CHAPTER TWO
C HAPTER T WO
Sheriff Bree Taggert shined her flashlight over the swift-moving dark waters of Grey Lake. Temper heated her blood. The 911 call had to be a prank, and she didn’t have time for fake callouts. At the tail end of summer, she had one deputy out with a concussion from a bike accident and another recovering after being shot by a serial killer. With a limited staff, Bree filled in as needed. She was already stretched as thin as fishing line.
She walked to the other side of the dock, leaned over the railing, and pointed the beam into the shadows. A frog croaked from its perch on a log, the sound reverberating in the humid night. A mosquito the size of a blue jay buzzed past her face, and she swatted it away.
Shoes slapped on the wooden dock behind her, and Bree spun, shining her light in the direction of the sound. A man of about forty approached. He wore a T-shirt emblazoned with a trout and wrinkled cargo shorts smeared with a rusty-looking substance. From ten feet away, he carried a beer can and the unmistakable smell of fish.
“I’m Boyd Harrison. I operate the bait shop.” He jiggled his can in the direction of a shack near the parking lot at the public boat launch. “I called 911.”
“Can you tell me what you saw again?”
“An alligator.” He pointed to a spot about fifteen feet from the dock they currently occupied. “It was right there. Floating. Red eyes staring at me.” He shook himself. “It was creepy.”
Bree lifted the light to point at his face.
Harrison shielded his eyes. “Hey!”
Bree turned back to the lake. “Could it have been rubber?”
“That’s what I thought at first too, that maybe it was a toy and somebody was yanking my chain.” Harrison shook his head. “But the way it moved ... No, it was definitely alive. Scared the crap out of me.”
Maybe he’d seen a fish or a snake.
“How big was it?” she asked.
He spread his hands wide. “About three feet long. It bolted into the water and swam away, so unless it was remote-controlled, it definitely wasn’t a toy.”
“There’s nothing else it could have been? Maybe a snake?”
Harrison’s head shook once. “It had legs. Could have been a croc, I guess.”
“What’s the difference?” Bree regretted the question the second it left her lips.
“A gator has a flat snout. A croc has a pointier one. Crocs are more aggressive too.” Harrison shoved his free hand into the pocket of his cargo shorts. “I like documentaries,” he said, as if he felt the need to explain possessing this tidbit of knowledge.
Bree made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t see a gator here now.”
“You don’t believe me,” Harrison said without animosity. “It’s OK. I wouldn’t believe me either.”
Given Morrison’s beer goggles, a snake was still a possibility, or a hellbender. Bree hadn’t even heard of one in this area. But the endangered salamanders grew quite large and lived in the nearby Susquehanna River Basin. They had legs and long dark bodies. Or he could have imagined the whole thing.
“Who knows?” She swept her light over the water one last time. “If you see it again, call us.”
“Will do.” Harrison nodded.
She turned back to him. “You’re not driving home, are you?”
“No, ma’am.” Harrison jerked a thumb at the street. “I live down the road.”
“Good night, then.” Bree turned and headed for her vehicle. On her duty belt, her radio crackled. “All units, multiple 12-89s at 27 Wheeler Road.”
A 12-89 was code for a dead body.
Deputy Renata Zucco’s voice came over the radio. “Unit Twelve, responding. ETA eight minutes.”
Bree slid behind the wheel, starting the engine with one hand and reaching for the mic with the other. “Sheriff Taggert responding. ETA seven minutes. Details?”
“Female caller, Claire Mason, says she lives at the address, reported coming home from work and finding her parents deceased and a lot of blood.”
“Ten-four.” Bree ended the call, pulled out of the parking spot, and gunned the engine, sending gravel flying from her tires. Her heart rapped against her sternum as she raced away from the dock, two-wheeling her vehicle around a bend in the road. Two dead bodies and a bloody scene indicated violence. The first possibility that flashed in Bree’s mind was domestic violence, potentially a murder-suicide, like Bree’s own parents.
Shuddering, she blocked the images that flooded her mind. Without facts, there was no point in torturing herself with the comparison.
Now was not the time for a trip down her personal nightmare lane.
Because another possibility was murder. Did Claire end the call willingly?
Or . . .
Is the killer still in the house?
Did he get Claire?
Seven minutes could be a very long time, but rural living meant help wasn’t always nearby. Bree drove faster. The radio crackled, and Deputy Zucco announced her arrival on scene. “Unit Twelve, code eleven.”
Bree responded, “Sheriff Taggert, ETA one minute.” Then she added, “Wait for me, Zucco.”
“Ten-four,” Zucco responded.
Randolph County’s newest deputy had joined the sheriff’s department several months before. She came from the NYPD, with plenty of patrol and vice experience. She was no rookie and had recently proven herself extraordinarily capable in the hunt for a serial killer. But Zucco could be bold and wouldn’t want the caller to wait any longer for help. Bree didn’t want her deputy going into a dangerous situation alone.
Bree braked hard, then made a sharp left into a neighborhood of large newish homes. An ache in her wrist reminded her that she’d recently had the cast removed after breaking a bone apprehending the same serial killer. She’d been worried the break would affect her aim. Thankfully, while shooting hurt, she could hit her target just fine.
The SUV leaned precariously. She straightened the wheel, leveled out the vehicle, and stomped on the gas pedal. Her SUV roared forward. Down the block, lights from a patrol car swirled in the darkness.
As she slid the SUV to the curb behind Zucco’s vehicle, Bree reached for the mic to report that she’d also arrived on scene. Then she slammed the gearshift into park and jumped out of her vehicle. Sweat instantly beaded on her forehead. The approaching end of August had brought no relief from a brutally hot and dry summer.
Zucco met her in the street. “No movement or noise from the house. Backup is eleven minutes away.”
“Too long.” Bree pulled her weapon as she sized up the house. Landscaping lights blazed outside the McMansion, and interior lights glowed in several windows. Bree and Zucco crept up the driveway.
As they approached the house, the front door swung open and a figure raced out. Female, young, eyes wide in panic, and screaming. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Ohmygod. ”
Zucco angled left and raised her handgun. “Stop! Police!”
Bree stepped right to make herself and her deputy separate targets. She leveled her weapon at the approaching figure. “Sheriff! Show me your hands.”
The female stopped in the pool of light from the lamppost, and Bree got a better look at her. An older teen, small and slender. Dark stains saturated the knees of her khaki pants and streaked the front of her red polo shirt. Blood? The girl blinked, looking confused as she raised her hands into a natural surrender position.
Killer or victim?
Bree’s instincts said victim, but she wouldn’t compromise her own safety or that of her deputy by making assumptions.
“Watch the house,” Bree said to Zucco, then crossed to the girl. “What’s your name?”
The girl looked up.
I know her.
She went to high school with Bree’s nephew, Luke. Both kids had worked on the yearbook committee the year before. “Claire?”
The girl didn’t respond, and Bree prompted her again. “Claire? Look at me.”
Brown eyes shifted to meet Bree’s, but the girl’s gaze wasn’t fixed. Her eyes were lost and vague-looking. Shock.
“Are you injured, Claire?” Bree holstered her weapon.
She whispered in a voice filled with disbelief, “No.”
Bree patted her down, simultaneously checking Claire’s pockets—which were empty—and looking for injuries. “Does anything hurt?”
Claire shook her head, then spoke in a detached tone. “They’re dead.”
“Who’s dead?” Bree asked, hoping to confirm the details provided by dispatch.
“My parents.” Claire’s voice drifted. “This can’t be happening. Has to be a nightmare,” she murmured.
“Claire, is there anyone else in the house?” Bree couldn’t remember if Claire had siblings.
Terror filled Claire’s gaze. “I don’t know.”
“Does anyone else live here?” Bree specified. “Did your parents have company this evening?”
Claire shook her head.
“Where are they?” Bree glanced at Zucco, who was scanning the front of the house.
“In their bedroom,” Claire sobbed. She raised her hands toward her face as if to cover it, then stopped and stared at her blood-coated palms. She made a feral, whimpering noise and began to shake violently.
Bree steadied her, cupping her elbow. “I’m going to put you in the car to keep you safe while we check the house.”
Bree and Zucco led the girl toward the patrol car. The night was warm, but Claire shivered. Zucco removed a blanket from her trunk and draped it over Claire’s shoulders before guiding her into the back seat and locking the vehicle doors.
As much as she hated leaving the girl, Bree needed to get into the house. The odds that the killer was still inside were small—especially after her and Zucco’s sirens-and-swirling-lights arrival. But the chances weren’t zero.
And Claire could be wrong. Her parents could still be alive. Bree needed to make sure medical assistance wasn’t required.
Bree and Zucco returned to the front door, which now stood open from Claire’s exit. The rush of Bree’s blood echoed in her ears as she drew her gun again. She and Zucco moved across the threshold as a team. The house had a basic center-hall design, with a staircase facing the foyer, living and dining rooms on either side. They cleared the front rooms and moved down the hallway toward the back of the house, into a large kitchen and attached family room. The open floor plan didn’t allow for many hiding spaces. The counters were model-home clean, except for a take-out tray. Condensation dripped down the sides of two cardboard cups.
Ignoring her heart banging against her sternum, Bree reached for a door handle, yanked it open, and aimed her weapon into a walk-in pantry. Empty. A security system pad on the wall was dark, signaling the alarm wasn’t engaged. “Clear.”
A doorway on the other side of the kitchen led to a hallway, which teed off into two directions. Zucco went right. Bree slipped left, into a laundry and mudroom. She swept her gun from corner to corner. Nothing.
“Home office is trashed, but clear,” Zucco said.
Bree eased up to a closed door and pressed her shoulder against the wall. She pulled open the door to find a closet filled with coats long enough for someone to hide behind. She swept them aside, found nothing but a few pairs of winter boots, and blew out a hard breath. “Clear.”
She looked in the attached garage, which was thankfully very clean. A small BMW sedan and an Audi Q7 SUV sat side by side. The hood of the BMW was still slightly warm.
She met Zucco back in the kitchen. The deputy pointed to a set of french doors. A hole had been neatly cut in a glass pane, making it easy for an intruder to reach through and turn the dead bolt. Beyond the door, landscaping lights outlined the flower beds and illuminated a large patio and pool. The yard beyond was dark. Bree scanned the exterior but saw no movement.
She made a mental note of the potential point of entry and kept moving. She and Zucco eased toward a rear staircase. Bree stepped onto the bottom tread. A board squeaked and she paused, listening over the thrum of her own pulse.
Something crashed. Bree startled, putting her back to the wall. Zucco dropped into a crouch, and they both froze, weapons extended.
Light thuds approached. A small gray body streaked down the stairs and past their ankles. It emitted a howl as it disappeared into the living room.
Cat.
Zucco exhaled. Bree did the same. The release of tension left her lightheaded for a second. She took one more deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before letting out the air with deliberate control.
With a shake, she refocused and started up the steps. Tiny red paw prints on the cream-colored Berber led the way. Dread gathered in Bree’s belly as she and Zucco ascended the steps. On the second-floor landing, she paused. More paw prints disappeared down the hall.
Ignoring the cat’s path, Bree kept left, checking a guest room and hall bathroom. Zucco turned right into another bedroom. The light was already on, showing lavender-colored walls.
Claire’s room?
The next bedroom held a treadmill, some dumbbells, and a TV. Bree approached the last room with Zucco at her flank. The lights were on in the primary suite, giving them a clear view of two bodies in the king-size bed. Zucco ducked into the en suite bath. Bree checked a huge walk-in closet, vaguely noticing it was in disarray, before meeting Zucco at the foot of the bed.
The sight looked like a scene from a horror movie. It made Bree ill to think of Claire coming home to the nightmare in front of them. Her parents had been shot in their bed. The volume of blood alone was gruesome, but the mother had been shot in the face.
Bree thought of her own sister’s death and shuddered. She hadn’t viewed the scene in person, only the crime scene photos, but she knew Claire would have the image of her parents’ brutal murders in her head until her own death. Because if Bree lived to be a hundred, she would never stop seeing her sister’s dead body.
Years ago, before Bree had assumed guardianship of her sister’s two kids and moved back home to upstate New York, compartmentalizing her emotions had been easier. Now, suppressing her emotions took work. As if she’d been numb before, but the happier she became, the more horrific murder seemed. How long would she be able to cope?
“Sometimes I really hate people.” Zucco’s voice was cold with anger.
Bree breathed deeply to suppress her own rage and disgust, but her control felt brittle. The smells of blood and death flooding her nostrils didn’t help. The bowels and bladder sometimes released upon death. “Call it in. We need the ME and a forensics unit.”
While Zucco communicated with dispatch, Bree approached the bodies. Though vacant eyes and pale, pale skin said both victims were likely dead, she needed to confirm. The nightstand drawer hung open, and a lamp had been knocked to the floor. She stepped around the shards of ceramic and a few small personal items scattered on the carpet on the woman’s side of the bed, where blood had been tracked away by the cat. A cell phone lay on the carpet. From the bejeweled purple Taylor Swift case, Bree thought it belonged to Claire. Blood smeared the screen. It had a wallet attachment on the back.
Avoiding the debris on the carpet, Bree reached for the woman’s neck but stopped before touching her flesh. Too close to the wound. She chose the woman’s wrist. No life beat against her fingertips. Then she stretched over the bed to press two fingers to the man’s neck. He didn’t have a pulse either, but both bodies were still warm to the touch. They hadn’t been dead very long.
Bree stepped back. “Let’s go outside and talk to Claire.”
She needed air, and she needed to call Matt, her part-time criminal investigator and full-time live-in boyfriend. A former sheriff’s deputy and K-9 handler, he’d been shot in the line of duty years ago. Nerve damage in his right hand kept him off the force, but he was still a damned fine detective. As much as she wanted his expertise, she also just wanted to hear his voice. He grounded her.
She dialed his number on the way downstairs.
He answered in a rough voice. “What’s up?”
Bree checked the time. It was 10:57. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“I was watching TV. Must have dozed off.” Fabric rustled over the connection. He cleared his throat. “You need me?”
Always.
Instead, she said, “Yes. Just arrived at a double homicide.” She gave him the address.
He paused, likely mapping the route to the crime scene from her farm. “Be there in twenty.” He ended the call.
Sirens sounded outside. By the time Bree and Zucco exited the house, a second patrol vehicle was parking at the curb and a third was approaching. A few neighbors clustered on the sidewalk across the street.
Bree assigned the two new deputies to search the perimeter of the property and secure the crime scene.
Zucco opened the back door of her vehicle, but Claire didn’t move for a few seconds. She huddled under the blanket, looking lost.
Bree crouched and kept her voice low. “I need to ask you some questions.”
Clutching the edges of the blanket over her chest, Claire sobbed, her tone panicked. “At first, I tried to stop the bleeding but ...” She looked up, her gaze searching. “They’re dead, right? I couldn’t have saved them?”
Did the poor girl think she was somehow responsible for their deaths?
Her grief would be crushing without the added guilt.
Pity gathered in Bree. She placed her hand on the girl’s forearm. “You could not have saved them. I’m so sorry for your loss.” As always, the words felt inadequate in the worst way, a Band-Aid for a severed limb.
Claire released one fist from its grip on the blanket and stared at it. The blood had dried into a crusty mess. “I’d like to wash my hands.”
“Soon,” Bree promised. “How old are you, Claire?”
“Seventeen,” she whispered.
Damn. Still a minor, which meant family services needed to be involved. “Where were you tonight?”
Claire named a big-box retailer. “I clocked out at ten.” She burst into giant, soul-destroying, whole-body sobs that ripped at Bree’s heart like claws.
“Do you have any family we can call?” Bree asked.
Claire managed to shake her head.
Bree backed off. She turned to Zucco. “Take her to the station. Swab her hands for GSR and DNA, then let her clean up. Scrounge up something for her to wear. Take her soiled clothes into evidence.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Zucco said. “I think I have gym clothes in my locker.” Zucco was petite, like Claire.
“Good.” Bree lowered her voice. “I need to ask her some questions, but she’s already fragile. Seeing the medical examiner and forensics unit roll in won’t help. If we get her away from the scene, she might be calmer.”
Zucco nodded. “On it.”
Bree eyed the neighbors. They needed to be questioned as well, and someone had to canvass the rest of the houses on the block, but that would have to wait until morning. She didn’t have enough deputies to do everything at once. Doorbell and security cameras for the surrounding residences needed to be checked. She pulled out her phone and called her chief deputy at home. She would need all her resources for a double homicide.