Page 6 of The Creekside Murder (Pacific Northwest Forensics #1)

“Do you expect to hear the truth from him, and how will you know it when you hear it?”

“I’ll worry about all that when I get to it. I have to do this. I have to look in his eyes.”

“You’re not gonna like what you see there. Plank—” he coughed “—all these guys—have dead eyes.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” She cocked her head. “They just called our number. You get the sandwiches, and I’ll fill up our drinks.”

She scooted from the booth before Finn could come up with more reasons why she shouldn’t meet with Plank.

Why did he care so much? She could maintain her composure around Plank.

In her career with Washington’s Crime Laboratory Division, she’d been to plenty of crime scenes, had seen more blood than she cared to remember and had testified at the trials of gruesome killers.

She could handle sitting across from a chained-up murderer past his prime—even if he had confessed to killing her sister.

For the remainder of the lunch, Jessica peppered Finn with questions about his classes, mostly to keep him away from the subject of Avery Plank, but he’d held her interest with his account of the lessons he gave his students and how he engaged them.

When she’d first met Finn ten years ago, the deputy who’d discovered her sister’s body, she’d often wondered what it would be like between them without the secrets, lies and deception on her part. Now she knew that it could be something special.

Back then, she’d manipulated him into giving her information about the scene and evidence that he was in no position to reveal. She’d used him, even as she was falling hard for him. That same care he’d had for her ten years ago had never gone away.

“Ready?” She bunched up the waxy paper from her sandwich and dropped it on the red plastic tray on the side of the table. “I want to make sure I’m on time.”

“If I can’t talk you out of it, I guess it’s go time.” He slid the tray from the table, dumped the trash and left the tray on top of the receptacle.

Once in the rental car, her hands trembled a little as she snapped her seat belt in place, but she told herself it was because of excitement, not fear.

They drove in silence for the brief ten-minute journey with wheat fields on either side of the road, and both handed over their ID at the guard shack in the front beneath the arched sign that heralded penitentiary grounds.

The green grass looked inviting, but the facade ended at the gray-and-brown stone building with the watchtower surveying the area.

Finn parked the car and stayed seated. “I’m going to wait here…unless you want me to go inside with you.”

She licked her dry lips. “No. I’m good. See you in about an hour.”

Once inside the prison admin building, Jessica went through the paperwork, the body scan and the pat-down. The low heels of her black boots tapped on the linoleum floor on the way to the visitor center as she followed the buff form of the corrections officer.

He opened the door and guided her to a table in the middle of the room. Empty chairs and love seats littered the space, and two baskets filled with toys stood sentry on either side of a colorful carpet.

Twisting her fingers in front of her, Jessica asked, “No other visitors today?”

“Their appointment times are later. Usually when one of our high-profile inmates has a visitor, we clear out the room. Gary Ridgeway. Kenneth Bianchi.” The CO shrugged his broad shoulders. “Just to be on the safe side. There will be one of us at each of the doors.”

She gave him a jerky nod, and he pulled out one of the chairs stationed at the desk for her.

She sat down and rubbed her palms against the thighs of her black slacks.

The pen imposed a modest dress code, but she’d taken it a step further with her low-heeled shoes, professional pants, a blouse buttoned almost to the top of her neck and a loose-fitting jacket.

When the door opposite opened, she jumped in her seat. A CO led Plank into the room, his feet shuffling to accommodate the chains wrapping his ankles and attached to the cuffs around his wrists. They weren’t taking any chances with this guy.

She eked out a small breath and folded her hands on the table in front of her, like a schoolteacher waiting for a recalcitrant pupil.

She kept her gaze trained on Plank as he scuffed across the floor.

She couldn’t get over how average he looked.

She wouldn’t give the guy a second glance in the coffeehouse or the gym or the grocery store.

That’s how he’d taken his victims by surprise.

Just an average dude doing average things—until he wasn’t.

Just as she watched his approach, he kept his gaze trained on her…soaking her in. His attention was anything but average. His brown eyes darted across every inch of her visible body, measuring, weighing, judging—a predatory assessment that had her squeezing her folded hands tighter.

The CO who’d ushered her into the room kicked out the chair across from her. “You know the drill, Plank. Sit.”

The Creekside Killer plopped into the chair facing her, his chains clanging and clinking. His guard ran a chain from the stationary table through his ankle and wrist bracelets, securing him in place—right in front of her.

Her hand shook as she dipped it into her pocket to fetch her phone. She’d been warned against taking photos, but she was allowed to record him with his assent.

Setting the phone on the table between them, she cleared her throat. “Hello, Mr. Plank. I’m Jessica Eller from the Washington State Patrol, Crime Lab Division. Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

Shaking his head from side to side, he blinked once, a slow lowering of the lids over perceptive eyes. “You’re that girl’s sister, too.” He snapped his fingers and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

Jessica said her sister’s name through her teeth. “Tiffany Hunt.”

He leveled a long index finger at her, and she noticed for the first time that his hands were anything but average. They were huge, and Jessica flashed on an image of them wrapped around some poor woman’s neck, squeezing the life out of her.

“That’s right. Tiffany. She was a brunette, though, and you’re a blonde.” He cocked his head as if reviewing a lesson in genetics. “You sure you two were sisters? From what I read, your mother was a woman of low morals just like sweet Tiffany.”

Jessica’s cheek burned as if he’d slapped her. He knew about her mother, about her family. Would he bother with that if he hadn’t killed Tiffany?

Raising his cuffed hands, he said, “Don’t feel bad, Jessica. My mother was a whore, too.”

She’d studied his psychological profile and knew all about his background, but why did he know about hers? She was ready for his attack this time, the ugly word, and didn’t even blink an eye.

She tapped the record icon on her phone and straightened it on the table. “So, you did kill my sister.”

“Did you have any doubt? I confessed to it.”

“The MO was different from the others. Despite my sister’s troubled past, she wasn’t a sex worker at the time of her murder.” She tightened her jaw. “And you didn’t rape her, didn’t leave your DNA.”

“Ah, the outraged sister is also a crime investigator.” He folded his hands, mimicking her stance from before. “What else was different?”

“You didn’t use your hands to strangle Tiffany.” Her gaze bounced to his large mitts folded primly and back to his face, alert and bright. He was enjoying himself. “You didn’t pose her. You didn’t leave her nude.”

He clapped his hands together, the cuffs on his wrists resulting in an incongruously dainty motion. “I’m impressed. You’re very good, Jessica.”

“I’m not here for your admiration, Plank. I don’t think you killed my sister, but I can’t figure out why you know so much about her life.” She held her breath as Plank glanced over his shoulder at the CO.

Hunching across the table, he lowered his voice. “I make it my business to know the details of other cases in the same area as my…hunting ground.”

She’d dipped her head to catch his words, and then jerked back as he finished his sentence, drawing the attention of the corrections officer by the door leading back to the cells. She met the CO’s eyes and gave him a brief shake of her head.

She returned her focus to Plank and asked, “Does that mean you didn’t kill Tiffany?”

He leaned back in his chair. “What about this girl Morgan?”

A chill rippled down the length of Jessica’s spine. “You know about that murder?”

“What did I just tell you, Jessica?” He clicked his tongue. “It’s my hobby.”

“Do you think it’s a Creekside Killer copycat?”

“Let’s see.” He held up one manacled hand, the cuff slipping from his wrist to his elbow. “No rape, strangled, but most likely with an object, and Morgan was a sweet little coed, not a lady of the night. If he’s copying me, he’s doing a poor job of it.”

“So, you didn’t murder Tiffany. Is that what you’re saying?”

“You’re getting dull, Jessica.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ll tell you what, you can read my book. Perhaps I’ll reveal all amongst its pages.”

She snorted. “You’re not allowed to write a book about your crime and profit from it.”

He gave a high-pitched giggle that made her skin crawl. “I’m an engineer, not a writer. Someone else is writing my story.”

“I suppose there are all kinds of lowlifes willing to exploit murder for profit.”

“Oh, come on, Jessica. Don’t try to tell me you haven’t read books about serial killers. There are a couple of them here at the pen who have been best-seller subjects. In fact—” he drummed his fingers on the table next to her phone “—you probably know this author.”

“Doubt it.” She glanced over Plank’s shoulder at the CO twirling his finger in the air. Her time was almost up, and Plank hadn’t given her a straight answer about Tiffany.

“Oh, no. I’m sure you know him or know of him. He’s the cop who found your sister’s body, although he’s not on the job anymore.”

Her attention snapped back to Plank. “Who? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying Professor Finn Karlsson is writing a book about me.”