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Ashland, Oregon

Kara Quinn savored the hot coffee as Ashland detective Ken Kinder drove them to the apartment where the victim, Jane Merrifield, had lived.

“You are my savior,” she said. She needed the caffeine jolt after the early morning flight from DC; it was a bonus that it tasted rich and delicious. “I like your sheriff, but his coffee is disgusting.”

Ken patted a large thermos sticking out of the center console of his sedan. “My wife takes care of me. I’m happy to share.”

She glanced over at the beautiful small campus filled with grassy areas and mature trees. Southern Oregon University bordered Siskiyou Boulevard and had been built up and into the base of the mountains, the tops of which couldn’t be seen through the fog.

She’d never gone to college, instead attending the LA Police Academy right after getting her GED. And while she’d been undercover at several colleges over the years, she’d never had the urge to attend. Still, it was a lovely campus. Maybe she could talk to Matt and they could find a case that would necessitate her going undercover at a university again. That might be fun, especially if it was a place like this.

Though not SOU. After all, she was investigating a homicide. A highly unusual double homicide where one victim was in Virginia and one was in Oregon. Hence, the FBI involvement. She was both surprised and pleased at the positive reception she and her partner, Michael Harris, had received when they walked into the Jackson County Sheriff’s Department in Medford. They were happy to have the extra help.

“It’s not the first time a college student has died,” Ken said after a moment of silence as they both drank his wife’s coffee. “I had a case a few years back where a girl was killed by her boyfriend, and another where two roommates got into an argument while drinking and one pushed the other off a three-story balcony. While no less tragic, they’re straightforward and easy to solve. But this case...the more we learn, the less we know.”

Early last Sunday morning, eight days ago, two people had been murdered at the same time in the same manner: Robert Benson, a married forty-seven-year-old antique store owner in rural Weems, Virginia, and twenty-one-year-old single college senior Jane Merrifield in Ashland, Oregon. Nothing seemed to connect the two victims, and no one would have thought to look at the cases together, except for two facts: both victims had their throats slit and the killers had littered the bodies with hundreds of dried red poppies.

Killers, because they died within the same one-hour window and there was no conceivable way one person could have committed both crimes.

Because of the unusual death scene, Dr. Catherine Jones, a forensic psychiatrist who worked with the Mobile Response Team, had been brought in to consult on the Benson homicide. Catherine scoured the NCIC database for like crimes, and on Wednesday the murder of Jane Merrifield popped up. Jane’s body had been found at a nearby park early Sunday morning. All the key forensic details matched.

That’s when Catherine asked the MRT unit to coordinate the two investigations. Catherine was working closely with the FBI crime lab at Quantico, focusing on the psychology behind the flowers and looking at similar crimes. So far, she had next to nothing. Though the science was way over Kara’s head, she knew that at a minimum, the lab could identify the region where the poppies were grown.

But the oddest fact in a series of odd facts was that, when Denver PD went to inform Jane’s family of her death, no family could be found. The address listed on her college emergency form belonged to someone who had never heard of the Merrifields.

“Thanks for taking me to Jane’s apartment,” Kara said. She would have preferred to go alone, but since they were working on a task force and wanted to maintain the already good relationship local law enforcement had with their own FBI office, playing nice went with the job.

“We went through her place, but maybe you’ll see something we missed. There was no sign of violence—we don’t believe she was taken from her apartment. Her roommate and the roommate’s boyfriend were at his apartment all night. When they returned, they assumed that Jane was at work. Didn’t suspect anything until police came to the apartment Sunday morning.”

“I read your reports—everyone you talked to said Jane was polite, friendly, quiet.”

“ Nice was the word everyone used. Her roommate, Ashley, has lived with her since the beginning of the term, but Jane has had the apartment since she started college three and a half years ago. That’s why we really want to talk to Riley Pierce. She knew Jane since she was a freshman.”

Riley Pierce was studying abroad in France, which included an internship at an art museum. She and Jane had lived together for three years.

“I’ve left a couple of messages,” Ken continued. “She might not know anything of value for our investigation, but Ashley said Riley and Jane were best friends, and Ashley is subletting the apartment from Riley.”

“Do you want me to get my team on it?” Kara asked. “The FBI has some cool resources, like access to the American Embassy and things like that. Maybe getting an official visit from a bigwig telling her to call you will help.”

Ken grinned. “I like the way you put it. I think Agent Tucker is working on that.”

“I’ll follow up, make sure it’s a priority,” Kara said. “Riley might know how to reach Jane’s family.”

Kara messaged Ryder Kim, their team analyst and Expert-of-all-Things, and asked him to follow up on Riley Pierce, mentioning that the local FBI agent may have already started the process.

Jane and Ashley lived in an off-campus apartment a mile south of campus. Ken pulled into the small parking lot behind a sixteen-unit building. Dozens of bikes were locked on racks along the backside of the apartment. The bottom units had patios, while the upstairs units had wide balconies. All doors faced the rear.

“Ashley Grant, twenty-one, junior,” Ken said as he approached the ground floor apartment marked 1B. “She was upset when we first talked to her, didn’t have much information about Jane, other than her work and school schedule.” He knocked and took a step back. Flowers blooming in colorful ceramic pots framed each side of the door and a cheerful sunflower sign proclaimed “Welcome!” under the Judas hole.

The local police had done a good job vetting Ashley and her boyfriend, David Martinelli. Ashley was originally from Reno, David a fifth-year senior from Portland. Both had part-time jobs—Ashley in the admissions office on campus, David at the mall in Medford. Neither had criminal records.

Police had also talked to every neighbor in the building. The last person to have seen her was her upstairs neighbor, who briefly spoke to Jane when she returned from the grocery store at 6:15 Saturday night.

She was dead six hours later.

Ken had called ahead and Ashley, expecting them, opened the door almost immediately. “Did you find the person who killed Jane?” she asked, though her voice suggested she had little hope for answers. “I haven’t heard anything on the news, but...” She shrugged.

“We are investigating every lead,” Ken said. “Ashley, this is Kara Quinn with the FBI. We have a few follow-up questions, as I said on the phone.”

Ashley opened the door wider for them to enter. “Everyone is kinda on edge,” she said. “Ashland is totally safe. I’ve never known anyone who was...well, murdered. It doesn’t happen here, you know? It’s hard to wrap my mind around it. Now we never go anywhere alone, and my boyfriend is staying over every night. Until we know what’s going on, he’s going to just move in, you know?”

I know , Kara thought sarcastically.

“Caution is wise,” Ken said, “but I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Ashley.”

The apartment was small but neat. A wide counter with four stools separated a narrow kitchen from the living area. The living/dining combo room had overflowing bookshelves, a bean bag chair, two love seats covered with an array of colorful pillows, and a television mounted to the wall. Doors to the right and left went to the two bedrooms.

Kara confirmed what they already knew from Ken’s first interview with Jane’s roommate. Ashley had nothing else to add and seemed genuine in all her responses.

Kara said, “We need to look at Jane’s room again.”

“Right. Sure.” She motioned to the door closest to the kitchen.

Kara walked to the threshold of Jane’s room and opened the door. Before entering, she let her eyes sweep slowly across the room. There was a lot a cop could tell about a victim by observing their personal space. Most people didn’t think to clean up a mess or hide things they didn’t want others to find. Most people expected to come home every night.

Jane’s bedroom was sparse. Kara didn’t have a lot of stuff, but Jane’s room seemed almost sterile.

A twin bed—neatly made. A dresser. Desk and chair. Single bookshelf filled with books. Neatly shelved books, perfectly lined up. None with titles Kara recognized, except a Bible on the top shelf. No flourishes anywhere.

Nothing super personal, like pictures of friends and family or sticky notes with reminders. Two motivational posters decorated one wall, but they could have hung in any classroom or doctor’s office. One, a mountain with a hiker on top and a Booker T. Washington quote: “You measure the size of the accomplishment by the obstacles you had to overcome to reach your goals.” The other, a sunset over an ocean and a quote attributed to Christopher Columbus: “You can never cross the ocean until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.”

They were pretty pictures, but did the quotes mean anything to Jane? Kara would normally dismiss such signs, yet they were the only two decorations on the wall, framed, side by side, each perfectly aligned.

Kara walked around the room. The posters could be seen from the bed and the desk chair. Sleeping or working, Jane would see the words, the images.

They meant something to Jane Merrifield. Could they help Kara find her killer?

From behind her, Ken said, “Our people went through here, but there wasn’t much to find.”

“She was twenty-one,” Kara said. “No concert tickets tucked into the mirror frame, no pictures of friends tacked to the wall, no mementoes or knickknacks.” Kara pulled a book from the shelf. The cover didn’t speak to her, but it looked like Little House on the Prairie for adults, with a woman in old-time garb gazing wistfully at a dry field.

Not something Kara thought a young adult would read. The other books were similar. The small print on the back cover indicated inspirational romance .

Okay, Kara thought. A nice, tidy, sweet, religious young adult. Who would want her dead?

“She lived here for three and a half years,” Kara continued. “Accumulated next to nothing. Do you have kids?”

“Three. Two girls and a boy. I see where you’re going and I agree—for a college student, this is unusual. But I don’t know that it’s suspicious.”

“Do you know if she went to church? She has a Bible and some other religious books.”

“Ashley said Jane didn’t go to church, but if she did without her roommate’s knowledge, it wasn’t often. I have an officer going around to the churches in the area and asking about her, but so far no one has recognized her.”

Kara opened the dresser drawers. Clothes neatly folded. Nothing that shouldn’t be here. No papers or sex toys or hidden photographs.

Closet, the same. She didn’t have a lot of clothes, but what she had were hung neatly by type of garment. A single warm jacket. Two sweaters. Four shirts. Two nice slacks. Two dresses. Four pairs of shoes lined neatly on the floor. The top shelf had more books and a small black suitcase. Nothing out of place, except that there wasn’t much here.

Desk, the same. Except...

Kara pulled out a small box from the bottom desk drawer and opened it. It was a jewelry box without jewelry, but this was where Jane stored everything personal.

“We didn’t miss that,” Ken said, sounding defensive even though Kara hadn’t said anything. “I assumed they were reminders of friends or family, but there are no names or phone numbers to verify. We took photos of the contents, assuming her next of kin would want it.”

“I’m trying to get a sense of Jane. All this—” she waved her arm around the room “—says something. And this —” she put the box down on the desk “—also says something.”

What, she wasn’t quite sure, but she’d figure it out.

The box held several photos, letters, and a wooden bird. Beautiful, detailed craftsmanship—the wings had individual feathers carved, the definition in the veins visible even though the carving fit in the palm of her hand.

Most of the pictures were of Jane and a girl with dark red hair who Ken said was her former roommate, Riley Pierce. The only photo of Jane with someone else featured a teenage boy. Jane herself was not more than sixteen in the picture. The boy had dark curly hair and pale eyes. Their heads tilted toward each other. Both were smiling. The background was a forest, but it could have been here in Oregon, back where she grew up in Colorado, or any number of other places.

Kara flipped the picture over—no names or dates. The photo had been taken by an instant camera, the colors faded, the edges bent as if the thick picture had been in a pocket for a long time.

“Does this place look familiar?” she asked Ken, holding the photo out to him.

“Those are pine trees, but I couldn’t say where it was taken.”

“I’d like to take the box, if you don’t mind. Maybe our forensic shrink can glean something from this.”

He nodded. “The sheriff said to give you anything you need.”

As Kara was putting everything back in, she felt something slick against the side, wedged into the box seam. She pulled it up. Pressed between two sheets of thin plastic was a preserved red poppy, practically invisible against the dark wood of the box.

Okay, this is creepy, Kara thought.

There was nothing to indicate why Jane had the poppy preserved, what it meant, who had given it to her. But it was in the box, and her body was found covered with hundreds of red poppies.

Definitely creepy.

Ken frowned. “Honestly, I can’t tell you whether that was in the box or not when we first came in here.”

“It was wedged down the side, see?” She put it back. She couldn’t even see it unless she angled the box just right in the light. “I’m going to take a video of the room for our shrink.”

“I’ll wait outside.” He closed the door behind him.

Kara took pictures of the room, the bookshelf, then a three-sixty video.

Jane Merrifield didn’t have a large footprint. She didn’t leave much behind. Did the boy in the picture kill her? Maybe an ex-boyfriend? Someone else? A stranger?

According to Ken’s interview with Ashley, Jane was a homebody. She went to class, worked at a local bakery three mornings a week, and spent a lot of time reading.

Why did it feel like Jane Merrifield was a ghost even before she was murdered?