An Eye for an Eye Page 5

  Amanda got a camera out of her kit and handed it to me. “Well, boss. Sounds like it’s go time.”

  I took the camera from her. “I’ll get shots of the whole scene and of the body, then Dr. Berg and Kenny can cut her down.”

  Starting at the entrance to the gazebo, I began taking pictures. Wide shots at first, showing the entire gazebo area, then some mid-range shots of the victim’s body, then finally close-ups of each aspect of the staging. I worked to focus my thoughts on the science of the situation rather than allowing the reality to sink in. My state of mind was precarious at best, but I had a lock on it at the moment.

  Amanda said, “Check out her cowboy boots.”

  I glanced down. Those clunky boots were not quite in keeping with Jenna’s chic style. “Jenna Walsh would never have put those on her feet.” I took in the rest of her outfit—a peasant top, a flowered bohemian skirt, a wide belt embellished with coins, and several mismatched necklaces. “And she most certainly didn’t do boho.”

  Amanda’s brow furrowed. “Maybe she was going to a costume party.”

  “I don’t think so.” I zoomed my camera in on the victim’s neck and took a photo. Her throat had been slit, but the wound had been wiped clean, and there was no blood on her shirt. “The killer redressed her.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “So is going to all this trouble to pose the body. It took some time and a lot of thought.” I snapped several close-ups of how the fishing line was tied to the gazebo.

  At that time, Dr. Berg and Kenny came back to collect the body. Dr. Berg removed the flowers from the victim’s hands, placing them into a large bag Amanda had waiting. He pulled the note from her fingers and handed it to me. I placed it into a plastic sleeve, then slid that into a manila envelope and sealed it. After that, Amanda and I left the gazebo to give Dr. Berg and Kenny some space. We walked around back so we could watch what they were doing from the other side. Baxter and Sterling joined us.

  Amanda gestured at the body and said to the detectives, “We noticed that the victim has been redressed.”

  “No shit, Sherlocks. There’s no blood on her clothes,” Sterling jeered, earning a glare from both Amanda and me. Sterling couldn’t be nice for too long.

  Amanda replied, “It’s not just that she’s been redressed; it’s how she’s been redressed. Those clothes are not from this decade.”

  I said, “Right. They’re probably…” I did some quick math in my head. “I’d say around fifteen years old.”

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “Because it’s exactly what I would have worn in high school, down to the belt.”

  Sterling looked at Amanda and me like we were crazy. “We’re trying to catch a possible serial killer, and you two are fixated on the fact that our vic’s clothing is outdated? We’re the real police, not the fashion police.”

  Baxter rolled his eyes at his partner. “They make a good point. The killer dressed the victim a certain way either to send a specific message or to satisfy a sick fantasy.” He took out his phone and pulled up the picture he’d taken of the note. “Maybe the clothes, like the poem, are another piece of his sadistic puzzle. We figure out the connection, and it might give us an idea as to who this lunatic is.”

  As we watched Dr. Berg and Kenny begin cutting the fishing line holding the body upright, Sterling said, “Okay, I’ll bite. Let’s say the killer is trying to make a point about something that happened a while ago or recreate something or someone. Maybe this vic represents a woman in his life—a wife, girlfriend, mom, or other family member. The killer went to a lot of trouble to stage this body. It’s got to mean something. Read that stupid poem again.”

  Baxter read from his phone, “ ‘An innocent man went to jail that night because you decided what was wrong and right.’ ”

  Amanda said, “Wait. Do you have a photo of the first poem, too? If we put both of them together it might help.”

  Baxter scrolled back through his photos. “Here we go. The first one says: My life was ruined by your mistakes, and now you understand how my heart aches. For your incompetence I will show no pity as I strike terror across the city.”

  I cut in, “It sounds like the killer thinks Jayne and Frank sent the wrong guy to jail. It could be the killer himself or someone close to him. Keep going.”

  Baxter continued, “ ‘Your only child is now dearly departed. An eye for an eye? I’m just getting started.’ ” He scrolled to the photo of tonight’s poem. “ ‘An innocent man went to jail that night because you decided what was wrong and right. You thought you knew. You were so sure. She died; he died. How much must a child have to endure?’ ”

  Sterling kicked at the ground. “Two people died, an innocent man went to jail, and a child suffered. When there are kids involved in any way in a crime, they always suffer. And every asshole in the joint will tell you he’s innocent. This could literally be any case.”

  “How about the two people who died?” I asked.

  Shrugging, he replied, “It doesn’t say when or how or what relation they are to the killer. Not enough specifics to base anything on.”

  Baxter kept reading. “A tooth for a tooth. Are you catching on? It won’t be long before the next one’s gone.” He winced. “Anyone hear if the Doc looked in the victim’s mouth yet? What do you want to bet she’s missing a tooth?”

  I closed my eyes, hoping that wasn’t true.

  Of course Sterling had to add, “And the psycho kept it for a trophy like Amy Donovan’s right eye.”

  My stomach lurched at the mental image of the killer’s “trophies.”

  Baxter brought the conversation back to something I could handle. “The killer seems to be pointing to a certain incident that both the Sheriff and Detective Donovan were involved in. What was it, about ten, fifteen years ago that they became partners?”

  “Fourteen,” I said. “She made detective when I was seventeen, and they were partners for about four years after that.”

  “That roughly coincides with your wardrobe timeframe.” He typed something into his phone. “I’m sending this second poem to the crypto guys at the FBI field office. I hope they can glean more from this one than they did from the first one. Since the first poem referenced Detective Donovan, we’ve been looking into threats made on him over the years. But now that we have another piece of the puzzle, I’m going to have some deputies start combing through old case files the Sheriff and Donovan worked together, looking for any kind of similarities to these two victims or situations surrounding their deaths.”

  “That’s going to be dozens upon dozens of cases. Maybe hundreds,” Amanda said.

  Sterling had grown quiet, staring off toward the front of the park. “I think I have a way to narrow it down. Have them cross-reference the cases with any that Judge Richards presided over.”

  “Why Judge Rich—” My jaw dropped. “Oh…”

  Sterling nodded. “If this whack job is so caught up in symbolism, it makes sense he might try to get back at Judge Richards by making his fancy new park a crime scene.”

  Baxter’s expression darkened. “Or he’s sending yet another message. We’d better get someone to secure Judge Richards and his family ASAP.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Baxter and Sterling ran off to investigate their growing suspicions, leaving Amanda and me to worry over unanswered questions.

  She frowned. “If all this symbolism stuff is for real, then we have a really crafty psycho on our hands.”

  “I agree,” I replied, watching as Dr. Berg and Kenny wheeled Jenna’s body, now zipped into a bag, out of the gazebo and toward their waiting van.

  Amanda and I walked over to the entrance of the gazebo to get back to work. It was going to be a long night. Not only would I have to spend hours here at the scene collecting evidence, I’d then also have meetings to attend and lab work to do. Sleep would have to wait until tomorrow; not that I had a chance of falling asleep after everything that had happened in the pa
st several hours.

  Amanda and I put on respirator masks and new gloves, then went back into the gazebo. Our first focus was the concrete floor and anything the killer might have dropped. There was only one path of entry and exit, and out of necessity it had been used by several of us, so it was unlikely that we’d find anything that hadn’t been noticed already. Dividing the small space into imaginary quadrants, we each took a section and scoured it. We both looked over each section, so the floor was examined twice. For an outdoor area, it was fairly clean. Neither of us collected anything as evidence.

  Realizing I’d forgotten a key part of my usual investigative process, I hurried over to the field kit and got out a voice recorder, which I switched on and started recording. I rattled off my name and the case information I knew, then I said, “The body of the victim, Jenna Walsh, was suspended inside the gazebo of Richards Park by a clear, thin material that looks to be fishing line. The body was found in a seated position on a bench, holding a bouquet of white daisies and a note. The note and flowers have been taken as evidence. The victim was found wearing clothing and shoes I believe not to be part of her normal wardrobe, and appears to have been redressed after death. No evidence found upon examination of the floor of the gazebo.”

  Amanda, who had been scribbling in a notebook, pulled her mask down and gave me a smile. “Audio notes?”

  “Yeah, I’m lazy. I’d rather talk to myself now and type my scene notes out later.”

  “I tried that, but I remember things better if I write them down.” She shrugged. “To each her own.”

  We both stood staring at the bench where the victim had been sitting, hoping for something to jump out at us. Aside from the fishing line still hanging from the wrought iron of the gazebo and the slats of the wooden bench, there seemed to be nothing for us to collect.

  Amanda set out evidence markers by the places the fishing line was tied to the bench. I took photos and continued to mumble out my case notes. We collected the fishing line and placed it into evidence bags. We then photographed, cut down, bagged, and tagged the fishing line tied to the wrought iron supports.

  I got out a flashlight and a magnifying glass and kneeled down in front of the bench. Shining the light on the bench’s seat, I looked for any kind of trace that could have been left behind by the killer, but found nothing. I examined the rest of the bench, again coming up empty-handed. I stood and pulled down my mask, frowning.

  “Nothing?” Amanda asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, now what? Do we dust the whole bench?”

  I groaned. “A public bench? I don’t even want to know how many fingerprints are on this thing.”

  She was studying the bench with a thoughtful expression. “Well, maybe we focus on dusting the areas around where the fishing line was tied rather than, say, on the arms of the bench where people might rest their hands. That should narrow it down.”

  “Great idea.” I gestured to the ironwork supports holding up the gazebo’s roof. “You want to do that while I dust up there where the rest of the fishing line was tied?”

  “Sure.”

  The gazebo was gorgeous and had to have cost thousands of dollars to construct. It had a copper roof, and the supports weren’t simple posts. They were made of intricate, scrolled metalwork—perfect for wrapping yards and yards of fishing line around to hold up a dead body. I brushed gray fingerprint powder on the dark metal and used the magnifying glass and flashlight to search for prints. I saw nothing. I brushed on some more powder, this time fanning out to a larger area, but still got nothing from it.

  I sighed. “I’m calling it—the killer wore gloves. It’s freezing out here, so maybe instead of being paranoid, he was just cold and had his hands covered up. Either way, I’ve got nothing.”

  Amanda stood and placed the fingerprint paraphernalia back in the kit. “Same here. Since this isn’t the primary crime scene, we’re not going to find much. We’d do a lot more good by getting started examining the victim’s clothes and the flowers and note. We could stay all night and look for stuff that isn’t here, or we could go work on actual evidence. Jason said he’d have a couple of deputies take care of searching the parking lot and paths leading to the gazebo, so I think we’re good to go.”

  “Let’s complete a rough sketch. Then we can pack it up.”

  ***

  After we measured the dimensions of the gazebo and made a sketch of the scene, notating where the body and our evidence had been found, Amanda drove us to Noblesville to the sheriff’s station. We checked in our evidence with the evidence clerk and then took it down the hall to the lab.

  As she shrugged on her lab coat, Amanda said, “Well, at least we’re in from the cold. And I’m glad I’m not the one who has to inform Jason and Nick at the pre-autopsy meeting that there’s pretty much no evidence. Good luck with that.”

  I smiled. “Oh, come on, now. We have three whole items to process. No, wait—make that two. I forgot we’re sending the fishing line to the state lab for DNA processing. Do you want the flowers or the note?”

  “I’ll take the pretty flowers. You take the weird note.”

  Chuckling, I grabbed the envelope containing the note and took it to a workstation. I donned gloves and a mask and pulled the document out of the manila envelope and the plastic sleeve. Positioning the bench magnifier over it, I gave the note a good once-over. It was handwritten in black ink, the penmanship messy but nondescript. I studied its eerie message.

  An innocent man went to jail that night

  Because you decided what was wrong and right.

  You thought you knew. You were so sure.

  She died; he died. How much must a child have to endure?

  A tooth for a tooth. Are you catching on?

  It won’t be long before the next one’s gone.

  I was glad Baxter had sent the poem over to the FBI for their crypto people to take a crack at deciphering it. I certainly didn’t want to have to delve into it to figure out any hidden meanings it held.

  Since we knew the message was from the killer, there was no reason for the item to be sent to the Questioned Documents examiner. It wouldn’t help us to know what brand of paper it was written on or what kind of ink was used, or if there had been any alterations made to the written message. Satisfied that the only thing left to do would be to process the paper for fingerprints, I took several photos of the note. I then went to the cabinet where the chemicals were kept and got out a spray bottle of DFO, a solution that was used to develop fingerprints on paper. I sprayed the front and back of the paper, then took it to the fume hood in the corner of the lab to dry.

  As I waited, I wandered over to Amanda’s station. She said, “I’m loving this plastic sleeve the flowers came in. I’ve already swabbed some smudged prints for DNA and pulled two partials.”

  “Good for you. I’ve—”

  We turned when the door opened and Baxter walked in, carrying my purse. “Ellie, Dr. Berg is ready for us at the morgue, and then we have to hurry back and meet with the team here.”

  “Okay,” I replied, removing my lab coat. “You know, that purse does not go with your outfit.”

  He chuckled. “Right. You left this in my vehicle.”

  I took the purse from him and said over my shoulder, “Amanda, can you take over processing the note for me? I’ve made one application of DFO, and it’s drying now.”

  “Consider it done,” she said, grinning. “Don’t have too much fun, now.”

  As Baxter and I walked down the hall, he asked, “Why did she tell you not to have too much fun?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Because I get the task of informing you and Sterling and the Sheriff that we found little to no evidence at the park. We have the poem, the flowers, and the fishing line. That’s it. No fingerprints, no trace, no nothing.”

  Shrugging, he said, “That’s how it goes sometimes. Maybe Dr. Berg will have something for us. Oh, and by the way, there have been new developments.”


  “Good or bad?”

  He held the front door open for me. “One of each. After we left Ashmore, one of the search groups came back with news that two students they spoke to had seen Jenna Walsh get in a silver Toyota Corolla that pulled up near her dorm around six on Saturday night.”

  “Did they see who was driving or get a plate number?”

  “No.”

  “Then how is that a good development? Silver Corollas are a dime a dozen in the US. It’ll take days to go through the BMV records for Hamilton County alone.” I was referring to Indiana’s Bureau of Motor Vehicles.

  He smiled. “Even mediocre developments are good when you have nothing. Ready for the bad one?”

  “Maybe not, since you don’t seem to know the difference between good and mediocre.”

  Baxter’s boyish face grew serious. “Judge Richards’s twenty-four-year-old granddaughter is missing.”

  I sucked in a breath. “What?”

  “She went to a late movie with her coworkers, but never made it home. Her cell goes directly to voicemail, and worse, we can’t find the signal to track the phone. She was last seen at eleven-thirty at the movie theater in Castleton Square Mall. Right around the time we got the call from a “concerned neighbor” about there being a dead girl in Richards Park.”

  That poor woman. Shaking my head, I got into his SUV. Then I had a thought. “Wait. There are no houses around the park. It faces the back side of a golf course. How could there be a ‘concerned neighbor’?”

  “Exactly. When we ran the phone number, it was to a pay phone—”

  “Please don’t say at the mall.”

  “At the mall.”

  “I told you not to say at the mall,” I complained.

  He gave me a rueful smile as he started his vehicle. “We’re dealing with a grade-A sociopath, here. I’m afraid it could get worse before it gets better. But to tackle the situation at hand, we’ve got two missing persons detectives working on Michaela Richards’s case and a civilian search underway, plus every law enforcement official in the county is on alert. And of course the media has caught wind of this, so it won’t be long before they’re comparing the victims and developing conspiracy theories of their own.”