Page 31

Ella pulled into a visitor’s spot at Duma Heights. The community here appeared to be in that awkward transition phase between up-and-coming and down-and-going. Big houses one side, a neglected apartment complex on the other.

‘Very divorced-dad’s-first-apartment, ’ Sarah said as she grabbed her purse from under the chair.

‘Yeah. Speaking of dads, you still want to head to yours after this?’

‘Please.’

‘Alright. Well, let’s see what’s behind door number three. If we’re quick, you should make it to your old man’s in time.’

Ella and Sarah exited the car and made their way to the front door of the complex. Ella shuffled through the keys on Josiah Nicholls’ chain until she found the right one. She let them into the building.

‘We need apartment 21B. Second floor,’ Sarah said. She took out some baby wipes from her purse and soothed her knuckles. Inside her purse, Ella spotted a bunch of papers. Even now, after they had their potential killer in custody, she was still researching. Ella couldn’t fault the work ethic.

‘How’s your hand?’ asked Ella as they took the stairs.

‘Hurting. I can’t believe I punched a murderer.’

‘Welcome to the game. Never a case goes by without someone getting punched.’

‘I didn’t think a face could be so hard. What do you think? Is Nicholls our man?’

‘It’s not looking good for him,’ Ella admitted, ‘but there’s something that isn’t sticking right with me.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. You get a feel for what people are capable of by looking at them, and… I don’t know. Nicholls doesn’t seem capable of much.’

‘So, what happens if we don’t find anything here?’

‘We probably have enough circumstantial evidence to arrest him. Then we’d have to rely on forensics to fill the gaps. It’s not ideal, so we really need something solid.’

‘What about a confession?’

‘Sadly, confessions don’t always mean much. Tons of people confess to crimes they didn’t commit.’

At the door to apartment 21B, Ella pulled out two pairs of gloves from her back pocket. She handed one to Sarah. ‘Always rubber up before going in,’ Ella said.

‘Ha.’ Sarah snapped them on, somehow stretching hers over the swollen knuckles on her right hand. ‘Is this legal? Going into a suspect’s house without a warrant?’

Ella found the right key on the chain and slid it into the lock. ‘It’s something of a gray area.’

‘How so?’

‘Exigent circumstances. We need to preserve potential evidence while it’s hot. Blood stains, hairs on clothes. Hell, we’re still missing a whole head and two eyeballs. If they’re here, we need to preserve them ASAP. That urgency alone gives us probable cause.’

Sarah winced. ‘Ah, gotchya.’

Ella fidgeted with the lock. ‘Yes, there might be body parts in here. Back out now if you don’t want to see them.’

The author shook herself. ‘Do you think Brooks – sorry, Nicholls – took the eyes and head as trophies?’

‘No, I don’t.’ The door clicked open and Ella pushed inside. ‘His scenes so far have been perfect recreations of old crimes. There’s no sexual component to anything here.’

‘It’s not just lust killers that take trophies. There’ve been other types too.’

Trophy-taking in non-sexual homicides was an academic debate she didn’t have time for right now.

Inside apartment 21B, the first thing that hit Ella was the size.

The entire thing would have fit inside Frank Sullivan’s living room and still leave enough space to fit a truck.

The living room bled into the kitchen with barely a dividing line, and neither room seemed to have much in terms of functionality.

Just the necessities; TV, two-seater couch, microwave.

There was a lone door which Ella presumed led to the bedroom.

‘Not much room to hide,’ Ella said.

‘Not much room for anything.’

‘Is this a reflection of our unsub? Or a reflection of the times? Is this how all young men are forced to live?’

‘Palm Harbor’s a pretty cheap place to live compared to the rest of Florida,’ Sarah said. ‘But then again, so is Montana and the Unabomber still lived in a ten-by-fourteen cabin.’

‘True.’

‘I’ll take the next room. What are we looking for, exactly?’

‘Ideally, a severed head.’ Ella crossed the living room in three steps and began rifling through the kitchen drawers. She found a few pieces of cutlery and an instruction manual for the oven. ‘But anything that connects him to Frank or Diana will suffice.’

Ella opened the fridge and found nothing but condiments and a half-empty carton of milk that had expired three days ago.

The cupboards yielded a single box of protein bars and two cans of soup.

For someone who ran a coffee shop, Josiah Nicholls seemed far from a culinary master.

Maybe he was just deeply, profoundly broke and lacking in basic life skills.

Possible, but less likely given the calculated deceit involved in his fake identity and infiltration of the White Whale group.

She ran her gloved fingers along the underside of the kitchen counter, checked behind the microwave, peered into the gap between the refrigerator and the wall. Nothing. No hidden trophies, no bloody implements, no damning evidence.

A sound from the other room broke her train of thought. Not a shout, but a sharp, indrawn breath. The kind of sound someone makes when they stumble upon something that stops them cold.

‘Ella. Get in here. Now.’

She crossed to the lone door, which opened onto a space that served as both bedroom and bathroom. The setup had a prison cell efficiency - bed, toilet, shower stall all coexisting in uncomfortable intimacy.

But Sarah stood transfixed by something else entirely.

A small desk occupied the narrow space between bed and bathroom fixtures. Unlike the sterility of the rest of the apartment, this surface erupted with papers and files.

‘What is it?’

Sarah pinched the top paper between her fingertips. She lifted it up.

Ella had seen this paper before. Or at least a copy of it.

The text read:

JENNIFER MARLOWE – PALM HARBOR P.D. CASE #76-1109 – UNSOLVED.

Ella’s breath caught in her throat. ‘He’s got the original Marlowe police report.’

‘Yes he has.’

The implication sat there. This was all the connection they needed. With this, they could charge Josiah Nicholls today. Ella moved closer and gently leafed through each page. It was a copy of the one she’d found in Frank Sullivan’s safe. Ella snapped pictures of the scene.

Sarah had turned her attention to the two drawers beside the desk chair now. Sarah opened one, peered in. Then opened the bottom one – and froze.

‘Uh… Ella?’

‘Got something else?’ she asked. Ella found Ripley’s name in her phone and sent a batch of photographs to her. She could use this to make Josiah Nicholls talk.

‘You… need to see this.’

Sarah shifted out of the way, then Ella glanced into the drawer.

It wasn’t filled with stationery or old bills.

Nestled inside was a clear plastic ziplock bag. It was half-full of smooth, milky-white stones. Slightly smaller than quail eggs.

Alabaster stones.

The kind you put in garden planters.

Or, Ella thought with a sickening lurch, the kind you place into the empty eye sockets of the dead.