Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake Page 2

  In truth, he’d wondered if perhaps the perp was a Native American, but he wasn’t about to admit that to her. “You have an ID?” she asked.

  “Victim is twenty-seven-year-old Barbara Tillman.”

  “A local?” she asked.

  Cole nodded. “She worked as a teacher’s aide at the grade school and lived in an apartment complex just off Main Street.”

  “And there have been two others before her?”

  A fire of frustration burned in Cole’s gut as he nodded once again. “Twenty-six-year-old Gretchen Johnson was found in front of a trash can next to a pizza place, and twenty-five-year-old Mary Mathis was found in front of the library.”

  “And dream catchers were hung at all three scenes?”

  “Yes. When Gretchen Johnson was found, my first suspect was her boyfriend, but I couldn’t break his alibi for the time of death. Then Mary showed up. Both women had been stabbed multiple times at some unknown location, then left at the sites, and the dream catchers were hung at both scenes. Both bodies had Taser marks and indications that they’d been bound and gagged.”

  “So, he Tasers them to incapacitate them and then ties them up and takes them someplace else, where he stabs them and then stages the dump scene with the dream catchers.” She frowned thoughtfully. “And how long has it been since Mary’s murder?”

  “Two weeks. And it was four weeks between Gretchen’s and Mary’s murders. Have you seen enough? I’d like to start processing the scene. We haven’t even allowed the coroner in yet.”

  “Knock yourself out,” she said with a step backward.

  As the coroner, a fat, balding man named George Thompson, moved in to assess time and method of death, Cole called to the three deputies who he’d meticulously trained in crime-scene procedure.

  He gathered them in a group just far enough from where Agent Nightsong stood that he hoped she wouldn’t hear the conversation. “Do your jobs and do them well,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t want any mistakes.” Especially with the eyes of the FBI watching…judging their every move.

  Once the coroner was finished with his examination of the body, he announced that he believed the murder had occurred at some point the night before, probably between the hours of midnight and three. Method of death was obvious, multiple stab wounds to the chest. He then stepped back to allow the deputies to begin their work.

  Cole moved to stand next to Agent Nightsong. Beneath the odor of death that hung in the still air, he could smell the faint scent of her, a welcome smell of blooming exotic flowers.

  The scent, so distinctly feminine and wafting from such a beautiful woman, stirred him on a base level that made him slightly uncomfortable.

  “I suppose you already have a profile of the killer, neatly tied up with a bow,” he said, vaguely aware that he sounded a bit surly.

  She turned to look at him, her eyes filled with an edge of amusement. “You aren’t the vision of a small-town sheriff that I had in mind while I was driving here, and hopefully you’ll discover I’m not the uptight, upright FBI agent that you assume I am.”

  He narrowed his gaze as he stared at her. “And what vision did you entertain of me on your drive here?”

  “Definitely shorter and rounder.” She turned her attention to his men, meticulously moving around the crime scene with evidence bags and tweezers, their feet covered in booties. “I anticipated nobody who knew the first clue about a murder investigation, because I doubt if you see much of this kind of crime in this size of town, but it looks like your men all know what they’re doing.”

  He didn’t know if she expected him to be pleased about her assessment of him or his men’s work. To be perfectly honest, he didn’t much give a good damn about what she thought.

  “And no,” she continued, “I don’t have a profile all neatly tied up with a bow in my head. It’s far too early in the game for a full profile. Once this scene has been processed, I’d like copies of the files of the other two murders.”

  “Once we’re finished up here, you can follow me to the office, and I’ll see to it that you get copies.” He was confident she would find nothing wrong with the way he’d conducted his investigations so far.

  Unfortunately, there weren’t many leads to follow at the moment. He’d already had one of his deputies find out the availability of the dream catchers and discovered that they were sold in most dollar stores and some craft and hobby shops in and around the area.

  “The dream catchers…they’re supposed to keep bad dreams away or something like that, right?”

  She smiled and the beauty of that gesture shot an unexpected heat through Cole. It had been years since he’d allowed himself to feel anything for any woman, and the fact that a little lick of lust stirred in him for this woman didn’t improve his mood at all.

  “The legend is that the dream catcher was used by the Woodland Indians to catch all dreams, both good and bad. The bad dreams get caught in the webbing and burn off with the morning sun. The good dreams are caught and make their way to the hole in the center, where they filter down the feathers and are dreamed.”

  He looked back at the victim and the dream catcher hanging over her head. “So, our perp wants to make sure our victims have only good dreams in death?”

  “Or he wants you to believe that he’s of Native American descent,” she replied.

  “But you don’t think he is,” he countered.

  She frowned thoughtfully. “At this point, there’s no way of really knowing. Certainly most Native Americans I know who own dream catchers have the real thing made with their own hands with either soaked willow or grapevine. They’re usually very personal and made with lots of love.” She flashed him another quick smile. “But of course, that’s the old way.”

  He wondered if the FBI powers-that-be had specifically chosen her for this job because of her Native American background.

  They fell quiet as the men continued their jobs, and the victim was eventually taken away. It was growing dark when the last of the work was done at the scene of the crime, and Agent Nightsong followed Cole to the sheriff’s office.

  He’d found her an irritant all evening. It wasn’t anything she’d said. For the most part, she’d been silent. It had been the way she’d watched them with those intelligent, enigmatic eyes.

  Cole had found himself snapping at his men, feeling as if both he and all of them were on display and Agent Nightsong was just waiting for errors to occur so she could step in and take over.

  As he drove toward the office, with her in her own car just behind him, he drew in a deep breath to ease the tension that had crackled through him since the moment she’d arrived on scene.

  He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he didn’t need some kind of help. This latest murder had definitely shaken him up. Not only did he lack the manpower for the kind of investigation these murders required, but he also lacked resources. Mystic Lake was a small town with very little crime, and it had been years since Cole had done the kind of police work that was now required of him.

  He probably would have asked for help, but it ticked him off that the mayor hadn’t even discussed the issue with him and instead had just gone behind Cole’s back and then told him he’d called the feds.

  As far as Cole was concerned, it had shown a lack of respect, which heated his insides along with the other feeling that fired inside him each time his gaze landed on Amberly Nightsong.

  He’d give her the copies of the files of the other murders, and then she’d be on her way back to Kansas City. She wasn’t officially a part of the case. She was just here as a consultant of sorts. She’d read the files, call him with her thoughts, and that would be the end of it.

  His hands relaxed on the steering wheel as he turned into the parking lot behind his office. Funny that his lust hormones hadn’t been active for eight long years and now had suddenly decided to awaken for the one woman he wanted absolutely nothing to do with.

  She parked beside his car and joined him
at the back door of the building. “It should take about twenty minutes or so to get copies of those files ready for you,” he said as he used his key to unlock the back door of the building.

  He gestured her into the hallway. A door on the left led to a conference room, a second to a small break room, and to the right was his private office. There was also an interrogation room. Ahead were the reception area and the deputy desks, with the jail in the basement of the building.

  He took her into the conference room, where the old wall-size bulletin board was covered with crime photos of the two previous murders. It had become their war room, devoted specifically to the murders since the second one had occurred.

  “If you’ll wait here, I’ll be back with copies of the files,” he said.

  She nodded absently, already engrossed in the photos on the board.

  She was still standing in front of the board when he reentered the room fifteen minutes later. She appeared to be so deep in thought she didn’t hear his return.

  He took a brief moment to admire the curve of her butt in her tight jeans, the waist-length braided rope of thick hair that seemed to beg to be released from its binding. He cleared his throat, not liking the drift of his thoughts.

  She whirled around to face him. “I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t some sort of a mercy-killing element to these. He killed them and then tried to assure that they would have happy dreams through eternity. Were any of the women sick? Maybe terminally ill?”

  “According to the autopsy reports, both Mary Mathis and Gretchen Johnson were in perfect health, and of course we won’t know about Barbara Tillman until George performs the complete autopsy. I should have something from him by midday tomorrow.”

  She frowned. “Well, that shoots my potential initial theory right out the window.” She smiled. “But then it isn’t unusual for me to throw out several of my theories before settling on the one that’s right.”

  The room was too small and filled with that evocative scent of her. He was suddenly far too focused on her lips, which were covered with a nude, glossy lipstick. He should be thinking about the photos of the victims on the board, not the vibrant, beautiful woman in front of him.

  “Here are the files,” he said briskly and thrust them toward her. He wanted her gone, away from him. She unsettled him in a way that was distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Thanks. Once I plow through these, I’ll feel like I’m up to speed.”

  He gestured her out of the conference room and down the hallway toward the front of the building. When they reached the main area, he introduced her to Linda Scott, who served as receptionist/secretary and dispatcher.

  “Where do you send your forensic evidence for analysis?” she asked when they stepped out the front door and into the warm September night.

  “We use a lab in Kansas City. We don’t have any facilities here.”

  “I could get you access to the FBI lab.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he replied. “I’m satisfied with the lab we’re already using.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

  “Do you sleep under a dream catcher?” he asked, the personal question leaping from his mouth before he’d actually considered asking.

  “My son does. The day he was born my granny Nightsong made him one to hang above his bed. I don’t sleep beneath one.” Her chocolate-brown eyes seemed to grow a tad bit darker. “I need to allow myself to have nightmares. It’s one of the ways I get in touch with people who do things like this.” She held up the files.

  “You must have terrible dreams,” he observed.

  “Sometimes I do. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  He watched as she got into her car. He wasn’t surprised that she had a family. A woman as bright as her, as beautiful as her, would have been snapped up by some man as quickly as possible.

  As her car disappeared in the distance, he felt a touch of relief that she was definitely off-limits. Not that he was interested, not that he cared.

  Cole had locked his heart away eight years ago when he’d lost his wife and every dream he’d ever entertained of being a husband and a father, and he had no intention of ever unlocking it.

  If he was lucky he wouldn’t see Agent Amberly Nightsong again. She’d phone in a report to him and that would be the end of her involvement in this case.

  He turned on his heels and headed back into the office. He had three murders to solve and didn’t have time to entertain thoughts of a hot-looking, married FBI agent who, for a moment, had stirred emotions long dead inside him…emotions he intended to remain dead for the rest of his life.

  Chapter Two

  Amberly swigged the last of the coffee in her cup and then got up from her table as she eyed the microwave clock. Almost seven-thirty. She needed to get out of here if she wanted to stop by John’s house and see Max before he left for school.

  She grabbed the files that had kept her up most of the night and her purse and then left the house. As she drove the three blocks, she tried to slough off the exhaustion of a night of too little sleep.

  These murders in Mystic Lake had already grabbed her by the throat, and she had a feeling they wouldn’t let her go until somebody was behind bars.

  She’d always been grateful that she usually had a level of detachment to the cases she worked that made her most effective and allowed her to leave the crime and the crime scene at work, keeping it from bleeding into her personal life.

  These crimes felt different already. As she’d gone through the files she’d been unable to maintain that emotional distance that had always made things easier.

  Maybe it was because the victims were not much younger than her own thirty years of age. Maybe it was the brutality alongside the beauty of the dream catcher, which was such a part of her heritage.

  She shoved all thoughts of the files and the murder victims out of her mind as she pulled into John’s driveway.

  For the next few minutes, her thoughts and attention would be solely focused on Max. He greeted her at the front door, dressed for school in a pair of jean shorts and a white-and-red-striped pullover shirt. She fought the impulse to reach out and tamp down the cowlick at the back of his head.

  “Mom,” he said in surprise and threw himself into her arms.

  Amberly hugged him tight, knowing that all too quickly the day would come when he would think it was uncool for his mommy to hug him. “I didn’t know you were coming here this morning,” he said as they finally disengaged from each other.

  “I couldn’t start my day without seeing my favorite boy,” she replied. “Where’s your dad?”

  “In the kitchen, making French toast. You gonna eat with us?”

  “I’m not hungry, but it sure smells good.”

  John appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Bacon and French toast, and I’ve got plenty.”

  “Thanks, but no. However, I wouldn’t turn down a quick cup of coffee while you two eat.”

  He gestured with the pancake turner in his hand. “Come on, then. Max, wash your hands, it’s on the table.”

  As Max ran for the bathroom, Amberly followed John into the kitchen. He pointed her to a chair and then poured her a cup of coffee. “You look tired,” he said.

  “Late night. There’s a serial murderer working in Mystic Lake, and I’ve been assigned to consult.” She told him no more, having learned early in their marriage that John didn’t want to hear about her work as a profiler.

  John was an artist who’d made his name painting Western pictures with a glow of splendor. His world was one of beauty and history, and he’d never wanted her to bring the ugliness of her world inside their home.

  At that moment, Max returned to the kitchen and slid into the chair where his breakfast awaited. As he ate, he chattered about the math test his dad had helped him study for the night before, his dream that he was riding in a car and excited about where they were going but being disappointed when he woke up before they’d arrived at thei
r destination. By then it was time for Max to brush his teeth and finish getting ready for school.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” Amberly said to John as he walked her to the front door.

  “Anytime. So, I’m assuming we’re going to play things by ear when it comes to where Max is staying.”

  Amberly nodded. “I just don’t have a good handle right now on where this is all going to lead. My plan right now is to be home by five or so tonight. If you can pick up Max from school, then I’ll try to be here around then to pick him up and take him back to my place for the night.”

  John nodded. “Just let me know. You know I love it when he’s here.” There was a slight censure in his voice, as if what he wanted to say was that they all should be together under this roof, still a united family.

  “Thanks again, John. I’ll be in touch.” She left, refusing to shoulder the guilt he’d subtly tried to put on her. As much as she would have loved for Max to have a mother and father that were together, the marriage hadn’t worked. She and John should have remained good friends and never crossed the line into intimacy.

  As she pulled out of the driveway to head to Mystic Lake her thoughts returned to the files in the seat next to her. One thing was clear after reading the reports and interviews that had been conducted after each murder: Cole Caldwell was good. In fact, he was better than good.

  As she made the drive to the small town, she played and replayed the information she’d read the night before. Building a profile of a killer wasn’t an easy task. Not only did the method of kill and the crime scene hold clues to coming up with a working profile, but the victims and their lives usually held clues, as well.

  By the time she reached Mystic Lake and found a parking place in front of the sheriff’s office, she was wishing for another cup of coffee to help jolt her into full-performance level.

  She was dressed less casually today, clad in a pair of black slacks and a short-sleeved white button-down blouse. She’d been caught off guard yesterday, but today she felt more prepared to look and act the role of FBI consultant.