So Simple, page 7
We’ll see about that, Faith thought.
“So what can I do for you guys?” Sam asked. “Are you looking for private sessions, or do you want to enroll him in a class?”
“Actually,” Faith said. “We’re here to ask you questions about Amanda Milleson and Rebecca Green.”
Sam’s smile faded slightly. “Ah. Well, I should lock up then.”
She headed to the front door and flipped the sign from closed to open. “I don’t normally get students this late at night, anyway.”
Turk, apparently convinced that Sam wasn't going to immediately murder Faith and Michael, started trotting toward the mat. Faith was about to call him back, but Sam said, "Oh, it's fine if he wants to look around. I'm guessing he's trained since you're here on official business."
“He is.”
"Yeah, then it's fine. Everything here is dog-proof, and if anything isn't, that's my fault. Can't run a dog school that's off-limits to dogs." She smiled broadly, but Faith detected a hint of tension in her smile. “Come on into my office,” she said. “I’ll leave the door open so your dog can see you. He’s protective of you, and I don’t want him to think I’m hurting you guys.”
“That works for me,” Faith said.
She led them into a small room adjacent to the training mat and took a seat in a chair that looked far too small to hold her weight. “Okay,” she said. She folded her hands in front of her on the desk and looked pensively at them a moment before saying, “I trained both Doris and Luna. I got a lot farther with Doris. Only had Luna for a week or two before… well, before.”
“How was your relationship with Rebecca and Amanda?”
“Good,” she replied. “I mean, I only saw Rebecca twice, but she seemed like a sweet kid. A little shy, but not too bad. Luna was a great dog for her: super-affectionate, gentle but playful and the most loving thing you’ve ever seen.”
“How about Amanda?”
“Amanda was cool,” she said, nodding her head. A wistful expression came to her eyes, and Faith suspected that Jack Milleson was right about the attraction.
As though she could read Faith’s mind, Sam said, “I wasn’t into her or anything like that. Her brother thought I was, but nope. Very much into guys.” She chuckled, but her humor had died now that she was reminiscing about Amanda. “I just liked her. A lot of people, they like to keep me at arms’ length, you know? They’re not rude or anything. It’s just that,” she shrugged, “I’m big and strong. Big and strong people scare other people. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just a natural instinct we carried over from the days when we were little primates living in the trees fighting to the death over food. Still, it sucks when you’re the big girl everyone’s afraid of. Amanda wasn’t afraid. She talked to me like she liked me. Like I was actually her friend. I liked that. I liked being… normal.”
She lowered her eyes and swallowed. Faith detected a tremble in her lower lip. She really was sad that Amanda was dead.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t guilty, though. "Did you and Amanda ever fight?”
“Fight? No, we never fought. She was quickly becoming my best friend. I wouldn’t have done anything to risk that relationship.”
“How would you have reacted if she had decided she didn’t want to be friends anymore?”
"You mean, would I have hurt her?” Sam asked. “Well,” she lifted her hands. “I’ll tell you no, but I don’t think you’ll take my word for it.”
There was an edge to her voice now, and the tension in her shoulders had visibly increased. Faith glanced out of the open door and saw Turk staring intently at a photo of a dog on the wall. He looked her way and dipped his head, and she turned back to Sam. “Can you verify your whereabouts two nights ago?”
“Sure,” Sam replied. “I was in Boise at a competition.”
“A competition?”
“Yeah. A dog show. I had a class in the beginner group. We did well. Took silver. Not bad considering the team we lost to is that guy from Hollywood who has a show about dog training.”
“Congratulations,” Matt offered.
"Thank you," Sam said, her tension easing slightly. "I know you guys need me to prove that so I can show you my boarding pass for the return flight. Landed at three-oh-two yesterday morning. I take redeyes if I can. Less crowded and no screaming babies. Not that I have a problem with kids, but I can’t take the way parents treat them sometimes. Gets me all riled up.” Seeing Faith’s expression, she added, “and before you ask, no, Amanda never mistreated Doris. Never even close. She was the best dog parent I’d ever seen.”
“Can you verify your whereabouts on the night of her murder?”
“That time, I was visiting my parents in Kansas City, the one that’s actually in Kansas. If you trust their word, they’ll verify that I was with them. They’ll also verify that I didn’t get out of bed for three days when I heard Amanda was dead.”
The edge was back to her voice and Faith said, “If your alibis check out, you’re off the hook. Let’s give you the benefit of the doubt for the purposes of this conversation and ask if you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt either victim.”
“Well, like I said,” she replied. “I didn’t know Rebecca that well. As for Amanda, I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would have wanted to hurt her. She was so kind. I just…” her lip trembled again. “I just don’t get it.”
“Sometimes people are just evil,” Michael offered.
“Yeah,” Sam said, sniffling. Her face twisted in rage, and the sudden change was so terrifying that Faith paled even though the anger wasn’t directed towards them.
“I wish to hell I was there,” she said. “I wish to hell I was in Amanda’s living room when that prick hit her. I would have crushed his skull with my bare hands.”
She brought a fist the size of a rotisserie chicken down on her desk, hard enough that the room shook. Faith understood now why her desk was made out of welded steel.
Turk barked and ran toward them. Faith prepared to call him off, but instead of attacking Sam, he walked up to her and pressed his head to her lap, looking up at her with sad, empathetic eyes.
Sam took a deep breath and began to gently stroke Turk’s fur. “See?” she said, smiling sadly at the two agents. “I knew he’d warm up to me. Oh!”
Her eyes lit up as she realized something. “I just thought of this. You guys suspected me because I’m big and strong, right?”
Faith nodded. “That’s part of the reason.”
“Well, I’m the wrong kind of big and strong,” she said. “See?”
She stood and walked out of the office. Faith and Michael glanced at each other and followed her out. She walked to a rack that held several foam-covered batons and picked the longest one. “A little shorter than a baseball bat,” she said, “but you’ll get the point.”
She lifted the baton and pulled it as far back as she could. It wasn’t very far. The tip of the bat didn’t even cross her shoulder line. Sam strained to show them she wasn’t faking the movement. Her muscles bunched up under her shirt, but try as she might, she couldn’t get the bat back any farther. She swung and the baton moved in a short quarter-circle that had far less force than Faith would have expected.
“See?” Sam said, putting the baton back. “I’m a weightlifter. Weightlifters, bodybuilders, powerlifters—those are all builds don’t work well for swinging things horizontally. If the killer had brought the bat down on top of Amanda’s head, I’d say yeah, look for one of us, but the swing that killed Amanda, and I assume Rebecca too aren’t possible for someone who looks like me. You’re looking for someone lean and powerful, probably with long arms and broad shoulders but a narrow waist. Strong hips though to get the torque. But especially, the long, lean arms. More room to move them and therefore more power on contact.”
Faith was impressed. “Wow. That’s good information. Thank you.”
“Yeah, don’t mention it.” Sam’s face grew deadly serious again. “Find this guy. Find him and bring him to justice. I know better than to ask to be the one who dispenses that justice, but once you have him locked away somewhere safe from me, let me know. You don’t have to let me know where if you don’t want to, but I want to know that the person who killed Amanda won’t kill anyone ever again.”
“We will,” Faith promised.
The three agents left the dog school and headed back to the hotel for the night. Sam wasn’t their killer, but she wasn’t exactly a dead end either. The information about the body type needed to swing that bat was actually very helpful.
They were still grabbing at straws, but the straws were getting a little longer. Faith went to bed that night feeling encouraged.
You better hope we find you before Sam does, she thought.
That thought sent her to sleep with a smile on her face.
CHAPTER NINE
Faith opened her eyes slowly and turned her head groggily upward. Light danced across her eyes, but it was several more seconds before she could see clearly.
The light came from a small window near the top of the barn, the only opening that Faith could see. She tried to move but found her hands and arms were bound tightly to a chair. She tried to tip the chair, but it was bolted to the floor.
She was trapped.
Her heart started to pound in her chest, and she fought back the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She focused on remembering what had happened before.
She had gone after Jethro Trammell. She, Michael and Jack Preston had learned that Trammell was the Donkey Killer, the smiling giant who had killed several young women and men, cutting them and mangling them, letting them bleed out slowly in chairs just like the one in which Faith now found herself trapped. Michael had found Preston dead, his K9 unit nearly so, and Faith had tracked Trammell to this farm.
Then she had gone after him on her own, afraid that if she waited for backup, Trammell would get away. What a foolish decision.
A potentially life-ending decision.
She tested her bonds again, but they remained firm. Panic seized her again, but she forced it back.
Think, she told herself. Don’t feel, think.
Before she had a chance to think, however, a sliver of light appeared in front of her. The door to the barn opened, and her heart began to pound anew when a massive shape walked into the barn.
Jethro Trammell, the Donkey Killer, walked toward her, a crazed grin on his face, his eyes feverishly bright. “Well, well, well,” he said in his incongruously high-pitched and tremulous tenor lilt. “What have we here?”
I won’t scream, Faith thought. I won’t give him that satisfaction.
Jethro walked closer, and as he did, Faith saw a tray sitting near her. Atop the tray was an array of knives, saws and surgical instruments, all rusted and all deadly looking.
Jethro selected a long knife that was pitted with rust but with an edge that was gleaming sharp. He approached Faith and slid the tip of the knife softly under her throat. She felt a trickle of blood descend from the shallow cut.
Jethro’s grin widened. He traced the knife down Faith’s body, the tip slicing a hole in her shirt but not piercing the skin again. He traced the knife to the top of Faith’s knee, then stooped and slid it behind, pressing it against the two tendons underneath.
He leaned toward her, and she could smell his sour breath. Her nostrils flared, and she repeated the thought, I won’t scream.
“Let’s see how you bleed, little girl,” Trammell said.
Then he severed the tendons behind her knee.
And Faith screamed.
***
“Faith!”
Faith sat bolt upright in bed, chest heaving. Michael and Turk stood over her. Turk whined and immediately leapt into her arms. She held onto him and stroked his fur as her breathing calmed. “What is it?” she asked Michael.
“We have to go. There’s been another murder.”
CHAPTER TEN
This scene was no different, really, than the first crime scene with Rebecca Green. Trisha Sinclair’s body was sprawled on the floor, dead of severe blunt force trauma to the head.
But Faith felt her stomach twist and had to turn around to keep from retching. Michael did the same, looking green as they recovered from the shock of the scene.
Trisha Sinclair’s head—what remained of it, at least—wasn’t covered. That made it worse. Faith’s parents used to tell her that the imagination was far worse than reality ever could be. After seeing this, Faith begged to differ.
The smell also made it worse. The blood was fresh, and the familiar sweet iron scent did nothing to help Faith’s roiling stomach. Even Turk seemed affected, whining and approaching the body only reluctantly.
“Mailman called it in,” the responding officer—a much more serious and less irritable Sergeant Trent—said. “Saw her through the window. Thought he was seeing things, but… well, he wasn’t.”
“Goddamn,” Michael said, retching again and turning around.
“Did the neighbors notice anything suspicious?” Faith asked.
“No,” Trent said. “They all said they don’t understand how he could have gotten in and out without anyone hearing anything.”
“Back door?”
“Latched and untampered with. Front door’s barely on its hinges, so he definitely came in through that door.”
“Goddamn,” Michael moaned again, steadying himself. “Can’t be more than a few hours ago.”
“We suspect sometime after midnight,” Trent replied.
Turk stiffened suddenly and looked toward the backyard. He started barking, and Faith said, “Go get it boy. What is it?”
He rushed outside, Turk, Michael and Trent all on her heels. When they arrived, they saw a young border collie standing in front of Turk. Both dogs were silent now, their silence communicating more than words would have.
“Dog’s tag says his name is Rusty,” Trent said, “She picked him up from the shelter a few days ago. CSIs on their way, but in the meantime, the scene’s all yours. Feel free to look around and take whatever you need.” His head strayed toward the body, and he shook his head. “Christ.”
“I have a feeling he was out of town tonight,” Michael quipped.
“Yeah,” Trent said, “you can say that again.”
Rusty stood in the middle of the backyard, shaking like a leaf. Turk approached and unlike with the previous two dogs, he initiated contact this time, pressing lightly against Rusty and allowing the other dog to lean against him for support.
Looking at Rusty’s wide, shell-shocked eyes, Faith felt a rush of anger surge through her. She recognized that expression. It was the same as the look on Turk’s face when she first met him. It was the same as the expression she wore when Trammell began to cut her.
She could understand Sam’s desire to punish the killer with her own hands. Looking at the mangled body of Trisha Sinclair and the shock in Rusty’s eyes, she felt the same way.
“Poor dog,” Trent said. “He was just picked up from a shelter a few days ago. He had a whole future ahead of him. Now it’s back to the shelter, and hey, here’s a free helping of severe trauma on the side.”
Faith sighed and shook her head. “We’ll just have to hope his next owner is as good as the last.”
“And that they don’t get their head bashed in by a psycho,” Trent added.
“Yeah,” Faith agreed. “That too.”
The two agents got to work looking through the scene while Turk continued to console Rusty. As with Amanda Milleson’s house, the home was filled with reminders of Trisha’s excitement to have Rusty. There was an embroidered plush bed, engraved dog bowls and already plenty of photos of the two of them having fun together. The fact that the home was clearly lived in up until very recently didn’t soften the blow of seeing reminders of the life that neither of them could ever have now.
They found the Cerberus charm in the same place as Rebecca's, placed underneath the victim's hand. Michael dusted it for prints, but as Faith suspected, it came up empty. Faith inspected the front door, confirming that, as before, it had been kicked open. This door was far less massive than the door at Rebecca Green's house, and the latch had completely disintegrated from the force of the killer's blow, leaving splintered wood where it had ripped through the door and the jamb.
“Think he used Rebecca Green’s baseball bat again?” Michael asked. “Or did he bring his own weapon this time?”
“I wouldn’t even know how to begin answering that question,” Faith said, risking another glance at the body. Her stomach twisted again, and she looked away. “We’ll have the coroner handle that one.”
“I’ll bet he is,” Michael said, “he seems like the kind of sick fuck who would use one of his victims’ self-defense weapons to commit more murders.”
“You’re probably right,” Faith said.
“And it’s a third young, pretty woman,” Michael pointed out. “I have to say, I’m pretty convinced that sex is at least a component of his motivations.”
“I still don’t think so,” Faith replied, “but maybe some other form of unrequited love.”
“What kind of unrequited love prompts this if it’s not hand-in-hand with envy or desire?”
“Desire doesn’t have to be lust,” Faith countered, “and I think envy is part of it. These victims had something our killer doesn’t, or they represent something our killer never had. But there’s not a single marker of sexual motive other than the victim profiles.”
“That’s kind of like saying the only sign it’s a car is that it has four wheels and an engine.”
“Some airplanes have four wheels,” Faith pointed out.
Michael tilted his head. “Good point. So what is he missing from young attractive women besides sex?”
“That I don’t know,” Faith admitted.
They heard a soft howl coming from the backyard and looked out to see Rusty laying next to Turk, lifting his head to the sky mournfully.
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