Chapter 12
TWELVE
Detective Kaitlin Pierce
Five Days Since Allison Clarke’s Murder
“So, the evidence suggests she was beaten, murdered, and dumped?” Captain Lundberg asks over my shoulder as I stare at the board in front of me.
I nod. “And there’s a history of healed injuries suggesting she’d spent years dealing with abuse. Most likely domestic violence.”
My eyes flit across the board to a strung up picture of the victim’s husband—Brody Clarke.
He looks professional and poised in the picture; nothing like the crappy DMV pictures most people have on file.
He looks like a gentleman, not a wife beating murderer.
But you’d be surprised how many Devils wear a suit and tie.
“The husband’s family is rich, connected, right?
” Captain asks as he follows my line of sight.
His voice is deep and gruff and leaves little room for argument from anyone ever.
He was a detective on this same force for years before the previous captain stepped down and he reluctantly took the job.
He’s not a bad man, not an unfair man, but he’s a career cop.
He has very little patience for bullshit.
“That’s right.” I nod, my hand pointing to the pictures posted below the one of Brody Clarke. They show a large house perched on the cliffs of Lummi Island, looming over the bay like a master surveying its land. It’s authoritative and oppressive. “They own businesses and property all over town.”
“And her background?” Captain Lundberg questions, skipping over what I know should be a warning about treading carefully with wealthy families.
“Still working on that, Captain.” I turn my face toward the side of the board with information about our victim.
“It seems like she was born out of town a few hours away and was put in the foster system early on. Records are sealed or missing, so I’m having trouble tracking down most information about her childhood. ”
Having trouble is an understatement. I’ve worked cases involving foster kids before, but never one where I needed old records.
It seems that they essentially stop caring and destroy records the moment the kids are gone, as if they never existed to begin with.
These people are like ghosts whose pasts have all but been erased.
“She was adopted by a great aunt eventually. Moved to Whatcom County in high school.” I bring my eyes to the picture of the white building that held so much of Allison Clarke’s life.
“She met her husband in high school. They both went to the local university, she got a teaching degree, and then she started teaching at the same school she graduated from.”
“Townies, then,” Captain states as we trace our eyes across the board.
I nod. All the evidence suggests that Allison Clarke was an average woman living an average life.
She got up, went to work, helped kids, and lived with her husband in a nice house.
She had friends, a family, a life. There’s nothing to suggest that anything sinister was lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike.
“Maybe it was random then,” Lundberg posits as we both stare at the board of pictures and documents strung up in front of us. “Signs of rape?”
“No,” I confirm what Dr. Lee told me. “No evidence of forced sexual intercourse.”
“Damn. Maybe just a crime of displaced rage?” Captain says as he takes a step closer to the board, staring at one of the crime scene photos.
Allison Clarke was a beautiful young woman.
Even in pictures you can see that she was so full of life and brightness.
But the body we found was so badly beaten that the skull was brutally caved in.
Her face was completely unrecognizable. Whoever did this had such anger toward her. Who could hate someone so deeply?
“No,” I draw out the word slowly as the ideas flit through my mind.
There’s a string of connection that will make all of the pieces fit into place, a linear explanation that will align perfectly.
I just need to find the edge of the thread, and then the truth will unravel.
“Her fingerprints were burned. Someone didn’t want us IDing her. ”
“But they threw her wallet with ID near the body?” Captain asks the same question that’s been bothering me. “So, we either have a very dumb killer or…”
“Or we’re missing something,” I finish the thought for him.
It’s the same plaguing worry that’s been keeping me up at night with this case. There’s something we’re missing. Something we’re not seeing about what happened to Allison Clarke.
“And the other teacher?” Captain questions as his eyes flit to the much smaller, much more sparse board next to us.
“Keit—Officer Tennyson,” I correct myself.
Don’t need the Captain thinking I’m becoming too chummy with a uniformed rookie.
It’s hard enough being the only female detective on staff.
I don’t need them thinking I’m a softie, too.
“Is looking into her a bit more, but so far, also nothing out of the ordinary. She was your average school teacher who one day up and vanished. No trace of her to be found.”
“She worked at the same school?” he asks as he takes a step closer, looking over at the picture of Celeste Briggs. Her dark hair and cool expression is a harsh contrast to Allison Clarke’s brightness. They’re so similar and yet so different.
“Yes, same school. I’ve confirmed they knew each other and worked together occasionally but were not close. And,” I point to a grainy picture taken from a security camera, “the week Celeste Briggs went missing, she was seen dancing with none other than Brody Clarke.”
“So, there’s your connection between the two victims and your suspect?” Captain proposes reluctantly. “That’s not a case, Pierce.”
“No,” I nod in acknowledgment. “You’re right. We need more. But,” I point to a piece of paper posted on the far side of the board, “when we searched the Clarke house, we found Briggs’ cellphone and underwear with DNA matching our missing woman.”
“He confess to where the body is yet?” My Captain asks, knowing that if Brody Clarke had, we would not be having this conversation.
“No, Sir,” I say with my shoulders thrown back.
“Pierce, this case won’t make it past Grand Jury.
You need more.” I resist the urge to sag slightly.
“I think you need to send that rookie to look into Allison Clarke’s background a bit more.
See what you can dig up about her time in foster care.
The answers you’re looking for might be there.
” He looks at the boards pensively as he speaks.
I can see it in the way his eyes flit back and forth across the evidence—he sees it too, the loose thread tying this all together, just waiting to be unraveled.
“Yes, Sir,” I acknowledge with a curt nod as he turns to walk from the room.
He pauses at the door, turning to look back at me over his shoulder. “Find out what demons Allison Clarke had chasing her, Detective.”