Page 7

6

Ashland, Oregon

Kara was in a crabby mood.

It was late Monday afternoon and she was hungry, frustrated, and had spent the last two hours listening to the task force go over everything they already knew.

She needed to be working in the field, looking for Riley Pierce, not sitting in a conference room. But she was stuck here because her idea to stake out the bakery and Ashley’s apartment had been nixed.

She had the feeling that Detective Ken Kinder didn’t believe she’d seen Riley. He didn’t outright say it, but he was skeptical, and suggested that because Kara had found the box with her picture, she may have mistaken another girl with red hair for Riley.

It was possible , Kara supposed, but she was almost certain it was Riley.

They hadn’t received a response to Ryder’s request for flight information yet. It wasn’t like he could just press a couple of buttons and voila! confirm Riley Pierce had flown in from France this week. There was a process , and while they didn’t need a warrant, it still took time.

So she had to wait. Fortunately, Matt leaned toward her assessment, and had Riley Pierce—who did have a passport—flagged. If she checked into any flight in the US, she would be detained for questioning. She wasn’t considered a suspect in Jane’s murder, just a person of interest.

Unless, of course, they found out that she was in the country at the time of the murder.

The question that had been bugging Kara—and honestly, everyone else—was how did the killer convince Jane to meet with him?

No sign of disturbance at her apartment. She hadn’t left a note for her roommate about where she was going. No common drugs in her system, though they were sending samples to the state lab for more thorough testing. She was found two miles from her home in Lithia Park, which was closed at night—not that the “sunrise to sunset” hours kept people out of the park when it was dark. She had her cell phone on her, but her last text was in response to her roommate who said she would be home in the morning because she was staying at David’s. Jane sent a thumbs-up emoji and the response: I’ll bring you the oopses from Nana’s! Nana’s was the bakery where Jane worked mornings, five to nine, three days a week. The “oopses” were imperfect pastries that the owner let staff take when their shift was over.

Police had talked to everyone at the bakery; the owner was concerned when Jane didn’t show up without a call because “not once” had she missed a day of work in three years.

The task force had already run everyone who worked at the bakery, interviewed them about customers who may have paid Jane too much attention, talked to fired employees. They’d spoken with professors and classmates and neighbors. She wasn’t a member of any clubs.

Jane hadn’t been sexually assaulted. She hadn’t been tortured. There were no defensive wounds. Either she’d gone willingly with someone she trusted who killed her, or she’d been surprised and the killer—without hesitation—had slit her throat.

There had been two killers at the Benson homicide based on footprint evidence; he also had no defensive wounds and hadn’t alerted his wife that anything was wrong. He, too, left his home voluntarily, either because he didn’t perceive a threat or because he was trying to protect his wife.

But Jane had no one to protect. Or did she? Had she known Riley was in town or coming to town?

It was enough to give Kara a splitting headache. The case, and the lack of food.

“Earth to Detective Quinn.”

She jumped, looked around the table. Her partner, Michael, had spoken and he looked at her with mild humor.

“Sorry. Thinking.”

“You can go to the hotel and catch a few winks,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”

“That’s okay.” She smiled tightly at the assembled group. The sheriff, the DA, Detective Kinder, the deputy coroner, a uniformed cop who worked with Kinder, and Agent Tucker from the local FBI office. “Did I miss something?”

“Ryder just confirmed that Riley Pierce flew into the States yesterday,” Michael said. “Her passport was used at the De Gaulle Airport, transfer at JFK to Seattle, landed late last night. No rental car, but she could have taken a bus from Seattle to Ashland. We’re checking terminals. Which would put her getting in sometime this morning to early afternoon.”

“Do we know when she bought the ticket?”

“Wednesday—the same day Detective Kinder left her a message.”

Why hadn’t she stopped at the station? Called Kinder and let him know she was in town?

“Janice requested Pierce’s files from the university, we should have them first thing in the morning.”

“That’s great,” Kara said, and meant it.

The DA, a petite woman with a slight accent that Kara couldn’t place, said, “It took a bit of coaxing, they don’t like to share information, but as I pointed out, I could get a warrant, and they were saving both of us time and headache.”

“We had no doubt you’d get it,” Michael said with a charming smile.

He had been flirting with Janice Kwan since they arrived. It wasn’t obvious, but Kara knew Michael. Janice was definitely his type—he liked women in power who also looked very feminine. Maybe the contrast between power and sweetness? She didn’t know, but he was frustrated that their team traveled so much he didn’t have time to cultivate a relationship where he lived. He didn’t talk about it much, but when he did, she felt for him. Michael wanted a family. He didn’t have a good family growing up, so wanted to make his own.

The conversation shifted to reviewing interviews and updating data, and Kara tuned everyone out. Truth was, she was exhausted, but if she went to the hotel, she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

She didn’t sleep much as a matter of course, but the last two days had been a whirlwind, and then there was the not-so-little life-changing decision to make an offer on a house in Alexandria, Virginia. She’d sold her condo in Santa Monica, and the same day she received the substantial money in her bank account, Matt had taken her through the neighborhood and said, “This feels like you.”

He was right.

It was a small house on a large odd-shaped lot with a view of the Potomac River from the front porch because of a protected park across the road. It was both private—a rare half acre lot in the area—and in the middle of everything, walking distance to restaurants and a corner grocery store. That he understood her, that he didn’t pressure her to move in with him, meant everything to her.

But putting an offer on the property was a major step. She was content to live in the dorms at Quantico, where she’d been staying since November. They were busy and in the field a lot, so it wasn’t like she was stuck there.

Still...having her own place with her own things would be nice. Plus, more privacy.

So all the stuff going on in her personal life, coupled with this case that she’d been working practically around the clock for the last few days, had her unusually out of sorts.

She kept going back to Jane Merrifield’s life. No boyfriend, a lot of friends but no one close, a simple, sterile room that just didn’t say college girl to Kara.

Kara couldn’t get rid of the tickle in the back of her head, that there was something very strange going on. Maybe it was the poppies that creeped her out.

The only real commonality—other than the connection to Colorado that Matt and Sloane had uncovered today—was that both Jane and Benson were spiritual. Though Jane didn’t regularly attend church, she had a well-worn Bible and religious books on her shelves. But that might not mean anything. A lot of people went to church or believed in a higher power. A lot of people contemplated spiritual questions.

In the larger context, what mattered was why these two people—with minimal connections, whose paths didn’t appear to have crossed, who didn’t seem to know each other—were killed in the same manner on the same day.

She sensed everyone was wrapping up, so she said, “I’d like to see where Jane’s body was found.”

Ken said, “We already collected evidence and released the area.”

“All evidence has been sent to Quantico,” FBI Agent Tucker added. “What do you hope to find?”

Kara had been on several task forces in the past. Sometimes, they worked. More eyes reviewing evidence, exploring different angles, getting the job done faster to save lives.

But sometimes, they failed. It shouldn’t matter why she wanted to see the crime scene. Like Jane’s room, she wanted a better sense of the crime, the victim, the killer. How could she explain that she simply wanted to stand in the spot where Jane Merrifield was killed and absorb the area? It made no sense, even to her.

“I don’t expect to find anything,” Kara said.

Michael, ever the diplomat, said, “Let’s stop there on our way to the hotel. We need to check in, and I’m hungry.”

She smiled gratefully at her partner. “Good idea.”

“Hold that thought,” Michael said when his phone vibrated. “Can you give me a second?” He stepped out and Kara wondered what was going on.

She didn’t have to wait long. Less than two minutes later, Michael returned. “That was my boss. Another body has turned up, high probability it was our killers.”

“Where?” the sheriff asked.

“New Mexico.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hotel and catch a nap?” Michael asked as he parked near Lithia Park in Ashland.

“Do I really look that bad?” Kara said, half joking.

“You look tired and you didn’t sleep on the plane.”

“Thanks for your concern, but nothing food won’t fix. First—” she gestured at the trail that led to the crime scene “—let’s just see what’s here.”

They walked in silence for a minute, then Michael said, “The local police did a good job. I don’t think they missed anything.”

“Maybe not here,” she said, though she couldn’t help but think about the keepsake box she’d found in Jane’s drawer. “They didn’t notice the poppy in Jane’s room.” They’d found the box, cataloged it, but hadn’t considered it significant. Maybe it wasn’t.

Kara thought it was.

The sky was gray and the forecast indicated rain overnight and into tomorrow, but for now the fog had mostly lifted and the drizzle turned to damp air. Lithia Park was a hundred-acre narrow wooded area with grassy knolls, trails, sports courts, and a playground. It began downtown right off main street, and ended near the Ashland Creek trailhead in the mountains that bordered the town to the west.

There were several access points into the park, very few security cameras. They didn’t have to hike far to where Jane’s body had been discovered behind the Butler Bandshell, a small outdoor amphitheater surrounded by trees and fronted by gently sloping lawn.

Today, there was a group of young kids running around while the adults supervising them sat on a blanket and talked. Four college-aged men tossed a Frisbee, the smell of weed thick as Kara passed them. Other people jogged or hiked in pairs on the path west of the field as it meandered up into the mountains. But the cement stage, covered by a slanted metal roof, was empty.

Kara stared at it. “Why did she come here?”

“She knew her killer,” Michael said.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, but still—late on a Saturday night, no message, no text. She lives two miles from here.”

“The center of downtown is just down the path with bars, restaurants, theaters, a late-night coffee shop.”

“But she told her roommate she was staying in, and during the first interview, Ashley told Ken that Jane didn’t drink much and didn’t use recreational drugs. She had no boyfriend, no close friends outside of Riley Pierce.”

“Devil’s advocate,” Michael said. “Say Riley Pierce is involved. Why lure Jane away from the apartment? Why kill her here?”

“First, if Riley is involved, it would be easy to lure Jane out, if we believe Ashley that they were close. But we know she was still in France when Jane was killed. Doesn’t mean she’s not involved in some way. But killing her here... It wasn’t on the stage, which would be bold and theatrical. They killed her behind the stage, where she wasn’t found until morning. To hide her? To delay discovery to give them a chance to get out of town? Some psychological or personal reason? All of the above?”

“Benson was lured out, as well,” Michael reminded her. “No sign of forced entry, no struggle, no defensive wounds. Though his hands were bound and Jane’s weren’t.”

“I could see him not fighting back to protect his wife, but who was Jane protecting? And fighting back is instinct. You don’t want to die. Even if you don’t fight back hard, there should be something, an involuntary action, like putting your arms up to stop a blow.”

“There were no other marks on their bodies, other than faint marks on Benson’s wrists from the rope,” Michael said. “Jane was petite, one person could have killed her.”

“Surprise attack from behind,” Kara said. “Jane may not have even seen her killer.”

“No evidence under their nails, no skin or fiber. Instinct,” Michael said, “would have you grabbing the arm, hands of someone coming from behind. The crime scene investigators concluded Benson’s throat was slit while he was lying on the ground. He would have seen his killers.”

“Quick and efficient.” Autopsy showed no hesitation, just one deep cut under the jawline. Both victims bled out where they were killed. Who stood there and took it? Or, in Benson’s case, lay down and allowed it?

Kara walked behind the stage. She immediately saw where Jane’s body had been found, and not just because she had studied the crime scene photos.

The area was narrow, wide enough for at least two people to walk side by side. Trees provided a canopy, as well as privacy—or a hiding place.

Jane had been killed just behind the east side of the stage where there was a slightly wider spot of well-packed earth, possibly for performers to wait before they came onstage. The police had cleaned up the area and removed the crime scene tape. But Kara pictured it as Jane had been found: on her back, arms and feet outstretched—clearly staged—throat slit. Hundreds of red poppies covering her body, littering the ground. Three hundred forty individual flowers had been collected—enough to fill a small garbage bag.

Local police had scoured the area for evidence, but there was next to nothing. Plus, no security cameras. Though technically the park was closed at night, the amphitheater was open if there was an event. There hadn’t been anything scheduled late Saturday when Jane was killed.

There was privacy here. The slope, the trees, the structure set far back from the road, out of sight of the parking lot. But there were dozens of other private places someone could have lured Jane. Why here ? Was the location important to Jane...or to her killer?

But more important than why, at least to Kara, was how .

How did they lure Jane out to a place where she was alone and vulnerable? Did she come here alone? Or did someone pick her up?

They hadn’t found any witness who said they saw Jane leaving her apartment on Saturday night, so either scenario would work. There was no evidence on her person that she had been dragged across the field from the parking lot. No bruises, marks, scratches, abrasions. She hadn’t been bound and no evidence of being gagged.

She came here of her own free will, Kara decided. With someone she didn’t fear, or to meet someone she didn’t fear.

Or perhaps...a bait and switch? She thought she was meeting a specific person, but instead she met her killer. “Okay,” she said.

“Any brilliant conclusions?”

“Not really, and it doesn’t matter.”

“What are you thinking?”

“She either trusted the person who killed her, or she came here to meet someone she trusted. Either way, her killer knows her well. And based on what we’ve learned from her roommate and colleagues, she had no close friends at all—outside of Riley Pierce, who was in France at the time of the murder.”

“The killer could have stalked her and learned her habits.”

Maybe, Kara thought, but that didn’t explain why Jane would walk two miles from her apartment to meet someone.

There was something here that Kara wasn’t seeing. Maybe not at the crime scene, but something else. Kara couldn’t wrap her head around Jane’s psychology, about why she had made the decision to leave her apartment on Saturday night. It wasn’t logical. But, as she knew from the team shrink, it might not be logical to them, but it would be logical to the victim.

Maybe she couldn’t process the information because she was tired, hungry, and crabby.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“You’re still thinking.”

“Yep. I’m missing something. But if you can find a place with a good cheeseburger? Maybe I’ll figure it out.”