad would work overtime, filling up with notes on every line and along the margins.
Bennett laid each file out on the conference table in a precise line, displaying their neatly typed labels. Oswald, Susan, June 15, 2004. Carter, Ellis, July 15, 2004. Kennedy, Rebecca, August 15, 2004. The three folders were noticeably thin.
Macy’s initial impression was that each attack had occurred in the middle of the month. It was the first hint of a pattern. The dates could be as simple as the rapist’s work schedule. He attacked then because he had the time off. Those dates also signaled the new mo
ons of the lunar cycle. The night sky would have been darker. They were also summer dates that spoke of warm weather, time off from school, or a vacation. Whether the rapist understood his pattern or not, she believed the dates weren’t coincidental.
Macy flipped open the top folder. Oswald, Susan. The first page featured a picture of a pale face splashed with freckles. Susan’s lips were drawn tight, and mascara was smudged under watery green eyes. Bruising ringed her neck. The pale-pink flowers of a hospital gown revealed the image was taken during the rape evidence collection. Susan’s eyes sparkled not only with tears but also with shame and hints of a broken soul.
Macy curled the fingers of her left hand into a fist, reminding herself why she had been put on this planet. Her sole purpose was finding monsters like this and locking them away.
“Good, you’ve made yourself at home,” Nevada said from the doorway.
Bennett tensed and stood a fraction straighter. “Sheriff Nevada. Coffee?”
Nevada removed his ball cap. A grin softened the hard angles of his face. “When did you start getting me coffee?”
